The Gilded Dream: Chinoiserie and the Resurrection of the Harpsichord

The air in West Vancouver shifts when the instrument speaks. It is a sound that belongs to another century—a crystalline, plucking resonance that once defined the auditory landscape of Bach and the child prodigy Mozart. In the living room of master craftsman Craig Tomlinson, which doubles as a sanctuary for historical keyboards, a new harpsichord stands as a testament to a bygone era of opulence.

It is not merely a musical instrument; it is a piece of architectural jewelry. Black lacquered panels gleam under the light, adorned with delicate gold leafing. Inside, tiny plectra wait to pluck strings that seem to levitate above a soundboard painted with birds and flowers—artistry worthy of a gallery wall. Before a single note is struck, the object exerts a presence, like an aristocrat from the 1770s who has stepped through time, impeccably dressed in frilled lace, refusing to age.

When it plays, the room dissolves. The listener is no longer in modern Canada but transported to the intimate, refined enclaves of a Parisian salon. This transformation is driven not just by sound, but by the visual power of chinoiserie.

The European Fantasy of the East

To understand the visual language of this instrument, one must understand the European fever dream of the 17th and 18th centuries known as chinoiserie—French for “Chinese-esque.” When the first merchant ships returned to France from the East in the mid-1600s, they unloaded cargo that shattered European conventions: oriental scrolls, porcelain, and lacquer screens depicting a world so exotic and impossible that the continent was beguiled.

Europeans could not produce these items, so they began to hallucinate them. Craftsmen worked feverishly to copy the “Oriental look,” resulting in a whimsical hybrid style that cared little for geographic reality and everything for decorative wonder.

A chinoiserie harpsichord by Pascal Taskin, 1786. Photos by Craig Tomlinson

The apogee of this aesthetic can be found in a specific instrument that continues to haunt the imagination of builders and historians alike. In the Victoria and Albert Museum in London sits a harpsichord built in 1786 by the master carpenter Pascal Taskin. “It is one of the most decorative harpsichords ever,” Tomlinson notes. “Nothing compares with it.”

Tomlinson holds a rare connection to this artifact. He was among the last to document it intimately before it was sealed behind protective glass, and his binders of photographs remain a vital resource for historians today. The instrument is an anomaly of scale and luxury. It is diminutive, its keys sized for a child’s hands. Theories abound regarding its provenance: perhaps it was commissioned for the Louise Honorine de Crozat, the Duchesse de Choiseul, or perhaps for Marie Thérèse, the eight-year-old daughter of Queen Marie Antoinette.

Whoever the patron, the instrument is a masterclass in the chinoiserie narrative. Unlike most harpsichords, which left the wall-facing side bare, this piece features gold bas-relief on every surface. It depicts a “dream Orient” where scale is a plaything: flowers tower over golden-skinned figures, giving the scenes a magical, Alice-in-Wonderland quality. It captures the sheer excitement of a Europe encountering a new world, translated through gold and paint.

The Modern Guild

In the 18th century, such a masterpiece was the result of a rigorous, compartmentalized guild system. A harpsichord by Taskin was a collaborative assembly: metal founders, gilders, carpenters, and painters each performed their specialized task, forbidden by guild laws to touch the work of another trade.

Left: Olga Komavitch-Tomlinson applying chinoiserie decor. Top right: German spruce soundboard detail. Bottom right: Gold leafing application.

Today, the guilds are gone, but in Tomlinson’s workshop, the spirit of specialized collaboration survives in a more intimate form: the family. While Craig Tomlinson constructs the vessel—ensuring the German spruce soundboard is accurate to a tenth of a millimeter—the visual soul of the instrument is often entrusted to his mother, Olga Komavitch-Tomlinson.

A graduate of the Ontario College of Art during the era when the Group of Seven was defining Canadian visual identity, Olga brings a painter’s sensitivity to the rigid demands of harpsichord decoration. In 1988, 202 years after Taskin’s masterpiece, the Tomlinsons created a new chinoiserie harpsichord. For this project, Olga sought a balance, “working down the middle” between the whimsical inaccuracies of historical European chinoiserie and authentic Asian art.

“I would like to go back into the traditional chinoiserie which is new to me and absolutely exciting,” she says, noting the scarcity of reference materials for the technique. It is a process of rediscovering a lost visual language.

A New Cycle of Whimsy

The fascination with the East that birthed chinoiserie was driven by wonder—the shock of the new. Today, that cycle is turning once again, but with a modern twist. The Tomlinsons have recently undertaken a commission for a Hong Kong-born Canadian client who desires a new instrument decorated not with the European fantasy of China, but with authentic chinoiserie rooted in genuine heritage.

Left: Detail of the 1786 Taskin harpsichord. Right: The 1988 Tomlinson instrument.

As preparations for this new work begin, one wonders if the sense of awe can be rekindled. The original chinoiserie was born from the “whimsical European interpretation of the Chinese aesthetic,” as designer Ann Getty described it. It was art born of distance and dreaming.

In Tomlinson’s workshop, surrounded by tools and the scent of wood, the harpsichord remains a vessel for these dreams. Whether playing Bach or displaying scenes of an imagined Orient, the instrument does what art is always meant to do: it suspends time, improves our posture, and demands that we listen to a beauty that refuses to fade.