Maybe 1999 is a bit early for a 1990’s post-mortem. And yet, these days, certain objects catch my eye just begging for that treatment, practically vaulting into view with “I am the epitome of my decade” blazoned all over them. This object for instance. Ostensibly it’s a card, a little hand-holdable ad, for Urban Outfitters. But really it’s just a shameless little zeitgeist scrap, a floating bit of cultural flotstam; look at the company name holding on the bottom with a shipwreck victim’s clingy little hands.

Of course, that’s putting it too hard. This is a 90’s document, and 90’s documents are all about commercial sponsors showing a proper sense of restraint. Self-effacement to the point of wholly non-verbal cues (ie, Nike’s limitlessly annoying, pseudo-subtle swoosh) is ideal, but failing that, the advertiser can present a small moment of humor, or wonder, or simple texture, and a by-the-way asiding to the sponsor’s actual name.

Texture alone, however, would be frivolous, and so of course there has to be something else. On the card, as in so many places, this something else is the suggestion of scientific facts. The gray border on the card’s bottom is topographical notation. The blue stuff above is, who knows? A picture of cloud patterns, maybe, a barren planet surface, the ocean seen from space. Having the textures be themselves representational, having them do some kind of work, makes them seem lean and efficient. The viewer’s intelligence is flattered because no obvious gesture is made, merely a gesture by-way-of. It’s not Barbie, it’s Lara Croft.

And of course it’s ridiculous, because despite this “leanness” and “intelligence” Urban Outfitters is frivolous as all hell. It’s the sine qua non of clever stupid toys (those inflatable feather pillows being my favorite, my weakness, I admit I think they almost qualify as objects of pure art) and stupid stupid toys (the punching nuns, for instance. the penis pasta). There’s no way of knowing what that blue field up there is supposed to represent, and you really shouldn’t even want to know, because despite the illusion of information all you want really is the sensual kick. The touch of that brushed aluminum, the plastic give of the inflatable bookbag under your arm. It's very nineties. Nobel-worthy sleekness means you don't have to think a thing.