Quotessence
Home / Authors / Claire Kohda

Claire Kohda Quotes

Author

Filter quotes by topic

Famous Claire Kohda Quotes

“The memory of human blood manifests now as a kind of visceral reaction to seeing people's veins and their necks. The skin on a neck appears to me as different from the skin anywhere else on a body. It seems as thin and consumable as rice paper wrapped around a sweet. It is too blank compared with skin everywhere else, as though it is asking to have marks made on it, like very expensive calligraphy paper, or cold-pressed Fabriano. Often, I wonder whether the urge I have to make art is the same as the urge to consume and destroy the blankness of a human neck. While at art college, I read that the best paper used by artists in the seventeenth century was made from the skins of lamb fetuses. This skin was soft and absorbent, and had an even texture right across its surface. For a long time, the process of creating art has been linked to the killing of living things. My dad, even, used fine silk stretched across wooden frames in his own work as a painter. Once, when we still had some of his pieces, I looked at the odd geometric shapes he created on a huge sheet and thought about all the silkworms who had had their cocoons torn open before they were able to become moths.”

“I suck the blood out of Ben's towel for what feels like hours. I lie down on the floor, the towel hanging from my mouth and spread out across my chest. I'm in bliss. I can't really describe how it feels to have another person's blood in your veins, feeding to your heart, even just a little bit: a human's blood, not a pig's, two legs, upright and elegant, hints of something---of foods and memories and experiences, of birth, of being ill and getting better, of love and grief and fear---in its flavor. I feel huge; I feel like, if I were to stand up and run toward my studio wall, I'd just break through it. Like I could trample on cars and people outside, whole families under one foot, roaring until shop windows shatter. The sun would be drawn to me and would be consumed by my hair, which would grow and grow and then spread across the sky and turn day into night. The ground would quake around me; little moles that had been sleeping would emerge from their holes, and rabbits from their burrows, and I'd pluck them out of the ground like bean shoots and swallow them whole.”

“I look at the selection behind the glass. There are a few pasties and pastries, things like Scotch eggs and potato salad, as well as sliced meat and wrapped cuts. "Can I have a Scotch egg and..." The man's hand reaches for the Scotch egg at the top of the pile and wraps it in thin plastic, then places it on the counter. "...a cheese and... bacon pastry thing..." I point, and he gets a small paper bag from behind him and uses tongs to pick the pastry up. "And one of those sausages, maybe a couple of those smaller sausages too, some potato salad---and yeah... um... do you have, like, some pig blood?”

“Dried pig blood for making black pudding; black pudding-making kit with dried pig blood; dried pig blood bulk buy. And recipes at the bottom. Blood sausage hash, Tolosa stew, hot pot, sweet potato gnocchi with black pudding and chili. A menu for a posh restaurant in Leeds comes up too, and one of the starter options is dried pig blood and snail eggs. People are weird, I think.”