This long-forgotten Canadian artist made me ‘see’ sound in a sublime AGO retrospective

In some of her abstract pieces, voluptuous ribbons stand in for luscious melodies. They twist and fold in on themselves, each turn revealing new shades of colour. Elsewhere, the melody is leaner, spindlier, represented by scraggly lines that dart across the canvas. All these threads collide on the page with other geometric forms — an accompaniment, if you will, of colours and shapes that, like music, evoke both harmony and dissonance. 

Stare at Taçon’s pieces for long enough — allow your eyes to be guided by her melodies — and you can almost hear them. Some,  in reds and oranges that set the canvas aglow, bring to mind Igor Stravinsky’s “Firebird” suite. Others, more restrained , are like an impressionistic chamber work by Claude Debussy. 

The result is uncanny, but also sublimely beautiful. If you don’t have synesthesia, the neurological condition that blends an individual’s senses, this is probably as close as one can get to a synesthesia-like experience.

Born in Milwaukee, Wis., in 1905 but raised in Canada, Taçon was a classically trained violinist who often compared her abstract art to works of music. (Colour, for her, stood in for sound.) Splitting her time between Toronto and New York City, she became a Canadian pioneer of non-objective art, a pure form of abstraction that eschews identifiable objects and figures.

Reviewing one of her exhibitions in 1944, the Toronto Star’s former art critic Augustus Bridle praised Taçon, writing that her “music-pictures — many of which are undeniably beautiful — are more authentic than one in 1,000 painters could possibly portray because she actually played some of the pictures that she paints.”

But after she died in 1980, Taçon largely faded into obscurity — her name lost in art history, her paintings mostly stored away from the public eye. Now, however, she’s receiving her first exhibition in nearly four decades, courtesy of the Art Gallery of Ontario (AGO).

Curated by Renée van der Avoird, “Edna Taçon: Verve and Decorum” features more than two dozen of the artist’s works, ranging from abstract paintings and paper collages to finer watercolours. It may not be a retrospective that does Taçon’s story and career complete justice, but as a show that serves to reintroduce Torontonians to her work, “Verve and Decorum” is good enough. 

What the exhibition does best is demonstrate the breadth of Taçon’s practice and the evolution of her work. In her pieces from the early part of her career, it’s easy to see how she drew inspiration from Wassily Kandinsky. Taçon’s compositions may be less dense and have more movement than those of the Russian painter, but they’re similar in how they play with acute angles and geometric shapes. 

Toward the mid-1940s, however, Taçon’s work shifted as she embraced a more expressive style. Straight lines and perfect shapes give way to lyricism. Colours blur into one another. Spirals and curves become recurring motifs.

But while “Verve and Decorum” offers a compelling glimpse of this art, it doesn’t quite show visitors the woman behind it.

Taçon led a full if not entirely easy life. In addition to painting and collages, she was also an avid muralist, dressmaker and hat designer. It was her husband, Percy, who introduced Taçon to abstract art. But it was also at his hands that she experienced immense physical and emotional abuse. Their marriage eventually ended in 1947 and the protracted legal battle that followed left Taçon separated from her children.

This emotional weight is apparent in Taçon’s self-portrait from 1955. Her gaze, eyes locked on the viewer, is austere. Even the manner in which she holds her cat lacks much affection. 

Taçon’s life is detailed wonderfully in van der Avoird’s well-researched supplementary book, meant to accompany her exhibition. But the show itself, frustratingly, barely touches on these aspects of Taçon’s personal story. 

As well, for an artist whose work was so radical when it debuted, the show meant to celebrate her art comes across as painfully conventional. Given that Taçon’s practice was inextricably linked to her career as a violinist, it seems like a missed opportunity that the AGO didn’t bring on musicians to help develop this exhibition. (The museum could’ve even engaged with a musicologist to curate a special playlist paired with the works on display.)

This leaves “Verve and Decorum” feeling like an unfinished symphony. It’s a brilliant introduction to Taçon and her work. But it’s still a first movement in search of a rousing finale.