Amanda Hall
And so it ends
Death is the one experience that unites us all, yet it remains one of the least spoken about aspects of being human. Like many people, I have witnessed the deaths of those I have loved and shared in the grief that follows such a loss. These individual works emerge from those experiences, reflecting on death, care, memory, and the enduring connections that remain after someone has gone.
I made the The Life and Death Tablecloth while caring for my mother during the final months of her life.
It was an unforgettable experience and, despite the sadness, a privilege to care for someone as they approached the end of their life.
Constructed from an old, rust-dyed tablecloth inherited from my mother-in-law, the slow, repetitive process of making became a source of comfort and calm in the months leading up to my mother's death.
While undertaking the I'm Only Human project, I buried three woollen figures in my garden. It felt like a natural progression of the work. Death is an inevitable part of being human, and our awareness of our own mortality—and that of those we love—shapes how we choose to live.
Named The Buried Sarahs, after my very much alive sister-in-law whose love of gardening inspired the title, the figures were carefully unearthed after burial and reconstructed using traditional textile conservation techniques.
Although I was interested in how wool would change when exposed to soil, moisture, and microorganisms, the work became about much more than material transformation. The fragmented figures reflect the ways we are shaped by experience, loss, and fading memory. They speak of death and decay, but also of resilience, repair, and the fragile nature of our existence.
Up Late at the Holburne Museum, Bath.
The Witness
She watches as their grief erupts.
Burning tears like molten lava
flow down their ravaged faces.
Pain oozes thick and dark.
Death has come unexpectedly,
no warning
no time to prepare
for the destruction ahead.
Unable to find words of comfort
the usual platitudes
‘At least he didn’t suffer’
‘What a blessing it was quick’
are drops of water in the fiery magma of their hearts.
Helpless, she says little
just sits and listens.
I wrote The Witness in 2025 after witnessing two close friends lose their long term partners.