Art of False Creek

Along the shores of False Creek, there are many remnants of what was once the industrial heartland of Vancouver. 

Before the arrival of the Europeans, the False Creek area was surrounded by a dense temperate rainforest of fir, hemlock, spruce and salal. South East False Creek became an industrial hub, with shipbuilders, sawmills, foundries, metalworks and a salt refinery among its occupants.

There were talks in 1950 of draining of the mudflats and filling in the inlet to Granville Street, but that never occurred. As False Creek industries gradually moved to other areas, such as along the Fraser River, this area started to show signs of deterioration and dereliction.

Old structures, such as the Salt Building, which once proudly stood on pillions on the water front, have been restored and modernized. Preserved are the massive Douglas fir beams and the old industrial hardware. False Creek housing developments, such as the Foundry, show gears, cleats and hooks, cast in bronze as a decorative element on their gates and entrance ways as a reminder of their past.

Today the area has been transformed into pedestrian walkways, bike paths, parks, and a public market to name a few. Incorporated in the children's play area are large metal scoops, pieces of abandoned equipment; boilers turned into tunnels and some just plain visual art.

Down Below Where The Crows Go

    and the flowers grow

A temporary community garden has sprung up in a now vacant lot below the rooftop garden of the old Telephone Exchange Building. 

The neighbours who do not have a rooftop garden were pleased with this temporary arrangement of a communal garden in the now empty spot awaiting redevelopment.

It was lovely to see people's passion for tending a garden and growing your vegetable or flowers. Grandparents with grandchildren appeared, helping with the watering. It is also an occasion to talk to your neighbours and discuss the gardens and their plants.

             

                       

Some have personalised their spot in the gardens and has stirred the passion for growing flowers and home grown vegetables.

          

As the sunflowers crane themselves to catch the last bit of sun, its is also known that the garden will not remain in its current location. Another type of crane will be replacing them to join Vancouver ever-changing skyline.

Up On The Roof Were the Gardens Grow

I have never been one for gardening, not passionately, but I admire those who are gardeners. Far above the street noise and activity are the rooftop gardens of Vancouver. Full grown trees on tops of buildings are visible from afar, but not visible from below. On our rooftop are the small gardens filled with vegetables, herbs and flowers. Each is so different from the other, with their assortment of plants, little hothouses, greenhouses and bird houses.

The roof top gardens have taken on a life of their own, giving city condo dwellers a chance to experiment with growing fresh herbs, tomatoes and flowers. They are out of reach for deer, rabbits, racoons or other creatures that regularly disturb gardens. The flowers attract butterflies and insects and the birds are taking a renewed interest as well.

At street level, the once high-maintenance lawns and boulevards have been converted into more natural and self-tending gardens with local plants and sea grasses. Communal gardens are increasingly filling public lands; back yards and lanes are being planted. Soon sunflowers will be peaking over the fences.

Back on our rooftop, with its BBQ, children's sandbox and communal gardens, we can sit on the benches and watch the gardeners putter with watering cans, hoses and tools. We are satisfied to watch simply the strawberries and green beans grow.

Lights of the Night

When walking across the Cambie Street Bridge, one can not miss the flues protruding from the False Creek Community Energy Centre, which is neatly tucked beneath the bridge. The design challenge was to fit the plant under the bridge so as not to interfere with the public right of ways and to be as unobtrusive as possible. The design was well met; three-quarters of the Energy Station is underground, though the complex machinery is clearly visible by the public through portals from street level.

The Neighbourhood Energy Utility, or NEU, provides space heating and hot water to heritage buildings and new buildings in Southeast False Creek, including those in the Olympic Village.

The NEU system has a flexible infrastructure that can adapt to a wide variety of renewable waste energy options. By using sewage heat recovery to supply approximately 70% of the annual energy demand, the system eliminates over 60% of carbon emissions associated with heating buildings.

The NEU system also supports the use of radiant hot water heating systems in buildings, reducing the conventional space heating options, hot water tanks and furnaces and their costs of maintenance. The system helps developers meet the energy efficiency and green building requirements for Southeast False Creek. It is more cost effective than other green energy options, such as geo-exchange.

The stacks extend into a sculpted stainless steel hand with the 22-meter-long fingerlike flues ending with LED bright nails. The fingernails change colour to reflect the amount of green energy being produced by the system. The exhaust vents have different functions; three are from natural gas boilers, one is an odour system and one is linked to an emergency generator.

Adidas

I owned a pair of white leather Adidas Gazelles the ones with the blue stripes. They lasted forever but eventually, like most things, they wore out and I had to discard them. It was in the seventies, and I wore them with blue jeans and a t-shirt.  Peter Gelin took it upon himself to lace my shoes for me. He painstakingly threaded them in a particular pattern and adjusted them so that they would fit me perfectly.

Now years later when I lace my Adidas, I think of him. It is the little things we do for one another that remains with us.

The rendering of my current well-worn pair of Adidas is mine; along with the memories.

MATEUS

In the mid-60, when I arrived in Canada there was a little choice when it came to wines. On the Government liquor store shelves, one could find offerings from Jordan's and Bright's, including "Baby Duck", sacramental wines or the more syrupy tasting Jewish wines, but very few imports. The popular imports were Chianti Ruffino in a raffia covered flask from Italy, Rioja Yago from Spain and Mateus Rosé from Portugal. Hidden under the sink was a tall bottle of Galliano liqueur which could not fit in any other cupboards.

A few years ago, while living on our barge Zonder Zorg on the French Canals, I roamed through the supermarket shelves and came across Mateus Rosé.  I was curious to see how it measures up among today's wines. We purchased a bottle for €4 and opened it chilled around 4 pm when the temperature hovered in the mid-30s. It was delightful, light, fruity with a bit of sparkle and we added some more to our cellar. We have tried other Rosés in France but have so far not found anything better.

It has been 50 years and this wine has still not made its way onto the Canadian supermarket shelves. However, the liquor stores sell a convenient 1.5L bottle to compliment our Vancouver summers.

Jack’s wake

Before our arrival via Southampton, a Dutch immigration ship arrived ahead of us, with young men aboard. They had dreams of a prosperous future in this new country. A group of young men shared their three-week passage and became best friends; among them were my two future brothers-in-law. 

               

My father in the centre and Willem on the right. 

My sisters were born before the war and my dad, an indentured labourer in Germany was away for five years. After his return to the Netherlands, my brother and I were born, creating a gap of ten years between my sisters and us. 

Through the Dutch social connections my sisters met Jack and Willem and from then on stayed together for the remainder of their lives. 

We had two weddings during this time and later welcomed the first grandchild. My niece became part of our household, as we took care of her during the day with both her parents at work.  Linah carried her proudly wrapped onto her back, African style.  Three years later the young family returned to Amsterdam. Little did we know that two years later were we would make that same journey. 

My eldest sister Riet was married to Jack and remained in South Africa where they started their own business in air-conditioning, refrigeration and cooling systems. Along with building up the business, they added two children to their family.  

At that time the cooling systems used asbestos and with the prolonged exposure to that, Jack developed asbestosis in his later part of his life. His wish was to die at home which is not an easy task. Along with a nurse who checked in on him, my brother John came to help out.  Willem flew in from Amsterdam to assist with the nursing of his old friend.

I phoned every few days to check on the condition and Jacks well-being. I chatted with my sister who was busy closing down the business which was located in the lower part of the house.  She also had a contractor come in to retile the bathroom.

One morning I called and Riet answered, totally in distress and through her sobs she said that Jack had passed away during the night.  I said that I would call back later.

During the day I returned the call and Riet answered, laughing. Laughing? I questioned the situation and she explained the following:

Jack’s body has to be removed and they called an ambulance to transport him. The house was surrounded by a ten-foot-high security fence and a gate that was opened electronically from the inside of the house. Willem was placed by the window to watch for the ambulance so that he could open the gate for them. At the same time the contractors arrived with a pick-up truck, two black labourers jumped out, one grabbing the wheelbarrow. 

 Willem said “ OMG has the system ever deteriorated since I lived here ”

Jack passed away at 72 years old. My sister Riet, six years younger than him, also lived to 72. They had a good life in South Africa and remained Dutch citizens and their ashes returned to the old country.

Seek and Ye Shall Find

One can only sit and meditate along the banks of the river Beas, for a limited of time before being prompted to move on. My father chose to return to the Netherlands and we soon followed.

In Amsterdam, he returned to work as a house painter and my mother returned to being a homemaker.  My brother and I became automatic vegetarians as our mother embraced the Radha Soami faith and her initiation soon followed.

There was no flight to the Punjab, nor seeing the Golden Temple of Amritsar, no visits to the Dera along the river Beas for my mother; only a short train ride to Den Hague.

Soon the pressure was on, for me to be initiated into their faith and to follow The Way of The Masters.

With the help of my parents, a letter was composed and forwarded to Charan Singh at the Dera Baba Singh, asking for initiation into their faith. My rejection letter arrived a few weeks later. The Master felt that I was too young to make such a life decision and I was most likely just pleasing my parents. A decision that only can be made as an adult.

Now as an adult, I have the highest respect for the late Maharaj Charan Singh Ji, for he was correct in his judgement.  The Way of the Masters wasn't my chosen path, but my parents. Instead, I chose The Road Less Travelled.

Maharaj Charan Singh Ji

In our studio-home in Sunnyside, Pretoria there had been no displays or arrangements of photos of our family members, living or passed. There was only one picture on display. Alone among all the paintings hung a large black and white photo of Maharaj Charan Singh, my parents' guru.

Charan Singh became the fifth Satguru of Radha Soami Satsang Beas in 1951. The philosophy based on the teachings of mystics from all religions has had its headquarters at Dera Baba Singh near the river Beas in northern India since 1891. Radha Soami means lord of the soul and Satsang describes truth seekers. The teachings of Sant Mat is that, because of our attachment to the mind and body, we have lost sight of our true selves. By using the ancient mystical practises of Sant Mat and Surat Shabd Yoga, we could align with our higher selves.

By the late 1950s, my father had developed a more relaxed mode, even more comfortable than portrait painting. My parents' diets had changed; they experimented with fasting, juicing raw fruits and vegetables, they also became vegetarians. My parents introduced Yoga to the household, and it wasn't uncommon to find my father in a headstand in his studio instead of painting. He had also taken more time meditating, sitting in the lotus position on the coach dressed in only a speedo bathing suit. Around this period my brother and I stopped inviting friends over.

In 1963, after long meditations, my father booked a flight to India and travelled to Dera Baba Singh near the river Beas. He was seeking a higher spiritual level, and after a few months at the Dera, he was accepted into the Radha Soami faith by Charan Singh himself. My father remained a vegetarian and lived his beliefs until the end.

Sikh and ye shall find.

The Artist Studio

After our move from to Sunnyside, in the heart of the city, we found a lovely home. After a few years, that house was sold and we were scrambling to find another home in the area. Through the Jewish-community a house became available just up the street from us.  The newly rented five-bedroom, a mock-Tudor-style house built in 1930, came with peppercorn trees surrounding it for shade. After 30 years of growth, the root structure of the trees started to lift the foundation and cracks appeared on the walls. The rent reflected the structure defect and other shortcomings.

Linah, our new nanny, made the move with us and it didn't take long for her to make new friends in the neighbourhood. At this time both my older sisters married and left the household. Now with a five bedroom house, there was plenty of room for a studio, my room and darkroom for photography. 

This house move also coincided with my father's transition from house painter to portrait painter. There was no real definition to where the in-house studio started or stopped. Paintings lined the walls and hallways and found their way into bedrooms and the kitchen. There was a steady flow of people coming and going through the house-studio. The more prominent ones had their portraits painted.

In slow times, my father practised his technique with my brother or me as models. The process was a long and tedious one, which required us to remain in the same pose for hours. These sessions could run for days while we painfully watched other kids at play. It didn't take us long to spot the telltale signs indicating my father was getting in the mood to paint. We would quietly slip out the back door and stay away all afternoon. The dog wasn't a good candidate, so that left only Linah to pose.

There are not many studies of my brother nor me, but many of Linah Makokolo.

Linah Makokolo

She stood under five feet, not tall but avarage for her tribe. Just a few years older than my parents, she was golden brown in colour and had a traditional African built. I immediately liked her as she was about the same height as me. We used her as a measuring stick but it was soon clear that my brother John grew much faster and outgrew both Linah and myself. She became my confident and "mother".

My mother had been the main breadwinner for our family and during that time several nannies passed through our house. For eight of those years Linah saw me off to school, made sure my uniform was clean and my shoes polished. She welcomed us home after school with a waiting lunch, chatted to us while having our tea. She looked afer me when I was ill, gave me advice and comforted me. Motherhood certainly is not black and white, but a multitude of colours.

My parents made it clear that she was to receive the same respect as we gave to our parents. By leaving her in charge we were to listen and be polite to her. She only spoke English and soon became part of our family.

Her tribe was Sesotho and she lived in Hammanskraal, a community 45 minutes by car from Pretoria. Her family owned a small piece of land enough to hold a shack, corn field, small garden and a few chickens. As she was the primary breadwinner her husband, William, took care of their propery and their offsprings. She would return to Hammanskraal twice a year for summer vacations and Christmas. Along with some gifts and clothing she would replenish the pantry with supplies.  My mother worked for a wholesaler and she was able to benifit from that. 

It was with a heavy heart that we said our goodbyes  and after twelve years we return to the Netherlands.

I returned to Pretoria ten years later and John and I drove to Hammanskraal to find her. She invited us inside her shack and made tea. An old ritual we had and hauled out the old cups she had inherited. Sitting on the now sagging coach, that was so familiar and once more, I truly felt at home.

During a family reunion in Pretoria we decided to visit Hammmanskraal. My mother came along and new sister-in-law Yolanda. I also wanted her to meet my husband Peter.

We met again briefly a few years later, gave her a substantial amount of cash, thanked her and said our goodbyes. We never saw each other again. 

She did ask me to send her love and Gods Blessings to my mother. "The misses and I were like this" and she crossed her index and middle finger. I knew that.

Time passed and John found Linah in mourning with the loss of her husband. She was still living in the same shack with some of the grandchildren.

Thank you Linah

Leaving Villeria

We lived at the address in Villeria for four years. The road remained unpaved and the African rainstorms turned it into a muddy stream. Tired of the long commutes to the city, my parents moved us closer to its heart, Sunnyside Pretoria. Our new address was Water Street, nowhere near water, but perhaps a good omen. With this move, our current nanny quit as the commute was too far. We had a few short-term nannies, but none worked out. The word was out - we were a large family, lots of laundry and sheets needs changing every Monday.  Pre-warned of the waiting workload, Linah Makokolo, arrived with a recommendation, came to meet us and stayed for the next eight years. 

                                                            

                                                        

Villeria, Pretoria.

In February 1952 we arrived as immigrants in the Union of South Africa and settled in Villeria on the outskirts of Pretoria. Ours was the third-last house in Pretoria and next to it was open veld; the road paving stopped a block before our house. Shortly after our arrival, my siblings entered the school system and my parents returned to work. At the age of four, I was too young for either of these scenarios. Therefore I was placed in the care of a nanny.

My nanny belonged to Matabele tribe, whose village was just outside Villeria, and their tribal territory stretched northward as far as Southern Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. It didn't take long for me to figure out that the nanny did not speak Dutch, nor I Matabele. I was totally intrigued by her looks, her decorations and all I could do was stare, to which she responded with a smile.

 

The women of her village decorate their huts with homemade paints in bold geometric patterns and primary colours. These designs and colours which carried through into their beadwork. With their tiny beads, they create bracelets, necklaces, hair bands, earrings and bracelets on top of bracelets. The brass rings around their legs were permanent as were the bead covered straw bands.

Neither my mother nor my sisters had pierced earlobes and I was captivated by the beauty of my nanny's earrings. I asked her if she could pierce my earlobes as well, to which she agreed. She hauled out some grass to form some temporary earrings; then she grabbed a cork and the huge safety pin from the closure to her coat. Placing a cork behind my lobe and she started to push on the blunt safety pin. I screamed. She stopped.  My ear piercing session came to an end.

It had taken another thirty-five years before I found enough courage to walk into the ear piercing shop in North Vancouver's Lynn Valley Mall. The sterile process was quick and painless.  I left with a pair of shiny gold loops and the start of my earring collection.

Cornelia, my mother

As newly arrived Dutch Immigrants on the Rhodesian Castle, we were in awe at the sight of Table Mountain. While the ship was unloading its cargo and freight, we all piled into the little cable car that took us to the top of the mountain. The sight was spectacular and the weather divine and we took a photo to send back to the Netherlands. 

We returned to the ship to claim our freight and to connect to the train that would take us to Pretoria. There my father would be waiting for us.

Unknown to us, there were recruits onboard for the Iron and Steel Corporation, ISCOR located in Pretoria. My mother has a classic Dutch name, Cornelia, and was called Cor for short. After we claimed our freight a man approached us and asked “ISCOR?” “Ja Ja, is Cor” my mother answered and our cargo was hoisted into in a railway cart and we proceeded to board the train to Pretoria. After several days we arrived with our freight at our destination and to be reunited with my father. My dad wanted to settle the freight bill but discovered that ISCOR had paid it. With my parents limited English they quickly took the cargo and left the station.

South Africa was going to be a fabulous country to start our new life.

The Oil Lamp

During the occupation of our village, my mother and sisters remained in our house and was surrounded by troops. The coastal dunes where she lived had become a hive of activity. Bunkers were built and radar stations were sunk deep into the dunes. On one of her outings my mother spotted a black object sticking out of a garbage can, and upon closer inspection, she saw it was a heavily sooted oil lamp. Just like Aladdin, she took it home and polished it and it turned to brass. No genie appeared, but one day a soldier came to her door with a large wall clock and asked her to keep it for him. He never returned.

Through the occupation, belongings were stolen, houses were looted, items were transported and forgotten. When the whole village was evacuated and moved further inland, my mother hid her belongings and the clock under the floorboards. Among the things she hid was this oil lamp.

At the end of the war, when villagers were permitted to return, most found their belongings intact. We never knew where that clock came from and no one recognised it. The clock was sold half a dozen years later before we emigrated to the Union of South Africa, but the brass oil lamp travelled with us.

The oil lamp now sits on my Vancouver window sill. It is missing a few parts and has a few dents. Its origins are still unknown, but it seems to like to travel.

The Potatoe Eaters

Potatoes have been a staple in the Netherlands for hundreds of years. A favourite in the Dutch diet as well as the Germans. Brought to Europe from South America by Spanish explorers and it had made its way to the table of all its neighbours.

One of the Vincent van Gogh's sketches depicting the Dutch potato eaters. 

During the Nazis occupation of our village, along the North Sea, my mother was left supporting herself and my two sisters. Part of the community was on top of the dunes and a clear view of the open sea.  Several bunkers and a radar station were soon built.  Along with the construction came an army of hungry young men who needed food.

The Nazi barracks hired local females as potato peelers. My mother took the paying job as a peeler.  Hidden behind a large pile of potatoes, she kept her eyes and ears open and any information was passed on to the underground. She advised them of several planned raids, giving the local men a chance to go into hiding.

After the war liberations, the locals started rounding up the collaborators.  Females who had been in the company of soldiers during the war were manhandled and place on a truck. They were then driven through the streets to the local square for shaming and a hair shearing.

Someone had spotted my mother going into the barracks, with a finger pointing at her, they lifted her into the truck. Men from the underground quickly stepped forward, took her down and said she wasn’t part of it, but helped them instead. 

My innocent mother witnessed the shaming at the square and had been spared from an appalling haircut.