Nadia Adina Rose is a Moscow‑born Israeli poet, artist, illustrator, and senior art lecturer whose work bridges visual art and poetic language with remarkable fluency. Born in Moscow and immigrating to Israel at age 22, she studied at art institutions in both countries, including the Bezalel Academy of Art and Design in Jerusalem and HaMidrasha College of Art (MA in Art Education). Her multidisciplinary practice includes sculpture, soft installation, painting, illustration (including children’s books), and poetry, reflecting a deep engagement with form, material, and metaphor. 

I had the privilege of meeting Nadia a few years ago, when I was invited to sing at the opening of her exhibition and the launch of her poetry book at the Ein Hod Museum. I read her poems and was astonished – Nadia is a woman who is truly one of a kind, a gem. Her work opens up a whole world of magical imagery and metaphors in language, in a way I had never encountered before. She is an inspiration to me, both as a woman and as an artist. Her dedication to the sparks of creation, her ability to remain open, all of these are values I deeply admire. I have had the privilege of calling her a friend and composing her poems, and I am thrilled to introduce her to you in our interview about poetry and art.

When did you start writing?

I immigrated to Israel and began studying at Bezalel. As a new immigrant, I was exempt from written exams, and that’s how I completed my studies there. As a child, I dreamed of becoming a children’s book illustrator – and that is indeed what I did. I worked with excellent writers and respected publishing houses. 

At a certain point, I realized I was tired of fulfilling someone else’s vision. I wanted to illustrate a book according to my own vision, without being told what to do. I searched for someone to write for me, but I couldn’t find the right fit. So I began illustrating and writing a sentence next to each illustration. That process resulted in a book titled “And Then the Rhinoceros Started to Fly.” Through this experience, I understood that I no longer wanted to illustrate – that writing was what truly interested me. The friction was so strong that it became deeply compelling for me.

Did you immediately understand that you were writing poetry?

I think so, yes. Poetry gives form to something that doesn’t really have a clear verbal definition. It also allows you to enter it without fully mastering the language – it makes room for imperfections in language.

Did you write poetry in Russian as well, or did Hebrew open that space for you?

I didn’t write in Russian. In Russian, there is the burden of tradition, which doesn’t exist for me in Hebrew. Language is not my strongest area; it’s not my comfort zone. That friction is what interests me, because it allows for searching, real searching. I need friction with the material. 

For the same reason, for example, I don’t draw, even though I can draw with my eyes closed, since I studied at an academy and all that. Instead, I work in forms of creation that involve struggle. I even sculpt my own illustrations to feel that there was a confrontation with the material, that I was overcoming something. Hebrew allows me that. Interestingly, recently, one of my books was translated into several languages, and I translated a few of my poems into Russian myself. Suddenly, I entered Russian through the back door, from a different place. I rewrote everything.

“You Can See the Sunset from All the Windows”, Ramat Hasharon Gallery for Contemporary Art. Curator: Rachel Sasporta.

Do you see art and poetry as intertwined methods?

In some way, these things complement one another. Sometimes I feel like a child whose parents are separated and have two different homes. Sometimes I’m in one home, sometimes in the other; sometimes one home is closed, so I stay in the other. 

Creation is a difficult thing. Poetry is another channel that allows me to express different things, with different energies. I work in these two fields even at different hours of the day. When I immigrated to Israel and first saw a page in Hebrew, it looked to me like a wild forest where it was impossible not to get lost. When I began reading Hebrew, the visual aspect of the language slowly disappeared, and I started to understand what I was reading. 

And yet, sometimes I miss that visual quality. My exhibitions sometimes deal with how language feels before you understand it. This is close to poetry as well: poetry also works with a more subconscious kind of understanding, with images, and it creates different connections in the brain. It makes us see things in a different light. I consciously return to that state of not understanding the language, because it interests me. 

That is so thought-provoking. Could you say more about that state?

Yes. Learning a language as an adult and being aware of that process is fascinating. Hebrew is such a different language from others; it is exceptional. Another important thing to mention: I have stuttered since the age of eleven; there were even two years when I barely spoke at all. When I immigrated to Israel, I stuttered then, too, in the beginning. A person who speaks in another or a new language speaks with a different energy and is, in a way, a different person. This helped me stop stuttering – In Hebrew, the possibility of being new. Distance gives you different eyes.

What then is poetry for you, on a more spiritual or emotional level?

Some things grip me emotionally, but it’s not clear to me what they are or why. The gap between emotional intensity and intellectual understanding is the source I try to explore through poetry. To understand reality, but slightly differently. Poetry is also a kind of sanctification of reality. Even the hardest thing that can happen – if I knead it, try to understand it, and write about it – it lifts it above reality. There is even a kind of satisfaction and joy in that process of working through. I think poetry is a form of healing.