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Of course, Lerner's familiarity with horseshit does provide her with another theme to explore in her Urban Decay project. Inure yourself to manure, and you eliminate what is often the most daunting obstacle in the pursuit of a quick sale: your own conscience. Lerner cannily riffs on this theme by attaching an intentionally gratuitous environmental perspective to Urban Decay's product pitch: the company pledges to "minimize packaging to avoid further damage to the environment, and to use non-formaldehyde, toluene-free formulas for nails and aloe vera-rich formulas for lips, both of which use ingredients which are kind to the Earth and have not been tested on animals."

This sudden kindness to the Earth and the creatures that inhabit it contradicts Urban Decay's "celebration" of urban degeneration, of course; anyone who's ever spent much time in urban environments knows that a squashed, rotting pigeon is often the difference between a humdrum cityscape and a sublime spectacle of cosmopolitan putrescence. But Lerner, in another pointed jibe at consumer culture, forsakes coherence for the chance to push as many marketing hot buttons as possible. In doing so, she reveals how in a world of hyperconsumption, logic and context have no value anymore. It doesn't matter that Urban Decay contradicts itself, Lerner suggests, because Urban Decay isn't about making sense. It's about surfaces, fleeting impressions, one-second masterpieces framed in the window of a BMW as it speeds past the projects.

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