On the morning of 4 June, when I heard the news of Marjane Satrapi's death, I was stunned. I simply could not believe it. Although I had met her only a handful of times in person – despite having lived in Paris for 16 years and having contributed to her book Woman, Life, Freedom – I felt a deep connection to her work and legacy.
Our collaboration on that book took place mostly through email correspondence, but I always held her in the highest regard. I admired her intelligence, her extraordinary sense of humour and, above all, her remarkable gift for visual storytelling.
A Remarkable Gift for Visual Storytelling
What she achieved through drawings that appeared simple was, in reality, extraordinarily difficult. The black-and-white spaces of her pages, the economy of her lines, the apparent simplicity of her compositions – it all served to convey profoundly human emotions with a clarity that few artists ever attain. As a cartoonist myself, I know how difficult it is to reach that level of expressive precision while making it look effortless.
Opening Doors for Iranian Artists
Marjane opened the door not only for me, but for many Iranian comic book artists, such as Parsua Bashi, Mansoureh Kamari, Majid Bita and Shaghayegh Moazzami, among others. More broadly, she opened a path for artists from smaller and less visible countries across the world of comics – artists who had personal stories to tell but whose voices were often overlooked. With Persepolis, she gave western publishers the confidence to invest in our work. Many of us owe a part of our careers to the space she created.
Once I had absorbed the news of her death, my thoughts turned to Chicken With Plums, my favourite among her books. I remembered its protagonist, Nasser Ali Khan, whose beloved instrument is broken and who decides to remain in bed until death comes for him. In his final days, he even refuses his favourite dish, chicken with plums. Looking back now, the character feels almost like an extension of the author's own sensitive spirit, perhaps even an unconscious premonition.
I find myself thinking of Marjane, of her final days, and of whatever instrument may have been broken within her. And each time I do, my eyes fill with tears.
