Speech Marit Törnqvist

On 18 June 2024, I was curled up in a small tent, 2,638 km away from Amsterdam, north of the Arctic Circle, surrounded by towering mountain ranges and glaciers. My husband and two adult daughters were joining me.

This journey was a birthday gift to me. Forty years ago, while studying at the Rietveld Academy, I spent weeks each summer wandering through these regions. In the Netherlands, I sometimes felt uprooted. The art world often felt stifling, with oversized egos. It was comforting to feel that I was just a small element on this planet, like an ant, really, doing its utmost to make something of itself.

As we sat there in the tent, listening to the wind and gentle rain, my phone suddenly rang. I was surprised. I was not counting on reception here. I considered not answering, but my curiosity won out.

It was the chair of the jury, Marise Voskens, telling me I had won the Dutch State Prize for the Arts. The Johannes Vermeer Award.

It took a moment for me to realise what this truly meant, and to be honest, it still feels surreal.
Naturally, I was (and am) immensely happy and honoured.

Since that evening in the tent (and especially tonight), I’ve had to adjust my self-image to some extent. I’ve always felt a bit like a loner, someone who occasionally made unconventional choices, but to claim I was overflowing with self-confidence… no. I now realise that the freedom I’ve had to follow my intuition and, at unexpected moments, to take a different path, slow down, or sprint forward, has been invaluable.

When I heard that this prize had been awarded to me, all kinds of emotions surfaced. I’m not much of one for looking back; I believe it is a waste of time. I prefer to be immersed in something that fully captures my attention in the moment.

But that night, and in the days that followed, I was flooded with an endless stream of memories.
I could see myself at the Rietveld Academy, hiding behind numerous easels so no one could see what I was painting.
I remembered a winter in Sweden, where I sat on a fishing stool at minus 15, painting watercolours on ice.
Then, I saw myself flying in a hot air balloon over Stockholm with 85-year-old Astrid Lindgren, as we gazed at the twilight.
I recalled the art student in Tokyo who came up to me after a lecture to ask, “How does one draw emotion?”

Beautiful memories piled up. Difficult ones, too. The days I shut myself in my room in Amsterdam because everything I created felt too flat, and I wouldn’t open the door when someone knocked.

All of that and much more came to mind as I walked like a small ant along the trails, dwarfed by the massive peaks above the Arctic Circle.

After making my way through this tunnel of thoughts, I thought of the children I’ve met over these 40 years of working life. Especially the children who were stuck or who had lost everything. If I’ve learned one thing in these years, it’s that an apple, a sandwich, and a warm jumper are not enough for a child at the bottom of a deep pit.
Having someone create music for you transforms you from someone who merely survives into someone who truly lives.
I believe it was in 2004 that I first truly realised the power of art. I travelled to Iran.

At that time, I knew the country mainly through Marjane Satrapi’s graphic novel Persepolis, where she describes the Islamic Revolution from her perspective as a young girl. I’d read it to pieces.
Walking through the arrivals and departures hall in Tehran, I suddenly saw the glass walls with the people behind them – the very walls where Marjane had said goodbye to her family when she chose freedom. I recognised this place from her drawings and felt a lump in my throat.

A few days later, I was seated at dinner next to an Iranian woman involved in children’s literature. Her name was Zohreh Ghaeni. I asked if she knew Marjane Satrapi’s books. I explained how affected I’d been at the airport when I saw that glass wall and realised everything in Satrapi’s books was true. And how I kept thinking about Marjane’s uncle, who was executed in Tehran’s Evin prison, and young Marjane, who visited him one last time before he died.
Zohreh looked at me with dark eyes. “Marjane’s uncle was executed at the same time as my husband. He was also in that prison. And so was I. For years. I was already on the death list.”
I fell silent. It was as if I had walked into Satrapi’s book.
“In that prison, I thought about what I would do if I ever survived. I decided I would start a project for children with children’s literature. Only by broadening children’s worldviews here can we change this country.”
Zohreh and I never let go of each other after that day.

I became deeply involved in her project called Read with Me, which today provides literature to half a million children, many of whom grow up in poverty. Street children, children working in factories, undocumented Afghan children. Facing fierce resistance in a country where free expression barely exists, Zohreh fights for children’s books. For these children, a book is sometimes the only refuge that offers comfort and hope.

We live in a merciless time: the world is ablaze, and large parts are in ruins. Tens of millions of children are on the run, searching for a place where they can put down roots and flourish. I look at the political developments in the Netherlands with a mixture of horror and despair. We have a government building an ever-higher wall around our country, making it clear that some people are deemed more valuable than others. It’s no longer something a child can understand.

In recent years, I’ve met many people fleeing conflict, including here in the Netherlands, and have tried in various ways to give them a voice. I have seen how they were crushed by asylum systems and deliberately pushed into deep pits.

Following Zohreh’s example, I have begun giving books to children who have lost everything. Those who arrive here as refugees are now welcomed with our stories. In their own language. Hoping they can momentarily forget the horrors of war, persecution, and flight, and simply be children again.

When you called to congratulate me in August, Minister Bruins, you told me that, like me, you were deeply aware of the significance of culture in general, and of children’s literature in particular. Interestingly, you also mentioned that, after the next four years, you would likely be the most disliked Minister of Culture in history. It was as if you were apologising in advance for what we can expect during your term in office.

I understand that compromises must be made in politics, but this concerns something on which no compromise is possible: it is about children. And about the accessibility of literature and free expression for everyone.

Throughout my working life, I have been surrounded by people who understand the healing power of art and who have fought for it without compromise, sometimes even risking their lives. They have shaped and inspired much of the work that we are here to recognise today.

Some of those uncompromising fighters are here in this room. And tonight, they stand on this stage. They are the bridge-builders in an increasingly polarised Netherlands. Yet instead of embracing the strength of Dutch culture, the word ‘art’ does not even appear in the coalition agreement or the national budget.

You carry a tremendous responsibility for an entire generation of growing children. Sometimes, I believe the essential importance of culture, for everyone, but particularly for children, does not truly resonate, or is even denied. If you truly, as I hope, recognise the value of children’s literature, of literature in general, and of free expression, then you would abolish VAT on books. The UK, Ireland, and Norway have already led the way. It cannot be that only children with wealthy parents can afford a children’s book. Children’s books are meant for all children.

I believe I’ve made my point.
And I haven’t forgotten that this is an acceptance speech.
So, I would now like to sincerely thank you for this wonderful award and the generous sum of money, which I will spend honourably and conscientiously. It will not be difficult to find a good purpose for it.
I want to thank the jury from the bottom of my heart for choosing me as the laureate. The jury report moved me deeply. It touches precisely on the essence of what I have been seeking in my work for nearly 40 years. Moreover, the jury shows that children’s literature holds a rightful, full place in the world of art.

I hope that everyone who has given me a boost over the past 40 years or who has confronted me with some constructive resistance understands my gratitude towards them. Without all of you, I wouldn’t be standing here. I also want to thank everyone who has already made this evening unforgettable.
There is one person I would like to mention by name: Ad, my husband. Thank you for allowing me to take risks and fly free for 30 years, for encouraging me, and for providing a safe haven.

I conclude this acceptance speech in an earthquake zone.

In 2018, I travelled to the border between Iran and Iraq, to Sarpol-e Zahab. The city lay in ruins after an earthquake. All the residents had lost their homes and were now living in tents. Sixty children had lost both their parents.
I had my book The Happy Island with me.

In a container library, I read the story aloud. I told the tale of the girl who makes a long journey across the sea in search of her happy island.
Afterwards, the children began to draw. I distributed large sheets of paper with my painted barren islands.
Amid the ruins of their devastated city, the children rebuilt their world on paper. They drew houses and guest lodges, boats and slides, schools and shops. And libraries.

One boy, about 12 years old, came up to me and started to talk. He told me that they had lost everything, the children of Sarpol. But he went to the container library every day.
Through the books, he could be anywhere and experience everything.
Reading was his salvation.
The difference between everything and nothing.

Marit Törnqvist, 4 November 2024