Adam Sun was my rock. He was a daily, joyous, presence. I miss his phone calls and his excited and cheerful personality.
My son is dancing and singing in heaven now. His earthly struggles are gone, my burden is lifted.
In honour of my dearest, I have adapted my artwork. Adam Sun painted beautiful textured paintings with something he called "mooga": intricate brushstrokes in a psychedelic fashion.
My Greatest Joy, my biggest failure
On January 11, 1982, 9:00 a.m., in a room full of hippies, I gave birth to a beautiful boy, Chandis Adam Strehlen.
His father, K.C. Tebbutt was present, as were four midwives, and several friends.They surrounded me in my small bedroom, as I lay on my futon on the floor with my precious baby in my arms. Months before, K.C. talked me out of aborting him. Now, I was holding a creation of God. I was thrilled and blessed.
We lived communally in a big old house in Victoria, BC. We called ourselves “The Family” and embraced a New Age lifestyle. Our ancient, three story house had a backyard garden, coal and wood heat. We shared vegan potlucks and adventures to Sooke potholes every summer, group therapy and yoga sessions, Dance, music and art filled our lives.
I was estranged from my genetic family, who had not been in contact since I was a 14 year old runaway. This group of people adopted me when I was pregnant with Adam, and I felt that I belonged to a better, healthier, family. I was full of communist dreams of a utopia of sharing lives, through cooperative parenting and other life events.
My two sisters showed up to “view”, Adam. They were disdainful of my circumstances and made sure to tell me. My older sister said, “There’s something weird about Chandis Adam”.
In a way, she was right. Adam was unique. Everyone would mention his translucence, his beautiful green eyes, his ethereal gentleness, and his sweet nature. He was an easy baby to care for, he never had tantrums, or was never demanding. He was healthy and happy. In fact, he was too easy going, sometimes, and would not mention any pain or discomforts.
The communist utopia was a lovely dream. Not long after Adam’s birth, We disbanded our communal family, to pair off, have children and become yuppies. His father, K.C. closed the gallery we opened together, took my money and went to live in Taos, New Mexico, to pursue his dreams. I made sure to have Adam call him once a year, and never asked K.C. for anything, nor did he offer.
Adam’s sister, Sola, was born December 16, 1984. When I brought her home, Adam was absolutely thrilled. He took on the role of big brother like it was natural. He was always eager to help care for her. I don’t recall the two of them fighting much, and their teachers would often comment how they were best friends.
Their teen years were difficult because of my unstable financial and physical situation. We moved a lot and I was not home enough because of my work. As a single parent, without support, I struggled, but my children were resilient, and Adam was a constant support for Sola.
He was always cheerful, and adaptable. He had many friends, and would always include Sola in his activities. His free spirit was inspirational, and his loving nature attracted many. He laughed a lot and easily, he played music and sang all the time. He made my life as a single mother much easier because he was never in trouble at school, or in the community. He was unusually honest and honourable. The teenage girls looked to him for support, because he made everyone feel safe.
Around 1994, my cousin, Dayanna, began showing signs of mental illness.She was 34 years old, and was eventually diagnosed with schizophrenia. She would visit us on occasion, and once tried to light herself on fire. My teenage children witnessed her strange behaviour, but, at that time, none of us knew what was going on. It was our first experience with severe mental illness.
When Adam turned 17, he went to visit his father in America. For three years, they had many adventures, and I believe Adam had the time of his life. They played and recorded music, Adam toured briefly, they made paintings and Adam sold several of his own, including a spectacular dragon painting for $1800 US. He found true love and was engaged to be married to a lovely Christian woman named Aimee.
But around 2001, his illness reared its ugly head. His fiance noticed changes and advised him to return to Canada, so he hopped a bus and came home.
I noticed a change the moment I picked him up at the bus station. His behaviour was alarming enough that I tried to get help many times, including several visits to the emergency room, where they turned him away, without treatment or follow up. Since he was now an adult, my hands were legally tied. All I was offered was an informational workshop. No caregiving support, no guidance, nothing.
If I thought I was alone as a single parent before, I was now completely isolated. Adam’s family, including his father, K.C. and his famous uncle Joe Average, refused to have anything to do with him. My own family ran for the hills, except for my mother and my cousin, Glenn. Sola was extremely traumatised, and I could not get any support from our healthcare system for her either.
In the height of Adam’s psychotic events, he would snap out of it when his sister or I intervened. This was because he loved us and I know he was trying to control himself.
His Hell was so real, and I was helpless and hopeless, and his sister was suffering and I was too busy to comfort and care for her.
The next 20 years was an odyssey of epic proportions. It took me until 2013 to finally get supported housing for Adam, and they offered it in the DTES. At first I was relieved to finally have a safe space for Adam, but I soon realised that this was the beginning of the end.
Adam was grateful for his new home, he claimed he lived “in a mansion”. He never complained about physical pain or discomfort. Once I asked him if he was hungry, he replied “I try not to be”. He would walk miles in inclement weather in a t-shirt; once he was lost in the snow and the police rescued him and let him sleep in a cell overnight. When they showed up at my door on November 18, 2013, they mentioned Adam was never involved with police except for health emergencies. At the end of his life, he had lost all his molars, and never mentioned the agony, which was probably constant. I imagine this is why he started smoking meth around 2015. It was cheap, easy to get, and was probably a great analgesic.
Adam was a man of pure heart. He was full of goodness and didn’t recognize evil intentions. He couldn’t lie to save his own life, did not steal, or deal drugs or lust after women. He proudly paid his debts, complied with house rules, phoned his mom every day, worked hard collecting cans for cash, refused to beg, and gave money and possessions to strangers; friendly to everyone. He was a perfect victim. He was victimised, and eventually murdered, by drug dealers.
This brings me to my conclusions. Had I gotten full legal guardianship, I might have been able to help him more. I could have forced him into rehab, or taken more control of his living situation. During Covid lockdowns, I was barred from entering his supported housing. Two years later, and after his death, Sola and I entered his room. It was a dismal, bare room with nothing but a bed, a pillow and a blanket, and a crack pipe on the floor. Not a scrap of anything, not a piece of paper, not a sock, nothing on the dirty walls, nothing of Adam in the room, it was as if he left many years ago.
I miss him terribly, he was my rock when I was sinking. He was my light when I was lost. He gave meaning to my life. I didn’t appreciate him enough. I relied on our so-called professionals, and our so-called family, to help us, instead of taking control of my precious son’s life. There seemed to be no real concern for his long term well being, and the staff at the M.P.A. who operate the Hampton Hotel made little attempt to include me in his care. I feel they only supplied the bare necessities, his meds, three hots and a cot. He would often show up at my house in filthy clothes, unkempt nails and feet, unshowered, poor dental hygiene, and hungry. Because of his illness he was unable to do personal care. Perhaps, if I had been more assertive, he would be with us today, a healthy, happy man who loves everyone.
In spite of this, there were many kind souls in his lifetime and, eventually, in the DTES looking out for Adam’s well being, and to those people, I can’t thank you enough. He would often excitedly report how strangers would give him money, food, etc. These were the final joys in his life.
I am incredibly grateful for those people who were really there for us.
Intimacy is more than sex, and doesn’t necessarily include it. The most intimate relationship is a meeting of minds, with a heart of emptiness (openness) and awareness (full attention) for the other. Intimacy requires a sensitive intelligence, and a non conceptual view.
We can not have intimacy with preconceptions. We can not have an intimate relationship with our idea of each other, only our true selves see with love. We can not truly appreciate each other if we are ignorant, and looking through rose coloured glasses. Emotional Intelligence and I.Q. are not the same and the former is more important for intimacy.
I can’t say if I have ever experienced real intimacy. I tested at 142 in an I.Q. test when I was 17, but my E.Q. has never been tested. My relationships have been less than satisfactory. A recent boyfriend would call be “genius girl” and repeat, “142 I.Q.!” over and over. Yet, his conversations were always patronizing, as if I was a moron, and he would never listen to me. I was merely the cute, nerdy girlfriend. He preferred TikTok to our conversations.
I don’t often get to have interesting conversations. Since I have no formal education, and glasses don’t make me look any smarter, people don’t take me seriously. I am a fringe minority and have unpopular views, which doesn’t help. Men especially just want to stuff something in my mouth when I start talking. After a life time of being dismissed, I have accepted my role as a commodity. I am, at best, the Help, and my knowledge and opinions are not required, invited, or necessary.
My husband, Brian Horback, never listened to me, he would have long conversations with many people, and would sooner take advice from a stranger instead of me. While I promoted his photography, changed careers, moved to another town, did the housework, included his family (but not mine) and was a dutiful wife, he did not reciprocate. He was not much of a husband. If I asked for his share of bills, he would complain about the cost of his stereo. I sprained my ankle and he shrugged and walked away. We were on a bike ride in a foreign country and he and his buddy left me miles behind, they forgot about me. For our honeymoon, he went to Hawaii with his best friend, and left me for two weeks to stay with his parents. Later, I came home from the hospital after a near death, ectopic pregnancy, and he insisted on having sex (i.e. marital rape), the word “no” meant nothing. After 7 years of being his service slave, I left. He tried to take all our assets and leave me with nothing, but I outsmarted him without the help of lawyers.
At this point in my life, I do not expect any sort of intimacy. My sex life is better than ever, but I am unable to make a mental or emotional connection with anyone. My relationship with my sangha has been the closest to a mental intimacy I’ve had. We’ve had intense discussions about the nature of Mind, and the complexities of human experience; the most intellectually satisfying times of my life were spent with these students and scholars.
My mother was a frustrated intellectual and loved politics. She had an immense vocabulary and she never resorted to expletives. She would have political meetings at our home and I had no choice but to listen. Walter Cronkite would deliver the evening news and she would argue with the T.V., and lecture me to, “Question everything!”. She encouraged critical thinking and this fostered my thirst for knowledge. For this I am grateful, but it’s a double edged sword.
It doesn’t always serve me well. I have a weakness for debate, it was one subject I got high marks in. When the Dobb’s decision was announced recently, I regrettably jumped into the Facebook fray. I felt my reproductive history would give me credibility because it includes the gamut of situations, including a teen pregnancy, an adoption, three live births, two abortions, one ectopic pregnancy and an abortion that I induced with herbs. A FB “friend”, (a white middle aged heterosexual man), opined and I commented, suggesting a different view. He immediately went on the offensive, and was hostile and dismissive. Later, on the same thread, another white cis het man made a similar point as I, and he was met with open mindedness and the comment “I hope you’re right”. I realize that regardless of my “lived experiences”, my voice is not relevant.
Intimacy with another person is fleeting rare, and precious, but starts with intimacy with our self. The older I get, the more I have an emptiness and awareness for myself. A life time of self analysis brings acceptance. It is difficult to be objective about ourselves; I am ignorant of the impression I make on others. Maybe I’m an asshole, and don’t listen, don’t pay attention; I’ve been called petulant, bossy and strident. My efforts to be helpful might have been more of an imposition, maybe I’m just obnoxious. In spite of my best intentions, I may never be fully realized.
So I get my intimacy from Art. Through my art practice, I explore my self, my portrait subjects are my lovers, my eyes caress them., my hands explore them and my vision honours them.
Art is my conduit to intimacy.
Since the murder of my kitten, Lucky in 1966, I have been morbidly curious about death. In my dark bedroom I imagined laying in a coffin, completely inert, unable to move, no thoughts, feelings, sensations; no sound, smell, taste or light….for eternity. I thought that must be Hell, and this was the source of my claustrophobia and restlessness.
My exposure to religion, philosophy and metaphysics deepened my view of after-death experience. Reincarnation, Bardo, Heaven and Hell, and Nihilism were some of the views to ponder. Of course, the concept of time is a factor; there is eternity to define and other cultures measure time differently. Morality plays into this, as the terms “sin” and “karma” suggest. What a deadly sin is to one, is a misdemeanour to another, and some do not believe in Good or Evil, just consequences.
One set of teachings about after death experience is from the Nyingma tradition of Tibetan Buddhism. The seminal teaching, Bardo Thodol, or “Liberation Through Hearing During the Intermediate State”, by Padmasambhava, describes the states of consciousness between death and rebirth. It was popularized in 1992 with the book “the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” by Sogyal Rinpoche.
Essentially, our state of mind at the time of death dictates our rebirth. This is why we should master our emotions through control of our mind. Fear, greed, lust, longing, anger and resentment can all land us in a sort of hell realm for awhile.
Perhaps this means living a life with no regrets. Whether or not reincarnation is a fact, our mind set determines our fate.
Catherine (Kitty) Massey was my psychic teacher. The first lesson in our two year program, she spoke of her psychic teacher, Robert, who was a prisoner of war in a Japanese P.O.W. camp during WW2. The conditions were unbelievably brutal, and many of his fellow captives succumbed to the treatment. He noticed that those men who retained hope were more likely to survive. In the face of chronic deprivation and cruelty, they were determined to see the future. Complainers and pessimists were often the first to perish.
Life is precious, death comes unexpectedly, time is fleeting. I choose to live my life in gratitude and wonder. Every day is an opportunity to create my Magnum Opus.
Beautiful women have been subject of admiration since the dawn of humans, and the subject of art since the dawn of art. A beautiful woman is the epitome of perfection, and the holder of the secret of life.
What is a woman? This is the question of current times. With the focus on drag queens LGBTQIA2S+ and transgender folk, it has, ironically, become a reasonable question. With the introduction of cosmetic surgery, it seems anything is possible. We’re in a phase of transhumanism. According to popular belief, men can menstruate, get pregnant, and lactate, and babies are incubated in test tubes. Men are allowed into women’s safe spaces, like washrooms and locker rooms. Women’s sports now include men, and the Woman of the Year has been a man several years now.
The same cannot be said about men. Chaz Bono was never named “man of the year”. Women are not participating in men’s sports. Drag Kings are not featured in schools or on national TV. Women cannot impregnate people or get prostate cancer. Transgender men are not eager to be in a men’s prison.
So much for Women’s Lib. We’ve come a long way, baby; a long way back to the bottom of society. Women are the N*ggers of the World. Birth control was freedom for women’s reproductive rights, but welfare made it easier for men to refuse responsibility for their offspring. Women were once admired for being a good housewife and mother, but now they have to be porn queens, high octane career women and super moms. But that was still not good enough. Now men can be women; women are replaceable. It’s a man’s world. All they need from women is their ovum.
There was a book called “I’m Okay, You’re Okay “. The premise was that we don’t need to change ourselves because we’re okay just the way we are. Then we had the “Body Positive” movement; all body shapes and sizes are acceptable. We were taught that being gay is not a choice. Now we’re not okay the way we are, (unless you’re morbidly obese, don’t be a “fat Phobe”). Demi Lovato changes genders as often as she changes her hair style. In fact, you can identify as a cat or a pot of tea if you don’t want to be human anymore. Regardless, it has been women who are almost always the focus of criticism about their appearance. An ugly tranny is called “brave” while an ugly woman is called “unfuckable”. Not skinny enough, not blonde enough, not bosomy enough, not young enough, not enough booty, not pout-y enough. Women are never good enough.
Men have “dad bods” and as long as their bank account is fat, it doesn’t matter if they are. Single fathers are celebrated and single mothers vilified. Men are not responsible for birth control. Men do not suffer from abortions, miscarriages, ectopic pregnancy or childbirth. Men are not as often raped, beaten, or murdered by women. Women are “hysterical” and men are “passionate”.
The ideal woman is Jessica Rabbit, and this horror is alive and well on Instagram. Just look at the so-called influencers. They are cartoon characters with overfilled balloon boobs, wasp waists and sausage lips. I expect to witness one to spontaneously explode. Real, unaltered women are not acceptable anymore.
Historically, female artist faces nearly insurmountable odds to gain a career. I am not art historian but I can recount my personal experience. In 1982, I opened a gallery with K.C. Tebbutt. After I found and paid for the space, he invited many artists to show, but not me. Perhaps my work was shitty, but he never offered even a dark corner wall. My job was to care for our infant son, period.
Over the years, I arranged group art shows, owned and operated a few galleries, and promoted artists like Jim Cummins, Carl Baird, Joe Average, Chris Bentzen, Miles Lowry and David Ferguson to name a few. I deliberately looked for female artists to show but there was a dearth. While I spent much time, energy and money supporting other artists, at no time have any offered to promote or show my work. I have been invited to “see some etchings” once. Maybe I’m delusional and my work is crap, but I don’t think so. My husband treated my art practice as a cute hobby, even though I paid for the family dental bills with sales of my work.
I know many women who gave up their art practice, or put it on hold. Marriage, children, and family duties are prioritized. Most artists, male or female also need a day job, which takes up precious time and energy, gone are the days of wealthy art patrons like Gertrude Stein.
My ideal man is an artist who recognizes my art practice as important. In history there’s been some profound art marriages. Maybe I’m a masochist, a sucker for punishment, or a naive dreamer, but I will never stop making art. I am undaunted. I’ll find a Christo for my Jeanne-Claude, or I’ll live and die alone.
Love is arguably the most popular subject matter in the Arts. What would Art be without Love in all it’s drama and glory? Nothing feels as good as falling in love and nothing hurts as much as heartbreak. Longing, fantasy and lust fuels the poet. Women are addicted to attention and men are addicted to sex. We see what we desire, and ignore all else, in order to get what we want. So many women fall for the pick up artist claiming to be a photographer. The potential for romance is irresistible.
Love is a verb, not a sentiment.
We all have needs. We also have desires, and it’s often difficult to distinguish between the two. I used to have unmet “needs”, until I realized that desire for physical contact is not a need. After all, the so-called “happiest man in the world” is a celibate monk.
I do not expect any physical pleasure from anyone. It’s an unloving demand. Maybe it’s my fault, but I have never had a lover who seems to cherish me, who will massage me, patiently perform satisfying oral sex, brush my hair or make me tea. The men I’ve known carnally (and the few women) seem to just want me to pleasure them, which proves it’s not love. So if I want physical contact with anyone, I have to weigh the cost benefit to me. It’s not that I don’t like sex. In fact, it’s my favourite form of exercise, but sex can lack intimacy when you’re being objectified.
I was deeply in love with my photographer husband, Brian, but the sex was….meh. It didn’t matter at first, but it was on the list of reasons we grew apart. Compatibility is crucial for longevity of a relationship. I tend to fall in love with artists, in hopes they will love me for the same, and the sex is incidental. At first, my delusions are strong, but eventually, reality sets in and I realize that the man’s art and interests trumps mine.
My first love was Jim MacDonald, a handsome self taught pianist. We lived happily and peacefully together for over 3 years until I left to adventure in the Great White North in 1977.
I fell in love with K.C. Tebbutt, brother of Joe Average, in 1979. He and I made art and music together, and then we made a baby. I wanted to end the pregnancy, and scheduled a procedure but K.C. convinced me that he wanted to be a father. I had hopes of the three of us making music and art, and opening an art gallery. So I gave birth to our son, found a space for rent, named and financed the first Gallerie Untitled. Once the gallery was up and running, K.C. left me for another woman who was childless. He never supported me or his son, would lie and steal, and never paid me back for the gallery financing. He refused to show any of my work and I fell out of favour with his artist friends.
Thus began my life as a single mother and artist. I moved into a communal house and studied classical oil painting techniques. These were happy times. My new “family” was creative, playful, health minded, loving and accepting. I found support with a hippy community, and we spent time exploring a New Age lifestyle. I had enough time and support to create large canvases with traditional materials. I explored making rabbit skin glue, stretching canvases, making gesso, making oil paints, gold leaf and calligraphy. My bible was Ralph Meyer’s Artist Handbook. We lived in an old house with a coal furnace in the basement with a lot of space to share. This is the house where my son was born. At the home birth, all the “family” were there as well as three midwives. So many wonderful people and experiences, including musicians, sculptors, and craftspeople, one artist made a harpsichord in the house. A French Canadian family of 6 stayed with us, during their tour as jugglers. There were “breatharians”, “fruitarians” followers of Rajneesh, and other miscreants. We had hardly any contact with the “straight” world during the 80’s. No T.V. or other media, and our goal was to make an alternative community.
Life was good and filled with good people, wholesome food, idyllic lifestyle, personal growth and creativity abounding!
Adam Sun was my rock. He was a daily, joyous, presence. I miss his phone calls and his excited and cheerful personality. My son is dancing...
