Art, Identity, and Moral Urgency in a Shattered World
For artists Dede Bandaid and Nitzan Mintz, creation has never been confined to studio walls or gallery spaces. Their work was born in public—on streets, in shared spaces, and in moments of raw exposure—long before it entered the contemporary art world. Shaped by personal trauma, sensitivity, and a profound need to communicate, their artistic paths eventually converged, forming a partnership rooted in vulnerability, empathy, and fierce honesty.
In the aftermath of October 7, their work took on an unmistakable urgency. What began as an instinctive creative response—the now globally recognized KIDNAPPED posters—became a humanitarian call that rippled across cities worldwide, revealing both solidarity and a disturbing resurgence of antisemitism. In this conversation, Dede and Nitzan reflect on the origins of their artistic voices, the intersections of art and activism, the role of Jewish and Israeli identity in their work, and the responsibility—or refusal—artists face during moments of collective trauma. Their answers offer a rare, unfiltered look at what it means to create while standing inside history as it unfolds.
How did each of you first discover your artistic voice, and what were the formative moments—personal, cultural, or spiritual—that led you to pursue art as a life’s work?
Each of us began our creative path separately, but there was something larger than both of us that eventually drew our practices together—first as artists, and later as partners. In our own ways, we each felt that the street and the public sphere were the most honest places to begin making art. As teenagers with no guidance or artistic mentors, we found a deep sense of freedom in the creative openness that the street offered. For Dede, that freedom came in the aftermath of military-related trauma; for Nitzan, it came as an escape from difficulties at home during childhood. The public space—raw, immediate, and unscreened by curators or gatekeepers—became the fastest, most direct way to communicate our emotions, thoughts, and perspectives. After several years of working independently, each of us eventually moved into formal art studies at different academies, merging our work in public space with a growing presence in the contemporary art field.
Many of your pieces highlight vulnerability, healing, and human connection. What draws you to these themes?
We are both highly sensitive people who absorb our surroundings in ways that leave a deep imprint. We also share a strong desire to communicate with as many people as possible—something that, for us, can only be fully achieved through creation. Our need to reach others, to speak to them, to touch them, manifests in constant work across media and locations. Each of us brings different traumas to the table: post-military trauma and the struggle to process on one side, and childhood trauma rooted in an environment that didn’t nurture emotional needs on the other. The impulse to run toward the outside world—or to run away from home—has shaped both of us. So even without sharing identical life experiences, we often find ourselves returning to similar themes in our work.
Your work took on new urgency after October 7, especially with the KIDNAPPED posters that appeared around the world. What compelled you to create them?
When your home is shattered and your country feels like it is collapsing, nothing else in your life holds meaning. We were far from Israel at the time, without local roots beneath us, but our entire lives—our families, our culture, our identity—are Israeli. When such a tragedy strikes your people, the only possible response is to stand up and serve in whatever way you can. Our way, in that moment, was to act creatively and quickly—conceiving the posters almost immediately after the attack. The posters became a global symbol of awareness and solidarity.
What was it like watching them spread worldwide—sometimes being torn down, sometimes fiercely protected?
We never anticipated what unfolded in the days, weeks, and months after the idea was born. Shortly after conceiving it, we connected with an Israeli graphic designer, Tal Huber, and together designed the posters. We then built an international volunteer “war room,” working around the clock across PR, design, organization, and information-gathering. At first, the posters were torn down sporadically—something we recognized as a familiar, almost expected form of antisemitism. But it quickly grew into something far larger and far more disturbing, revealing an antisemitic wave we had heard about from our grandparents but had never witnessed ourselves. Today, we at least value the fact that the posters exposed the true faces of many people around the world. Now, we know exactly where we stand in their hearts.
In the documentary film TORN, your work becomes a catalyst for something much larger than yourselves. How does the film frame your involvement, and what does it document about New York—and the wider world—during this period?
In truth, the film doesn’t document our real-time experience, so the genuine hardships we faced from the beginning of the initiative until today don’t actually appear in it. The documentary includes an interview with us as well as conversations with key figures who reflect the social rupture New York experienced during the war and in response to the posters. Our role in the film is almost like the inventors of a nuclear device—the catalyst—while the film itself focuses on what the project did to New York and how it reshaped the city’s atmosphere. Most of the painful moments we endured aren’t included: the threats sent our way, the apartments we had to move out of after being targeted, and the emotional toll of those months. What the film does offer is an important historical document for future generations, capturing one of the largest waves of antisemitism the U.S. and the Western world have seen since the 1930s—and revealing the true value of Jewish lives in societies that once felt safe.
How do you personally define the boundary between artistic expression, activism, and politics?
We don’t define ourselves as political artists. We are guided by instinct—by personal feelings of justice and urgency that drive our work with fire and conviction. We firmly believe in artistic freedom and the right to create without restriction. Sometimes our art is interpreted as socially engaged, but we’re intentional about not folding it into politics. Even the poster campaign, despite how it’s been portrayed, was not political—it was humanitarian. Some insist otherwise or claim we “chose a side,” but the purpose was simple: to humanize victims of a brutal attack, not to make a political statement.
We are a Jewish Life magazine, so I’m curious: in what ways does your Jewish heritage or Israeli identity appear in your work?
Our art doesn’t rely on Jewish symbols. We are Israelis—and deeply confident in our roots. Often, Jewish art in the diaspora feels compelled to express identity through symbols like Stars of David, menorahs, flags, or biblical quotations. We feel that simply being who we are is more than enough. We grew from the soil, breathed the air, studied history and Tanakh, and speak a language thousands of years old. Nitzan’s Hebrew poetry, the specific imagery in our visual work depicting local wildlife, architecture, sceneries etc, and the lived experience behind them are, for us, the most genuinely Jewish and Israeli expressions we can offer. We see ourselves as part of the evolution of “the people of the book” into a visual future.
What role do you believe artists should play in moments of national grief, tension, or transformation?
In our view, artists shouldn’t feel obligated to represent anything that doesn’t come directly from their heart. We see it clearly in the global art world: countless artists on social media feel pressured to shout political slogans—often without understanding the historical reality behind them. Artists, for some reason, feel compelled to become megaphones for movements they may know very little about. We deeply admire the artists who isolate themselves and paint flowers simply because that is what their soul needs—more than the loud chorus of those who feel an imposed duty to broadcast opinions. Art is not inherently bound to politics, time, or place. It can be whatever its creator needs it to be. The more relevant question is why so many creators feel obligated to speak on issues with which they have no personal connection to.
What new themes or projects are you exploring in your current work?
We feel we’ve reached a very interesting moment in our creative lives—a state of fracture and growth at the same time. On one hand, we are living in a new country, creating in a new art studio, surrounded by new visual culture and an exciting artistic landscape. On the other hand, our homeland is wounded and trying to heal. We feel as though we’re in a greenhouse—a place of accelerated growth. Part of us is called back home, urged to create works that document the tragedy and explore our personal longing to understand what happened. At the same time, we have complete freedom to write and paint whatever comes to mind in a new place where no one knows us. This is our moment to experiment with new materials, step outside familiar patterns, and take risks. We already have new works in progress that diverge visually and emotionally from anything we’ve created before.
Throughout this conversation, Dede and Nitzan resist easy definitions—of art, of activism, of identity. Instead, they return again and again to instinct, integrity, and the courage to act from a deeply personal place. Their work does not seek permission, nor does it rely on overt symbols to assert who they are. It emerges from lived experience, from language, land, memory, and moral urgency.
At a moment when the global art world often feels compelled toward noise and slogans, their perspective is a reminder that art’s greatest power may lie in its honesty rather than its volume. Whether documenting pain, holding space for grief, or quietly experimenting with new forms in unfamiliar surroundings, they continue to ask the same essential question: what does it mean to remain human—and to bear witness—through creation? In a fractured world, their answer is clear: to create is to refuse erasure, and to insist that every life, every story, matters.
The artists would like to thank the Jewish Community Foundation OC, and specifically Anne Greenwald for her personal care in making this project happen. To learn more please visit www.dedebandaid.com.
Tanya Fein is a contributing writer to Jlife magazine.