Tag: Clown School

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 Day 13: Who’s The Laugh For?

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In which Our Hero learns to give himself away.

Is giving giving?

We created a mob on stage. One leader, fifteen followers. The leader was in Major: loud, powerful, commanding, tall. The followers were in Minor: following along with the Major’s game.

The leader’s task: move for the group. Then, if successful, speak for the group.

Here’s the kicker:

We — the audience — could easily see when the leader was playing for others and when they were playing for themselves. Too delighted by your own words? Too much for yourself. Too fast, too slow, too complicated, too boring? All of it = no good.

It was fucking cool.

It wasn’t just obvious when a leader played for themselves: we could even separate which parts they did for themselves. Some moved for themselves but spoke for the group. Others spoke for themselves but moved for the group.

Me? I moved for the group until I started speaking. Then I spoke for the group but failed to move for them.

The magnetism of a Major doing for others was inescapable. It drew us in — as the audience — as though they were playing for us, too.

I keep wondering what “giving” really is. Is it enough that someone is giving to someone? Or must they somehow give to each person? The latter seems impossible: no one can give individually to a 3,000-person crowd. But you can give, and keep giving, and keep giving…

—

I thought about that today when I found myself in a spat with a friend. They argued — accurately — that I’d been laughing for myself, not for them. And they found that objectionable.

At a minimum, they were fair (jury’s still out on them being right ;). Maybe I’ve found too few people laughing for me, so I learned to laugh for myself. Whatever the reason, it’s unhelpful — on stage and in friendship alike.

That’s why I’m here at clown school:

because I’m a guarded, frightened, closed, selfish, winning-focused person

trying to open up.

—

It’s hard to give and share and open and keep giving in this ever-present openness.

First-year classes are often “weeder” classes — designed to weed out those who aren’t a fit. In college, I lasted one day in Theater 101 before switching to philosophy. Theater 101 was dry history; philosophy had rigor and use.

I wonder if theater students who truly love it endure that drudgery because they care so much about reaching the next level — the acting classes, the real thing.

Here, too, I’m pushing through the bullshit, the trials, the endless tests: chasing skill.

The teachers keep throwing more at you, more and more, just to see who will break.

Those who break aren’t meant to be clowns.

And maybe I’m not meant to be one either.

So I’ll grab what I can from this pressure cooker,

gather the small diamonds I find,

and fuse them with other gold I’ve picked up along the way,

to form

my own

crown of jewels.

Clown School Day 11: The Joy of Gibberish

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In which Our Hero finally speaks his native tongue

I did it! I clowned! Wahoo!!! !!!! !!!!

Here’s the sitch:

Our head teacher asks for five people who don’t speak Chinese. I step forward. She plays a Chinese song and we’re told to mime along. Then she turns down the music and says: keep going. Continue the song, in this language we do not speak.

I have been preparing for this my whole life.

I’ve always loved imitating sounds. Not faces, not gestures, sounds. The cadence of languages, sirens, shower water hitting my rubber duck. It’s always been a private delight.

Today I let it out. I imitated the music of a language I don’t know, and loved it. The audience loved it too.

It gets better.

On Friday I asked our teacher how to tell when something works. She said: you have to look at the audience and see.

I already knew that, but I needed to hear it from her.

So today I looked. I saw the joy light up their faces. One woman — the same who’d argued with me on Thursday — beamed with glee. My roommate was glowing, proud to see me not only succeed but to know I was succeeding.

And so I kept playing. Kept singing. Kept sharing that joy.

Good news: I have a skill people love.

Bad news: in America, this skill is considered offensive.

Five years ago at a rodeo in Wyoming, I was doing a southern accent for fun. My travel partner told me it was unacceptable. She thought I was mocking. Maybe she was right; maybe she wasn’t. Either way, I stopped.

Now, at last, I’ve found a place where the same instinct — my delight in sound and voices — brings laughter and connection instead of tension and fear.

Sometimes I wander around the house doing silly voices. Usually, people shut this down. But in clown, it’s beautiful.

Or maybe it’s always been beautiful, I just need the right place to perform.

🤡

[My travel buddy of the last two years would like to add this note about me: “I’ve also noticed when traveling that you [Julian] pick up the accent and speech pattern of folks you chat with. I often worry that folks will find it offensive, but, tbh, I think they don’t usually notice and seem to like it.”]

Clown School Day 10: How to Win by Losing

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In which Our Hero finally beats himself

I loved it when a classmate called me a douche. It raised a key question: Am I a douche?

To that, I had to answer yes. Because anyone who steamrolls friends at silly games is a douche. And I’d been playing silly games to win, despite frequently being much better than others.

A knight without chivalry is a douche. An assassin without honor is a douche. The powerful, when they flex on the powerless, are acting like a douche.

(He said this after I grabbed a ball he was juggling. Not a big deal. Still, a douche.)

I wrote in my notebook: Stop always playing to win. Try playing to play.

Then we started wall ball.

Wall ball is simple: hit the ball, it hits the wall, bounces once, next player hits. Compared to my group, I’m very skilled at wall ball. Last time I won the tournament (ahem, ladies 😉)

This time, I decided to try play. My game:

  1. Don’t die.
  2. Give the next player the easiest possible hit.

Using this approach, I eliminated only one person (on a challenging shot where a gentle hit might have put myself at risk). Still, I reached the finals.

At the finals, a question arose: keep playing my game, or now play to win?

I chose my game. Either he’d win, or he’d beat himself.

First to three wins.

He won the first point.

He mis-hits. All tied up.

I thunked one off the side.

He botched another.

Two-two. Next point wins.

He fired a zinger to the corner: unreturnable. He wins.

The crowd went wild.

Everyone loves seeing David beat Goliath.

I cheered too. It felt better than winning the tournament. That had been awkward. This was joy. I led the chant: “Speech! Speech! Speech!”

The victor obliged.

I don’t think I’ve ever thrown a game before. This didn’t feel like throwing. It felt like optimizing for something bigger.

I didn’t lose. I won at a bigger game.

Sometimes the point of the game is play.

In theater, the point of the game is the play.

—

Later, our class watched another student play a game on stage with the same man I’d met in the finals.

The student was far more skilled. My teacher said:

“When you play with someone much worse than you, you must have good humor.”

That’s why I’m here.

To learn good humor.

Clown School Day 8: Nice, Simple, Social

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In which Our Hero makes a friend!

Once in a blue moon, you meet a person who feels like someone you’ve known your whole life. In my case, today’s was a trans, autistic, lesbian philosopher with eerily similar experiences to my own. Dinner started at 7 p.m. and ended at 11:30, including a long, leisurely walk around the park.

My goals at clown school are threefold:

  1. Learn the practicalities of clowning
  2. Learn the theory of clowning
  3. Make friends I’d like to spend time with after clown school

It’s nice to move forward on #3.

Notes from clown school today:

  • Blindfolded ball pickup: Walk toward a ball with eyes closed, then pick it up. The key is counting the right number of paces, then walking normally even when, near the end, excitement floods in.
  • Chair swap game: Don’t let others rattle you. Don’t move until you have agreement.
  • One structure of game: One vs. Group. A bunch of people beating up on one idiot (à la Monkey in the Middle). Perhaps funniest when all are idiots.
  • Some people are more confident than they are right. One classmate especially.
  • Idiots trying very hard at something they’re terrible at → very funny.
  • Smart people tease each other; idiots conspire.
  • Regardless of external intensity or internal emotional intense, I must still speak in a BIG, BOOMING VOICE.
  • Idiots playing smart games → lots of apologizing.
  • A conspiring group mirrors fighting over limited resources; one-on-one intellectual duels mirror fighting for extraneous desires or abstract pleasures like honor.
  • Teaching hunch: if someone ends on a mistake, they dwell on it, therefore learning faster.
  • When the major/minor switches → fixed point.
  • A “miser for pleasure” hoards joy inside instead of sharing it.
  • Loud creates an impulse. The important part is the impulse.

Clown School Day 5: The First Presentation

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In which Our Hero learns that punctuality is for mimes

Monday after class, every student except one gathered outside the studio to form teams. That one was me. I was off to buy sushi. A grave mistake.

Earlier that day, we had received our first presentation assignment. “In groups of 5, show us or teach us a game”.

On Tuesday, my default group (as it was the only group missing a fifth) suggested we assemble after class. I have a meeting after school every day, so I vetoed this idea. We scheduled instead to meet at 9:15 the following morning.

On Wednesday, four of us assembled at 9:15am. The last arrived at 9:20, at which point one of us agreed to babysit a small child until 9:25, which became 9:30.

On Thursday, one of us forgot we had a 9:15 rehearsal. He arrived at 9:25.

On Friday, one of us texted saying she would be 10 minutes late. She was actually 17 minutes late.

This place is full of clowns.

—

For our presentation, we played a game.

On one side, a large bird of prey screeched his desire to eat tiny chickens.

On the other, a mama bird defended her children.

We were light, airy, generous, friendly, open, and with impulse. And then, if we succeeded, we had to add text atop the game. It’s very easy for text to kill the game. But we care not for text. We care for impulse and complicité and game.

My group was the first to succeed.

It feels good. I’m excited for more!

—

Comments from this week:

  • “I’m afraid to shout because it makes me cry” — a student
  • “Your arms are floppy like you smoke hashish” — a teacher
  • “Did you have nazis in your family?” — a teacher, upon learning one of our students is German
  • “You speak in a toilet voice” — a teacher
  • “I think you’re funny for the wrong reasons”. —my roommate, about me

Clown School Day 4: Impulse

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In which Our Hero finally does something right

Impulse is not a Sunday afternoon jog; impulse is race day, the gunshot ringing in your ears.

Oftentimes, a theater player starts with strong, vibrant impulse… and then that impulse drops to the floor.

Instead, bring the impulse out to the audience. Up to the sky, sometimes. Never to the floor.

We played a game today where students were caught by their fellows (in a trust-fall sort of way), then launched forward and back across the room, like boxers bouncing off the ropes. The impulse of being thrust forward is unmistakable. The challenge: you must then take the impulse with you as you run, careening to the other side with vibrancy and vigor. Do not confuse impulse with speed. A snail crossing the road can embody more impulse than a hollow-eyed sprinter at 10,000 times the pace.

Now, add text atop the impulse. When you speak Shakespeare, are the words flat? Do they sound like some archetypical Shakespearean Actor, or do they erupt FROM YOUR VERY SOUL???

Impulse is that soul expression. It’s a small green twig poking out through cracked concrete. A baby bird pushed from the nest: now falling, fly or die. Can it use its vigor to propel itself forward? A person on soporific drugs, sapped of their vitality: they lack impulse, which is perhaps why seeing them is such an emotional pain. It reminds us of the lifeless state to which we will one day return.

I felt, today, the vigor of impulse. To land my words on top of this impulse like a pebble skipping across the pond. If each word you say comes with VIGOR, with REALITY, with EXISTENCE, being ENOUGH AS ITSELF,

the ripples will cascade farther than the pebble ever could. Impulse is where creation comes from. And creation is everything.

—

I was told today my impulse was good. My voice was good (Our teacher: ”We will not need hearing aids”). My fixed point was good. I remembered the game. As close to a compliment as one receives at this school: I received the lessons and demonstrated them today.

Impulse isn’t mere theory. The day after my breakup, I applied to clown school. That’s impulse. Nurture it. Follow it. Help it grow.

Now, at clown school from October through June, the goal will be: keep the impulse alive. Stoke it. Add fuel as it requires. Harness it when it becomes too spastic. Power forward with the impulse. Even through each fixed point.

Of course the impulse powers through fixed point. You can stop the body, but never The Game.