Linda Apse sees writing biographies as living alongside her heroes — day by day, through events, thoughts, and text. Mārtiņš Rītiņš, Māris Verpakovskis, Dana Reizniece, and now Imants Kalniņš — behind every name lie months and years of conversations, clarifications, and attempts to understand a person more deeply than their public image. Linda talks about how a single book about Mārtiņš Rītiņš grew into a biography series, how the book about Imants Kalniņš is taking shape, and why she believes that Dostoevsky’s statement “beauty will save the world” contains everything we need to know about a good and meaningful life.
About Mārtiņš, Who Could Not Say “No”
We began with a book about Mārtiņš Rītiņš. At that time, there was no intention to create a biography series.
I first met Mārtiņš back in 1993. At the time, he was preparing meals for employees of the Riga Film Studio. When the now-legendary restaurant Vincents opened in 1994, Mārtiņš would occasionally invite me to help write press release texts or edit interviews. Nothing serious — just helping out as a friend. Only later did I realize that I had probably been more involved than I myself had understood.
When Covid arrived in 2021 with all its terrible sense of weakness and uncertainty that gripped the world and people’s minds, I thought I would go and live in Spain for a while. My husband already lived there at the time (Jānis Jurkāns, Linda’s husband – ed.), and what was initially planned as a couple of months in Andalusia had turned into something quite different because of Covid.
University lectures were taking place remotely — there were no practical obstacles. But just as I was literally ready to leave, Mārtiņš called me.
“We need to meet,” he said. I knew it was something serious, because that was the nature of our friendship — if we talked, it was about something important, briefly and without beating around the bush.
He arrived and pressed a jar of oranges into my hands — organic ones. Then, out of the blue, he announced:
“They want to write a book about me!”
I thought Mārtiņš wanted my opinion.
Before I could even react, Mārtiņš had grabbed my hand and, in a firm, almost commanding tone, insisted: “I want you to write it!”
Well — that was exactly what I needed right then!
“I want to go to Spain, rest, meet my husband, and read books,” I felt almost threatened. Now I understand why — I intuitively knew that I wouldn’t be able to refuse him.
There was nothing rational about it — just the awareness that I had been placed in front of a choice that, in fact, wasn’t really a choice at all. Something had happened that I could not resist.
I said: if by the next morning I could decide exactly what kind of book I would want to write, then we could talk further.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said, cracking a joke in his usual style, and left.
But I was left with the “assignment.”
At first I thought — if I refuse, what would my arguments be?
I had none. Instead, a voice in my head said:
“If I don’t write it, someone else will. Would Mārtiņš like that? Would that person write it better? How would I feel about it?”
It was clear — I was “trapped.” I would have to figure out how to write it. I didn’t sleep that night, until I understood what kind of book this could be about such an extraordinary person.
In the morning I called Mārtiņš:
“Let’s meet. I’ve figured it out.”
I asked my first question like an investigator handling a particularly important case:
“Explain why you want me to write it!”
“To be honest,” he said, “because I can trust you.”
Everything became clear. There was no turning back.
“But I won’t write about you as a showman,” I said. “I want to write differently — I want to show you as others have never seen you.”
I told him about Oscar Wilde’s letter written in prison to his friend, later titled De Profundis (“from the depths”). I felt that this moment of revelation could be the essence of the book.
“Brilliant!” Mārtiņš said. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”
It even seemed as if he had thought it all through himself — everything felt so natural.
And that’s how it all began. I didn’t go to Spain, of course. Instead, I met Mārtiņš every day. We talked and laughed and cried. Or rather, he cried, and I cried watching his tears fall. Often it happened before he had even begun telling his story.
The same with laughter — he would sit down and laugh for five minutes straight, holding his stomach, while I waited to hear what was so funny. Then came the story, and we both laughed out loud until someone shushed us (we usually met at a restaurant).
The book came together faster than I would have liked. Pandemic restrictions began, Mārtiņš’s health deteriorated. I thought — let’s publish it as it is, so he can have some joy. And so it happened. He was very happy. I was too, though slightly cautious, because I hadn’t managed to write at least one important chapter — about how cooking becomes art, about the difference between an ordinary cutlet (this is a metaphor) and one eaten with great pleasure.
I don’t know whether he would have had something to say about this, but I certainly did. At least at the time it seemed so to me, because culinary art is not so different from other arts — music or literature, for example. Art, in my view, is simultaneously an imaginative journey, an emotional experience, and a thrill that encourages us to think, evaluate, compare, and ultimately respond to metaphysical questions that science will never answer — about love, beauty, and also about how evil and ugliness manifest themselves.
These answers are always poetic, but precise enough to serve as reference points. Whether by coincidence or fate, almost everything I wanted to understand about humanity, the human soul, and why art exists at all, I learned while writing the book about Imants Kalniņš. That book will be published soon.
Right now, I feel that I want the book to be finished — and at the same time I don’t want this Event to end, when I can go to Liepāja to visit the composer and listen to him talk for hours. This truly is an Event with a capital E — one magnificent and moving Event lasting two years.
The Vincent Biographical Book Series
I remember clearly — when I finished Mārtiņš’s book, I thought that if I ever wrote another one, I would want it to be about Imants Kalniņš. I didn’t know him personally, but I loved his music and him as a personality — as an artist, a thinker, a man of strong principles.
That thought remained unfinished, because one day Māris (entrepreneur Māris Martinsons – ed.), whose family then owned part of the restaurant Vincents and who had encouraged Mārtiņš to do the book, said to me: “I have an idea to publish a series of biographical books telling the life stories of interesting people — how they’ve used the time and opportunities given to them and made Latvia more appealing through their work.”
I liked the idea. I had seen how passionately he supported Mārtiņš’s book. It’s uplifting to be around people who are active, who think, who love beautiful things. And for me, a book is one of the most beautiful things in the world.
Māris understands very well that in a country with such a small population as Latvia, art cannot survive without support — especially art whose main means of expression is language. Our culture is wonderful, but the space is small — numerically, not qualitatively. Publishing books without subsidies is impossible and always will be. That is simply a fact.
Texts in Latvian, especially fiction, will always have a local significance. That’s why people are needed who support fields that are not meant to operate under competitive market conditions. Of course, translations into Latvian should be supported too, but we must not forget texts and ideas born in Latvian — in all genres.
High-quality texts are the space in which language develops and organizes itself as a system. And that is the story of Māris.
I told him that I wanted to write in the first person, not placing myself in the position of a judge — my primary task being to help my subject “write” everything about their life that they wish to reveal to the public. I don’t write about private-life details. And I deliberately say biographical books, not biographies, because no recollection is ever fully documentary.
Nor should it be. If we wrote only about everyday facts, it would be boring. Every book — even the most biographical — contains some fiction, if only because memory itself is selective. Māris liked this perspective.
The next subject was Māris Verpakovskis, the talented footballer who once led Latvia’s national team to the European Championship finals. I found it interesting — I like football.
I should note that I would refuse to write about someone whose field does not evoke deep interest or emotion in me. That would be false and unfair. Writing happens at an emotional level — through respect and love — wanting to show how wonderful this person truly is, without glorification, simply sharing what others might find inspiring.
Our next heroine was the outstanding chess player Dana Reizniece — an extraordinary personality with incredible energy, willpower, and work ethic. Chess, like all sports, is full of emotion, loss, disappointment, collapse, and rebirth — deeply moving and inspiring.
The fourth book in the Vincent publishing catalogue is another book about Mārtiņš Rītiņš, written by his closest friend in Latvia, Astrīde Rozīte. It was born when we realized how many photographs Mārtiņš had, each with a story to tell, alongside the idea of sharing recipes borrowed by his friends and students. A wonderful book.
Mārtiņš would have been very proud of it.
And as I said, I am currently writing Symphony of Zvaigžņu Street – Imants Kalniņš. That is the title of the composer’s seventh symphony, in which he wrote his own life. Now we are trying to do something similar in text. I admire his sharp mind, memory, and sense of humor. We are greatly helped by his guardian angel, Agriņa, whose intuition is astonishing. I am deeply grateful to both of them for their trust.
Our publishing team is perfect — we function seamlessly, sensing when to speak and when to remain silent.
I love the subtleties of human relationships, because vulnerability and imperfection make us human.
Do you know why artificial intelligence cannot write poetry? (Not rhymes, but poetry.)
Because it has never experienced pain.
Isn’t that beautiful?
About Beauty and Everything Else
I’m sometimes asked about future subjects. Honestly — I don’t know. There are ideas, but I don’t want to live in an undefined future.
Right now, I live in Imants’s story and want to experience it as deeply as possible. I don’t want to rush. Too much in the world today is rushed and superficial. Everything must be seen, done, earned, spent — a vicious circle where one risks losing oneself.
One cannot always start “from scratch.” That phrase is a misleading cliché. To start anew requires skills, and skills require time. And in a life where much has already happened, responsibility cannot be erased.
We can only try to live better and become better people each day.
As for the atmosphere of writing — everyone has their own. I write everywhere: at airports, on trains, in cinemas before the film. I wake up at night to write things down. Sometimes it’s nonsense, sometimes something valuable. Friends know I’m unreliable at parties — if I’m writing, I don’t go anywhere.
Only to the gym and lectures, which keep me in the academic environment I value so much. Academic experience has taught me to organize thoughts, structure text, and question everything. It’s not limiting — it’s disciplining.
I love beauty — deeply and seriously. In nature, in museums, in novels, even in shoe stores. Not naively, but profoundly.
As Dostoevsky said, “beauty will save the world.” If we believe in beauty and strive toward it, we cannot be villains. To me, this statement is deeply serious, not decorative. If this sense lives within you — beauty, as Imants Kalniņš would say, as a guiding orientation — then everything base and vile is simply switched off. And then things become easier, because you know what is worth thinking about and worrying over, and what is not. Most importantly, you know where to look for answers. Within yourself, of course.
Source: OK Magazine
Text: Ance Kokoreviča
Photo: Sintija Sproģe
