Tagaq’s split talents
Polaris winner now finds herself on Giller longlist
“I was singing alone in the bathroom for years, never thinking it would be a career,” says Tanya Tagaq. “But I’m still completely taken aback at the idea of being an ‘author.’ I feel like I’m putting on a scuba suit when I don’t know how to dive.”
Tagaq does not need to worry about drowning. Days after this interview, her debut book, Split Tooth, a mesmerizing hybrid of novel and memoir, landed on the prestigious Scotiabank Giller Prize longlist. Add that to her Polaris Music Prize and two Junos, and the Toronto-based Inuk throat singer is on her way to the Canadian equivalent of an EGOT (Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony).
The mindful process involved with writing is completely at odds with the immediate emotional focus of Tagaq’s spine-tingling live performances, in which she blends the sonic power of her voice with percussive beats, her body a conduit to the rhythms. While performing, nothing else exists in the world. Writing still represents vulnerability.
“Nobody’s going to hurt me on stage,” Tagaq says. “You can be what you want. You can put on your armour then go out and take it off.”
Offstage, Tagaq is warm and enthusiastic, with a laugh that slides into giggles.
Tagaq could hold a master class in cursing. But her open nature is guarded, partly because of the violent online vitriol she has encountered as a seal-hunt advocate and protector of Indigenous rights. ( Split Tooth is dedicated to missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls, and residential school survivors.)
Unlike certain rock stars, Tagaq did not wake up one day and decide to become an author. For more than 20 years, Tagaq has carried a notebook or phone to jot down stories or ideas. Sometimes she bangs out a poem in minutes. Or she’ll ruminate for hours on a few words that have wormed their way into her brain. Writing in short bursts is a welcome time-killer on planes and tour buses, and provides Tagaq with the stability she craves while on the road.
Split Tooth reflects its journal origins, grounded by chronological vignettes drawn from Tagaq’s life, spliced with poems and dreamscapes. Some stories float, while others crash and tremor. There are tales that charm, such as how a young Tagaq loved to encourage lemmings to burrow into her hair, in what she calls the best massage she’s ever received. Others devastate and anger, like one perfunctory verse in which she shares how she was sexually assaulted by a teacher.
“I ended up being able to go back through these pieces, to flesh them out and breathe new life into old memories that had collected dust,” she says. “It was a really exhilarating process and a peaceful one.”
The book ends with a longer narrative about a young woman who has a visceral sexual experience with the Northern Lights, in which a column of green light penetrates her body. The idea had been percolating for awhile, but it wasn’t until she began working on Split Tooth that the ending became clear. The story reflects on pregnancy and birth, which Tagaq calls one of the most wonderful times in her life, and the all-consuming nature of motherhood (Tagaq is the proud mom of two young girls.)
Tagaq, who is now 43, was born in Cambridge Bay, a tiny hamlet in the Nunavut region that serves as a port f or cruise ships navigating toward the mythic Northwest Passage. She left home at 15 to attend residential school in Yellowknife, part of the last generation of Indigenous students to attend before the institutions were shut down in 1996. A couple years later, Tagaq would move even further away to the Nova Scotia School of Art and Design in Halifax. At 18, she felt “strange and alone,” worsened by the fact that she was living in a dormitory at a nearby engineering school.
But it was that overwhelming homesickness that would eventually lead Tagaq to her musical career. In hopes of comforting her daughter, Tagaq’s mom sent her cassette tapes featuring recordings of traditional throat singers. Although Tagaq’s exposure to throat singing was limited — the cultural ritual had been banned by Christian priests for close to a century — she took refuge in the guttural growls of these women’s a cappella voices.
Tagaq also found solace in Love and Rockets, the popular underground comics series by California brothers Gilbert, Jaime and Mario Hernandez. Tagaq connected with the comic’s mix of punk ethos and magic realism — paralleling her own future art — and the fact that it celebrated two strong Latinx women.
“I remember picking up Love and Rockets and finding refuge in the fact that I could understand the language, and I could understand what was happening,” she says. “It opened my mind and helped me through a lot in my life.”
When Tagaq learned that Jaime Hernandez had agreed to provide his signature black-ink illustrations for Split Tooth, she cried. “I totally lost it,” Tagaq says. “This was beyond anything I ever possibly hope. Seeing some experiences I’ve had in life put into visual form by one of my heroes makes my knees weak.”
Asked why Tagaq didn’t create her own illustrations — the colourful paintings on her website depict a vibrant world of people and wildlife — she hesitates, worried about seeming too vulnerable or open-hearted. “I need to work on them for a couple years before I hit my stride,” she says. “I don’t feel like my artwork is good enough; it’s not there yet.”
But writing Split Tooth has motivated Tagaq to revisit her visual art, and to dream up future projects that combine her talents. “All of us have so many people inside of us,” she says. “This could be a healthy bonding experience between these three mediums that might perpetuate some growth and healing within myself, which I’m super-excited for.”