In You Smell Blood on Their Tell Tale Heart, Hannah presents a haunting intersection of gratitude and grief, comfort and consequence. A traditional family dinner unfolds, seemingly peaceful and reflective, yet it rests atop a vast graveyard, where countless illuminated headstones stretch into the distance. This stark juxtaposition forces the viewer to confront the uncomfortable reality that prosperity, security, and even simple moments of togetherness often exist atop unseen histories of loss, sacrifice, and violence.

The glowing cemetery below acts as a silent reminder of those who have been erased from the narrative, figures whose suffering or absence makes possible the comfort enjoyed above. There is an inherent tension in this duality: is the family aware of the graves beneath them, or do they simply choose not to see? The title references Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart, a story of concealed guilt and the inescapable echoes of past transgressions. Here, that guilt is not metaphorical but structural, woven into the very foundation upon which the scene unfolds.

Created in the wake of Hannah’s own profound loss, this piece carries personal weight as she grapples with the way grief lingers, often unnoticed by those not directly affected. The absence of her tentacle motif, which in previous works served as a symbol of her intervention and agency, speaks to a sense of emotional exhaustion and detachment. Here, she does not attempt to pull apart, expose, or reframe, she simply bears witness to the weight of what is buried.

Ultimately, You Smell Blood on Their Tell Tale Heart is an unflinching meditation on complicity, inheritance, and the unseen costs of comfort. It asks the viewer to reckon with their own place at the table, challenging them to consider what histories have been forgotten (or deliberately ignored) to make space for the world they inhabit.