The pictorial works are a combination of 'real world' mixed media drawings and paintings, virtual digital canvases and video. Often figurative, the drawings share an approach and methodology with the pixel based work in that they are formed by the addition and erosion of textually and graphically interacting layers.
This process involves a coalescence of drawing, painting, printing, photography and collage. This creation and destruction is repeated until a satisfactory moment is called a result.
In the video animations, augmented by audio, these 'results' are assembled to form alien, fractured narratives. A broken festival of unhinged cartoon characters playing out scenes in dramatic futility.
Mudda's music is represented here as 'captured' parts of a live 'set' an intense and atmospheric experience where music collides with film. A psychotic and psychedelic heaven and hell.
The live show sounds and visuals are reactive and improvised so all the events have a unique identity and excepting the few recordings here, most of the material exists only as patient, machine data and sub-conscious audience memories.
This work is also a creative reflection to a world of madness out there, a partial distorted mirror, an exploration of our flawed characters (suspended in meaningless abstract fabrications, our flesh driven enslaved loop) this is a textured, conspiratorial and paranoid journey into a subverted artistic pollution. A psychotic banal clitter.
Collections of fossilised dreams from a fractured sub-conscious theatre. A schematic, a sampled and layered parallel contempory, a diagram of hapless graphic evolution, a scarred defacement, a distilled infection.
These aural and visual forms, scrawls, fetid manifestations and products of mass media assimilation are a study of the modern hypnotic saturation, this circus of ultra-violence, the famine in rationality, evolution and harmonics. This is a lost litmus for a forgotten dimension, an ejaculaton coma of warped graphic complexities, a journey through future nightmares. Survey a non organic cancer, a grey goo, the end of the line.
Welcome to The Hotel Terminus (room thirteen), where the lift is silent, accommodation free.
Celebrating our mass extinction, we dance with synthesized mechanically retrieved pharmaceutical smiles (put on your masks and your animal skins) and groove to the end time. Repetitive, demanding and disposable, is there anybody in there ?
The atmosphere is claustrophobic, the temperature rises, increasingly disconnected we consume endlessly. Rushing headfirst into an absurdly flawed tomorrow this is art suicide, mastorbatory, egotistical and final.