Adam Bartos regards his subjects with a cool, deadpan eye, and, over-eager to impress, they inadvertently reveal ironic inconsistencies of character. A chubby boy wears a barbecue grill halo like some debased cherub. Dad, wearing a Nike-swoosh-boomerang, attempts to tame fire with a wooden stick, seemingly unaware of the futility. Even the United Nations Building, that jet age bastion of sleek authority is all bluster, with a befuddling tangle of signs at the security desk. Bartos, however, is no violator. His subjects unmask themselves.