M. Woods

M. Woods, a mentee of Aldo Tambellini, conducted the only interview with him in virtual reality. This interview has been expanded to include an immersive view of some of Tambellini’s work as well as a VR experience influenced by Tambellini. Included in this installation is a stand-alone VR headset where the participant can witness one of the final interviews with Tambellini as conducted and filmed by M. Woods.

A void in time-space is opens as bitter spirits circle one another searching for the Numb Spiral. The double of reality knocks the USA off the map.

A sadness rolls over me as I gaze into the entrails of this pandora's box and my shadow cranks a lost appendage for the sake of ontological tangents and bewitched spaces. I want you to witness The Hallucinatory Zone of Neo-Liberal death hounds and lost gazes that expand and contract time.

A void in time-space is opened as bitter spirits circle one another searching for the Numb Spiral. The double of reality knocks the USA off the map.

The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart / In your cold room / The silence that makes you mine / Fall, stars / She sat around and counted them all a million times / My name no one will know / And if my love were in vain / Oh God, I would want to die! / She was the roughest, toughest frail / In your cold room look at the trembling stars / I am pining, I am tormented! / but my mystery is closed in me / Have pity / I’ll win at dawn and we must alas die / Have pity / Death and despair flame about me

Nothingness is a concept of absolute absence, or absolute nullity. It is directly and inextricably linked to the notion of being.

Welcome to Dumpland, the junkyard land, unbelievable mess, where dreams and nightmares are right next to each other, just like wealth and poverty. Here, superficiality overcomes necessities, and life-inspirations only exist on screen or glossy paper. The souls are essentially turned towards the Dollar God, provoking envious vertigo, jealousy and frustrations. In a stream of images accumulated on a daily basis, M. Woods transcribes the symptoms of a frail society. If the “numb spiral” is a disease, “Dailies from Dumpland” and its endless visual flow might just be the remedy.

Nothing is not; on behalf of human rot, this not’s a mental map. You can stroll through with eyes ablaze by scorching sun that spreads the waves of city smog, LED light fog, and Christmas luminescence on dead presidents with no essence. Just fluorescence, as the gas builds up, and the homeless walk through a fascist dump.

As I fever dream, the closing bell clangs, and its tendrils burrow inwards to impregnate infections; to pull the ingrown digital sickness and burst the LCD cyst; a tumult of nothingness that beckons with a toxic glimmer; a toppling structure of superfluous and dying signs, littering everything, suffocating everything; even in organic tissue the digital implants, supplants, rots, and crystallizes, flickers and spins, spurts, metastasizes, vomits, ejaculates, imprinting permanently the afterimage of today where there is no trading on futures. 16mm Analog Print of made of four rolls of in-camera multiple-exposure film shot in a Bolex.

Uncut 16mm with in-camera quadruple exposure - a print will be made for Analog exhibition as well as digital.

Ahem *clears throat* FUCK TRUMP AND FUCK WHITE PEOPLE

This is a media-fashioned attack aimed at the disturbing omnipotence of hyperrealism and fascist banality – best symbolised by Donald Trump’s burning latex effigy.

A digital sickness creeps into all organic processes and hopelessly sheds its meat. You take your marching orders from a fascist dump.

Columbus Circle spiraling down stacks of hell, a fucking urine-soaked bastard and his corporate media frenemies across the street. A deviation, following, touching "here" and craving an empty sex and catacylsmic disorder. Revolutions revolutions revolutions. Just saying, Columbus Circle ain't far from Williamsburg, hipster youth.

After the body politic falls to shit, might as well get all your buddies and dance dance dance. Hedonism is the only real cure for tyranny if you're white. The "counter-culture" isn't countering anything, except squares. The "counter-culture" now dresses up in ethnic stereotypes and calls itself "woke" like that Acai Bowl got me woke this morning. Hot yoga then shrooms and molly at the fest, K? The matriculating cancer loves nothingness. The matriculating cancer cannot see beyond the movie in their head. A Zac Efron romantic comedy about bourgeoisie youth finding their passion for nothing, and forming friendships that will last a lifetime and a second. But on the shit-end of the stick, I can't get this fucking Trump mask off my face. I can't get this fucking Trump mask off my face. I can't get this fucking Trump mask off my face. I can't get this fucking Trump mask off my face. I can't get this fucking Trump mask off my face. I can't get this fucking Trump mask off my face.

This is a document of an afternoon recorded in Skid Row.

A floundering figure or form of nothing born and gasping before bludgeoned by the carpet, pulled swiftly and quickly out before the floor gets bolted down. Just torn flesh, not flesh, but fish flakes and canned meat. Mickey Mouse is eying his fortune in American hell.

A filthy fucking video with Kittie Porn and Zac Efron/Prom Date Fuck sex.

Made from rephotographed cellphone footage, a GoPro, casette recorders, and shards of sweet tunes. In hell one fantasizes about becoming one of the matriculating cancers in the aristocracy's faux counter-culture (and the recycled variants.) He soon learns his soul is meant for disintegration, and he wasn't born with the particular nonchalant disinterest needed to survive in the wild. He decides to purchase his identity.

There is a syrup tasting carnivorous urge to conquer sexual ineptitude in overbearing glances and center the camera in the infinite void of consensual reflections of nothingness. But you will dance unlike you have ever danced before, with threads of everything you know, repackaged in metastatic digital packets of data rapidly going nowhere, blinking quickly into things outside the periphery of consciousness and knowledge, towards digital sickness that thirsts for absolution. Not even the rabid gnashing of your teeth can escape the banal. Better to grin at the costumes floating about and accept the perpetual post-Panoptic suspension.

A reflection on media, the hyperreal, the human form, and hipster banality.

mechanical reproduction in the form of consciousness aimed at its own reflection in the revelation of the mechanical constructs of society - now saturated with nihil information circulating without meaning. A degenerative environment of flux and representational chaos achieving informational metastasis after being inscribed onto recording material. Now digital. Super-8. In-Camera edit. Stands alone but also repurposed in exodusMelancholia.