Mouths of Illusion have completed their inaugural video, text and physical installation BEYOND THE MACHINE for 17 days in the New Zealand 2020 Fringe Festival. With over 1000 people through the door and vigorous debate from visitors on the exhibition's technological, consumerist and spiritual themes, and despite the tragic passing of our great friend and collaborator Nick Kealey one week before opening, MOUTHS OF ILLUSION continue to nail the Zeitgeist! Further text and video works will appear here, on Youtube and through our MAILING LIST.
Wellington + Sydney video artists, musicians, sculptors, writers, actors NICHOLAS KEALEY and NICHOLAS FROST
Where public space for art is competitive, cliquey or tendentious, we critique the character of MACHINE –
the technological, consumerist, medial, cultural, spiritualist paradigms and propagandas of this culture. Cut-through soundbites – MANTRAS told by big-brother guru faces – soothe a world of minimum attention-span, instant body-soul gratification, conformism to utopian beliefs, need to be ‘liked’, want for continuous superficial happiness without its necessary opposites. Big-scale VIDEO plus big-scale text, sculpture and sound deliver obsessive messaging. Sensory-emotive-intellectual lures deliver the ironies of hypnosis and alienation. Gratify your transcendent wanting with hypnotic wise cool propagandist dystopian machine MANTRA THERAPY.
Australia: +61 414 414 658 NZ: +64 22 474 6530
There was once a person who lived and passed away, of whom nothing was ever written, no photo was taken, who did not a thing noteworthy or remarkable, who lived in a place all forgotten in a land ruled by no remembered king, who tasted nothing but humble baked bread of a wheatfield, and who felt all seconds and minutes and days of his life sufficient unto himself in unutterably quiet harmony with his breath; who felt the wind and sun, and the night and the stars on his skin in the darkness, who had never the mind to wonder at the wonder of being or birth, who passed away in the quiet tides of the unknown, his head on no soft pillow known to another (except a casual spouse who shared his days and doings then herself passed on), a person who is not even a dream in the mind of another, or a memory or cause or consequence, who is clean beyond the intrusions of myth and make-believe, and who lies still, without future or past, in quiet earth turned by the casual plough of some other soul unknown, in some other story in some other dimension. I believe there once was such a person.