Tanja Siren


Tanja Siren is a former model, and there’s no doubt she’s still a muse. She writes poetry and prose that is as light and ethereal as her feather blond hair, which always seems to frame her face exactly like a halo. Not limited to just one medium, her creativity spans across film projects as well, such as this dark and dreamy music video, Ácido! which feels like a Lynchian “Picnic at Hanging Rock.” A self-proclaimed “polyvalent artist, auteur and filmmaker,” she’s a force to be reckoned with in any atmosphere!

Don’t burst your bubble
Don’t burst your bubble
Don’t burst your bubble
Or you’re in trouble



I see language as a kind of “thoughtscape,” a landscape of one’s mind. My work revolves around the continuous redefining and reshaping process, seclusion and the lack of “other.”

Like all that is art, poetry structures these concepts, while the detached dilly-dallying allows the soul to remain intact and at liberty.


Our rooftop at another cold nightfall. I’m wearing the reindeer Hugo brought from Lapland when visiting my country, Finland.


This is a film still from Ácido!, a moving photography of all that can be seen, perceived or imagined, but little understood in this ready world. An elegy to girls and kittens, it’s a 13-minute music film starring Olympia Spanou–she if anyone knows how to be outside of things.


 At one of my favorite restaurants next to my house, Ruben & Carla, founded by a dear friend Ehud and the gang at Linienstrasse in Mitte, Berlin. I love the people and the fries! And I warmly recommend the pastrami.

Photo by Hugo Capablanca

 At the concert of Heatsick with a post-orgasmic hairstyle, fully immersed in our culture of self-dramatization in Berlin.


At the club Flamingo in Mitte with Hugo Capablanca, during one of his Discos Capablanca Nights


Me, by Stephan Ziehen

At this shoot in Berlin the photo assistants spent the whole morning writing my texts on these rolls of paper, wrapping me into an Inland Empire scenario. Pleasantly eerie.


This one of the cats we found. We named her Schrödinger. She isn’t actually any smaller than a horse, just keeps herself farther away, so it seems she is tiny. Schrödie is at once dead and alive. Perhaps the curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought her back.


A self-portrait taken at my birthplace next to our horse stables deep in the Finnish forest, full of uncollected thoughts.


Here’s the view from our bedroom window at sundown, our preferred hideout in Andalucia. Not telling where, exactly! That’s the point of a hideout.