Mother's Day

 I'm so glad that I had the mother I did. 

Velma wasn't perfect. She was a negligent parent, though she did try to love us, and was never abusive. We moved a lot, but were never homeless. She was usually broke, but we always had food in the fridge. 

 She was uneducated, but well read, and politically active.

I never learned to appreciate her until I was around 42, when my son became ill, and his grandmother, Velma, was the ONLY relative to help. She drove us several times to the hospital, and always treated Adam with gentleness and respect, and he loved her. She made herself available and gave me strength.

My mother wasn't always there for me, but when she was, it was during my most desperate times.

I love my mommy. Happy Birthday

My Rock

 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, his 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. This represents the rock of love, the Rock of Ages.

Chandis Adam Strehlen 01/11/82 to 11/18/23

 

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.

Upcoming Show March 16, 2023

 

The Art of Intimacy

 

“Untitled” by Angel Strehlen, 2004, acrylic on canvas, 18×36 inches

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.

The art of awareness

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.

poster by Angel Strehlen, 1987

Mental connection

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.

self awareness

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.

The Art of Death

 

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.

“Jay Jay” by Angel Strehlen, 2009, acrylic on canvas 16×20 inches

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.

“Vanity” by Angel Strehlen 1986, watercolour and graphite on paper, 16×24 inches

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.

The Art of being a Woman

 

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.

“Woman of the Lake” by Angel Strehlen, 1982, oil, metal leaf and paper on canvas 24×36 inches

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.

double standards for women

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.

“Contemplation” by Angel Strehlen, 2004, acrylic on canvas 36×60 inches

replaceable

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.

“Crone” by Angel Strehlen, 1984 16×28 inches, watercolour, ink, graphite on paper

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.

“Little Girl” by Angel Strehlen, graphite, watercolour, crayon on paper, 1980

support for women artists

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.

“Mary Jane Jackson” by Angel Strehlen,1992, oil on canvas 48×36 inches

Angel presenting to the Sechelt Indian Nation

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.