a place for planners
how's clown school, you ask?
People seem surprised when I say that 6 weeks of clown school is terrifying, uncomfortable, challenging, weird.
Some adults also tell me they are deeply afraid of clowns — Coulrophobia. I like to respond that it makes sense to be afraid of clowns, since we/they are agents of death. Clowns play our shadows — the aspects we keep hidden so others will like us, or our secret desires which we cannot manifest for any number of reasons. Clowns play the parts of us that are weak or stupid or vulnerable. But there is also hope: clowns allow us to laugh at the worst part of ourselves. We are all going to fail at some point. We are all going to die. We have a choice of taking those moments tragically and heroically serious, or we can laugh all the way down. What makes clowns human is that we fail and fall; what makes us clowns is that we bounce. Clown training can be fun, but personally, I come for the discomfort...
In class, we work simply: in neutral black clothes and the red nose. No fright wigs, big shoes, or polka dots. No unicycles or pie fights or tiny cars. This is theatre clown not circus clown. Most days, someone cries, usually onstage in front of 12 peers and our teacher Giovanni and his assistant Liz. That's when Gio says things like, "Good, perfect, stay there. Now, Audience! Look at us, make eye contact. Give us what you're feeling." And those of us in the audience open our mouths wide and breathe audibly, hoping to jump start the breathing of the person on stage.
All 13 of us have been struggling and frustrated most of the past 3+ weeks, 32 hours a week of theatre clown. We started as 14, but one of us quit along the way, because the experience of the work was overwhelming.
We start the clown birthing process by finding clown bodies, which are exaggerations of our physical non-neutrality — the effect of genetics and history, nature and nurture, upon our postures and shapes and walk. Week 2 we find resonances and eventually a voice, telling jokes and singing a song we've prepared.
We're directed to not plan or decide what our clown creature will be, but to improvise, to explore; specifically, to stand there breathing with our mouths open, and do nothing but make eye contact, notice the laughter or pity or silence, and follow...
into where? This is where the shamanic/trickster/healing work begins. Its also where the discomfort begins. Do less. Linger, don't move on. Stay in the moment. Breathe. Let yourself be effected. Listen to the laughter. "Do you know Why they are laughing?" Gio asks with his Italian accent. "No? Perfect. Next!" He says he doesn't care if we understand, only that we pay attention to the feedback.
Most nights, each person gets about 7 minutes onstage in front of the class, solos at first, then duos etc. The rest of the time we watch our fellows work and struggle and cry. We make eye contact and breathe. Some of us are eager about our 7 minute chance to come alive in a new, to-be-discovered body and personality, some are scared to death. Feeling both seems mostly the case.
Though we don't know where we're going, there are some things we can do — commit to our creature's body/posture, the tempo while walking, and simple gestures that come up naturally. The new experience of the body creates a new state of attentiveness, which is the clown state. Walking in a new way changes the way we see and experience the world and each other. So we have a body and a state, which doesn't feel like much, to be honest.
My notes are full of the exhortation to commit my energy, before knowing what I am doing. That's when the real work can begin. Its common improvisational practice, but seems ridiculous in so-called real life. But consider: you have to commit your money to the stock market before knowing how it will turn out. You also have to commit your heart to love before knowing how it will turn out. To wait on the sidelines until all variables are known means missing the opportunity for something good to happen.
Gio and the class tell me to relax my forehead, don't raise my eyebrows in eagerness. Standing on stage, making eye contact with no one laughing, trying to remember to relax my forehead and my jaw and to keep breathing... this is way more data than my system can take in. I take a deep breath and let it out and lift my chin an inch and people are laughing out loud and then say "awwww" and before I can even minutely comprehend what the hell is so funny its gone and I've lost it. Whatever it was. "Do you know why they make that sound? No? Perfect."
Later, my cohorts say 'sad, sensitive, touching, poetic'. I am utterly confused. I have the sensation of being a meat-puppet for my clown creature: he is coming alive using my body. I'm not in control of him, although I can get in his way as he pushes his way into the world. I feel scared.
Through jokes and songs and duo improvisations (i.e. TWO clowns on stage doing nothing but looking stupid and breathing), we slowly start to discover some Themes for our creatures — their personality traits, and how they relate to their world and community of peers. We each bring in an object, for our clowns to discover. Five minutes on stage, playing with whatever you brought. When its my turn, my clown puts clothes pins on the bridge of his nose, his eye brows, and his ears, and tells the audience its a new form of safe, open source medicine called Accupincher. Its really great for headaches or sinus problems. The audience is laughing and squirming. Then, my clown goes too far and puts a clothes pin on his left nipple. His forehead relaxes, and he lets out a big sigh of relaxation. The audience is screaming, covering their eyes. Then I pull a cookie out of my pocket and eat it calmly.
"Ok", Gio says, "How much of that was set?" Well, yes I knew I'd put clothes pins on my face. At least. I get scolded for having had a plan, instead of exploring my object. I am told that I also showed no evidence of being effected by the audience's response to my activity. Its just another day of abject failure at clown school.
Gio says it doesn't matter what I do, but how I feel about it. "Does your clown enjoy what you do? Or hate it? Does he enjoy that the audience hates it?" Gio says eating the cookie was the only quality moment of my work. Later, a woman gets up and drives a Tonka toy earth mover over her body while making all the truck sounds, and she is a hit. I feel nauseous. I go home and put off writing this story for another day...
We find costumes at a local thrift store. They are totally stupid, but are actual clothes that people have worn. My creature is assigned something too small again: purple women's ski overalls, a black velour women's jacket. a knit cap. I add a gold medal, and look like a bad refugee from a BeeGee's concert circa 1975. Oh, and big rubber rain boots.
The next night of class I am feeling disgusted with my work. On the schedule is a 3 minute naming session for each new clown. Go behind a stage flat, put on the red nose, and then come out. Gio asks your name, listens to your voice and also takes suggestions from the audience. My creature has a high pitched, nasally resonance, but hadn't spoken much yet. Benny? Peetey? Alphonse. No. Gio gives me — Euzebio.
"Euzebio? What's that?" my creature demands, impatiently.
"Its a name, look it up." Gio says. "He's a Brazilian footballer I think."
"I don't like it", Euzebio whines irritably. "Its a stupid name. It sounds like a pastry."
The class cracks up. A minor breakthrough moment.
We discover that Euzebio (a Greek name which means "good worship") has a bitter, sad, and defensive side. To all of us, Giovanni says, "What is not expressed, is impressed'" i.e. into the emotional and psychological makeup. And, "What we don't play, plays us". Or, what we run from, drives us. I remember that Giovanni is also a licensed Gestalt therapist. "There is an incredible amount of negative energy here, he says, which you can use in this work". We give a service to the audience by channeling this energy to let them see and laugh at this part of themselves.
The creatures that come forth are recognized by us, as psychological and emotional shadow sides of who we think we are, or intend to be. Our clowns are stupid, vulnerable, open, shy, sensual, wounded, weak, afraid, defensive, overwhelmed, innocent. Each actor confronts her own particular discomfort. Except for the fact that the clown group is very supportive, the work is like being a character in the play No Exit — you will bear your most raw and delicate places, exaggerate them to grotesqueness, make us laugh at you while you stare into our eyes.
Toward the end of week 3, we're looking for pieces to put in our show. We have 3 nights of performances coming up, a variety show format of clowns presenting "numbers" — songs, or skills like juggling, or playing a musical instrument. We create a list of improvisations from our previous work that we'd like to see again, to check if the number has a soul, if it might possibly live to be in the show. I want to sing my song, "I'm So Tired", from the Beatles' White Album.
As I finish, Gio asks, "Ok, does this number have a soul?" There is dead silence amongst the audience. "Obviously, that is a No", I say, removing my red nose and sitting on the floor in front of the class. Under interrogation, I admit to having had a kind of plan: Euzebio is tired because he can never find the place he's supposed to be in the world. I think its deep, since I recognize this voice in me, a shadow voice coming to life in Euzebio. This is his motivation, in a cheap, method-acting kind of way. But.... I didn't even realize I had that as a plan. I was trying to be open and connected. I am amazed at how easily and quietly my mind and its story can take over without my noticing, can disconnect me from the moment and my partners. If I am not my Mind, what or who or where am I?
Giovanni says, "Stand up again, put on the nose, and tell us how and why your song was so bad."
When Euzebio stands up, he says, "It's come to my attention that my song sucked". Big laughter. Then he starts blaming this guy he met backstage who gave him crappy advice, some idiot. Euzebio goes on for a few minutes, complaining, and I realize while I'm talking that my clown is onstage complaining about my mind. It was my mind that gave him bad advice, that got in his way. It was my mind that felt safer with a plan than with improvisation. Its a weird sensation, disorienting, to be listening to this internal family squabble made external in front of the class — my clown insulting my mind. And getting a ton of laughs.
"Now", Giovanni orders, "Sing your song again!" The second time through, it is a smash hit. We discover that Euzebio is bitter, and angry. And still, he has a side that's obviously hurt, which inspires sympathy. And laughter. When Euzebio talks and complains, my forehead unclenches, my jaw comes forward, and I drop into him in a way my classmates instantly recognize, and which I can suddenly identify in a new way. Gio says this complaining is my best work, the best he's seen from last year, and this year.
The whole 3 weeks of struggle crack open, and Euzebio becomes a real boy, like Pinnocchio, alive like Frankenstein, actually, a combination of both. I feel I know where Euzebio lives now. And not a moment too soon — the show is 3 days away at this point. Over the weekend, we solidify the list of numbers to present, and we rehearse until we're totally exhausted. Monday afternoon, we see the very pregnant woman who is caretaker of the Boulder Circus School where our classes are held. She says her water just broke and its time to have the baby. The moon is full tonight. Our first show is in 4 hours. A ripple of electric aliveness runs through the group. Its all happening.
Monday evening, everyone in the cast feels like shell fish without a shell: sensitive and exposed. We have a successful show, and a supportive audience. But some people are still struggling. Euzebio feels good out there, complaining about his stupid name, about not getting an introduction, about how he hates to sing and has been told on several occasions that his song sucks. "If you don't like my song, it wasn't my idea" he says, "blame my parole officer."
After singing, he asks the audience, "How was that, on a scale of 1 to 2?" And then, "These lights are too bright, I can't even see you out there. Good thing I can smell your resentment from here. Well, that was my song. I'm going to go sleep it off." And he leaves. After the show, a woman tells me she didn't care if Euzebio never sang his song. She just wanted more of his complaining — a direct request for more negativity.
When Euzebio introduces a colleague's act, he begins with, "What can I say about this next artist that hasn't already been said about athlete's foot?" And about another, "I like this next act. Then again, I like chicken pox." He never smiles.
****
As for the "Why?" of clown school (another common question), let's see...
Development of my creative process: sensitivity to associations, appropriate risk-taking, and idea building skills. Useful for idea generation, problem solving, business innovation, any artistic or creative activity.
Relationship skills: staying connected through difficult moments. Connected to myself, to my partners. This is a practice common also to e.g. yoga and contact improvisation dance — take yourself into the edge zone of non-injurious discomfort, hang out there, see what arises. Stay a bit longer. Don't fix it.
Relationship skills: the quality of the connection or relationship, the theme, is more important than what you are doing together.
Presentation skills: make a connection to the audience. Be responsive to how they are responding to your presentation. Learn to keep breathing under the most stressful circumstances. Never have stage fright again.
Acting: Presence. Embodiment and character exploration/development.
Personal growth: Discover and play/express psychological and emotional shadow voices and personas, parts of your identity history you keep hidden and defended, in order to transform and heal them through radical acceptance, love, laughter, and the forgiveness in the recognition that others share and recognize the same qualities in themselves.
Personal quirk: I seek out experiences that push my buttons, cut deep, and accelerate my growth. Clown school is difficult and intimidating, so I run towards it. That's where the juice is. I am already wondering how I can come back here next year for more...
Some adults also tell me they are deeply afraid of clowns — Coulrophobia. I like to respond that it makes sense to be afraid of clowns, since we/they are agents of death. Clowns play our shadows — the aspects we keep hidden so others will like us, or our secret desires which we cannot manifest for any number of reasons. Clowns play the parts of us that are weak or stupid or vulnerable. But there is also hope: clowns allow us to laugh at the worst part of ourselves. We are all going to fail at some point. We are all going to die. We have a choice of taking those moments tragically and heroically serious, or we can laugh all the way down. What makes clowns human is that we fail and fall; what makes us clowns is that we bounce. Clown training can be fun, but personally, I come for the discomfort...
In class, we work simply: in neutral black clothes and the red nose. No fright wigs, big shoes, or polka dots. No unicycles or pie fights or tiny cars. This is theatre clown not circus clown. Most days, someone cries, usually onstage in front of 12 peers and our teacher Giovanni and his assistant Liz. That's when Gio says things like, "Good, perfect, stay there. Now, Audience! Look at us, make eye contact. Give us what you're feeling." And those of us in the audience open our mouths wide and breathe audibly, hoping to jump start the breathing of the person on stage.
All 13 of us have been struggling and frustrated most of the past 3+ weeks, 32 hours a week of theatre clown. We started as 14, but one of us quit along the way, because the experience of the work was overwhelming.
We start the clown birthing process by finding clown bodies, which are exaggerations of our physical non-neutrality — the effect of genetics and history, nature and nurture, upon our postures and shapes and walk. Week 2 we find resonances and eventually a voice, telling jokes and singing a song we've prepared.
We're directed to not plan or decide what our clown creature will be, but to improvise, to explore; specifically, to stand there breathing with our mouths open, and do nothing but make eye contact, notice the laughter or pity or silence, and follow...
into where? This is where the shamanic/trickster/healing work begins. Its also where the discomfort begins. Do less. Linger, don't move on. Stay in the moment. Breathe. Let yourself be effected. Listen to the laughter. "Do you know Why they are laughing?" Gio asks with his Italian accent. "No? Perfect. Next!" He says he doesn't care if we understand, only that we pay attention to the feedback.
Most nights, each person gets about 7 minutes onstage in front of the class, solos at first, then duos etc. The rest of the time we watch our fellows work and struggle and cry. We make eye contact and breathe. Some of us are eager about our 7 minute chance to come alive in a new, to-be-discovered body and personality, some are scared to death. Feeling both seems mostly the case.
Though we don't know where we're going, there are some things we can do — commit to our creature's body/posture, the tempo while walking, and simple gestures that come up naturally. The new experience of the body creates a new state of attentiveness, which is the clown state. Walking in a new way changes the way we see and experience the world and each other. So we have a body and a state, which doesn't feel like much, to be honest.
My notes are full of the exhortation to commit my energy, before knowing what I am doing. That's when the real work can begin. Its common improvisational practice, but seems ridiculous in so-called real life. But consider: you have to commit your money to the stock market before knowing how it will turn out. You also have to commit your heart to love before knowing how it will turn out. To wait on the sidelines until all variables are known means missing the opportunity for something good to happen.
Gio and the class tell me to relax my forehead, don't raise my eyebrows in eagerness. Standing on stage, making eye contact with no one laughing, trying to remember to relax my forehead and my jaw and to keep breathing... this is way more data than my system can take in. I take a deep breath and let it out and lift my chin an inch and people are laughing out loud and then say "awwww" and before I can even minutely comprehend what the hell is so funny its gone and I've lost it. Whatever it was. "Do you know why they make that sound? No? Perfect."
Later, my cohorts say 'sad, sensitive, touching, poetic'. I am utterly confused. I have the sensation of being a meat-puppet for my clown creature: he is coming alive using my body. I'm not in control of him, although I can get in his way as he pushes his way into the world. I feel scared.
Through jokes and songs and duo improvisations (i.e. TWO clowns on stage doing nothing but looking stupid and breathing), we slowly start to discover some Themes for our creatures — their personality traits, and how they relate to their world and community of peers. We each bring in an object, for our clowns to discover. Five minutes on stage, playing with whatever you brought. When its my turn, my clown puts clothes pins on the bridge of his nose, his eye brows, and his ears, and tells the audience its a new form of safe, open source medicine called Accupincher. Its really great for headaches or sinus problems. The audience is laughing and squirming. Then, my clown goes too far and puts a clothes pin on his left nipple. His forehead relaxes, and he lets out a big sigh of relaxation. The audience is screaming, covering their eyes. Then I pull a cookie out of my pocket and eat it calmly.
"Ok", Gio says, "How much of that was set?" Well, yes I knew I'd put clothes pins on my face. At least. I get scolded for having had a plan, instead of exploring my object. I am told that I also showed no evidence of being effected by the audience's response to my activity. Its just another day of abject failure at clown school.
Gio says it doesn't matter what I do, but how I feel about it. "Does your clown enjoy what you do? Or hate it? Does he enjoy that the audience hates it?" Gio says eating the cookie was the only quality moment of my work. Later, a woman gets up and drives a Tonka toy earth mover over her body while making all the truck sounds, and she is a hit. I feel nauseous. I go home and put off writing this story for another day...
We find costumes at a local thrift store. They are totally stupid, but are actual clothes that people have worn. My creature is assigned something too small again: purple women's ski overalls, a black velour women's jacket. a knit cap. I add a gold medal, and look like a bad refugee from a BeeGee's concert circa 1975. Oh, and big rubber rain boots.
The next night of class I am feeling disgusted with my work. On the schedule is a 3 minute naming session for each new clown. Go behind a stage flat, put on the red nose, and then come out. Gio asks your name, listens to your voice and also takes suggestions from the audience. My creature has a high pitched, nasally resonance, but hadn't spoken much yet. Benny? Peetey? Alphonse. No. Gio gives me — Euzebio.
"Euzebio? What's that?" my creature demands, impatiently.
"Its a name, look it up." Gio says. "He's a Brazilian footballer I think."
"I don't like it", Euzebio whines irritably. "Its a stupid name. It sounds like a pastry."
The class cracks up. A minor breakthrough moment.
We discover that Euzebio (a Greek name which means "good worship") has a bitter, sad, and defensive side. To all of us, Giovanni says, "What is not expressed, is impressed'" i.e. into the emotional and psychological makeup. And, "What we don't play, plays us". Or, what we run from, drives us. I remember that Giovanni is also a licensed Gestalt therapist. "There is an incredible amount of negative energy here, he says, which you can use in this work". We give a service to the audience by channeling this energy to let them see and laugh at this part of themselves.
The creatures that come forth are recognized by us, as psychological and emotional shadow sides of who we think we are, or intend to be. Our clowns are stupid, vulnerable, open, shy, sensual, wounded, weak, afraid, defensive, overwhelmed, innocent. Each actor confronts her own particular discomfort. Except for the fact that the clown group is very supportive, the work is like being a character in the play No Exit — you will bear your most raw and delicate places, exaggerate them to grotesqueness, make us laugh at you while you stare into our eyes.
Toward the end of week 3, we're looking for pieces to put in our show. We have 3 nights of performances coming up, a variety show format of clowns presenting "numbers" — songs, or skills like juggling, or playing a musical instrument. We create a list of improvisations from our previous work that we'd like to see again, to check if the number has a soul, if it might possibly live to be in the show. I want to sing my song, "I'm So Tired", from the Beatles' White Album.
As I finish, Gio asks, "Ok, does this number have a soul?" There is dead silence amongst the audience. "Obviously, that is a No", I say, removing my red nose and sitting on the floor in front of the class. Under interrogation, I admit to having had a kind of plan: Euzebio is tired because he can never find the place he's supposed to be in the world. I think its deep, since I recognize this voice in me, a shadow voice coming to life in Euzebio. This is his motivation, in a cheap, method-acting kind of way. But.... I didn't even realize I had that as a plan. I was trying to be open and connected. I am amazed at how easily and quietly my mind and its story can take over without my noticing, can disconnect me from the moment and my partners. If I am not my Mind, what or who or where am I?
Giovanni says, "Stand up again, put on the nose, and tell us how and why your song was so bad."
When Euzebio stands up, he says, "It's come to my attention that my song sucked". Big laughter. Then he starts blaming this guy he met backstage who gave him crappy advice, some idiot. Euzebio goes on for a few minutes, complaining, and I realize while I'm talking that my clown is onstage complaining about my mind. It was my mind that gave him bad advice, that got in his way. It was my mind that felt safer with a plan than with improvisation. Its a weird sensation, disorienting, to be listening to this internal family squabble made external in front of the class — my clown insulting my mind. And getting a ton of laughs.
"Now", Giovanni orders, "Sing your song again!" The second time through, it is a smash hit. We discover that Euzebio is bitter, and angry. And still, he has a side that's obviously hurt, which inspires sympathy. And laughter. When Euzebio talks and complains, my forehead unclenches, my jaw comes forward, and I drop into him in a way my classmates instantly recognize, and which I can suddenly identify in a new way. Gio says this complaining is my best work, the best he's seen from last year, and this year.
The whole 3 weeks of struggle crack open, and Euzebio becomes a real boy, like Pinnocchio, alive like Frankenstein, actually, a combination of both. I feel I know where Euzebio lives now. And not a moment too soon — the show is 3 days away at this point. Over the weekend, we solidify the list of numbers to present, and we rehearse until we're totally exhausted. Monday afternoon, we see the very pregnant woman who is caretaker of the Boulder Circus School where our classes are held. She says her water just broke and its time to have the baby. The moon is full tonight. Our first show is in 4 hours. A ripple of electric aliveness runs through the group. Its all happening.
Monday evening, everyone in the cast feels like shell fish without a shell: sensitive and exposed. We have a successful show, and a supportive audience. But some people are still struggling. Euzebio feels good out there, complaining about his stupid name, about not getting an introduction, about how he hates to sing and has been told on several occasions that his song sucks. "If you don't like my song, it wasn't my idea" he says, "blame my parole officer."
After singing, he asks the audience, "How was that, on a scale of 1 to 2?" And then, "These lights are too bright, I can't even see you out there. Good thing I can smell your resentment from here. Well, that was my song. I'm going to go sleep it off." And he leaves. After the show, a woman tells me she didn't care if Euzebio never sang his song. She just wanted more of his complaining — a direct request for more negativity.
When Euzebio introduces a colleague's act, he begins with, "What can I say about this next artist that hasn't already been said about athlete's foot?" And about another, "I like this next act. Then again, I like chicken pox." He never smiles.
****
As for the "Why?" of clown school (another common question), let's see...
Development of my creative process: sensitivity to associations, appropriate risk-taking, and idea building skills. Useful for idea generation, problem solving, business innovation, any artistic or creative activity.
Relationship skills: staying connected through difficult moments. Connected to myself, to my partners. This is a practice common also to e.g. yoga and contact improvisation dance — take yourself into the edge zone of non-injurious discomfort, hang out there, see what arises. Stay a bit longer. Don't fix it.
Relationship skills: the quality of the connection or relationship, the theme, is more important than what you are doing together.
Presentation skills: make a connection to the audience. Be responsive to how they are responding to your presentation. Learn to keep breathing under the most stressful circumstances. Never have stage fright again.
Acting: Presence. Embodiment and character exploration/development.
Personal growth: Discover and play/express psychological and emotional shadow voices and personas, parts of your identity history you keep hidden and defended, in order to transform and heal them through radical acceptance, love, laughter, and the forgiveness in the recognition that others share and recognize the same qualities in themselves.
Personal quirk: I seek out experiences that push my buttons, cut deep, and accelerate my growth. Clown school is difficult and intimidating, so I run towards it. That's where the juice is. I am already wondering how I can come back here next year for more...
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