This scene was inspired by the ponds in my Kleingarten–which now really are home to goldfish–and by the curious foxes that sometimes visit. I imagined the foxes in winter, watching the goldfish through the ice. Japanese five-color woodcut, printed in an edition of 40 on Japanese Kozushi paper. 30 x 15 cm.
My 2014 fox print was inspired by my dreamy new Kleingarten with its tall grasses and Strandkorb (beach chair). There really is a fox that has been spotted going through the garden at night, and I occasionally find his tracks. I imagine him and his friend having all kinds of adventures there in the winter when nobody’s around. Three-block Japanese woodblock print. Printed in a numbered edition of 50 on Japanese Kozushi paper.
“Diary of a Viktoriapark Fox” is a story without words about the odyssey of a fox in Viktoriapark (Berlin-Kreuzberg) told in a series of six scenes. It’s printed as a leporello – an accordion-fold book that can also be opened to stand upright and viewed as a panorama (90 x 25cm). Japanese woodblock print, series of 10.
The “hidden track” on the back.Work in progress on the first two woodblocks (with two pages each)Printing the foxes on the press with oil pigments, two scenes per block of wood. The background was printed first from one long piece of wood – hand-rubbed with baren using water pigments.
The front and back cover hot off the press…later signed and numbered.
These two foxes were the subject of my Japanese woodblock print / new year’s card last year. They’re all about play. They’re friends and maybe they’re in love (no one is sure). I love Berlin’s foxes and how they have an independent life alongside the human residents of this city. I think they probably play a lot at night when people aren’t looking.
This is what you see on the front of the card (when folded):
Working at the Druckatelier in Berlin (http://www.druckatelier.eu/)
One of two holiday cards in 2011. (Guten Rutsch = Have a good “slide” into the new year). A Japanese woodblock printed in a workshop at Druckatelier Berlin. I love seeing foxes around Berlin, sometimes trotting right down the sidewalk in front of my building, and imagined them playing on a Berlin playground at night. 21 x 21 cm.
First illustration from “Olga & Trotsky,” a short story by Katja Hofmann.
(1) It had been a mistake to order cold Borscht for breakfast, on such a day as this, when the sea of ice seemed even more windswept and glassy than usual. Olga Zherenkova gazed jealously at the plate of steaming fried eggs the waitress was serving the poet at the next table. Jeffrey Shulman had always had a better instinct for food. He knew ways to combat the sea of ice.
Olga began to shiver at the thought that, in an hour at the latest, she would have to leave the café again and go home. For one more hour at the most, the rotund Mamushka would allow her to stay at the walnut table, warming herself at the gas stove. For now Mamushka stood motionless at the entrance, staring out at the Arctic. Her red woollen scarf was wrapped tight around her moon-face, her meaty arms hung as if clamped to the seams of her yellow velvet dress, and from time to time she pursed her cherry lips into a tiny kiss, directed at the expanse of cold nothingness. But Olga Zherenkova didn’t let Mamushka’s outer composure deceive her. She knew that the innocent shine in those bulbous eyes concealed a steely clockwork mechanism, which second for second tallied up orders Olga could not afford.
— Translation by Steph Morris.
(2) Anyone who exceeded their time in the café got to experience Mamushka’s stranglehold. Olga remembered with dread how once, gasping for breath, she had landed on the stone slabs of the pavement outside the café. She had been ready to surrender herself from sheer exhaustion to the cold, but her fury at Mamushka’s cruelty gave her enough energy to drag herself to her feet, button up her moth-eaten fur coat and stomp home through the endlessness.
She heard a seductive purr in her ear: ‘I’ll let you tickle my stomach if you let me lap the sour cream from your Borscht.’ — Trotsky! The cat had turned up again, silent and unannounced, and his velvety voice made the hairs on her neck stand up like hedgehog spines.
— Translation by Steph Morris.