So, Mudede has decided to write about Seattle Times photography. This post is once again one you should do your very best to avoid. Why? Because few writers in the tradition of American commentary are as bad, as vapid, as blunt, as boorish, as obtuse, as this Mudede character. It is a wonder that anyone would go out of their way to publish one of his pieces, all of which have neither the alacrity of a keen intelligence or the force of good instincts. They are filled with a false sense of importance. They are filled with mucky muck. They are, in the Samkhya theory of matter, the epitome of the tamas guna—heavy, murky, dull. They are noisy and oppressive. They are the products of an imagination that is fueled by big chunks of elephant dung. Mudede is an artistic elephant. You know that, right? Of course you do! With just one ear you can hear, from many miles away, his muddy mind plodding on a bad piece. There is no grace, no sensitivity in the text of his work, just the dumbness of a mass that crashes through trees, stomps on fallen leaves, breaks bark with its rough and thick butt. This is the elephant that writes pieces in, that tromps on, our fine language.
Good call, Charles. Nice juxtaposition.
and I can almost read the photographer's credit line if I squint really hard on the top image, but nearly went blind trying to read a credit in the bottom image...
Its going to look like god
Lack of snow.
Shades of Amy Kate's post from the previous evening, it seems to me...
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