Am I unhinged? Or the victim of a predator?

Women who become targets of a long-term predatory grift are not drawn in by random chance. Manipulative operators rely on specific psychological profiles, life transitions, and ideological frameworks. Based on the documentation, evidence indices, and behavioral patterns associated with this operational model, the targets typically fall into distinct categories.

1. The Psychographic Targeting Profile

As documented in the operational evidence (such as the target screening criteria identifying individuals who are "40-something, divorced or never been loved"), the grift actively selects for specific vulnerabilities:

• Life Transitions and Isolation: Women navigating mid-life transitions, recent separations, or periods of professional and personal isolation. These individuals are searching for a sense of community, validation, and deep connection.
• The Compassionate Caretaker: Highly empathetic, emotionally generous women—frequently working in caregiving, healthcare, or artistic fields—who are primed to look past red flags, give unconditional grace, and attempt to "heal" or rescue a struggling partner.
• Carriers of Grief or Heavy Burdens: Individuals carrying profound personal burdens—such as navigating family trauma, bereavement, or the intense daily responsibilities of caring for dependents. A predator recognizes that someone already exhausted by heavy life duties has less emotional bandwidth to spot and fight back against slow-creeping manipulation.

2. The Ideological Hook: Progressives and Counter-Cultural Seekers

Operators running alternative-health and "body-positive" fronts rely heavily on attracting politically progressive, open-minded, and art-appreciative women:

• The Body-Positivity and Anti-Prudery Demographic: Women who reject mainstream cultural standards of beauty and want to embrace body liberation, unscripted sexuality, and alternative art (such as participants in projects celebrating diverse body types and ages).
• Holistic Health Seekers: Individuals who feel failed or alienated by conventional medical establishments and are open to alternative therapies, traditional remedies, and natural wellness protocols.
• The Empathy Shield: Because these women deeply value inclusivity, dismantling stigma, and non-conforming lifestyles, they are conditioned to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone claiming to be an "underground pioneer," an alternative healer, or an artist fighting cultural conformity.

3. How the Funnel Captures and Locks Them In

Once a target from this demographic is engaged, the grifter deploys a systematic progression to bind them to the operation:

• The Artistic/Intellectual Validation: Initial engagement is built on deep listening, mirroring the target's values, and making them feel uniquely seen, understood, and elevated through art or shared philosophy.
• The Vulnerability Inversion (The Pity Play): The operator quickly pivots from a position of strength to a manufactured position of scarcity—claiming financial distress, aging fears, or health struggles. This triggers the target's protective instincts, converting a peer dynamic into a caretaker-patient or subordinate dynamic.
• Commodification of Labor and Assets: Under the guise of a "sacred mission," "partnership," or alternative lifestyle arrangement (such as BDSM or assistant dynamics), the target's resources, housing, administrative labor, fine art, and physical modeling are systematically extracted.

Ultimately, the women targeted by this type of grift are chosen precisely because their greatest strengths—their empathy, open-mindedness, loyalty, and capacity to forgive—can be weaponized against them, turning their desire to heal the world into a resource pipeline for a predator.

 

 

Artists must be selfish to succeed

Art, Ego, and the Cost of Greatness

A photographer was chatting with one of my collectors recently and mentioned their discussion about how terrible I am at self-promotion.

It is true. I am much better at promoting everyone else.

My priorities shifted completely the day I gave birth to my miracle. Looking into my newborn son's eyes, I realized my finest creation was right in front of me. All my drawings, paintings, singing, and dancing paled in comparison to my perfect boy.

For the first few years of his life, we spent almost all our time together, usually alone. I introduced him to nature, yoga, dance, music, and art. We ate natural food, stayed away from toxic environments and behaviors, and kept good company. It was a beautiful, simple time. I earned a living making art, practicing calligraphy, and teaching classes at community centers.

The Myth of the Single-Minded Genius

Over the years, I have known many successful artists who are childless, or who left their children behind and have never lived with or near them.

One artist once told me he left his infant daughter to focus on fashion photography, remarking that "you can't get ahead in the fashion industry unless you're single." He walked away from being a stay-at-home dad to chase fame, fortune, and shallow distractions. Another daughter of his lives thousands of miles away, and he has never shared a home with her.

When my son's father left Canada to open a gallery in New Mexico, I still made sure our son called him every single Father's Day. They had an incredible time together when our boy turned 18 and they finally lived under the same roof for two years. All boys need their fathers.

People Over Pedestals

The truth is, people are far more important than one's ego. In my view, all unnecessary suffering stems from self-cherishing.

Consider Pablo Picasso: he left behind a monumental body of work and fundamentally changed the course of modern art, but he also left a personal legacy of pain, destruction, and madness in his wake.

I don't want to be remembered as a great artist if it means I have to be a monster to achieve it. Give me a quiet life, a handful of good memories, and the knowledge that I prioritized love over a monument.

The Male Feminist Façade: A wolf in Feminist clothing

I used to be a hard core feminist. 

I believe in equity, mutual respect, and the dismantling of oppressive power structures. Because of those values, it is particularly disorienting—and infuriating—when you encounter someone who weaponizes that exact vocabulary while practicing the exact opposite behind closed doors.

Then I met a black man, who was a self-proclaimed feminist, and happened to be a sex photographer, master herbalist, and "herpes guru."

Let’s talk about the paradox of the progressive predator.

There is a very specific type of manipulation practiced by men who wrap themselves in the language of social justice, alternative wellness, and enlightened sexuality. They know the script. They know how to talk about bodily autonomy, supporting women, and holding the right ideological stances. They use it as a beacon to draw in people who genuinely care about these values—particularly self-professed feminists who lower their guard because they think they are in a safe, aligned space.

Then, you look at the reality of the daily dynamic.

Behind the public posturing of the conscious, earth-loving healer, the operational model looks less like liberation and more like Andrew Tate. It is a masterclass in extraction: devaluing labor while treating people as currency, weaponizing isolation, eroding self-worth, and maintaining absolute control while playing the perpetual victim. They use the script as bait to draw in vulnerable, affection-starved women, weaponizing intimacy just to feed their own ego and get laid.

I know, I went through it for seven years.

The Bait-and-Switch of Progressive Posturing

When a man builds a brand or a social circle around being an enlightened, sensitive ally—complete with cameras, tinctures, and alternative credentials—it creates an almost impenetrable shield of deniability.

• The Public Persona: Progressive, alternative, right on every ideological trend, surrounded by people nodding along to the wellness rhetoric.

• The Private Reality: High-control dynamics, emotional extraction, boundary dismantling, and a complete refusal to take accountability.

If you try to speak up about the mistreatment, you hit a wall of cognitive dissonance—both from the enablers and often from yourself. How could someone who talks so much about respect, healing, and bodily autonomy treat me this way? Am I the one missing something?

You aren't missing anything. You are simply witnessing the ultimate hypocrisy: using the language of wellness and safety to construct a very effective trap.

Dropping the Illusion

Realizing that someone’s ideology is just a costume is a bitter pill to swallow. It makes you question your own judgment for giving them the benefit of the doubt. But the truth is, I trusted the values I hold dear, and he exploited that trust. I have always supported vulnerable and alternative folks.

I don't need a public confession from him, and I certainly don't need the validation of his flying monkeys; the people still charmed by the performance. The spell is broken. The hypocrisy is out in the open, and I am done auditing a system that was rigged from the start to protect a fraud.

If you’ve ever walked away from a progressive facade and found a toxic, patriarchal reality hiding underneath, trust your inventory. You aren't crazy for seeing through it. You're just finally seeing the truth.

Life is Good

1 to 2% of the approximately 8.3 billion people on the planet are privileged. 

Some of us are born in the developed world, with the right melanin, afforded a stable two parent family, the chance to attend higher education, and own property, access to healthcare, in a land where they have never experienced pollution, war, famine or persecution.

Here is what A.I. said 

"If we conservatively estimate that:

1. 17% live in highly developed, safe countries.

2. Of that 17%, perhaps one-third to one-half have the combination of a stable two-parent upbringing and access to higher education.

3. Of that group, only a fraction (the top earners) reach a consistent six-figure salary and property ownership.

Most sociological estimates of the "global elite" or the upper-middle class (defined by similar metrics of stability, education, and relative wealth) suggest that this group represents less than 5% of the total global population, and likely closer to 1% to 2% when you strictly enforce the "six-figure salary" and "stable two-parent home" requirements globally."

That's 83 million lucky, privileged, people out of 8.3B.

I personally know a few, and they are no happier, wiser or saner than us plebeians. 

As for the rest of us that weren't dealt a Royal Flush, we do our best without harming others.

My biggest lesson from my Buddhist practice is gratitude. I used to feel hard done by....sorry for myself, until I started counting my blessings.

While I did come from a broken home, and have lived in poverty for my lifetime, I am lucky to be born in this place and time.

Because I understand the measure of my privilege, I dedicated my life to helping others.

I was the poor, fat, stinky, lonely girl who sat at the back of the class, never invited to birthday parties, the boys in school would chase me, just to be beat me up...so I focused on 'rescuing" stray animals, and plants. I was six when my sister was born, and became her caretaker, as my single mother was busy with books, politics, protests, coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol.

I became very proficient at housework, sewing, and did everything for my family except pay the bills. I learned to care for my health when, at age 8, my gall bladder was inflamed. The doctor said to stop eating too much fat, so I found ways to eat healthy in spite of my mother's Ukrainian diet of sour cream, butter, perogies and kolbesssa. My granny showed me which weeds to make a soothing tea and how to grow tomatoes.

In my extended family, I was the black sheep. I would sit by myself in a corner and draw, play with the cat, or find an insect to watch. I stopped being invited to holidays, weddings, and other celebrations because I became a hippy and couldn't relate to the family much. They knew nothing about veganism, mystical arts, theology, herbs, or indigenous and alternative lifestyles. I stopped following pop culture from 1979 to 1989. 

Because of this, I have spent much of my life with my immediate family, or alone making art, learning about plants, or rescuing and supporting the vulnerable, always in gratitude. I am blessed.

Life is as good as you make it.

Adam Sun Hope Sanctuary

Since the death of my precious son, Adam, my priorities have changed. I realize that I have been selfish, foolish, and delusional.

 

I am obviously not cut out to be an artist, and instead, I should have just focused on my children. They are the most precious creations of mine.

 

Had I done so, my beautiful son would be alive today, my beautiful daughter would not have gone astray.

I want to do better, and although it's too late for sweet Chandis Adam on this earth, I hope to pay more attention to others.

So, I've started a charity, Adam Sun Hope Sanctuary 

Adam taught me that men and boys are under appreciated. We all took him for granted, and assumed he was okay, simply because he never complained. 

Adam needed his father, every boy needs a dad. 

Saint Josephine Bakhita

From Captivity to Canonization: The Incredible Journey of St. Josephine Bakhita

The story of Saint Josephine Bakhita is one of the most powerful testimonies of resilience, freedom, and radical forgiveness in modern history. Born around 1869 in Darfur, Sudan, her early childhood was happy and carefree.

That peace was shattered when she was just seven years old.

A Childhood Stolen

Abducted by Arab slave traders, the young girl experienced such profound trauma that she completely forgot her birth name. Her captors mockingly named her Bakhita, which translates to "lucky" or "fortunate" in Arabic.

Over the next twelve years, Bakhita was sold five times. Her experience in captivity was marked by extreme brutality:

• A Month Bedridden: After accidentally offending her owner's son, she was beaten so severely she couldn’t move for over a month.

• The Nightmare of Scarification: A cruel mistress forced her to undergo a agonizing ritual where 114 intricate patterns were sliced into her skin with a razor, then packed with salt to ensure permanent scarring.

The Turning Point

Bakhita’s life shifted in 1883 when she was bought by Callisto Legnani, an Italian Vice Consul who treated her with kindness. When political instability forced him to return to Italy, Bakhita begged to go with him.

In Italy, she became a nanny for a family friend, who eventually left Bakhita in the temporary care of the Canossian Sisters in Venice. It was there that Bakhita encountered Christianity for the first time, discovering a God she realized she "had felt in her heart since childhood without knowing who He was."

Winning Her Freedom

When her owners returned to take her back to Sudan, Bakhita did something extraordinary: she refused to leave.

The dispute went to an Italian court. On November 29, 1889, the court delivered a historic ruling: because British authorities had already outlawed slavery in Sudan before her birth, and because Italian law never recognized slavery, Bakhita had legally never been a slave.

"Sor Moretta" (The Little Brown Sister)

Choosing to remain with the sisters, she was baptized in 1890 as Josephine Margaret Fortunata. In 1896, she took her vows as a Canossian sister.

For the next 42 years, Sister Josephine lived in Schio, Italy, serving her community as a cook, sacristan, and doorkeeper. The locals affectionately called her Sor Moretta ("little brown sister") for her gentle voice, calming presence, and ever-present smile. Even during her painful final years in a wheelchair, her response to suffering remained, "As the Master desires."

Sister Josephine passed away on February 8, 1947.

A Legacy of Radical Grace

On October 1, 2000, Pope John Paul II officially canonized her as Saint Josephine Bakhita, the patron saint of Sudan and survivors of human trafficking.

Perhaps her most profound legacy is her perspective on her painful past. When once asked what she would do if she met her torturers, she responded without hesitation:

"If I were to meet those who kidnapped me, and even those who tortured me, I would kneel and kiss their hands. For, if these things had not happened, I would not have been a Christian and a religious today."

Today, her name graces shelters and advocacy centers worldwide, standing as a global beacon of hope and a powerful statement against modern slavery.

love & hate

From a young age, I am rejected. I don't remember ever attending a birthday party, even my own.

My mother was fond of me when I could babysit my sister Jamie, cook dinner, do laundry and rescue my mother from her own bad behavior. Except for the stray animals I adopted, I was on my own. My first doctor's appointment was age 8 for a gall bladder infection. My first dentist appointment was when I was 14, with a mouthful of cavities. My dear mother disowned me after I left home at 15. She hated to lose her free babysitter and housekeeper, guess I can't blame her.

My father was completely absent. I did find him when I was 21, but that's another story.

Fast forward to present day........my sister, Jamie, cut me off years ago for something I said. My late sister Janine cut me off in 2008, the day after we laughed and chatted on the phone. 

 my sweet daughter has cut me off from my two grandchildren for a few years. Fortunately, she is tolerating me now. 

In my old age, I am avoided by everyone but the most tolerant. 

... the question is, who's fault?

There is no one to blame but myself, and the Marxist/feminism that surrounded me. The idea that it takes a village to raise a child is ridiculous. Children need two parents.

 

Luckily, My son Adam always loved me unconditionally. He really was a saint.

 

 

Love is all you need

If you are loved, people will care about you, because they are envious of you.

If you love others, people will not care about you, because they will pity you.

 so, how do you get love without giving it ❔

 

The most selfish people are the most loved.  Focus on your own success, comforts and desires, and other people will love you, because you might give them something. Or you will also be special by association. Or maybe they'll die and leave you in their will.

 

If you love unconditionally, you will be punished.

 

You're welcome 

when one door closes

 another door opens.

 

I've decided that I will no longer offer my work for sale. Canada is a communist country now, and it's almost impossible to start a business, or make any profit. Our government watches our every move, and every extra dollar is taxed at least 40%

The world belongs to the oligarchs.

 So I have decided to donate all my work to charity, Adam Sun Hope Sanctuary

stay tuned 

 

 

Empty nest

The older I get, the more life resembles my childhood, and with all this free time, I am returning to familiar pastimes. 

Painting, plants, animals, music, and solitude.

Life is very good.
 

Himba woman

 

 

I am an armchair traveler. My virtual journey to Africa resulted in a series of paintings.

 

My Sunny Son

Every day, Adam would get up early, with a smile on his face, and step out into the world. The last 20 years of his life were filled with loneliness, physical pain, madness, and poverty, yet he never complained. He never gave up. He never begged, borrowed or stole. His strength and integrity keep my spirit high. 

If he could do it, so can I.

 I have been frozen in grief since November 18, 2023, and his memory keeps me strong. 

My inspiration

 Adam was a real forager. He was always on the go, and made little bits of cash with his found treasures.

I've decided to honour his memory by urban foraging. I'm collecting herbs and plants for my homemade products.  

nobody told me there would be days like these

 Life was good.

Little did we know that things would get crazy. Both my children became addicts, only one survived. 

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 one of Adam's ONLY relatives 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 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.