Winter Foxes 2014

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.

Winter foxes © Deborah Anne Bowen



Cutting the woodblocks for winter foxes


Printing the second of three plates for winter foxes


Winter foxes © Deborah Anne Bowen



Fox encounter, close-up



Sketch for the winter foxes © DAB


Diary of a Viktoriapark Fox

“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.






IMG_4412IMG_4411The “hidden track” on the back.IMG_3761Work in progress on the first two woodblocks (with two pages each)IMG_3763IMG_3779IMG_4021Printing 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. IMG_4022IMG_3788

The front and back cover hot off the press…later signed and numbered.


Japanese Woodcut 2012: Berlin foxes



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 (

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workingontheprint workingontheprint2

Guten Rutsch!


Guten Rutsch!

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.

Matter of time

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.


Second illustration from “Olga & Trotsky,” a short story by Katja Hofmann.

(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.