With pink hair and boyish shorts, Fernando Belfiore looks like a toy disco bunny as he bops to blaring Europop. His stage is a playpen of bright objects and cheesy music. He pretends to be a robot, his squeals and grunts a cartoonish accompaniment for pumping arms and stomping feet. He imbibes blue liquid and sprays it in the air, dons a costume cape, spanks the ground with a roll of metal foil. A luminescent heart pulses on his t-shirt. It’s all pretty random.
Belfiore says, many times, that he has come to talk to us. By the time he’s dripped paint from his palm like blood from a stigma and opened his arms to us like a beneficent Jesus, to mystic chords and sounds of the sea, it feels like he’s really come to talk to himself. Any inflated revelation the performance might hold remains his alone.