Ask Amira Tanany where Egypt begins, and she won’t point you towards the pyramids. She will point you towards a henna party in the countryside, a proverb your grandmother still mutters under her breath, the particular chaos of a Cairo street at rush hour — the Egypt nobody puts on a postcard, but everybody who has lived there instantly recognises.

And while Egypt sits at the heart of Amira’s work today, it is only part of the story. A childhood in Saudi Arabia, years spent studying Japanese mythology, and stories she encounters both at home and abroad all find their way in — a place where different cultures, myths and folklore meet everyday life.

So how did drawing in the sand and mountains of Saudi Arabia lead to Japanese mythology, and from there, back home to Egypt? How do you turn a proverb into a picture, or a street into folklore? And why does motherhood keep finding its way back into her work? We sat down with Amira to find out.

— Let's start at the beginning. How were you first introduced to art?

— There were no artists in my family, so in that sense, I found my own way into it. If anything first drew me towards art, it was probably the place I grew up in. I spent my childhood in Saudi Arabia, surrounded by mountains, greenery and these extraordinary natural landscapes, and I think that environment had an enormous influence on the way I learnt to look at things. I was curious from a very early age, always wanting to observe things properly and draw what was actually in front of me rather than work from photographs.

As a child, drawing was where all that energy and imagination seemed to go, although I was never particularly interested in keeping it confined to a sheet of paper. I would happily plonk myself on the ground and draw in the sand or dirt, then move on to clay and make little sculptures. I was always pottering about with something, and getting messy was very much part of the fun.

School gave that curiosity a little more direction. My teachers knew how drawn I was to landscapes and the Saudi environment, and they would often encourage me to take part in art exhibitions around the country. It was probably the first time something I did very instinctively began to exist beyond my own little world.

The more serious decision came towards the end of high school, when I realised that art wasn't something I wanted to leave behind as a childhood hobby. I had done well enough in my final exams to have quite a broad choice of what to study, but when the moment actually came, I chose the Faculty of Fine Arts. There was something quite straightforward about that decision: of all the directions available to me, it was the one I genuinely wanted to keep exploring.

And although my family didn't come from an artistic background themselves, they were tremendously supportive of that choice. They followed my progress, encouraged me to keep drawing and were forever bringing home new art materials for me to tinker with.

— Before Egyptian folklore became so prominent in your work, you did your master’s around Japanese folklore and mythology. What drew you to that world in the first place?

— I think it started with a much broader curiosity about stories — where they come from, why certain ones survive for generations, and what they can tell you about the people and cultures that created them. I have always been drawn to symbolism and to the idea that a story can carry far more than what is immediately visible on the surface.

And by the time I started working on my master’s, that curiosity had already begun to shape the way I looked at the world around me. Long before then, I used to sketch in the streets of Cairo, particularly around Khan El Khalili and the older historic quarters. Spend enough time in places like that and you begin to notice how many stories are woven into the streets themselves and into the lives of the people around you. They are told and retold, passed from one generation to the next, until eventually they become part of folklore.

My master’s was in Book Arts, which encouraged me to stop thinking of a book as simply a beautifully designed object and look instead at what sits behind it: where the story comes from, why it exists and what it tells us about the culture that produced it. I was particularly drawn to folk stories rooted in ordinary life.

At the same time, I had been interested in Japanese culture for years — its prints, craft, mythology and incredibly rich visual traditions. So when it came to choosing a direction for my research, exploring mythical creatures in Japanese book art felt like a natural meeting point. It brought together so many things I was already passionate about: mythology, storytelling, symbolism, book arts, printmaking and illustration.

That research also changed the way I thought about illustration more broadly. It stopped being simply about creating beautiful images and became a way of carrying stories, beliefs and cultural memory across time. And, interestingly, that realisation eventually brought me back to Egypt.

I began looking more closely at Egyptian folklore, history, popular songs, proverbs and traditional stories, and thinking about how those inherited elements could be translated into a contemporary visual language.

— Did turning from Japanese culture towards your own feel like a conscious decision, or did it happen more naturally over time?

— Honestly, it felt more like a natural progression than a conscious decision. I never reached a point where I thought, ‘Right, that is enough Japanese mythology, now I am going back to Egypt.’ If anything, studying Japanese culture taught me how to look at my own culture more closely.

The deeper I went into Japanese mythology and book art, the more I understood how closely culture, history, storytelling and visual art are connected. It naturally made me look back home and recognise just how much richness there is in Egyptian culture — in our folklore, popular songs, proverbs, stories and even the small visual details of everyday life.

That interest developed further during my PhD, which explored visualising time travel through illustration — how artists use it not only to imagine the future, but also to reconstruct and reinterpret the past. Looking at works from the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries made me think about history not simply as a collection of facts, but as something that can also be interpreted and experienced through an artist’s perspective.

That brought me back to Egyptian history and folklore, but from a more philosophical point of view. I wasn’t interested in folklore simply as decoration or nostalgia, but as something layered with meaning — something that can tell us a great deal about who we are collectively.

So by the time I had finished both my master’s and PhD, I found myself returning to Egyptian culture and national identity with a very different perspective. I didn’t want to simply make illustrations that ‘looked Egyptian’. I wanted to understand what makes them Egyptian — where these stories come from, what they mean to people and how they have evolved over time.

— You once said, “I realised I didn’t need to create an identity; my culture already defines who I am.” When did you first come to that realisation?

— That realisation only really became clear once I had finished both my master’s and PhD. Throughout my research into different cultures, I kept noticing how much attention artists give to their own history, stories and folklore, but also to the smaller details of everyday life. And it made me wonder: why shouldn’t I do the same with ours?

When people outside Egypt think of the country, they tend to think first of Ancient Egypt — the pharaohs and the pyramids. And of course, that is an enormous part of our history. But there is another Egypt that is rarely seen in the same way: the Egypt of ordinary, everyday life.

There is an entire cultural world within it — folk songs from the countryside, popular proverbs, expressions you hear in the street, traditional stories, street vendors, local rituals and architecture. These things can seem unremarkable to us simply because we have grown up surrounded by them, but they are precisely what make a culture feel lived and alive. So I wanted people to have the chance to see our culture through our eyes.

I am not simply trying to depict Egypt; I want to translate the Egypt I know into a visual language that someone from a completely different culture can still understand and connect with.

— When you talk about “Egyptian folklore”, what does that actually encompass for you?

— To me, Egyptian folklore is much more than old stories and symbols. It lives in the songs people sing, the proverbs they repeat, the stories they pass on to their children, the expressions you hear in the street, the rituals, the architecture — all those details of everyday life.

My connection to it again takes me back to the Faculty of Fine Arts. One of my professors encouraged us to leave the studio and experience Egyptian popular culture first-hand, so we would take our drawing materials out into the streets, sit on the ground and sketch the life unfolding around us — the people, the buildings, the gestures, the everyday scenes.

I remember another experience from around that time particularly well. I went with my family to a rural wedding and henna celebration — my first traditional countryside wedding — and it was completely different from the weddings I knew. The songs were different, the way people celebrated was different, even the smallest traditions were unfamiliar to me. And yet there was so much meaning in things that, at first, seemed very simple.

In a way, it took me back to my childhood in Saudi Arabia. I used to sit on the ground with my colours and draw the mountains and landscapes in front of me. Years later, at university in Egypt, I found myself doing much the same thing — only instead of observing the landscape, I was observing people and culture. I think that instinct has always been part of the way I work: being in a place, looking closely and drawing what I see.

It was also around this time that I became interested in Egyptian illustrators such as Helmy El-Touny. I loved the way he could take things that were completely familiar to Egyptians and turn them into a visual language of their own. His work made me think differently about what Egyptian identity could look like in illustration. It didn’t have to begin and end with Ancient Egypt, the pharaohs and the monuments. These stories, passed down from one generation to another, are essentially what build folklore and, in many ways, form the foundation of mythology.

— Your work has this very distinctive, almost woodcut-like quality. How did you develop that visual language, and why did this particular style feel right for the stories you wanted to tell?

— My visual language really grew out of three things coming together: my academic background, my research and my interest in Japanese art.

My fascination with woodcut began while I was researching Japanese book art and mythology. Traditional woodblock printing particularly stayed with me — the way artists could create so much expression through relatively simple forms, bold lines and texture. I began experimenting with woodcut and linocut myself alongside my digital work, and I still work with both. Gradually, that began to shape the way I approached an image more generally: how far I could simplify it, what texture could bring to it, and how much emotion a single line could carry.

Then, as my work began turning towards Egyptian culture, I started to see a connection I hadn't necessarily been looking for. Egyptian streets have a very particular energy: the movement, the crowds, conversations overlapping, street vendors, people constantly moving around one another. There is also an openness in the way people interact — laughing, talking to strangers, communicating very directly. And I realised that the same visual language I had been exploring through woodcut could speak to that character surprisingly well.

The bold lines, rough textures and simplified forms don't try to make everything look polished or perfect, and that honesty felt right for what I wanted to show. Over time, that became part of the way I work: clear contours, strong lines, and simplifying an image as much as I can without losing what I want it to say. If the idea works simply, I prefer to leave it that way.

In that sense, this visual language has become a bridge between two things that are very important to me: it allows me to depict that life in a contemporary way while keeping the texture and energy I associate with its streets.

— There is an interesting balance in your work: you dig deeply into Egyptian culture and folklore, while using it to address contemporary social and political issues. When did you realise you wanted that second layer to be there?

— I think this second layer grew quite naturally out of what illustration actually is, at its core. Both my master’s and my PhD were centred on illustration, and for me, illustration really comes down to one thing: communicating a message through an image.

That message might be connected to folklore, or it might come from something we encounter in everyday life. I don’t feel a great need to create a completely fictional or fantastical world in order to tell a story. As I mentioned, I am much more drawn to engaging with reality directly. Being physically present in the world and observing what is happening around me gives me much more to work with creatively than sitting somewhere and imagining things in isolation.

Whenever something catches my attention in real life, I tend to look at it both artistically and a little philosophically — what is underneath this, why is it happening, what does it say about people or society, and whether there is a story or message somewhere within it.

Sometimes the message comes through quite directly, and sometimes it takes shape through symbolism, metaphor or cultural references. Folklore naturally becomes part of that — not simply because it is familiar, but because those old stories and symbols can take on new meanings when placed in the context of what is happening today.

— You explored motherhood quite early on through Ubume, and years later returned to it in Motherhood Is an Invisible Calling. Do you see motherhood as a recurring thread in your practice, or did those two works come from completely different places?

— Motherhood was never something I consciously chose as a recurring theme. But looking back, it has found its way into my work far more often than just in those two projects, each time from a slightly different angle.

One of the key examples is my Egyptian Streets Project, where I look closely at Egyptian streets and daily life. Motherhood was one of the threads I picked up along the way. I was especially drawn to the Egyptian mother and everything she holds together within the family and the home. It is an image I grew up around: a woman carrying an enormous amount of responsibility, looking after everyone, running the household, and quite often putting her own needs last. What interested me wasn’t simply portraying her as a traditional figure, though. I was interested in the invisible, emotional work behind that role. So much of what mothers do every day goes unseen, and yet it holds the whole family together.

Then, in a completely different cultural setting, motherhood appeared again through Ubume, which came out of my master’s research into Japanese mythology and mythical creatures. There, I was approaching it through folklore instead, looking at loss, sacrifice, and the emotional bond between mother and child.

Later, motherhood returned in my work around Palestine and war, through the Palestinian mother trying to protect her children in circumstances where even the most basic sense of safety has disappeared. What stayed with me was that pure instinct to protect: the cultural and political realities may be entirely different, but a mother trying to keep her child safe is something that needs very little translation. It is there in the Egyptian mother, the mythological Japanese mother and the Palestinian mother alike.

Then came Motherhood Is an Invisible Calling, which allowed me to approach the subject from a more personal, present-day angle — particularly the invisible parts of motherhood: the constant emotional load, the mental presence that never really switches off, the many small decisions made every day, and how much of it simply goes unnoticed.

So when I look at these works side by side, I don’t see repetition, but different perspectives on the same subject.

— You have already had three solo exhibitions in Egypt. Which felt the most personal to you, and which was perhaps the most daunting to put out into the world?

— Yes, the three solo exhibitions were quite different in terms of ideas and concepts, though all three were tied together by the same backbone: illustration, and my particular fondness for drawing people and characters and letting them carry the story.

The first two grew straight out of my PhD research, which explored time travel through illustration — how an artist can move conceptually between different periods, imagining the past or future through visual storytelling. So those two were the more experimental, conceptual pair, really — asking how illustration might become a tool for picturing different eras, reconstructing what’s gone or speculating about what’s still to come.

The third, Egyptian Streets, took me in a completely different direction. This time, I was firmly in the present, turning my attention to the Egyptian streets around me — everyday life, people and characters, and all those small details that make up our streets and popular culture. It also became the most personal of the three, because it tied directly into my own life and my relationship with Egypt.

The most daunting, on the other hand, were probably the two PhD-related exhibitions. They leaned on a much more conceptual idea, and making something as slippery as ‘time’ feel visually accessible and emotionally engaging was no small task. Turning an intellectual concept into something a viewer could actually feel took some doing.

— Has there been a work that audiences reacted to in a way you really didn’t expect?

— One of the strongest reactions came from a series of illustrations I made around the events in Palestine. I knew the subject carried real emotional weight, and I expected people to connect with it, but I honestly didn't bank on the response being quite that strong. The works got a huge amount of engagement across social media — people were sharing them, commenting on them, and even following my work off the back of that series alone.

One piece reached around a million people; another picked up roughly 100,000 views. But it wasn't really the numbers that got to me most — it was what sat behind them. The comments were full of grief, anger, empathy, solidarity, and I realised the illustrations had somehow managed to say something that words alone often struggle with.

The other strong reaction came from a completely different place: the Egyptian Streets Project. What surprised me there was how deeply people connected with the idea itself, rather than any one image. People seemed to find that both wonderfully familiar and slightly unexpected all at once. They would recognise a proverb they had grown up hearing, and suddenly there it was, sitting in front of them as characters, scenes, situations pulled straight from Egyptian streets.

The response was strong enough that it opened doors well outside the art world, too. One of the designs eventually led to a collaboration with a brand in Canada, who turned the artwork into a T-shirt and a tote bag.

That one really struck me, because it showed how far cultural storytelling can travel once it leaves home. Something rooted in a very specific Egyptian experience still managed to become an object people on the other side of the world could pick up and connect with.