


As a child, Ukrainian photographer Tanya Spasi Sohrani’s parents used to make her wear strange homemade costumes during the holidays. Now, she’s getting her own back in “Family,” a series of ridiculous portraits of her parents in hilarious handmade ensembles. She tells Emma Firth why so many of the outfits are sea-themed, and about the sense of connection the project has inspired between the three of them.
This year marks five years since the COVID-19 pandemic began. Can you believe it? Possibly not. The brain is funny like that, choosing to erase listless months filled with doom-scrolling, toxic levels of screen time, and sanity walks to anywhere that wasn’t our living room. It was a time when the world was united by what felt like a collective, and seemingly unrelenting, boredom. Boredom gets a bad rap, undeservedly in some ways I’d say. It’s subjective. It has many faces depending on what angle you’re looking at it from. One person’s restlessness is another person’s freedom; in its best light, boredom can be an opportunity, a catalyst for creation, crucial in fact (according to Marina Abramović).

It’s a feeling Ukrainian art photographer Tanya Spasi Sohrani knows only too well. The Portugal-based artist, who goes by the nickname Teti, can still recall those empty lockdown days “sitting at home doing nothing, without [any] work” in Ukraine, but what got her out of her boredom was an image—a photographer’s simple still life, featuring an egg, a flower and a cucumber—which had an unexpected effect on her. “I was like, ‘OK, what’s in my fridge?’” With no formal training to lean on, she turned to the internet to learn more about lighting and photography. “Every day I would try something new.”

Soon afterwards, she taught herself how to use a sewing machine, creating “crazy” costumes that looked like a kid had made them, hand-crafting everything herself, using mostly fabrics sourced from secondhand stores or her grandfather’s closet. She managed to coax her parents, who’ve been married for 40 years, into posing for her hilarious and ongoing series titled, simply, “Family.” The artist says the project is a self-reflection of her childhood: “When I was a kid, my mum sewed these super weird costumes for holidays, parties and kindergarten, like squirrels or snowflakes. It was horrible,” says Sohrani, laughing. “There’s loads of photos of me wearing them, not smiling. So, I said [to my parents], ‘I want to make something for you…’”
They took some persuading at first, worried about the reaction from the community in their sleepy village in Ukraine. “They said, ‘No, of course not!’” she says. “‘Why not?’ ‘People will laugh at us.’” When you grow up in the USSR, as they did, you need to be the same as everyone else; if you do something crazy you’re [seen as] a misfit [or] stupid.”

There’s something both unbelievably joy-inducing and nostalgic about seeing someone outfitted in fancy dress, accessorized with smile-less expressions. Grown-ups cosplaying as a Christmas tree and a wrapped present; Barbie and Ken; peas and a pod. Some pairings, of course, didn’t quite go to plan as she’d hoped. “I had this one idea that I wanted to make a fly and shit,” she says, laughing. “My father says, ‘no, never! I don’t want to be the shit.’ I said ‘OK, don’t worry, calm down, mum can be the shit’ and she said no! That’s why there’s just a singular image of my mum as the fly.”



This project has really connected me to my parents. It’s fun, yes, but really at its core it’s a celebration of connection.
On closer inspection, there’s a strong sea theme that runs through the series, her dad playing the role of mermaid, say, or a starfish, an octopus, a fisherman with his catch of the day. “My father loves the ocean,” she explains. “He loves seafood so much. When he visits me here in Portugal he goes to the supermarket and just looks at all the fish and octopus like it’s a museum!”
“This project has really connected me to my parents,” Sohrani says. “It’s fun, yes, but really at its core it’s a celebration of connection. They’re from a different world—workers from a village with no shop, no school. I’m used to a faster-pace, embracing culture. Now we discuss art, exhibitions … they’re really supportive of me, they understand it’s my art but also work.” Laughter also happens to be their shared love language: “they’re both funny,” she says. “I thank them because their sense of humor has helped shape my own.”


An erstwhile series of hers also explored the power of connection, though this time with her neighbors in the village where she grew up. “The Village of Angels” is essentially a love letter to their perma-goodwill. “They would always gift something: apples, milk, egg. Now, grown-up, I understand they’ve spent their lives working on their land. They’ve never travelled, they don’t have money, no time for the internet and stuff like this, you know? And they’re always smiling, always friendly, always ready to help you.”
This co-operative approach has been an integral part of her own practice, founding and curating Hoolycamp, a roving artist residency she started in Ukraine a few years ago after seeking out a like-minded community of artists. “I rent a big house by the ocean in Portugal,” she says. “There’s a store nearby where people can buy supplies, but I always suggest incorporating natural materials, too, from the forest, for example, or paper. Now artists who’ve met at camp have gone on to collaborate on projects together. What I’ve learned more and more is that artists really need support, money and time.”


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