This film failed Jack Nicholson. Not to get overdramatic and weepy eyed, but it also failed movie-goers: mainstream audiences wearing awful sweaters and us intelligent, well-dressed college students. The only people who prosper from watching this film are the lucky few (or metrosexuals who know people who know people) in the hip new-school filmmaking circle jerk – directors who prefer getting the “look” to look “genius” to style that develops naturally and casually envelops a film – a belief utilized by many of their idols throughout the late ’60s and ’70s.

Fifteen minutes into About Schmidt, it’s on track for greatness. The mood is set with austere still-shots of an American “everycity”: sterile skyscrapers, a haunting train whistle, silence, white sky, one car trickling down a street. We gladly find Nicholson as soon-to-be ex-businessman Warren Schmidt, styled with a sharply polite comb over, sitting in an empty “everyoffice”: crosshatched blue walls, desk, phone, silence. White boxes of his stuff line a wall. A clock notches to 5 p.m. After a few solemn glances, he hits the light, and leaves on the dot.

Director Alexander Payne (Citizen Ruth, Election) is obsessed with detail – he savors it like film buffs savor the wrinkles creasing Nicholson’s 65-year old face. This is perfect for capturing the mundanity of the business aesthetic. Beneath Nicholson’s commendable restraint, his character burns with the race to succeed first, live second. This tension decorates the rooms in his life with creaky emotional furniture.
Schmidt is retiring from “one of the top rated insurance carriers in the nation,” and when Payne aims the camera on the restaurant reserved for his retirement party, it’s clear that Schmidt is not the Warren Buffet or Steve Forbes he once dreamed.

Against an ambiguous Native-American themed background, Schmidt listens to “friends” boost his worth. Superfluous social satire rears its misshapen head when Schmidt’s conveniently younger replacement – dough-eyed, whites flashing, wife in tow – tells his elder to “drop by the office anytime you want.”

Believable enough a line, sure, but the execution is one tier below satire in a doggy bag, dumb downed acting that “slapsticks” Nicholson’s realistic portrayal and cheapens the grave loop of nonidentity the scene needs to symbolize. Only a slight flaw because the actor is to blame (and Schmidt dislikes the character), but an hour later it’s clear that Payne undermines characters to his own liking, extracting juice from stereotypes, which trips up the realism, hampers the story, and leaves one pondering who he is to criticize/satirize securely unfashionable middleclass people.

Fortunately, Jack Nicholson is in the driver’s seat and he cruises through the film inserting masterfully subtle sighs and frowns of disappointment, alienation, and disdain. Outside the office, America does not operate by a cutthroat code of conduct, and this rarely ceases to surprise and offend Schmidt; he is the conservative, polar opposite of Randle McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Even his wife (June Squibb) is not exempt – he loathes “the way she sits” and “the way she smells.”

Perhaps this is why he finds sanctuary in “adopting” a young African boy named Ndugu after viewing a commercial where other “Ndugus” have flies around their lips and skeleton frames. You know the ones. Payne presents these commercials/programs cynically – arguable witty perspective – yet at the end he ties a bow (made of crayons) onto the end of the film using Ndugu. This makes for a horribly forced ending – a cop out.

What was once humorous and under fire by a smartass director is now the film’s rainbow-like humane salvation. Unless you tape soap operas, this will explain why you aren’t crying when the credit’s roll, even though Mr. Nicholson does his damnedest to initiate tears.

So, what began as a burgeoning poke at the white American family man’s pinning desperation when time forces him to examine life (without capitalistic purpose), becomes wackly preoccupied by the “hilariously genius” of bad sweaters and hairstyles Mid-westerners wear onscreen. Actor Dermont Mulroney offers comic relief as the mulleted waterbed salesman engaged to Schmidt’s only daughter.

While the role offers a few involuntary guffaws (and how can it not?), it fades in and out of jarring Dumb and Dumber territory. The film’s theme involves an outsider who cannot communicate with others, but when every character besides Schmidt is changing gears between a real person and Payne’s silly caricatures, any scathing, genuine satire diminishes.

In a time of ongoing recession, when thousands of businessmen are watching their stocks closely, Payne could have ushered in a dramatic satire of American desperation as eye opening and sobering as Joel Schumacher’s Falling Down. Oddly, this is the film Jack Nicholson and Kathy Bates, as a confident, overweight hornball, were starring in.

Meanwhile, Payne is too busy taking shots at Tony Roma’s, fashion, Van Halen, and unattractiveness to make us care about Schmidt’s romance with a falling star (c’mon) and his compassion for Ndugu. He wastes a magnificent premise and Jack’s dedication to go masturbate with sophomoric style.

Hunter Stephenson can be reached at hurricaneccent@hotmail.com.

Are you as sick as everybody else of opting between some Budweiser derivative or overpriced micro brew crap in a bottle that you have to pretend you like because the six pack cost some freshmen girl 12 bucks? Well, if you want to roll up to the next backyard shindig with flavor then this could be your salvation: wine. Before this writer’s sexuality is thrown into question, let me explain.

Let’s start with money. Now, at the tender age where legal drinking is so close to being within reach, it’s time to make your parent’s money go further (bravo if you earned it yourself). Anyway, walk into a liquor store (Circle K does not count) and look for wines not followed by the word “cooler” on the side of the bottle.

Once this is taken care of, your selection should consist of five or six different brands of “fruit-flavored” wine. Don’t let the “fruit” fool you, because if you can actually taste the fruit then there’s a good chance you’ve already drank a bottle or so. Everybody loves brands, so here are a few: Cisco, Wild Irish Rose, Boones, Mad Dog (they call it “MD” now) and basically anything that sounds like some corny ass Southern rapper.

None of these are ever over four bucks for the biggest bottle, which leave ninety-nine cent for some Hot Fries if you’ve got five on it.
The Cisco, oh my, the Cisco. Keep in mind the alcohol content of these wines is usually double that of beer, but that has nothing to do with the taste. Cisco tastes something like cough syrup that went bad; except, instead of helping stop a cough it usually starts one.

Wild Irish Rose, I can safely say, has never touched the lips of an Irishman (if you’re Irish and have had a passionate relationship with this fine wine, I’m sorry twice) and the only thing rose about it is the color. If you’ve ever gotten into a philosophical conversation with a bum and wondered why their breath smelled like stale poop it’s probably because they’ve been getting “Wild.” After the first sip that’s it, you’ll smell bum-sexy; trust me.

Boones, well, the next time you have a girl over slide one of these into a paper bag, give it to her and there’s a good chance you’ll be sliding… well maybe not, but this is definitely the “fruitiest” of the bunch. Anyone can comfortably finish a bottle of Boones in no time at all, and this would probably explain why I was swerving on the way home. Plus if you drink a bottle of Boones first you’ll be able to drink its less-fruity counterparts.

Mad Dog is strictly pro material; nobody picks this up twice unless it’s the only thing for sale. Any combination of fruits is available in MD format, but they all taste the same.

This writer’s recommendation is to take it slow; if you’re ready go for it (become a wino) these are the tools of the trade. If I told you that Smoky Robinson’s retarded niece was my adoptive mother or that all I needed to get by was a bag and a bottle of hand lotion you probably wouldn’t believe me.

If I told you that within ten minutes of cracking open one of these bottles I met a man whose new adoptive mother is crack with the smoothest homeless hands I’ve ever shook, well… that was my afternoon with wine.

Sven Barth can be reached on the corner, next to the pay phone.

Diesel, known for its signature denim “for successful living” and innovative ad campaigns, has opened up shop in the heart of Miami’s fashion world. The international design company strolled onto South Beach’s 801 Washington Avenue like a confident European tourist, looking to claim its slice of a consumer pie currently dominated by high-end fashion labels like Versace and Hugo Boss.

According to Diesel’s Public Relations Director, Bridget Russo, “The Miami store is a perfect location for Diesel, as Miami is an international city with people from all over the world vacationing and living there. It’s a beautiful city full of life and energy. It is only natural that we make a home in Miami.”

Diesel attempts to secure brand loyalty by signifying devotion to the aesthetics of design and style. This approach has proven to be quite lucrative, the SoBe store being its 23rd in the United States.

“Diesel is known for an edgy design with vintage accents and unexpected details. Diesel is an innovative design company that is sexy and intelligent with an edge. It is a high-casual brand that represents the new luxury of today’s youth culture,” explains Russo.

A knack for detail in the clothing follows right down to the buttons. The company’s highly visible logo can be seen in the form of embroidery, patchwork, or pins. Extreme angular cuts on bottoms for women exude a sexual touch to otherwise average-looking styles, yet when worn the clothing attracts attention with a tell-tell tight-fit design.

Straight males might turn their heads like puppies when browsing through Diesel’s more “unique creations” that include snug-fitting tie-dye athletic pants, shirts with silver-thread highlights, and over-the-edge embroidery and patchwork tops. Russo says that Diesel doesn’t fit into the mass-produced fashion world and prefers to be a leader rather than a follower.

“From our product to our marketing, Diesel always takes the road less traveled, with an ironic twist, of course. Diesel provides a lifestyle for you customers. It’s a look, a feeling, a way of being. Each of our customers interprets that in his own unique way. We want to foster individuality not conformity.”

True to a point. While Diesel’s prody seems all too similar next to mass-produced fashion, with played out rock and militant influences and accents, the fashion-savvy can easily pick up on the trendy confidence that sets it apart – especially when it comes to denim.

“Diesel has a history of being pioneers in denim. It is our roots and something we feel very strongly about. Each season we introduce a number of new washes and styles, always keeping the customer guessing, ‘what will Diesel do next?’ Vintage washes are still strong as well as low-rise denim for men and women. There is also a movement towards slimmer fits. The over-bleached look is definitely on it’s way out,” predicts Russo.

“Fashion works in cycles and now is denim’s time to shine. That does not mean that it ever goes away, but now it’s nearly reached critical mass with so many players in the market. Part of the reason why denim is so strong is due to the customers desire to be comfortable and the ‘casualization’ of the work place.

In addition, denim has become an expression on one’s personality. It’s no longer one pair of jeans for everyone. With so many washes and styles to choose from the possibilities are endless. Denim can be dressed up or dressed down. Denim is the new black.”
Denim aside, the company’s marketing techniques may be its strongest contribution to modern fashion.

Walking past the store on Washington Avenue, a shopper will surely notice windows decked out with enraged “protestors” (not real people, of course) holding red and black signs that read “WE DON’T BELIEVE IN SALES,” clad in Diesel’s latest threads. The bizarre window dEcor is enticing enough to lure in customers solely off its energetic creativity. When inside, these protestors avow a message that is welcomingly contradictory. Throughout the store, signs read “WE DON’T BELIEVE IN SALES (but we make an exception for you).” This hip eccentricity adds a dash of youthful flavor to shopping in Miami Beach.

Jeanette Hallak can be reached at jhallak@umsis.miami.edu.

Bootcamp Clik
The Chosen Few
***

Duck Down Records has finally called “time,” examined their playbook, and solidified an ambitious game plan for the ’03. It’s taken their squad 11 years to do so, but that’s moot, because Bootcamp Clik’s The Chosen Few, their second LP, is a thorough crew album destroying systems when hip hop posses are too busy doloing (Wu-tang) or practicing hopscotch and playing with Barbie (Jurassic 5).
BCC, a collective featuring rappers Tek and Steele (Cocoa Brovaz), Buckshot (Black Moon), Starang Wondah and Louieville Sluggah (O.G.C), Top Dogg, and Sean Price, have weathered constant label woes (Rawkus, Priority, etc), wives and kids, and the Ja Rule-era and reached pay dirt unscathed. From the tip-off with “And So” (with a soulfully consistent beat from Curt Cazal), The Chosen Few sounds familiar – not due to gangsta banality, but because it’s provincially street like blacktops and bodegas.
Lyrically, the disc’s topics never reach for the sky: repping Duck Down, figurative/literal debts, drugs, loyalty, women – but each MC hones a flow that adds to the deep-end and commixes smoothly across the boards. Two of the strongest bangers, “Welcome to Bucktown USA” and the title track, are laced by rookie producer Coptic, the latter track utilizing a sample also heard on Talib Kweli’s “Ghetto Afterlife” from Reflection Eternal – a rare case for beat recycling. The overall production is dead on, with the Alchemist and Da Beatminerz netting one after another, but Hi Tek throws up a brick on the it-must-be-a-nightmare track “Ice Skate.” The hook: “It’s on you if you wanna hate/you can ice skate/but you don’t hold no weight/this is how we do around here.” So bad it justifies trading Hi Tek to the Lakers.
Opting to go independent (via Koch distribution) was the proper move for Bootcamp and Duck Down Records, with Cocoa Brovaz’ Still Shining and Sean Price’s Monkey Bars entering the draft later this year. Hip hop fans who lament over glossy singles with R&B hooks can relax, put this on, and have their expectations met – Bucktown style.
For more info visit www.duckdown.com.

Your Enemies Friends
The Wiretap E.P.
**1/2

Your Enemies Friends’s modus operandi is likeably, but also legitimately dark, similar to Nirvana or the Smashing Pumpkins circa “Bullet with Butterfly Wings.” They compose rock that damns the fruity robotic spiders and stalactite soul patches of nu metal (and easy college girls dressing like Avril Levigne). Backed by the tree-lighting shit talkers at Buddyhead.com (Buddyhead Records, actlikeyouknow), this quintet will transport you to the cherished suicidal high school days of rock, with equal doses maturity and style.
Keyboardist Aska Matsumyia electrifies the first track, “A Life Without a Heart” with a deviant, cartoonish keyboard loop before Ronnie Washburn’s screaming vocals flat-line into “Are you awake/We are awake” and collide into a lengthy hook of addiction. On the third track, “This is Disconnect,” bassist/vocalist Dana James sounds like Veruca Salt gobbling amphetamines as she races through single words of destruction with doomed punk flare.
The closing track of this impressively reckless but non-sloppy EP is the somber anti-ballad “Your Enemies are Your Enemies Friends.” It offers a glimpse at the talent and range running through this music’s veins, with plenty of fire left for an entire LP (coming later this year from producer Steve Albini). Instead of piling into a tired, played-out genre of rock, Your Enemies Friends rip it original over six tracks of drilling acceleration. Disregard the CD’s all black packaging – this isn’t Spinal Tap and it’s not weird-ass backwoods death metal.
For more info visit www.buddyhead.com and www.yourenemiesfriends.com.

LIARS
Fins to Make Us More Fish-like [EP]
***1/2
Choosing to lure extra dough (living in ever-hip Brooklyn is expensive, you know) from scenesters with this $8 three song EP, LIARS strut past the glowing rubble of praise coating their debut LP, They Threw Us All in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top, to offer some expensive, albeit tasty crumbs of splatterhouse dance punk.
“Pillars Were Hollow and Filled with Candy” dodges the foil-like sputtering of drums and the siren of an electronic toy from the ’80s, while Angus Andrew’s distorted vocals burn like Jiffy Pop. “Pillars” is as danceable as any song on their LP (also extending their Eclat for dope song titles) and proof that LIARS can pump out jams until the rooster gets hit by a taxi.
Wasting your money is the second track, “Everyday is a Child with Teeth,” a broken bridge of noise that is challenging to cross the first time, but laborsome after you master it. The demanding lyrics, “Be like a boy, dance like a girl/Dance like a girl, be like a boy,” sell androgyny like an afterthought, which it is fast becoming.
For $8, this CD isn’t worth purchasing, unless you’re a music fiend, don’t drink, and/or dad’s rich, with the third track being an alternative rendition of “Grown Men Don’t Fall in the River, Just Like That” – a song that appeared on They Through Us All… This track (arguably LIARS’ signature) lacks zero the charm and badabing of the original – it just got a haircut and some wrinkles ironed out.
Overall: buy their debut and burn this one, or burn both if the recession has you down – we get these CDs for free regardless. www.liarsliarsliars.com.

Hunter Stephenson can be reached at HurricaneAccent@hotmail.com

A few years ago, Miramax’s decision to front the money for Martin Scorsese’s dream project took Hollywood by surprise. Miramax had slowly been shedding the independent image that brought it success throughout the ’90s, but no one expected it to put up a $100 million budget for Gangs of New York, Scorsese’s epic about street life in the city in the 19th century.

Tension soon developed between Scorsese and Miramax chairman Harvey Weinstein, both significant figures in the film world. Scorsese’s artistic desires clashed with Weinstein’s cutthroat business sense, probably due to the pressure of a $100 million budget, Miramax and Scorsese’s largest ever by far.

The height of the arguments climaxed when Scorsese turned in his version of Gangs of New York in 2001, and Weinstein demanded several changes. It’s not difficult to see why Scorsese, considered by many to be the best living American director, was taken aback by Weinstein’s desire to have the film shortened and narration added from lead star Leonardo DiCaprio.

Gangs of New York was finally released in December of 2002, a year after the expected date. The film is vintage Scorsese – violent, unflinching, and realistically detailed. The opening scene features a cold, snowy battle in 1840s New York between opposing gangs, and it’s hard to look at the blood-soaked scene and envision a camera crew and director behind the metal-clanging action.

Scorsese actually created 19th century New York at a massive studio in Rome. Instead of filming action in front of green screens and using computer effects, Scorsese had some of the largest sets ever constructed, and the result is astonishing. Gangs of New York is an intensely hyper look at the gang confrontations that sprouted up in red spurts across tense territories and city squares. Scorsese’s directing, combined with one of the best performances in recent memory from Daniel Day-Lewis, makes Gangs of New York one of the year’s best movies. Scorsese simply is the country’s top filmmaker.

He began his career in 1970 with Who’s That Knocking At My Door, and has made over 20 films since. Not surprisingly, his name has become synonymous with violent gangster movies like Goodfellas and Casino, but Scorsese is actually a versatile director.

The interest in gangster films surfaced with his third directing effort, Mean Streets. Not only did the film put Robert De Niro and his persona on the map, it also invented countless techniques still thanklessly recycled in gangster movies today. Scorsese’s tough guy characters, gritty locations and rock music scores have become his trademark, and Mean Streets was the birth. It’s the story of an up-and-coming gangster named Charlie (Harvey Keitel), who strives to get his friend Johnny Boy (DeNiro) out of severe gambling debts, all the while battling religious visions and an obsession with Johnny’s cousin. Mean Streets is a classic because of the Scorsese’s style is mixed with excellent acting courtesy of Keitel and De Niro.

His next film, the PG-rated Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, was a departure from his violent ways. It’s a fairly plain story about a single woman and her young son, and her attempts to get a job, meet a man and take care of her son. The role of Alice, played by Ellen Burstyn (Requiem for a Dream), was an Oscar-winning performance, and Alfred Lutter’s role as her son is equally commendable. The best thing about Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore is the dynamic between Burstyn and Lutter.

Unlike most ’70s movies that portray children as paper-thin stereotypes, Lutter’s character is smart and likable, often two steps ahead of his mother. Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore is not a masterpiece by any means, but a rather boring screenplay is saved by great acting from the two leads and strong supporting performances from Keitel, Kris Kristofferson, and a young Jodie Foster.

Taxi Driver was next. The film left an indelible mark on American cinema, and critics still debate whether it’s Scorsese’s best. Over the next 25 years, Scorsese made numerous films that landed within the top 100 films of all time, specifically Goodfellas and Raging Bull. He never failed to experiment and take risks with varying types of movies. The 1978 documentary The Last Waltz recorded The Band (a ’70s band) in their last performance, as Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Ringo Starr and other notable musicians visit them. In 1988, Scorsese made The Last Temptation of Christ, a low-budget, controversial depiction of Jesus Christ as he contemplates his sacrifice on the cross.

After 1995’s Casino, another contribution to the violent Scorsese tradition, came Kundun. Released in 1997, Kundun is a political-aspiring film about the Dalai Lama’s life during the Chinese occupation of Tibet in the mid 1900s. The movie is fascinating as it shows the Dalai Lama (Kundun) dealing with alarming responsibility throughout his teenage years. It seems unusual for Scorsese, who prefers actors/friends like De Niro and Joe Pesci, to helm a film where the most recognizable actor is Uncle Benny from Lethal Weapon 4.

Still, Kundun is an accomplishment filled with beautiful scenery and colors that greatly enhance the mystic ambience. The acting is excellent, which can be said of almost any Scorsese movie. Kundun was not a box office hit, and neither was his next film, Bringing Out the Dead, which starred Nicolas Cage. The time was right for Scorsese to return to his violent roots.

Gangs of New York is unlike any other epic battle movie, in that it seems to leap from the screen. It will likely be nominated for a Best Picture Oscar, with Day-Lewis up for Best Actor and Scorsese for Best Director – an award he has never won.

Up next for Scorsese is The Aviator, starring DiCaprio as legendary billionaire Howard Hughes. Now 60, Scorsese is undoubtedly one of the best directors ever, and until anyone proves otherwise, is unmatched among his peers.

Shawn Wines can be reached at shawnwines@aol.com.

Tonight
Back in the lush hedonism of Miami: hit up two keg parties on Ponce. Just walk down the boulevard, you’ll find them…

Gen Art hosts a party at Oxygen, 2911 Grand Ave., Coconut Grove, with visual art by Mario Escobar, Katrina Del Mar and Jiae Hwang, fashion by Vixen XL5 and sounds by DJ Jody McDonald. Suggestion donation is $10 and it’s on from 7-9 p.m. After-party: “Naked in the Grove.” 305-476-0202.

Guzzle mighty Guinnesses at Churchill’s, 5501 NE 2nd Ave., Miami, while listening to bands like UFC and Sick of Society. Cover varies. 305-757-1807.

Saturday, January 18
Jazz great Cedar Walton masters the piano with his trio at the Museum of Art, One E. Las Olas Blvd., Ft. Lauderdale. $20 goes to benefit family of deceased sax player Bob Berg. 954-779-3032.

Party at the Quads, 5791 SW 53rd St., and watch greasy oil wrestlers going at it. Winner gets a cash prize. DJs Contra, Nebuloso, Kurt J Random and Karakter will spin starting 10 p.m. $3 to get in.

Sunday, January 19
Medeski, Martin and Wood regulate at BillboardLive, 1500 Ocean Dr., Miami Beach, starting 8 p.m. $30. 305-379-7118.

wednesday, January 22
Coldplay perform at the Convocation Center. 8 p.m. $32.75.

Friday, January 24
Check out Kid 606 with Needle and Sony Mao for the Revolver series at Soho Lounge, 175 NE 36th St., Miami. $10. 305-576-1988.

In conjunction with the coverage of South Florida, Life & Art endeavors to provide readers with more widespread exposure to the abstruse world of art. Accordingly, we probed into the bustling scene in New York to excavate the goods on an alternative, yet flourishing art scene.
Seemingly frustrated and disenchanted by highbrow intelligentsia and caviar-and-cocktail art openings, young creative brewers in cities such as NYC and San Francisco spurned the superciliousness and snobbery of traditional art gala and rather chose to open doors to a modern generation of youthful subculture-i.e., influenced by graffiti, skateboarding, hip hop and street life. Embracing the gritty verve of the street and city with depictions inspired from political satire, television and video games, media imagery and advertising bluffs, porno and drugs, psychedelic cartooning, fashion with subversive flair, ’60s Pop art and surreal settings, these artists attempt to dissect the urban disarray with painting, photography and mixed-media productions, therein illuminating their specific lifestyle and culture.
Assembled at the warehouse-like space at Deitch Projects in downtown New York is Session the Bowl, an exhibit of 30 of these burgeoning artists, yet the hub of activity is centered around a massive functional sculpture: entitled “Free Basin,” this kidney-shaped skateboard bowl is free for anyone to use and intervenes with an environment usually allocated to quiet, unobtrusive viewing. Hand-made by the architectural collective Simparch, the piece was shown in other spaces such as the Hyde Park Center in Chicago (2000), at the Wexner Center (2002) and recently at Documenta. “Free Basin” may exude the relation between skateboarding and pavement (here, it’s wood) in concordance with that of paint and canvas or it may disorient the nlooker, who climbs up the strange structure and looks down into an empty pool, yet it coincides well with the nature of art that is exposed along the rest of the walls in the gallery.
As skaters catch air or show off their skills in noisy sessions, others observe the numerous pieces on display. Shepard Fairey’s faux-propaganda stencils show portraits of public figures such as celebrities (e.g., Johnny Rotten smirking) or political faces (Richard Nixon with portrayals of Asian “commies” in the background), always with his signature, ironic “OBEY” sign. Chris Johanson, in his typical minimalist, yet colorful renditions, paints a backyard where friends are bar-b-cuing and skating a vert ramp, while the next door neighbor complains: “What the fuck is up with those fucking kids making fucking noise! I’m calling the fucking authorities! Oh wait, I don’t want to draw attention to my lab…” The heavy cursing and mention of a drug lab here is wryly tongue in cheek.
Moreover, rapper Dalek provides a cartoonish painting finely composed with ambiguous shadows in the backdrop and Barry McGee’s floating heads with oversized mouths and miniature ears in a red psychedelic setting hangs high upon a wall on a huge rectangular surface. Ed Templeton’s racy photographs of youth (a teenager flashing his dick or another with a swastika drawn on his chest) and Dash’s series of polaroids illustrating debauchery among young friends-capricious close-ups of bruises, nudity, vomiting, whimsical pictures of wild partying, drug-taking, lesbianism, girls spreading their legs, a guy sniffing another one’s penis and, randomly, a nice old couple in a diner-all shed light on the excess and wantonness of urban youth.
A legendary graf artist, Futura, places a sequence of mini-skateboards adorned with skeleton figures and international newspaper clippings, while Jo Jackson, on a creamy, peaceful light blue background, paints skeleton heads mounted on top of each other, admonishing an impending doom. Director of the cult flick Kids, Larry Clark poses a blatant skateboard piece (decorated with a luscious picture of a nude bent-over woman exposing her genitalia) concurs with the “Free Basin” being used right in front of it, all the while using barefaced, unabashed humor.
While one can wonder if the presence of a skate bowl in a gallery can distract viewers from paying attention to the art, it’s a genuine installation with a welcoming title-it may be an open invite for anyone to come see and discover-or even an interactive performance piece that supplies the space with enhanced dynamics. Although the pervasiveness of this artistic “movement” (if it can be so-called) is rather limited and may attract a certain kind of viewers (young hipsters, skate aficionados, counterculture devotees, city bohos…), it is nonetheless an artistic rejuvenation that may deliver a fresh, new perspective for the young and old alike.
Session the Bowl is on view through February 1 at Deitch Projects, 18 Wooster St., NYC. Call 212-343-7300 for more info.
Check out OBJEX Artspace in Miami for a similar brand of this art “subculture.” Visit their site at www.objexartspace.com.

Omar Sommereyns can be reached at SOASIS@aol.com