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.
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 inchesAngel 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.
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.
acrylic and oil on canvas 16×20 inches 1997
Love is a verb, not a sentiment.
Sex is not Love
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.
acrylic and oil on canvas 16×24 inches 1997
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.
The things we do for love and art
Angel and son 1982
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.
Victoria 1983
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!
Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, acrylic on board 8×8 inches 2019
Without Art, there would be no religion. Throughout history, religions have relied on artists to express theology. So much music, painting, sculpture and architecture
exists for religious purposes and with religious financial backing.
Primitive cultures practised animism using visual language and magical
thinking to conjure a bountiful and safe hunt, painting bison and other
animals on cave walls. Pregnancy and birth were a mysterious and dangerous miracle; the female figure, or “Venus”, is the oldest religious artifact, and artistic sculpture.
Science is a new discipline in the 3,000,000+ year history of homo
sapiens. Humans have relied on religion for answers to the
precariousness of daily life. Science replaced superstition and blind
faith and Atheism
has risen accordingly. The Arts have followed suit by adopting a
secular view; abstract art dominated the 20th century. Still, religion
relies on visual, spatial and auditory aids. Religion could not exist
without the Arts, and some of the most priceless and enduring works are
deistic.
Dalai Lama age 6 acrylic on board 8×8 inches 2020
My religious journey
As an artist, I have an innate reverence
for life and all phenomena. The sensations evoked by religion are
fascinating. I am intrigued by the myths and magical beliefs, the
smells, sounds and sights of rituals. I admire the community spirit of
religious groups. I have witnessed lives changed by conversion to
religion. I have dipped my toes in piety but it’s not for me.
Although I have an artist’s imagination to believe the fantastical,
it’s impossible for me to join a group that requires members to suspend
belief in common sense, facts and empirical evidence. My stubborn
independence dictates that I question everything, but the dreamer in me
seeks the Divine. My instincts told me that a whole life includes a
healthy body, a healthy spirit, and a healthy mind, so I began to look
into psychology as an avenue of self reflection and growth.
Madonna in Prayer 1988 oil and gold leaf on canvas 28×36 inches
Psychology vs Religion
I began reading Freud, Adler, Jung and other Western pioneers of
psychology and my skeptical nature led me to alternate therapies such as
hypnotherapy, NLP, alternate mental states, group therapy, and primal therapy.
My friends were involved in many alternate therapies, none were
religious but one was a practising Buddhist. This was odd, because all
of them attended the Dalai Lama visit in 1993, yet none were practising
Buddhists or meditators. Since I had no interest in traditional
religions, I paid no attention, and continued my studies of Western
psychology.
Dalai Lama, acrylic, gold leaf and paper on board 8×10 inches 1994
Having no formal education, I began working as a front line mental
health worker. My clients had mental and physical disabilities, and
eventually I landed my “dream job”, teaching art in a therapeutic
setting. Some of my family suffered mental illness. My mother and
sisters were alcoholic, my son is schizophrenic as is my cousin, my
daughter was a junkie and another cousin is a gambling addict, so I was
surrounded by subjects to study.
My mental health
Years of thankless care-giving is hard on a person. My
responsibilities began when I was 6 when my half sister was born and
continued until I was 60. Motherhood, marriage and two disabled adult
children took up the majority of my time, money and attention, with
nothing left over for me. My every attempt at succeeding was thwarted by
the lousy hand I was dealt, a few of life’s’ curve-balls and my own bad
decisions. Failed art career, two failed marriages, three failed
businesses, and one bankruptcy later, I was exhausted and needed help.
From the Mask series 2013 oil on canvas 18×24 inches
I took advantage of the health benefits at work and began cognitive
therapy. This seemed effective at first, but soon devolved into a futile
cycle of complaining and no change. I knew I had to try something else,
but what? Everything I did in life failed, so I decided the best thing
for me was to do nothing at all. I was so discouraged, I quit making art
for the first time in my life. I would do nothing even if it killed me.
Don’t believe everything you think
Considering my track record, I knew if I tried to do nothing it would
also end in failure. I needed expert instruction so as not to fuck this
up too. I reasoned that meditation is doing nothing, so I sought
instruction. My criteria was clear; it had to be free or by donation and
it had to be within walking distance. One day while walking aimlessly, I
saw a building with a sign saying “Science of Mind”. It was NOT
Scientology, it was a Buddhist centre.
Upon further investigation, I discovered it was free or by donation.
So, in spite of my distrust for religion, I began taking classes.
The practice sessions were just my speed.
I learned how to sit. I learned how to stay. I learned how to shut up,
but most importantly, I learned why this is useful.
There were two lessons a week, one was
practice and one was theory. I was hooked in the very first class when
the lama quoted the Buddha, “Do not believe in anything simply
because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it
is spoken and rumoured by many. Do not believe in anything simply
because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in
anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not
believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many
generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that
anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of
one and all, then accept it and live up to it.”
“In a barrel” oil on canvas 18×24 inches, 2010
I was surprised to learn that words like “soul”, “spirit” “faith”,
“God”, “miracles” were absent in the teachings. Instead we used phrases
like “mind stream”, “valid cognition”, “reality”, “illusion”, etc. We
learned how our senses stimulate thought, how thought results in
emotion, and how emotion can run our lives. I recall the teaching on
anger, the Lama described the poisonous nature of this emotion and I
piped up, “What if the other guy is an asshole?” He retorted, “What if
YOU are the asshole?”. BAM!
The most valuable lesson for me was gratitude. I was angry, bitter
and felt victimized and it was a struggle to feel grateful for anything.
After some deep contemplation and discussion, I became grateful for the
miracle of my very existence. My gratitude filled me with joy. My joy
was so great I began making art again.
Like Art, Magick has always intrigued me. When we were young, my
cousin and I would dress up and pretend to be witches. We “recited”
spells from leather bound tomes, and imagined miracles.
Angel and Josephine 1964
When we grew apart, I continued on my own, using a little pocket
book called “Everyday Witchcraft”, where I learned little spells and
rituals. I studied astrology and tarot cards, psychics and ghosts. My
goal was to control my circumstances and master myself. I sought to
become an ultimate creator of worlds.
I read every book I could get my hands on. Robert Hand, Jane Roberts, Madam Blavatsky, Kristamurti, Yogananda, Carl Jung, Joseph Campbell, Rudolph Steiner, Alistair Crowley, Annie Besant, and Carlos Castenada to name a few. I apprenticed with an astrologer, took psychic lessons, yoga lessons, meditation, psychedelics and tried every kind of alternative therapy.
All of this complimented my art practice. Art is my conjuring. The
human mind is miraculous and is nourished by ritual, myth, symbols and
other abstract languages. We seek to understand the mysteries in order
to have agency in the world. Art is an avenue of communication that
surpasses all language and cultural barriers. Art connects us with the Akashic records, the Collective Unconscious, and expresses the interconnectedness of all life.
The function of Magick is to gain control, the technique is ritual,
and the mechanism is Art. Great artists create alternate realities;
reality now includes the visions of De Chirico, Dorothea Tanning and
Salvador Dali. Primitive artists conjured animal spirits on cave walls,
religions depicted miracles, New Agers utilize Magical Thinking and modern artists work with abstract concepts.
Female artists have challenges and rewards from becoming a mother
that men will never understand. This is partly why the Art is a Man’s
World.
My mother
Velma (Vemay) May
Dibble was born in 1936 in Vancouver, the third child born to Mary Hamar
and Adam Cornelius Dibble (Drapaka). My maternal grandparents were born
in Alberta to immigrants from Ukraine
and Poland, who settled in Alberta in the early 1900’s. They were hardy
pioneers, Socialists and very active in the Labour Movement. My great
uncle Danny Hamar was a popular activist in the 1920’s, and started a
tradition of freedom fighters in my family.
It’s a strange coincidence that my father was a German Nazi and my
mother was a Polish Communist. Once again, Germany invaded Poland and
resulted in a world war. I think my father married my mother for her
looks, as she was a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Sophia Loren, a
perfect Aryan wife.
Vemay 11 years old
Velma should never have had children. She wanted to be a serious
author and write books about politics, and wanted to be revered as an
intellectual. When she became a mother for the first time, she had the
family dog babysit while she helped my father. By the time I came along,
the marriage was on the rocks, my mother was unhappy and taking
“Mother’s little Helpers” with her evening cocktail.
chronic neglect
Mother was barely interested in being a mother. She wasn’t abusive,
just neglectful. I never saw a dentist. My second trip to the doctor was
because I suffered abdominal pain for over a year, my aunt finally
noticed, and I had a gall bladder infection. Knowing full well that my
mother wouldn’t pay attention to the doctor’s advice, I listened
carefully as he recommended a fat free diet. So at the age of 8, I
learned how to eat healthier. My mother didn’t change the grocery list,
it was usually lots of pork, butter, lard and cheese, so I adapted.
My mother did not discuss my changing body. My first period, and
every one after, I was forced to use toilet paper as a menstrual pad. I
stole one of my mother’s bras and altered it to fit me. Her only advice
about sex was “Use oral contraceptives….just say NO!…haha”
I was a teenage mother
Angel 1973
Mother was always looking for the next husband. She met a rich man
who lived up island, so she would spend weeks away from home. At the age
of twelve, I was left to babysit my younger sister, who was six years
old. I was lonely and overwhelmed. Then I met my first boyfriend, Jim
Zolkos, and he would spend many nights over. Of course, I became
pregnant.
It was 1973, and there was no way for me to get birth control, in
those days, even condoms were not very available. My mother wouldn’t
listen to me, and I had no one to talk to, so I ignored my growing baby.
By the time my mother clued in, I was four months pregnant.
My mother hid me away, telling everyone that I was up in Nanaimo
babysitting. She did not tell anyone about my condition, no one in the
family knew. I was not allowed to leave the house for fear the
neighbours would see me. I made a lot of art during this time. I was
home schooled, did yoga, and sewed a lot. It was a lonely time,
exasperated by my mother’s drinking and raving into the nights.
On June 1, 1974, my baby girl was born. my mother was “tired of
waiting” so she had the doctor induce labour. I lay in the hallway of
the Royal Jubilee Hospital on a gurney with tubes in my arms, for what
seemed like hours, the passing nurses sneering at me for being a
pregnant teen.
Not long after, I moved into my first apartment, and a better life began. My art practice
guided me, and after an adventurous year up North, I enrolled in Vic
High Secondary school because the art teacher was a master calligrapher.
I lived in a big rooming house where I met Sandra Millott, another budding artist. I was on my way!
I am eternally grateful to my mother. Because of her, I became self
sufficient early in life; I am incredibly strong, resilient and
resourceful. I wouldn’t want any other mom.
I was 6 years old when my childhood ended. My mother had divorced my
father, moved from the British Properties to a farm in Surrey with my
step father, John Hogan, and they got busy smoking, drinking, fucking
and fighting. My older sister, Janina, was sent to live with relatives,
to ease the burden on my mother, so I had to fend for myself.
I escaped the drunken chaos by going to my room right after dinner. I
would draw and paint for hours, look at Sears catalogues, listen to the
radio while planning my escape. It was not a happy childhood, I don’t
remember any birthday parties or many Christmas presents. I do remember
my step father, John beating the hell out of me in his drunken fits, my
heavily pregnant mother watching helplessly. One night, my nine year old
cousin Steven bravely stood between me and my raging Step Monster. I
was shocked that anyone would even try to protect me. I was amazed that
someone cared.
Growing up fast
My half sister Jamie was born in December of 1966, and I became her
caretaker. I’ll never forget the time I got in trouble because she
rolled off the couch at the age of three months. My parents were in the
bedroom and I was charged with watching her. It was a seminal moment
when I realized my role, I was no longer a child, I was the “help”.
Angel 1966, Vancouver
By the time I was 7, I did laundry (with a wringer washer
and a clothesline), prepared meals, changed diapers, washed dishes and
vacuumed. I remember walking down the country road with fresh milk (it
was one of my chores to fetch milk from the neighbour), and in a playful
mood, I was swinging the jugs like a windmill with my arms. I swung too
high and the milk came down upon my head, which, of course, was met
with harsh punishment. We had Shetland ponies, Prince, Princess, and
Dusty, and my kitten named Lucky. One day, she went into a seizure on
the front porch. My step father picked her up, walked to the back yard
and shot her.
From the frying pan to the fire
Eventually, my mother left John, and we moved into the house at 3349
E. 2nd Avenue near Rupert. Thus began a new Fresh Hell. As a result of
the chronic neglect and domestic violence, I developed nocturnal
enuresis at the age of 6. Because my mother was “busy”, my bedding and
clothing were never washed unless I did it. So I reeked of urine. My
room reeked, I reeked. In Elementary school, I was the stinky, fat kid
with second hand clothes, a chipped front tooth and a weird haircut.
Boys chased me just to beat me up, and girls laughed at me behind my
back. I had no friends and was always picked last in sports teams. I
hated school, but I hated it less than being home.
My mind as a Sanctuary
Since earliest memory, I have found sanctuary in my mind. Always a
dreamer, my imagination became a refuge from the sufferings of
existence. With it, I could escape into worlds I created, filled with
colour, music, and magic. I created a world with no bullies, no
violence, and safety in beauty.
I was born in Vancouver in 1960 at the St. Paul’s Hospital, the second daughter of Velma and Walter Strehlen.
Angel 1961, Vancouver
My father, Walter, was too busy working to attend. My mother was
scheduled for a cesarean section, the birth of my sister in 1958 almost
killed them both, and the doctors weren’t taking any chances. We lived
in the British Properties at the time as my father was an up and coming
star in the restaurant industry, and worked at the elite restaurants in
West Vancouver.
Rags to Riches
My father was born in 1930 Hamburg Germany to a wealthy family,
pampered with all the luxuries including his own personal butler. I
never knew him; my mother divorced when I was 5, and he disappeared from
my life; so I rely on my mother’s scant information. She claimed his
full name was Walter Von der Osten, Sachen, Streletsky, Strehlen. I have
no way to corroborate this, but it sounds impressive.
My paternal grandfather was a high ranking military man, and rumoured
to be an SS officer. My grandmother, Hedwig, was wealthy and Jewish,
which may have been the reason my father hated her. Walter was six years
old when Hitler came to power; his life began as a Nazi. He was a
soldier in WW2, survived, and came to Canada in 1948, penniless and with
little English, leaving his family and country forever.
The New World
His first job was as a dishwasher at the White Lunch at 124 W.
Hastings, a fitting employer for a racist Nazi, and he worked his way up
to become head maitre d’ at the Bayshore Inn before divorcing my mother
in 1965.
He moved to Vernon, was remarried to a wealthy widow, and started his restaurant, The Country Squire
in Naramata. This became a destination restaurant, featured in Gourmet
Magazine and frequented by luminaries such as Pierre Berton. My father
had become a self made man, a poor immigrant who made millions, and
acquired notoriety by the age of 40. He lived in a mansion on a hill
with a shiny Mercedes Benz.
Walter Strehlen 1959(?) Vancouver
Money doesn’t buy happiness
My father was not satisfied, with anything, ever. I guess that was
his downfall. He wanted to start a chain of restaurants featuring better
quality dishes than McDonalds, much like today’s Earl’s or Cactus Club.
It really was a good idea, so he sold The Country Squire in 1980 and
started with two restaurants. He named his brain child, Jamieson
Bookers, which featured an in-house bakery and gourmet dishes like
escargot.
I travelled to Vernon one summer around 1982, and he invited me to lunch in his restaurant at the Vernon Village Green Mall.
It was the first time I met with my father since 1966. We spent the
afternoon together, he didn’t ask any questions of me, but rather used
me as a sounding board. He complained about everyone and everything,
peppering his speech with expletives, I’d never heard a mouth like his. I
visited his beautiful house, and met his beautiful wife, it really was a
once in a lifetime experience for me. He showed me his photography and
talked about escaping his stresses by riding his motorcycle into the
hills with his camera. He was quite a good photographer, but a really
nasty person.
Like I said, he had no interest in me, it was the first time he met
me and he didn’t care to get to know me. I was not surprised, nor was I
hurt, as I expected there was a reason, and I soon found out. He was
angry and bitter, no sense of humour, no heart of kindness. I met my
half brother Scott, who was around 14. Our father had not spoken to him
for two years, for some forgotten transgression. My father had no love
for anyone, even for himself.
His new venture was fraught with problems. His partners embezzled
funds and ultimately, his dream was over and his wealth and income were
in jeopardy, he was looking at Chapter 11.
In 1985, my father suffered a major stroke. Of course, being a smoker
didn’t help, but the stresses of losing his business probably added to
it. He was discharged and sent home, wheelchair bound and paralyzed on
one side. A few days later, on Father’s Day 1986, while his family was
out, he managed to load his gun and shoot himself to death.
Hard lessons
Years later, I was purchasing something at Radio Shack in Kitsilano.
The man at the counter recognized my last name, and asked if my father
was named Walter. He went on to explain he had worked briefly for him at
the restaurant in Vernon. I encouraged him to talk and he went on to
say what a terrible boss my father was; worst ever. It’s a Small World
after all.
Naturally, my lack of a father has had an effect on me, and I
obviously have Daddy issues. Constantly striving to prove myself as
worthy, always thinking my art is never good enough, I struggle not to
compare myself to other artists. My belief is that Art is a Man’s domain
and I’ll never cut it as a female. I sacrifice myself to men in my life
who are artists, and waste my time trying to promote their art,
spending thousands of dollars and years of my life. I have sacrificed my
art for theirs, to please “daddy”. I am easily convinced that my needs
are unimportant and I have no value. I have accepted crumbs when I
deserve better. I have wasted my time trying to please and support
others, instead of making art.
