By Monique Jones
By Travis Cohen
By Liz Tracy
By Terrence McCoy
By Morgan Golumbuk
By Ciara LaVelle
By Carolina del Busto
By Michael E. Miller
An arresting color video titled Glitter Butt is a savory opus in which a young nymph's unblemished derriere flexes spectacularly across a flat-screen TV and appears ripe for a Howard Stern probing.
As one sidles up, it becomes apparent that the woman has packed her tailpipe with a spoonful of silvery glitter, which she farts demurely startling the unsuspecting spectator with a subtle report, achieving somewhat of a fizzling Roman candle effect.
Nightshade, a series of medium-size cibachrome photos, is a commentary on posh parties and runaway indulgence that delivers a visceral uppercut.
“A Day and Forever”: Through January 28. Rocket Projects, 3440 N Miami Ave, Miami; 305-576-6082, www. www.rocket- projects.com.
In one piece, Ali's Drink, a group of insouciant riffraff sits at a dimly lit dinner table tricked out with silver candlesticks and fancy china, sipping Chablis from cut crystal goblets. In the background, the artist-cum-hostess, decked out in a virginal white spaghetti-strap evening gown, swills from an expensive decanter.
Este's Dead, another shot from the series, has the taste of the Jonestown mass suicide and features some gaudy revelers sprawled across overturned chairs and others with torpid mugs plastered atop a bar.
Nearby, in the middle of the gallery space, hangs a giant chandelier dripping in sable, amber, and crimson beads. Petula Clark warbles, "Forget all your troubles, forget all your cares," over the loudspeaker, contributing to the sense that one's a fly on the wall at an A-list soiree.
In Waiting for You, a large video projection, the larger-than-life artist is captured from the waist down grinding her pelvis in a snazzy gold lamé dress. As she giddily peels off her clothing, it becomes evident that going "downtown" is Prosch's metaphor for losing oneself from life's nagging vagaries in a torrid embrace.
In the project room, Forever, a video diptych, features twin closeups of Prosch's scarlet-slashed gob opening and closing like a manic hen's egg pouch.
On one screen a white rose buds forth from her puckered lips and blossoms. On the other she mumbles as if her mouth were full of marbles and then delicately coughs up a sprig of baby's breath. Dozens of ostentatious floral bouquets, reminiscent of a gangster's funeral, are arranged in a rotting heap below.
For anyone who has suffered rejection at the velvet rope or gotten the cold shoulder from the snooty demimonde, this show delivers a knockout a fist-pumping money shot that cuts those sybaritic slackers down to size and smartly anoints Prosch as an audacious talent.