Sweden is often associated with a large and efficient bureaucratic apparatus. It is also often associated with minimalist interiors furnished by simple pale woods such as birch and pine. It was therefore fitting that, after two years of preparation, the Swedish cultural canon committee presented – in an anatomical theatre from the 17th century – its list of 100 works, ideas and brands that define Swedishness. In direct contrast to the anonymous grey conference rooms usually favoured by Swedish government officials, this unusual list was unveiled in a rather un-Swedish fashion. The contradiction is striking. It says something about how we think about culture, nationhood and identity today – not just in Sweden, but across the west. It also tells us why this canon is doomed to fail and yet for its creators, unfortunately, it has already succeeded.
Originally a pet project of the far-right Sweden Democrats, the canon was commissioned by the sitting rightwing coalition, a minority government dependent on the Sweden Democrats’ parliamentary support. Since the canon committee’s creation in 2023, the tone in Swedish media has been critical. Some have voiced a worry that the project is authoritarian in nature, some have questioned the legitimacy and purpose of the list and others have bickered over the contents of the list itself.
Even the Swedish Academy, the body that awards the Nobel prizes in literature, declined to participate in the project, seeing a canon as “a concept imbued with power and the exercise of power”. Criticism has not died down since the 100 “winners” came to light. Abba, for instance, did not make the cut, and neither did Swedish meatballs. The final selection is a smorgasbord (also excluded, ironically) of predictable choices scattered throughout history, from the Revelations of St Bridget to Pippi Longstocking.
The project has also suffered from an ambiguous articulation of its purpose. Perhaps aware of the extensive criticism, the people behind the list have been unclear as to its ultimate goal. It “should be a living and useful tool for education, community and inclusion”, according to culture minister Parisa Liljestrand. Chairman of the canon committee Lars Trägårdh, meanwhile, called it “a departure hall, not a final destination”.
What this means in practice is open to interpretation. When people are asked about what comes next, no one seems to have an answer other than a website and some vague hopes. Will it form a part of the school curriculum? Such a move might prove controversial in a country that shuns direct political interference. Will the list be updated regularly? Unknown. Perhaps it will be shelved in a cabinet in a moss-covered vault, abandoned to time like countless government inquiries.
Stranger yet, this is the government’s flagship cultural “reform” project. For a decade, reactionaries worldwide have raged against the “woke” policing of words. Yet when in power, it is they who cling to lists of approved terms, to conceptual frameworks of consensus and to a strong state, pointing a guiding finger. Meanwhile the infrastructure of Swedish culture is decaying. The very institutions that sustain and disseminate the works and ideas in the canon – the universities, museums and theatres – are in crisis. Budget cuts and rising rents, as well as a culture minister who shamelessly defends her lack of cultural literacy, render the list a parody.
There is something disingenuous about the whole venture. Denmark introduced a similar official cultural canon in 2006. It was quickly forgotten, having failed in its goal to foster integration despite being included in the school curriculum. Swedish politicians could have learned from that.
But perhaps the true object of the canon, beyond providing a useful smokescreen, is the debate itself. The introduction of the idea of a national cultural canon implicitly suggests Swedishness, unity – what Benedict Anderson would have called the “imagined community” of the nation state. Whether the reply is that a canon should emerge organically or merely that meatballs deserve inclusion, the premise is accepted: that there exists a national culture which can be defined. Scholars from Hobsbawm to Herrnstein Smith have shown that when states try to “fix” culture, they inevitably fabricate it – yet even that misses the point.
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In this everlasting culture war, the right has mastered the art of shifting the frontlines while leaving the opposition unsure if a battle even took place. The opposition is left fumbling within the new borders that the right has imposed on them. In this sense, the Swedish cultural canon is no sideshow. It epitomises a larger ideological struggle across Europe and the world.
If history is any guide, Sweden’s new canon will soon be lost to time, vanishing as quickly as any other listicle. Anyone curious about Swedishness can already find most of it online. The canon’s real success lies elsewhere: in framing what it means to become and to be Swedish. The very notion of a nation – of a community forged around culture rather than individuals engaged with singular cultural expressions – emerges triumphant. Culture has never been just a common inheritance or simply a series of atomised encounters. It is birthed in the tension between both – in the messy, continuous production and consumption of meaning across borders and generations.
The canon freezes that process into a list, and in doing so triumphs as ideology even as it fails as culture. If the Swedish culture canon teaches us anything, it is simply to remain vigilant.