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There's something just so sad about Michael Smith's work it's gross. It contains all the pathos of sodden cardboard, limp and dull in puddles And our repulsion from it only strengthens the abject pathos to it. We feel for Mike, for Baby Ikki, but we really don't want to be anywhere near him. The single middle-aged male unassimilated to normative culture leaves us feeling all sorts of weird, buying a ticket to Kidzania.
