A Rabbit Story

I was studying on an art foundation (pre-degree) course in east London. One of the projects was for the students to build a structure that reflected a particular colour, spend time soaking up the thoughts and feelings that materialised and journal them. I opted for the ‘black group’.

We assembled cloth and paper, did drawings and paintings with blackness as a theme and built a small ‘cave’ in the studio. We did a great job. Ours looked as good as the red or green group, but not better. For me, it lacked punch. It lacked death!

While the others completed the ‘cave,’ I went to find a butcher who would sell a dead rabbit to add to the ambiance. But while life had previously offered rabbits for sale in butcher’s shops, that day it just wasn’t to be. I heard of a man who sold rabbits at the market and he would kill one for me. Being young I thought this was the next best thing.

I found the place and was told to choose my rabbit. For reasons like shock, fear and naivety, I chose a black and white rabbit. (I didn’t care for where all this was going. This was not the neat purchase I’d envisaged.) He carried it to the killing zone: an un-lit pot-bellied stove with an opening on top and a side door. I held the rabbit above by the ears, he reached below, cut its throat and put him/her into a plastic bag. I paid and wondered how my simple idea had been transformed so quickly into a warm, bloody cottontail with a semi-severed head.

I returned, put on a brave face for “taking one for the team” and remembered that we were the ‘black group’, not the ‘black and white dripping red group.’ I found some black acrylic paint and remodelled the white fur into battleship grey and hung bunnikins in the ‘death cave.’ While we contemplated notions of blackness, and I got unkind comments like “murderer” from a vegetarian in the group, the thoughtful addition of a drip tray (my idea) kept most of the blood off our clothes. Meanwhile, the tutors ruminated on killing for Art’s sake. Once home, the tale was retold to a bewildered family, Dad gutted Peter (Rabbit) and asked me if I wanted his foot as a souvenir. I declined. We had ‘Peter’ for dinner.

Almost fifty years later, I’ve maintained a life as an artist and half of my work has ruminated on the implications of rabbits, sacrifice and death. Looking back I would never have thought the seeds of so much effort would have been sown in such arbitrary circumstances.

Stephen Hobson

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