Stop-motion animator Tamara Finlay is in her studio connecting with her inner child. Photo courtesy of Gold House Media, 2024.

Tamara Finlay’s stop-motion animations are intimate meditations on memory, heritage, and generational ties. Growing up with Ukrainian grandparents in Dearborn,  Michigan, a city defined by immigrant labour, her work is a cinematic love letter to personal and communal histories. Her animations are infused with themes of childhood, diaspora, and cultural hybridity, blending folklore and autobiography to create emotionally resonant worlds rooted in family, place, and characters often living on the margins.

Her chosen medium — stop-motion animation — is among the oldest and most tactile forms of film, dating back to the early 20th century. Finlay constructs every element herself: sculpting figures, designing sets, performing character voices, and composing music. “The slowness is part of the point,” she explains. “It gives me time to sit with the stories, to process and translate them.” The intensely physical, time-consuming nature of the medium mirrors her themes of fragmented memory, neurodivergence, and emotional truth, and demands a patience that Finlay meets with creative stamina and flexibility.

Raised by post-war Ukrainian immigrants, Finlay’s early experiences of cultural dissonance and familial storytelling shaped her path. Though steered away from the arts, she pursued a degree in Slavic languages and an unofficial fine arts minor at Brooklyn College, eventually merging these passions in animation. In 2024, she was awarded the prestigious Kresge Artist Fellowship in animation.

Tamara Finlay imagines a ‘visit’ with her Ukrainian grandparents as an adult. Photo courtesy of Gold House Media, 2024.

Finlay’s work is more than aesthetic; it’s a necessary, resonant act of preservation and empathy. Through meticulous process and narrative sensitivity, she renders untold stories visible, offering audiences not just art, but understanding. In a fragmented world, her animations function as bridges: poetic, deliberate responses to disconnection and loss.

In an interview with Global Voices, Finlay spoke about diaspora, folklore, motherhood, using stop motion to reframe memory, and how storytelling can become a form of healing.

Omid Memarian (OM): Growing up in Dearborn with Ukrainian heritage, how did your family’s history shape your artistic vision?

Tamara Finlay (TF): Dearborn was a microcosm of the American immigrant experience, shaped by the automotive industry. My grandfather was an upholsterer at Ford, and many of our neighbors had come to the U.S. after hardship. Most families on our block had someone who worked on the line: immigrants from Lebanon, Italy, Poland, and Ukraine. Each household brought a cultural inheritance: language, food, music, and faith. You could walk a few houses down and feel transported to another country.

That coexistence, maintaining cultural roots while adapting to a new world, is central to my work. I explore not just my Ukrainian heritage but our community's shared rituals, relationships, and miscommunications. My work is a love letter to my own family and our neighborhood family.

The war in Ukraine led to a new wave of displacement. I  worked for a time in Ukrainian refugee resettlement. It was striking how closely their stories echoed those of my grandparents: war, displacement, grief, and the quiet strength required to start over in an unfamiliar place. That experience deeply shaped how I approach storytelling. It reminded me that what we call “heritage” often begins in rupture and resilience. These stories feel more urgent than ever. They’re not just about preserving memory, they’re about creating understanding across generations and borders, and making space for others to feel seen in stories of survival, adaptation, and hope.

OM: You pursued a degree in Slavic languages and nearly completed a fine arts minor. How did this blend of disciplines shape your storytelling?

TF: Being close to my grandparents, I believed that to truly know someone, you need to understand the language they speak most freely. Learning Ukrainian allowed me to experience their stories more intimately.

Also, as a neurodivergent person, I’ve always looked for more profound ways to feel understood — and to understand others. Language became a kind of “special interest” for me. I absorbed it passionately.

Art was something I always gravitated toward, but my family, wanting to spare me the “starving artist” struggle, discouraged it professionally. I kept creating almost secretly. That blend of language and visual expression became the foundation for my animation practice.

The artist prepares to enter the hut of Baba Yaga. Photo courtesy of Gold House Media, 2024.

OM: Stop-motion is labor-intensive. What draws you to it?

TF: It mirrors how memory works for me — fragmented, tactile, emotional. The slowness gives me time to sit with the stories, to process and translate them. And because it’s so hands-on, it allows for a level of intimacy that feels sacred.

OM: You were diagnosed with ADHD in 2022. How has that shaped your creative process?

TF: The diagnosis helped me reframe my past, from academic struggles to burnout cycles. It also clarified why animation feels so natural. The tactile repetition, hyperfocus, intuitive structure – it all aligns with how my brain works.

It’s also why I’m drawn to offbeat, misunderstood characters. I’m finally creating with and for people like me.

OM: In “Pure Magic,” you use Baba Yaga and family stories. How do cultural references deepen your work? 

TF: They ground the work in real experience and shared memory. Baba Yaga isn’t just a mythical witch; she’s a stand-in for strong, complex older women like my grandmother, also called Baba. When I was a kid, she’d dress up as Baba Yaga to entertain, and sometimes terrify me. She had a dramatic flair, and those moments left a mark.

Blending folklore with family lets me explore emotions that feel both specific and universal. These references give my characters a heartbeat and my stories, roots.

OM: Your work often explores memory and healing. How does animation help process personal experience?

TF: Animation lets me re-enter moments from the past, not to recreate them, but to reframe them. It’s a deliberate act of witnessing. By building these tiny worlds, I gain perspective and a kind of closure. I don’t just depict memories, I re-evaluate and reshape them.

Tamara Finlay animating her childhood self. Photo courtesy of Gold House Media, 2024.

OM: You were the lead vocalist in three bands. How does music intersect with your animation?

TF: Voice and sound are integral. I come from a line of very vocal performers: actors, opera singers. I voice all my characters, often layering in music I’ve composed or collaborated on. Sometimes music leads the whole animation. It’s another language I use.

That said, social anxiety and sensory overwhelm led me to step back from live performance. I never knew if I’d be “on,” and that unpredictability became daunting. During the pandemic, I turned to animation and realized it let me perform more sustainably. I could still tell stories and embody characters, but without being perceived in real time.

OM: What are some of the toughest parts of stop motion, and how do you manage them?

TF: Stamina—emotional, physical, and creative—is the biggest challenge. Hundreds of hours go into just a few minutes of footage. Add executive dysfunction, emotional dysregulation, and burnout to the mix, and it gets even tougher.

I’ve learned to work with my neurodivergence instead of against it: flexible routines, permission to be imperfect, knowing when to pause.

Motherhood adds another layer. My son is three, and the “mom guilt” is real. Most of my animation work happens after “mom office hours,” when he’s asleep or at school. But I’ve started involving him: showing him how stop motion works, playing with sound equipment together. It helps us connect and keeps me grounded, even when the work feels overwhelming.

The artist adjusts a puppet of her childhood self. Photo courtesy of Gold House Media, 2024.

OM: After “Pure Magic,” what stories are you excited to explore next?

TF: True to my neurodivergent nature, I have a lot of irons in the fire. I’m conceptualizing a collaborative series with other neurodivergent artists that explores what it feels like to be neurodivergent from the inside, sensorially and emotionally.

I’ve just released the pilot for “Baba Yaga’s Bestiary,” a playful, irreverent look at Ukrainian mythological figures. It’s currently featured in Kresge’s “Counter Spells” online exhibition.

I’m also developing a sitcom-style animated series based on my grandmother and the immigrant community she lived in. It layers humor with intergenerational trauma, resilience, and tenderness.

One project especially close to my heart is about my grandfather, who had Alzheimer’s. It explores memory as something mutable and shared, how it fragments, shifts, and connects us across time.

OM: What advice would you offer to those interested in pursuing stop-motion animation, especially with a focus on cultural storytelling?

TF: Start small, stay personal, and don’t wait for permission. Your story matters, especially if it hasn’t been told before. Use what you have — cardboard, clay, your voice — and make something true. Don’t be too precious about the process. Just animate, and then do it again.