Jean Berlin

Jean Berlin turned line into gossip. She spent afternoons in London print shops, swapping copper plates with the same bored urgency a barista hands over flat whites, always pausing to tweak a curl on a wig or add a mole to a cheek so the faces felt like neighbors you’d meet at the market. One plate, *The Dancing Apothecary*, shows a chemist doing handsprings between bubbling jars—the kind of joke that only works if you’ve ever watched someone spill peppermint oil and swear the shop shrank. Track it down; the plate is tiny, the humor bigger than the print.