A crystalline stream of urine, a dirty fridge filled with 40-ouncers, stereo speakers, a grunge idol's suicide note: I was ready to write off Colby Bird and Joshua Fields's two-person show as just another instance of "boy art." The designation is a shorthand for work made by smart, cynical, punk- and hip-hop-obsessed young dudes late of MFA programs, who get stoned in their studios and tease ironic meaning out of deliberately downgraded materials in the vacuum of popular culture. But I stuck around long enough to remember that the veneer of adolescent slacker posturing often obscures sincerity, even vulnerability, operating just... More >>>