Category: Clowning

Starting with a yearlong course at École Philippe Gaulier, the world’s premier clown school.

Clown School Weekend 4.1: The Present of Presence

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In which Our Hero hypothesizes a virtuous cycle.

Maybe when I’m present, open, and giving to others, I acquire fewer regrets.

That would be a powerful feedback loop: the more I give of myself, the lighter I feel; the lighter I feel, the more I give.

At clown school, le jeu is about play — but it’s also about generosity. Not for applause, but because shared pleasure multiplies. Maybe that’s what being funny is. Or at least what being kind is.

(I’m working on a larger analysis that’s still half-baked. Please enjoy this musing while that cogitation continues to cook.)

Clown School Day 20: Le Jeu (Game) Over

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In which Our Hero becomes Our Zero

“When Julian enter, was he with [scene partner] or was he alone?”

Audience: “Alone.”

At least I’m consistent.

(That’s a crap joke, but I’m keeping it.)

I’ve now attended two classes here.

Both had a final presentation.

In both final presentations, I received a mark of zero.

Zero is a bad mark.

It means:

  • You were boring.
  • You weren’t even interesting enough to get specific notes.
  • We could not see your pleasure.
  • You were not beautiful.
  • We do not love you.
  • Goodbye.

The Week

Monday: We received our assignments. I chose a partner I liked — skilled, smart, fun.

Tuesday: We rehearsed and found a stupid little game we loved.

Wednesday: We showed it to a trial audience. They couldn’t see the game. So we added another on top.

Thursday: We played again. We had fun.

Friday: We talked through our plan. Then, right before going onstage, my partner suggested a new one:

“Milk the opening if it works. Only go to the game if we need to.”

The drumbeats sounded. Our turn.

We entered.

The audience laughed once.

I thought, Aha! They’re laughing at me!

(Still kinda true: I set up something he executed.)

I did it again. No dice.

My partner panicked:

“We need to do the game!”

And before we even played the game, we were kicked off.

The Problem

I loved rehearsing with him. Genuinely. It was a highlight of my week.

But when I entered the stage, I didn’t open myself. I didn’t share with the audience enough pleasure of being on stage.

And so: I wasn’t lovable.

I’ve only opened myself once on stage. People found me beautiful.

How do I get back there?

Is this lack of openness also a problem in my relationships?

Am I in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing?

Is this biomedical?

Will clown school eventually teach me to play well with others?

Right now, I feel like a lonely, isolated lump of clay.

An ugly one.

It’s not fun to feel like an ugly lump of clay.

Maybe if I did therapy for an hour every day, I’d get better at opening myself. Then I just do that on stage, but lighter.

If the hypothesis is that success comes from being open and light and generous, then at least the openness part is something I can train on my own.

Once my father leaves on Tuesday, I’ll try that.

I’m not leaving yet. The clay’s still on the wheel.

It’s really. Not fun. To be clay.

💩

Also, two students told me they thought Head Teacher was unfair — that I’d actually been beautiful. I trust the opinions of the expert few over the uninformed many. Still, something relaxed in me when I heard that. This must be why people commiserate.

Comments About Me

“Who do we like? We like [my scene partner].”

“You are not beautiful.”

“Do we love him? Not at all.”

“When Julian enter, was he with [Scene Partner] or was he alone?” Audience: “Alone.”

“Zero, zero, zero.”

Learnings

  • Start with the fun part.
  • Stick to the plan. You made it for a reason. (Definitely don’t abandon the plan shortly before going on stage.)
  • Learn that it’s pleasant to be open.

My French classmate learned this. Others have too.

So why the hell is it so hard for me?

I even had a potentially fruitful relationship recently undermined because of this non-openness.

Do I like this? Am I choosing contexts that reinforce it?

After class, one of my peers said:

“I feel joy when I open myself on stage.”

He meant it kindly. I appreciated it.

I just don’t fucking know how.

This isn’t about wanting to. It’s a skill gap.

And it’s funny — my teacher said I’m best when I’m subtle and open, not when I’m pushing.

And now all I want to do is push.

So maybe I should just… give up?

That can’t be right.

Fuck if I know.

A friend who knows me very well commented on these last three lines: “fuck off. Don’t you play better when you’re down 2 and 0? Congrats, you’re now down 2 and 0.”

This must be why people share their emotions.

Clown School Day 19: Joy Qua Joy

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In which Our Hero sees two people restored to their original shine.

“Raise your hand if you haven’t yet felt the sort of pleasure on stage that we’ve been talking about since Le Jeu began,” said the teacher at the end of class.

Two people raised their hands. Then a third, more tentatively.

The teacher sent the first to stage—a friendly but unassuming British man.
“Who in this class do you find attractive?”

He chose two women from the front row. It’s a testament to the oddness of this school that this no longer phases me.

“Go backstage,” the teacher told them. “When you enter, you’ll walk center stage and tell us about your three weeks here—while these two beautiful women kiss you.”

While the Brit was backstage, the teacher whispered to the rest of us:
“When he enters, we’ll stand and cheer.”

When he came out, our cheering lit him up.
Then the women appeared.

If you’ve never seen a reserved British man caressed by two beautiful women, I recommend it.

Every time they kissed his cheek, he said “thank you.”
But the thank-you was a shield—a polite dismissal of feeling.

“Stop commenting,” said the teacher. “Stand still and speak directly to us.”

The more pleasure he allowed himself, the more beautiful he became.
The more he shared his pleasure, the more fun we had.

Why can’t we live like this all the time?

The Catholic Church doesn’t benefit from people being happy.
Nor does the Israeli military.
Nor the American economy.
Pick an institution; few thrive on pure joy.
We don’t want people too sad, but not too happy either.
Even parents—who want the best for their children—don’t usually mean pleasure qua pleasure.

That’s what makes clown special.
Clown is the direct transference of joy.
You practice finding joy and sharing it.
You learn to see the stupid.
See the stupid—and become stupid.

Because joy for its own sake is stupid.
Doesn’t a happy idiot chuckling in the corner grow smelly from lack of bathing, then die from lack of food?
Yes. This is joy qua joy.

But if you’re a closed-off British man who says “thank you” out of duty, not feeling—
or a muscle-bound weightlifter who loves film but hates actors for being too touchy-feely—
maybe you need some joy qua joy.

Both students left the stage with a new understanding: that pleasure shared openly is rewarded instantly.

Maybe a teacher shamed you for holding hands with your girlfriend in eighth grade.
Maybe a friend mocked you for calling them beautiful.
Maybe a parent slapped you for slurping your soup.

Whatever the reason—come to École Philippe Gaulier.
We’ll teach you to open, to feel, to share joy.
We’ll celebrate you for it.

And then you can return home—one more candle of joy.

Maybe it’s burning in an ocean of darkness.
I hadn’t noticed.
I was too busy laughing about the time a beautiful woman kissed me.

Am I funny yet?

Clown School Day 18: You Must Play the Game

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In which Our Hero misquotes Shakespeare.

“This above all: to thine own game be true.” —Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 3.

It’s very easy to forget the game.

But the game is the most important thing.

Some performance is only game. Tennis, for instance, is only game: and look how much money that earns.

The Rehearsal

My scene partner and I rehearsed today. We lacked pleasure because we had forgotten the game.

The original game was simple: I make my partner lick a thing. Like when children find a bug and dare each other to eat it.

It wasn’t fun anymore. We knew it was coming. We knew he would do it. There was no tension, no conflict.

So we changed it.

Now, we begin with a eulogy for a piece of the space: “We are gathered here today to say goodbye to the power outlet.”

Then we play rock-paper-scissors.

The loser, as a ritual of farewell, must lick it.

As the scene escalates, so do the lickables. The floor. The bottom of a shoe. The teacher.

We didn’t have a game. Now we have a game.

The game? Rock-paper-scissors.

But with stakes!

The Farce

In Improv class, I realized the rule applies to everything.

We played a farce: a train compartment. One person enters, perfectly normal except for one grotesque tic. They repeat it. Then a second person enters, takes pleasure from that game, and — after a long time enjoying their tic (longer than you think) — adds their own tic, heightening the first. Then a third person. Then a fourth.

The game is simple: take the game from the person before you, heighten it through your play, and pass it on.

Simple is nice.

Simple is hard.

You have to feel the scene. Is it falling down? Are you talking over the game with “train compartment” nonsense? Are you heightening or dominating or smothering?

When everyone played the game, the farce appeared by itself.

When someone forgot, everything froze.

The game makes the show. Always has. Always will.

The Handstand

This morning, I flipped upside-down.

My first handstand (wall-assisted), then onto a peer’s back, who rolled me forward, turning us both into a ball.

A new game: gravity as partner.

I’d forgotten the joy of inversion.

The Father

My father arrived in Étampes today. He wants more than anything to see a class.

I’d love to have him: to share my play space. The school forbids it.

No visitors, no cameras, no phones. We even sign a “no recording” oath, like monks taking vows.

Why so strict?

Because clowning is vulnerable.

I’ve seen people bare grief. I’ve seen them make absolute fools of themselves (and not the good kind).

Once, a student scraped his false teeth along the floor before popping them back in. The room gasped. Disgust and horror.

Once, I yelled at the teacher. Their instruction felt like trash; maybe provoking me was the point.

This isn’t for YouTube. This is for us.

The school protects its game.

It keeps the outside world out, so the play inside can live.

The Lesson

The game is everything: the lick, the tic, the flip, the secret room.

When you forget the game, everything dies.

When you play it, life appears.

Protect the space so you can play the game.

Then find the game.

Release all else.

Play the game.

And when you lose it, start again.

That’s what makes it a play.

Clown School Day 17: The LeBron of Tic Tac Toe

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In which Our Hero learns that leadership means getting the simple things right.

THE SETUP

The game is simple: tic-tac-toe.

The complication: teammates.

Two teams of 11 players, across a ten-foot-by-ten-foot tic-tac-toe board. Each team has three handkerchiefs of their team color. At the sound of the drum, the first player sprints to a spot on the board, drops their handkerchief, and sprints back to tag the next player.

When all three of your handkerchiefs are placed, your move is to move one of your handkerchiefs instead of placing a new one.

At three in a row, you win the point.

THE ESCALATION

How is this so hard?

First, foot faults. Were both of your feet inside the square where you dropped the kerchief? If not, your placement doesn’t count. (More than one clown kicked the game board itself, forcing a complete game stop and reset.)

Second, speed. Your next teammate goes when your previous teammate tags them. If you dawdle, the opponents may get two moves to your team’s one: a death knell in tic tac toe.

Third, skill errors. Can you picture the board as it currently is, and how you would like it to be after your play? Can you balance both your team’s desire for three in a row with the importance of blocking the other team?

Fourth, panic. If you’re not sure where to place the handkerchief, you may find yourself overwhelmed by the twenty clowns yelling at you.

THE CHAOS

If this sounds intense, that’s because it is. It’s the most competitive I’ve seen clowns in four weeks of class. One clown classmate commented to me: “Usually you and I are the only two trying to win. In this game, everyone is.”

And the best part: it’s tic tac toe.

You know, the game that even a monkey can play.

When I played this same game in the summer course, I was dubbed “the LeBron of tic tac toe” by a Boston-accented TikTok star who’d gained school-wide notoriety for roasting himself in a Trump impression.

This time, my team came out to a strong start. 2-0 in the lead.

Their team called a time out.

From across the board, I could see one member of their team — a former death row attorney now turned stand up comedian — giving an impassioned speech.

Members of my team jeered at him. I thought of strategic elements I wanted to share — if unsure, play the middle or corners, not the sides; run back quickly to tag your teammate — but kept them to myself, unsure how to make them land. I didn’t want to come off as the pushy, out-for-victory teammate.

The game restarted. Their team came out on a tear. They won three of the next four points, and ultimately took the match 11-9.

All game I mused to myself: What had he said? They started to coordinate so well. What strategies did he share? How did he inspire them to listen to his suggestions without coming off as pushy?

THE REVELATION

At lunch, I asked him. I complimented him on his success, then I asked what he had said.

“Oh, that? Some of our team didn’t understand the game. I just explained the rules.”

There’s a Polish expression I enjoy that translates to “Not my circus, not my monkeys”.

Unfortunately, this is my circus.

And unfortunately, it is not populated with monkeys.

Clown School Day 16: Crying Beautifully

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In which Our Hero is the Major

It’s nice to be celebrated for crying.

The exercise is simple: receive the ball from your friend → thank your friend → declare with the vigor of a leading actor, “[Loved one], look at me: I’m the major!”

Most people fail for being too small: instantly kicked off, banished forever, like too-polite ghosts. In the summer course, I had been one of those, kicked off after one word.

Not wanting to befall this fate, I powered hard in the other direction.

After receiving the ball and thanking my friend, I turned to the audience, pulled out all the stops, and loosed a booming “YAYAAAAA!!!”

Students flinched in fear.

Head Teacher provided me lines to repeat back:

  • “I’m sorry, Yaya, for frightening you with my shouting.”

Then, Head Teacher dialed me in:

  • Softer
  • More open
  • Gentler
  • Less pushing
  • More subtle

When I had all the mechanics correct but was still missing joie de vivre, Head Teacher asked me who in the class I would want to kiss me. I chose a girl in the front row. Head Teacher asked, “Do you want another?” I said no, one is enough.

Then, whenever I spoke the text with all the mechanics correct but insufficient relaxed openness, Head Teacher signaled this classmate to kiss me on the neck. Later, classmates told me the kiss had opened me up: It stopped me from pushing so hard. I was, perhaps, trying to be liked. If I just sit back and show people who I am, it turns out they find me beautiful.

Eventually, as I opened up, tears began to fall. Not just mine. I saw tears in at least one audience member’s eyes.

What is this releasing? Is it a sadness or a joy or a wonder or a beauty? Is it the physical manifestation of pain being shared?

It reminded me of two events:

  • One, crying in my parents’ shower seven years ago. I had just ended the most significant relationship of my life and was scouring my gut with steel wool, knocking off barnacles attached from that pain.
  • Two, at Burning Man around that same time. Watching the Temple burn, I mourned the end of that relationship and grieved the pain it had caused me.

The first happened in private. The second happened in public. And bawling at Burning Man, surrounded by fifty thousand people, the funniest thing happened:

Everybody kept trying to help. Some offered a tissue; others provided a shushing noise. Well-meaning people, but they were soothing their own discomfort, not mine. Mine wasn’t discomfort. Mine was comfort for the first time in a decade. My tears were the powerful release of pain. And others, in wanting to help, tried to pull me back into their pool of internalized pain.

I’ve had a philosophy since that experience: people who are grieving should be allowed to lead. Sit with them; offer them your kind presence; maybe a hand to hold if they want to. But let them lead. Even that hand-holding is more likely to be top-down controlling than actually helpful and kind. Let them take care of themselves. You are there to serve.

Here, on stage, it was nice to finally be rewarded for my raw, open emotion. To show that rawness and have it accepted. Not just any rawness: it had to be loving (directed at Yaya) and relaxedly pleasurable (from the kiss). But still, a context in which to share my experience. To share my feelings. To share my pain.

If you have deep pain, we’ll accept that here — so long as you offer it as a light, open gift.

Four minutes on stage. One of three people who cried during the exercise. Described as a “breakthrough” by a fellow student.

It’s intoxicating.

Satisfying.

Nice to be alive.

And delightful

to be celebrated

for being myself.

—

Yaya, today, I was the major.

Clown School Weekend 3.2: This Place is Run by Clowns

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In which Our Hero concludes that brilliance is no match for a red nose.

About once every other day, someone at clown school does something spectacularly disorganized. I sigh and say, “This place is run by clowns.”

And it is.

—

Clowns are not, by their nature, particularly intelligent.

It’s not that they’re stupid.

It’s that intelligence and clowning live on different axes.

An intelligent person may learn the craft faster. But the desire to clown, the joy of it, might even be anti-correlated with intelligence.

Smart people tend to want control. Clowns surrender it.

Smart people tend to want power. Clowns seek to be laughed at.

And yet, in my March course, three of the 30 Americans were Yale graduates.

Plus a single from Stanford.

Just enough prestige to make the chaos feel ironic.

Of course, it helps to be rich enough to spend a year falling on your face.

Still, it’s a funny sight I observed in Thursday’s class:

eight clowns silently arranging themselves in order of intelligence.

The clown they insisted should be at the bottom later thought this was hilarious as he has a master’s degree.

—

Clowning is a craft.

Most work is a craft.

Hell, even medicine is a craft.

And mastery in a craft depends less on general intelligence than on dedication —

and on cultivating the right skills: openness, affability, lightness.

—

This is the first social hierarchy I’ve been in where people organize by skill in a single, very specific craft.

In college, you could be successful at any number of things — academics, theater, sports, journalism.

In elementary school, the options were fewer but still broad: maybe good at math, worse at English, class clown, or owned the good video games.

Here, clowns arrange by everyday charisma.

And charisma in life is decently correlated with charisma on stage.

Add to that: we’re learning charisma.

And the social life becomes pretty interesting.

It’s like a schoolyard where the only question is: how fun are you at play?

Clown School Weekend 3.1: Simple Precision

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In which Our Hero consumes a couple clowns

Last night I watched two excellent clowns on YouTube.

The first attempted to climb a staircase: first with one foot, then two, then using a harpoon as a pole vault, then trying a taller staircase. Always slipping backward, performing a kind of “moon-crawl,” moving backward while pretending to move forward.

The second performed built visual jokes around pop songs: a blend of clown, prop comedy, and puppetry.

Both chose a single simple game, then repeated it in increasingly heightened variations. With tight physical control, that was enough.

Stand-ups need new jokes to stay fresh. Musicians can live forever off one hit.

Clowns might belong to that latter category — one beautiful idiocy, endlessly re-played. Not note-for-note as a musician would, but a single comedic insight will take you far.

That said, if your art requires physical presence, your reach is finite.

Clown School Day 15: The Honest Audience

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In which Our Hero is too tired to pretend.

One nice part about clowning is that the audience is honest.

By some biological necessity, they can’t fake it.

If the player is light, open, with pleasure — they’ll laugh.

Even if they’d hate you in real life, they’ll like you on stage.

That’s a comfort for those of us who don’t easily make friends:

who click with one in every thousand people we meet,

one in a hundred even here at clown school.

My second goal here is to make friends.

My first — learning the craft — is easier.

It has less randomness.

A good clown should be able to open themselves

and bring pleasure regardless of who’s watching.

That’s what makes it challenging.

That’s what makes it a job.

At the start of sophomore year of high school, I realized I had no friends.

Uncoincidentally, around the same time, I began to find women attractive and desirable.

I reasoned that I could either change the world or change myself.

Changing the world to fit one’s taste is the path of a supervillain

(and takes far more energy),

so I decided to learn how to be a friend.

If you try to be funny, you’ll never be funny.

If you try to be a friend, you’ll never be a friend.

Instead, to clown, you simply have to open yourself:

be kind, generous, caring.

The same is perhaps true

for friendship itself.

But what if you open yourself and discover you’re… kind of a jerk?

“Open” seems to increase attention paid to you. Charisma, one could say.

The others are the ones that keep them coming back for more.

When I’m sick, I hate everything.

My body hurts, my brain shuts down,

and I want to crawl inside the dark and stay there.

And yet, something happens on stage.

The power of giving,

the act of offering pleasure to the audience,

somehow overcomes the weakness of the flesh.

Bam! Pow! Beauty.

So now, I feel lonely, surrounded by clowns.

I’ll probably feel better in a few days,

with zinc and tea.

And then…

who knows.

Who knows.

Who knows.

If you don’t like yourself,

how can you let others love you?

Clown School Day 14: Some Days Ya Don’t Got It

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In which Our Hero fails honestly.

That’s three days in a row I’ve wanted to skip clown school.

And three days I’ve gone anyway.

Three days of long, heavy sleep:

11 hours, 9 hours, nearly 10 last night.

Three mornings waking early, wishing I could stay in bed forever.

What’s up with that?

I’m tired in a way that’s not physical.

It’s the exhaustion that comes from being seen — again and again — and still not finding what works.

The ache of caring too much about doing well, and not quite getting there.

Maybe it’s just the part of me that resists growth.

The part that wants to avoid the flop.

The part that whispers: stay safe, stay small.

But the show goes on.

So I go too.

In which two pairs of clowns succeed

I have a hypothesis about clowning: there are only two good moves.

The first is doing something good.

The second is doing something bad, and admitting it.

The second is just a version of the first: both are open, honest sharings of self.

Maybe that’s what makes someone funny: the willingness to be seen, and to be laughed at.

Open, but not grasping. Honest, but not pleading.

Just human: the funny little wriggly worm that we are.

Today, I failed.

I got exactly one reasonable-sized laugh, when I shrugged and said, “Some days ya don’t got it”.

It was the opposite of calculated, and therefore perfect.

My scene partner, though, was charming. I’m not good at charming a crowd.

One person, sure: I find what they care about and give them that.

But a crowd? That feels like crafting myself into someone they’ll love…

and that’s never been my thing.

Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to bouffon: the grotesque outcast who refuses charm, making you laugh by breaking the mold.

I don’t know how to play “charming” without feeling false.

Tall, handsome, strong, masculine — all that bland, moral ideal.

Heroes just seem so… plain.

My favorite sex-work writer once said something like, “When I do the girlfriend experience, I just give guys all the parts of a date they want, and none of the parts they don’t.”

It’s the same trick as charm: shave off the edges until only the pleasant remains.

The two American clowns who are alumni from this school that I’ve seen succeed are masters of the flop (one linked here).

They do things that don’t work, then admit it, again and again.

It’s delightful. Comic. But not powerful.

The most successful recent student, though — a Norwegian — is the opposite:

he does good things, and they work.

Maybe that’s cultural.

Maybe Americans prefer the flop because it’s relatable.

Maybe our comedy is just collective self-recognition in failure.

That’s probably why I’d rather play the fool, or the villain, than the flawless hero.

Today, two pairs performed brilliantly.

One was a seasoned clown with a German partner.

The clown failed, over and over, and acknowledged it.

The German played strong, stalwart, beautiful.

We laughed at one, cheered for the other.

Together they danced between laughter and awe:

Comic and Beauty, alternating in rhythm.

After five minutes, our teacher smiled and said, “Thank you for sharing your joy.”

I wondered how long the German had been performing — possibly decades.

And the seasoned clown has ten years under his belt, with awards to show for it.

I was glad to see them.

It helped to see the two paths clearly:

the clown who fails and admits it,

and the one who succeeds by doing good things.

Maybe both are forms of giving.

Maybe both are beautiful.

Maybe the German’s beauty wasn’t in his poise,

but in his openness — his unpushed caring,

his gentle invitation:

“I’m here. This is me. Go ahead: laugh at me.”