Buffet For The Bulimic

Like a gluttonous two-headed beast on a feeding rampage, Alvin Capistrano and Albert Sy roam the pop-culture universe and consume everything they come across: thrash metal and doo-wop, splatter films and fairy tales, Fritz the Cat and Batman.
Nothing is too banal; nothing is too sublime for their taste. Down these references go into the two-headed beast’s gaping maw, only to be vomited on canvases and pieces of paper with explosive force. Buffet for the Bulimic is regurgitated chaos from the combined guts of Capistrano and Sy.
The two artists have prepared a feast. They invite you to share their table. No dress code required. Manners may be left at home.
While the two-headed beast feeds, feel free to eavesdrop on a conversation it has with itself.

Int. A painter’s studio – Night
A smoke-filled, paint-splattered room.The floor is covered by ‘creative mess’—tubes of acrylic, a pair of palettes, plastic cups brimming with murky water,and brushes. Canvases and pieces of paper are strewn everywhere.In the middle of the chaos sits the TWO-HEADED BEAST.
In the background, noise/avant-garde sound music plays.

- ‘The destructive impulse is also a creative one… Happy smashing!The destructive impulse is also a creative one… Happy smashing!The destructive impulse is also a creative one… Happy smashing!’
- Explain.

- It means that I can take a figurine of the Black Nazarene, decapitate it, and paint it over. It means that I can turn his head into a refrigerator magnet or a drain stopper. It means that I can take his head, attach it to a mannequin, and make him do that Nazi salute—Heil Hitler! It means that I can crucify him and photograph his death like a crime scene investigator. YEAAAAAAH! It means that I can cut a 10”x10” painting from a 2’x3’ canvas because the rest was shit. Remember what Basquiat said? ‘Same old shit.’ I prefer the word ‘crap.’
- There is no art. There is no religion. There is no creative process. There is only pork and Death by Cholesterol. There is only Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer being abducted by aliens. Optic blasts and ketchup-blood. Sex. Dicks. Skulls and crossbones. The big bad wolf and three little pigs.
- There is only a rubber ducky floating in a pool of fake pee. There is only Jesus, a one-eyed Cyclops, riding a bike. There is only Slayer and Andal Ampatuan Jr.

The two-headed beast picks up a baseball bat.

- If I gave you this baseball bat, what would you do with it?
- I would drive nails into it and turn it into a spiked club. A morning star.
The two-headed beast throws the baseball bat and picks up a straitjacket.
- If I gave you this straitjacket, what would you do with it?
- I would use it to contain madness, contain chaos.

The two-headed beast tries to put on the straitjacket. It struggles and fails. Frustrated, it eats the straitjacket and then throws up.

- Chaos cannot be contained. It can only be swallowed and vomited. Chaos tastes like honey, much sweeter than wine. In other words, it tastes like pussy and siopao, because siopao is made of cat meat and cats are pussies. Do you know what cock tastes like?
- Succulent, like cock-tus.
- Fucking hilarious. Wait, wait. Do you hear that sound?
- That is the sound of Death dancing with a one-eyed virgin. Motley Crue. Anthrax. Spazz. The Business. Flagitious Idiosyncrasy in the Dilapidation. Evil Moisture and Hanatarash.
- I don’t think so. I think they’re dancing the swing. Or the boogie.
- No. No. Death listens to Death Metal because Death’s not mental.
- Do you hear what you’re saying? I don’t fucking understand you.
- I don’t either. I’m just having fun. Shut up and enjoy.

The two-headed beast shuts up and resumes eating and vomiting. Eating and vomiting. Eating and vomiting.
Finis.

Alvin Capistrano and Albert Sy—two Far Eastern University graduates united by a fondness for B movies, German expressionism, and metal—are back once again with Buffet for the Bulimic. This creative smorgasbord has references from Rene Magritte and R. Crumb; Penthouse magazine andanarchist essays; grindcore and The Beatles.
The two artists, who grew up on the brutality of Mortal Kombat and reveled in the violence of Jax’s “Arm Rip” Fatality move, aren’t fazed by blood and gore: they revel in it. Despite the darkness of their joint exhibit, they are neither anarchists nor fascists, neither rebels nor demented serial killers. They’re here to rock ‘n’ roll. –ll