She Did It with the Candelabra
Ali Prosch’s A Day & Forever at Rocket Projects

A series of photos illustrates the dinner party of knowing nubiles dolled up sharply in couture from an implacable era—perhaps Victorian Revolver? Around a long, red table lit by candelabras, they mingle and dine tipsily and passionately from mismatched, delicate plates and crystal. They do this to excess throughout the first four photos, but the final, entitled, “Invite,” reveals that the party has spiraled into insouciant unconsciousness; these attractive, privileged ne’er-do-wells are now slumped over the table, only one guy in a blazer, nearly off-frame, is standing—possibly beaming a light from above. Maybe he’s a murderer, or mickied their drinks to have a marathon rape session all to himself. Maybe these kids just imbibed the evening off, and he’s the alcoholic. Or maybe he’s the personification of Ezekiel 25: 17 (among others).

The main room of Rocket Projects, where the exhibit runs from December 1 to January 28, is overwhelmed by a large metal chandelier plushed-out in a higher dosage of chunky beads and baubles than an Olsen. Smallish paintings in the exhibit are also of similar overly-accessorized chandeliers. Ali Prosch isn’t known for sculpture or painting, and combined, these chandelier pieces are a bit of a departure from the stronger, more psychologically striking video and photo pieces in the show. Still, how each work amplifies and mocks this histrionic object’s purpose by remaining lightless ties casually into the show’s core theme: prioritizing and espousing empty ravishment over the obviousness of practicality until the latter is also ajar.

A Day and Forever’s snarky appeal is generated mainly by a set of three video pieces. “Forever” features a faceless, female mouth with heavily-cherry lips projected simultaneously next to itself. Mouth one opens to emit a deep-horror drone and gently disposes a few blooms of baby’s breath. The adjacent mouth opens and pushes out an entire rose blossom until the moving images are softcore-grotesque. Together, the video eerily mirrors birth; and yes, the second pair of lips becomes a sort of god-given Cronenberg orifice. Rose-purging complete, each mouth now settles as if the lips were merely dealing with a spittle bubble, the preceding heavy labor and contrast retreats and repeats for the entire evening. A second video projects a pair of rhythm challenged legs gyrating to the oldie-goldie song “Downtown,” shimmying in a gold sequined dress, the grainy, glam-sluttiness and cheekiness of the image on the gallery’s white wall recalls Bollywood.

Of course, taking in all of Prosch’s work is a bit difficult what with the quaint and lewd sight of a bare ass and sounds of farting coming from a video screen near the front entrance. This video is entitled "Glitter Butt," and many gallery-walkers were thrown off as to whether the piece was Miss Prosch’s or a leftover, perhaps done so in playful sabotage, by the TM Sisters, whose Rocket exhibit Electric Lights From Such Great Heights had recently ended. For those afraid to inquire, the piece is Prosch’s. One-and-a-half cheeks of androgynous, white ass fart glitter complete with audio, randomly bringing to mind the phrase, "I'm so glamorous, I piss glitter." Googling to attribute this quote, believing it credited to a comedian or New York nightlife personality, I found only Xanga blog-rings and MySpace profiles, before realizing I had come across it in a friend’s Groups section on MySpace. Now, in my little fantasy analysis, this is where Prosch discovered the phrase, typed as "~*~*~*Im So GlAmOrOuS i PiSs GlItTeR*~*~*~," in the middle-school female portion of the Internet, and it lead to “Glitter Butt”’s manifestation, but why fart glitter as opposed to pissing glitter?

Well, pissing is a notch less revolting, isn’t it? Farting is so much more taboo and gluttonous than pissing. It's more inline with the show—excessive debauchery and vanity knowing no limits. Everyone pisses, see photographer Ellen Jong’s new book Pees on Earth. No critic looks down on an artist for indulging in piss—I mean, it’s so in right now. However, farting in art is frowned upon like farting itself or shredding your dress in public due to being fucked up. Remember your mother’s face when you farted or stripped naked and ran around in public? Well, art critics who see “Glitter Butt” will jot down their mom’s frowning helpfulness, promptly.

Well, fuck mom. See, "Glitter Butt" doesn't listen to her shit anymore. “Glitter Butt” binges and screws whoever it wants to, too. “Glitter Butt” comes not from a family, but from a long-line of infamous rich-kid hedonists, and let’s assume its naughty ass belongs to a Miami egomaniac. “Glitter Butt” doesn’t wait in line, s/he always rides the VIP bus at Pawn Shop, s/he loves Art Basel not really for the art but because the parties are fucking intense and free. “Glitter Butt” schmooses with all the right people at the right places at the right time, and rolls raccoon eyes when his/her night life is chronicled by CoolJunkie. “Glitter Butt” always looks fucking fabulous too since local designers practically throw their creations and silk-screens tees like blown kisses. “Glitter Butt” is a hip, fabulousness, glam coke-bump incarnate. And, in case anyone forgot and is left in the ambiguous breeze, these superlatives are laid because “Glitter Butt” farts glitter, and those glittery farts are to be videotaped and shown on a screen in a gallery and celebrated and envied just like…well, who do you think?

-Kyle Munzenrieder