Firebird: the Making of a Collage | Deborah Eater - Blog

Firebird: the Making of a Collage | Deborah Eater - Blog

I believe I've made some real progress since my last post.  I'm making art full-time from a shared studio in Langhorne, PA, exhibiting it throughout the greater Philadelphia region, and selling it on-line through my own website, DeborahEater.com. I have a blog there, too: the post linked at the top of this describes how I made a 20"x24" painterly collage and links to a video documenting the process.

Trying to come up with info for my website, I realized that I could legitimately call myself a "regionally acclaimed" artist: I've won awards for my artwork from shows scattered over a 60-mile radius, from Millville, NJ, to Philadelphia, and on up the Delaware River to Erwinna, PA.  After being selected to participate in the National Collage Society's 33rd annual juried exhibition this autumn, I can add "nationally recognized" to my accomplishments, too.  And thanks to artist trading card swaps that I've made with artists in Canada and Italy, I can even say that my work is "internationally collected." Although I'll admit that the last claim is a bit of a stretch, it all wraps up very nicely.

I had to give up my passion for Travian to accomplish this, alas.  It was, however, worth it.

Occupation: Artist

Just over two years ago I wrote that I was taking a new direction in my life.  I can hardly believe how much has changed since then.  At that time I'd barely shown my work to anyone and hardly knew how to go about trying to sell it.

Things started off slowly at first.  I had no idea how to proceed, so I joined a group of local artists, Artists of Bristol on the Delaware (AOB).  Their annual show that spring was the first time I exhibited as an artist rather than a student or a hobbyist.  It was also the first time I ever hung a show.  (I figured it was something I ought to learn to do, and no better way than to jump in with both feet and volunteer.)

At the AOB meetings I began to meet other artists and to learn about art opportunities in the area.  It was fairly intimidating.  Everyone else seemed so much more experienced.  They were friendly and encouraging, but when they talked about upcoming shows and exhibits it was as if it was in code.  I tried asking questions, but even the answers seemed to be in a foreign language.

At first I didn't enter many shows, and only open call (un-juried) ones at that.  The main reason for this is that I didn't have much work yet to exhibit.  My process is a very time-consuming one, I was just getting started, and I'm afraid playing Travian doesn't have a positive effect on my output.  A second reason was lack of confidence, but little by little I began to overcome that.

The next big step is getting involved with a gallery.

Here Goes

I just finished this collage, the first I ever made expressly for selling.  Yes, I'm taking a deep breath and pitching myself headlong into space … that is, I've decided to become a professional artist.  As of this spring I stopped calling myself a teacher (currently unemployed) who does art and began to consider myself an artist who has also taught.

Even though it's by no means my first career about-face, even though the only real risk is to my ego, this is an enormously frightening move for me.  I don't know what to expect, I don't know how to proceed, and I certainly don't know if I've got what it takes.  For better or worse, however, I'm going forward.

A Few Months Ago I Sat

A few months ago I sat in the passenger seat as we drove across the length of Pennsylvania. It was at the peak of Autumn Leaves season, and I was just overwhelmed with how beautiful it was.

Normally on a long drive I alternately knit, sketch, pray or meditate, converse, and nap.  Often I pay little attention to the countryside flying by, having traveled the same route many times, but this time I couldn't look away from the scenery. 

Perhaps it was the quality of the light on that day — though we drove for hours so the angle of the sun varied.  More likely it was just my mood.  

I remember my amazement the first time I heard that the fall scenery was a tourist attraction; to me, it had always been simply where I live. But on this day I could really appreciate why people might travel just to see this.

Whether it was just my mood or whether nature was being exceptionally extravagant this year, it seemed that there was so much to see that I was just aching for more people, even crowds (I usually avoid crowds) to share it with.

I had a good view from my car window on the highway, with frequent wide vistas and occasional closer, more intimate views.





Still there seemed to be so much more just beyond the roadside, just around the other side of each hill, just down the roads that crossed our path and dwindled into the distance, that it caught my breath.

I took in as much of it as I could, as if I had been thirsting for a long time and was finally offered a cool delicious drink, as if it were up to me to appreciate this incredible view on behalf of everyone who couldn't be there or who drove through it insensible to its ravishing loveliness.

Although we drove for hours — over 300 miles — there didn't seem to be enough time to look at it properly, to appreciate it fully.

I felt almost a sense of urgency to look as much as I could.  Night was drawing closer, and I knew that at this temperamental time of year one good storm would bring down all the leaves, extinguishing the opportunity to see it like this for another year.

I would have sketched it, but I didn't want to stop looking for even an instant. I'm not that adept an artist, and in the one or two minutes it would take to capture even a hint of the vision on paper another precious mile would be lost. 

I jotted a few words down to remember it by, hardly looking at the paper and hoping I'd be able to read them later.  

The phrases I scribbled out could hardly compare to the beauty I was seeing: the light on the rocks, the unexpected lushness of the undergrowth beneath partly bared skeletons of trees, dense patches of shady hemlocks punctuating the brilliant colors of deciduous trees, and the fantastic sunlight angling in beneath a glowering sky. 

I thank God for having lived this day and had this experience, for seeing my ordinary everyday world with fresh eyes.  I hope these few photos can help you to glimpse it, too.

Lately I've Been Feeling Old

Lately I've been feeling old. Partly this is because of the aches and pains that have become a standard part of going to bed and waking up each day. I am, after all, rapidly closing on the half-century mark. It is mainly, however, because of an online game I play (Travian) where the average player is between male and between the ages of 18 and 25.

I've made friends in this game who are in that gray area between "real friends" — the people you know and interact with in real life — and "game friends" — the people you work well with in the game but don't have anything else to do with. These are friends with whom I chat on Skype or swap posts on the forums. We banter about the game, share bits of trivia, and occasionally talk about our lives.

As people usually do, we start from the assumption that the other person is basically like us (what psychologists identify as the "false consensus" bias) in a general abstract way. The other player usually assumes I'm about a guy about his age even though I make no attempt to hide the fact that I'm a woman who's nearly twice that. This isn't generally an issue — I find it rather amusing to be called "dude" and "bro" — until …

When the conversation turns to something that causes me to mention my adult children, I often encounter shock. Even if I've told my exact age at some point, these friends often forget it in the context of the game (which I happen to play as well as anyone of their own generation) and between other topics of conversation. But when I bring up my children they suddenly realize that I'm as old as their parents, and parents aren't usually people you share friends with. After that I see a change creep into their conversation, as I suddenly my age begins to trump our common interests in defining for them who I am. That really does make me feel old in a way that simply accumulating more birthdays does not.

A Brief Sense of Accomplishment

There are many times when we feel like parenting failures — times when a child makes a poor choice, or when our own weaknesses cause us to let our children down — but have you ever had a time when, at least for a moment, you felt like a parenting success?

I had such a moment the other night. I'd just finished having dinner with my teenage son. It was time for my evening walk. Normally my husband and I go out for a short walk after dinner and enjoy the night settling in on the neighborhood. We eat dinner rather late, so even in the summer it's usually dusk by the time we get out. This time of year it's often quite dark.

On this night my husband was a hundred miles away visiting his sister, but I still planned to walk alone. I didn't have any fears about going out by myself after dark because our neighborhood is quiet, we've lived there over twenty years, and I wouldn't be more than a mile from the house. Apparently my son had his doubts. Normally he'd use my walk time as a chance to pounce on our main computer, which is faster and has a larger monitor than his laptop, but instead he volunteered to go with me. That was when I felt, for a short time at least, that maybe I was doing something right after all.

We walked a little more briskly than I would have with my husband — undoubtedly good for me — but we still talked. Maybe we didn't say anything important, not that I can remember anyway, but we still spent a few moments sharing with each other. I hope I remember that walk for a long time.

It Could Almost Be Autumn

This is my first blog post. Will it be something momentous and profound? No, I'm just going to talk about the weather.

I love this time of year. The evenings are crisp but not cold, and it's cool enough to wear a sweater. I love wearing sweaters, especially soft loosely-knit sweaters. I remember two particular cowl neck sweaters — a brown one that was a favorite of Dave's and that I had my sorority composite photo taken in, and another that was the only yellow sweater I ever thought I looked good in. Those sweaters have long since retired and I miss them. I hope cowl necks will soon come into fashion again so that I can find replacements.

So, the weather's been great, and Dave and I have been going out for a walk every evening just after sunset. We look at the darkening sky and try to identify the constellations. We don't usually come up with very many, between the light pollution and our limited knowledge of the sky. Wait 'til our old friend Orion appears, then we'll point him out each night and comment on the change in his position as if we knew what we were talking about.

One night on our walk we heard a live rock band playing — very audibly! — several blocks away. On another recent night the trees were bright silhouettes against a dark sky, caught in the glare of lights from the soccer fields at the township park about one mile away. Tonight, however, everything was quiet and as dark as it gets living within the Eastern megalopolis. Some light clouds showed pale in reflected light agains the dark sky, and crickets provided the loudest sound we heard as we walked. The next loudest sound was a faint noise halfway between a jingle and a creak that seemed to be following us. After a while I determined that is was a noise made by my right sneaker; the left one for some reason being silent.

It was a lovely night and the walk ended all too soon.