Tag: Clowning

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

Clown School Break Day 6: What Does the _____ Say?

JulianLeave a comment

In which our hero echoes (echoes, echoes, echoes).

Apparently I’m good at vocal impressions.

That’s cool.

That’s fun.

I’ve been doing them for years.

The first one I ever mastered was my cousin Lawrence, who speaks like a college-professor walrus with an abiding love of donuts. A classic.

Then, at some point, people told me that doing other people’s voices was rude.

And then recently, a travel buddy pointed out that I unconsciously slip into people’s accents when I talk to them. It’s not intentional—I just mirror their sound.

It’s nice to realize I have an actual skill.

And that my joy leaks through in the process.

Fittingly, the first thing I did well in clown school was an impression: I imitated the sound of someone singing in Japanese. The room laughed. The teacher approved. It worked.

America is too uptight about accents.

Doing impressions isn’t inherently offensive.

Relax.

—

Completely unrelated: I feel noticeably worse when I eat carbs—less emotionally present, more buzzy and numb.

I think diet will have an impact on my clowning.

Says a friend: “Maybe the challenge is to feel present and emotionally in tune regardless of what you’ve eaten or how you’ve slept or whatever”

And that’s fair.

But also, isn’t one generally better at life when one is living aligned with what one wants?

Clown School Break Day 4: Return of the G

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In which Our Hero gets his groove back. 

Friend: “We’re looking for ladyfingers”
Grocery store employee: “What are those?”
Me: “They’re like chicken fingers but made out of women.”
Employee: “I can’t stand men, but that’s a good one.”

A friend told me I’m funnier now than before clown school—that I tell jokes for other people more than I used to.

That’s nice.

I do feel myself joining other people’s worlds more readily. It feels more comfortable, somehow safer. Like I’m less afraid of being hurt by them. Like I’ve internalized the fact that the pain of rejection is both temporary and unreal. 

And I am still unquestionably afraid. But the fear is now useful. It’s a companion. A friend. I just need to embrace it, befriend it, and place it properly so it doesn’t own me.

At dinner, my dad asked me to do an impression I’ve done before: one of the teachers from my Le Jeu course this summer. I did it, and it was fun. The fact that sharing pleasure is more important than the impression’s accuracy put me at ease. Historically, I’ve refused in spots like this. Maybe because doing someone else’s game felt uncomfortable. But why? Who cares? Might as well give pleasure. Spread joy. 

I was more open and comfortable and relaxed in general.

And noticing the spots when I wasn’t. And releasing them. 

These are nice.

Thanks, clown school. 

Clown School Break Day 3: Asked to Leave Clown School (Kind Of)

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In which Our Hero exits and rizz returns. 

Clown School

I was asked to leave clown school.
While true, that’s… misleading.

The teachers said, “Given your foot injury and inability to walk, we recommend you get a refund and do the course later. But it’s your choice.” Then I chose to step away.

Still: it’s funny to have been asked to leave clown school.

What’s also funny is how much easier it is to connect with people now than it was 48 hours ago.

Rizz has returned. The joy is back.

Being playful with your average person—my former orthodontist, the woman at the deli counter—is somehow much easier than being playful on that stage. Why?

  • Because it’s an American cultural context I actually understand?
  • Because the stakes are lower? (No audience, no judges, no clowns.)
  • Because the people I meet day-to-day have normal expectations instead of self-selected charisma-sniper standards?
  • Because in the real world I’m not comparing myself to self-obsessed entertainment-optimizers? 

Either way, I have more rizz. And I enjoy it more. #RizzOut

Orthopedics, Act II

Second orthopedist today. Foot is still fractured. Maybe I could clown. But not with vigor.

No running or jumping for at least six weeks.

Still, relief.

The X-ray technician asked how I hurt it. I said “clown school.”
I said Borat went there.
He likes Borat.
He therefore understood what I mean by “clown”.

The nurse practitioner confirmed: full fracture. No impact activities for weeks. Healing should happen. I can return to clowning soon-ish.

Until then, I seek rest and rejuvenation. And a healed metatarsal. 

However much grow-y that school was… it wasn’t comfortable.

Somehow, a broken foot feels like less pain. 

Performers and Introverts

How many clowns are introverts? How many performers?
People who love to be loved, but aren’t naturally social otherwise.

Eddie Murphy comes to mind. I watched his new Netflix documentary yesterday. He’s a performer; an analyzer of entertainment; but not exactly a social butterfly. Offstage, subdued. Self-contained. Kate McKinnon as well. 

It’s surprising how many wildly successful performers are like that. As if they (we?) get the social nutrition required for survival from adulation, not connection. And then tend to ourselves in private. 

An interesting observation. What would I do with it?
Embrace my inner introvert?
On stage, perform? Off-stage, do bits as protection to avoid the normal boringness of average interaction? 

If that’s my fun, why not follow? 

Clown School Break Day 2: The Lost Game (¿and Found?)

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In which Our Hero muses on clown/creative culture

I forgot the game.

The game is simple:

Give. Them. Pleasure.

No more.

No less.

You choose your pathway.

Jim Carrey: freedom from worry.

Eddie Murphy: deep, unshakable, cool self-love.

Steve Martin: “isn’t this ridiculous?”

Sacha Baron Cohen: “behold, the bouffon.”

Somewhere along the way,

I forgot the game.

A friend who once worked at Cirque told me my struggles aren’t moral or personal—

they’re cultural.

Theater-people culture has its own rules:

Smile and support, regardless of whether you actually like someone.

If you stab, you stab from behind—

and always with a smile.

Offer yourself to help, as a kind and generous act…

but only when it gives you more stage time.

Plans aren’t plans, either.

You don’t schedule someone—

you slide casually into their life.

Explicit agreement is too intense; the dance is in the implication.

A calendar invite for 4:30 doesn’t mean 4:30.

It means the text that comes later saying it’s now 5:30.

And the day-of update pushing it to 6.

(People actually show up at 6:20).

These aren’t gripes.

This is just culture.

In New York, people book three weeks out.

In L.A., you confirm the night before, the morning of, the hour before…

and still they might not show.

But in my current hyper-literal, emotionally-flooded state,

I couldn’t adapt to the culture

and so I lost sight of the game.

And the game is all they ever wanted:

Play

Pleasure.

Freedom from pain.

Excitement.

Delight.

Whatever I can give that gives them pleasure—

that is the work.

If you’re not playing the game,

there’s no need to play.

But if you are playing the game—

then play.

I didn’t come here for the meta.

I came to play the game of clowning.

To learn it.

And clowning,

I will learn.

And clowning,

I will play.

Clown School Break Day 1: The Flickering Light

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In which Our Hero contemplates steadiness.

My roommate and I carpooled to Paris today. En route, we discussed improv and clowning. Some students at our school want to be clowns. Others want to be actors or performers of a different stripe.

This school teaches pleasure-finding and pleasure-sharing. That’s it. Everything else is downstream.

Lately, I’ve had much less ability to share pleasure. Since around July, something’s been off. It’s not that I’m more self-conscious (I’m not). It’s not that I feel less pleasure (I don’t). It’s that my ability to give it—my pleasure-sharing skill—has dipped from where it recently was.

At an alumni gathering for my university, people asked what I do. I told them I’m in clown school. They asked what I plan to do with it. I had simple, light conversations. Most of it felt uninteresting. Like I had no ability to use the skills I had just learned to find and share pleasure. 

Why was it so hard? Where does this difficulty come from?

One: a cough. I’ve been sick the last few days.

Two: a fractured foot. Not exactly peak performance mode.

¿Three: the weird-ass mental state this school induces?

¿Four: just not doing this thing well? 

Five: [redacted, personal]

—

Last night, I went to a cabaret, watched friends perform, and talked with them afterward. We discussed clowning and performance. We connected easily. Pleasantly. Full of spark. Despite having trouble with this the last few weeks. With the same people, no less. 

Why does this turn on and off without my permission? This ability to connect with others—to care, to be curious, to find pleasure and give it back?

It’s odd.

It feels, currently, out of my control.

I guess that’s why I’m studying it. To gain control of giving light.

Clown School Day 35: Time for Me to Fly

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When Our Hero closes a door, He opens a window.

All three teachers agree: I should not attend the second half of this course.

That’s nice.

I wasn’t enjoying Neutral Mask. I wasn’t looking forward to Greek Tragedy. Friends have commented worries about my emotional health and about whether the school’s pedagogy implements brainwashing tactics. Perhaps it will be nice to have time off.

One of the main teachers says I analyze too much. Instead of analyzing, they say, I should “sit in the feedback.”

I’m not so sure.

When I sit in feedback, I misread it. When they told me my costume looked like “vomited broccoli,” I thought they were literally insulting the outfit. A friend later suggested it was meant to get under my skin — a non-literal pedagogical tactic.

But how am I supposed to incorporate something non-literal without analyzing it?

If literal doesn’t mean literal, then…?

And anyway, who wants to sit in vomit?

—

The head teacher asked me a question today. I wasn’t performing on account of my fractured foot, so another student took my slot. She looked at me and asked:

“Was your replacement excellent, or could you have done better?”

I said, “I don’t want to answer.”

The class booed.

I felt confused.

I asked her to repeat the question. She did. I said, “I don’t think it was excellent, but I don’t think I could have done better.” Then I named two specific weak points in the scene.

She said, “It’s good to know your level.”

And I agree. I wasn’t being self-pitying or self-judging — just honest about where I’m currently at.

I’ve had trouble with complexity here. A few days ago, we had three mistakes to resolve, and when I chose one hug, one kiss, and one Swedish handshake, I sensed tension as though people thought I was trying to be unnecessarily cute. And that’s literally 1+1+1=3. Complexity seems to be frowned upon. So what do I do when I’m tasked with following the fun, and sometimes find complexity fun?

At coffee today, a classmate realized Los Angeles is on the west coast rather than the east, and mentioned she formerly thought Africa was the world’s biggest country. She’s also had much more success than I have in recent class sessions.

Maybe I’m expecting something different from these clowns than they have to give. I’ve watched people forget a promise five minutes after making it. I’ve watched them make complete 180s in real time. Perhaps an excellent clown is so right-brained they exist only in the present moment.

Regardless, they’re great clowns.

I’m gonna miss them. 🤡

—

I’m excited to have some time away.

In January, a friend arrives to the school. That’ll be nice. We’ll take a course together. Probably live together. It’s good to bring a friend. 😀

I asked the assistant about switching classes; she said it’d be good for them administratively. So I might as well try it for one course: Melodrama. After that comes Bouffon, then Vaudeville. A change of pace. And if it’s still rough, I’ll know it’s not the section.

As for the newsletter: I was supposed to be on winter break from clown school for six weeks (Dec 13–Jan 25). Now it’s nine weeks. I’ll continue writing daily for two reasons:

  1. It keeps me fresh.
  2. It’s the sort of person I like being.

​​Clown School Day 32: Fear & Loathing

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In which Our Hero gently invites his classmates to find pleasure in their fear.

[I wrote this earlier today, before a long and insightful conversation with my roommate. By the vacillations of clown school, I’m not sure how much I still endorse or will endorse tomorrow. How’s that for a cop-out? 🤡]

Another shit day at clown school. I should frighten other students more.

Listen:

Earlier today we were playing dodgeball. Someone on the opposing team had the ball and motioned toward me. I ran away, bumped into a teammate, and she let out a startled little yelp, plus an admonishment along the lines of “come on guys, it’s a game.”

Later in that same match, I leapt to grab a ball, robbing the opposing team of a catch, like stealing a home run but dodgeball-style. A player said, “Chill out.” The first person would probably call themselves unathletic. The second, not very competitive.

Okay.

Sure.

What of it?

Sidebar: clown school is populated far more by theatre nerds than athletes. I’m probably the best all-around athlete in my class—not the strongest or tallest, just the one with the most hunger to win and the actual ability to put that into reality. So why is it not showing up?

After her yelp, I shrank back. I became smaller, gentler, duller. I had less fun.

But realistically? A little bump between teammates in dodgeball is not a big deal. No one fell. No one got hurt. It was a collision between two moving bodies in a game whose entire premise is hurling projectiles at each other. 

The recent American neurosis of “don’t cause anyone fear ever” does not help me here. Hurting people would be bad. Frightening them? Not inherently. If two people bump into each other while playing dodgeball, the appropriate move is some sort of affectionate “eh, no worries love”. 

But I’ve been avoiding frightening people. And it’s getting in the way of my clowning.

The first time I truly succeeded on stage was when I FINALLY LET LOOSE. A demon burst out of my sternum and shat poop-colored rainbows across the stage.

The teacher told me to tone it down, apologize, and bring the same energy with more sensitivity.

The second time I started from a light, airy emotional place: gentle by nature, and the power followed.

Today the feedback is that I lack impulse. And the truth is: I felt it. In the afternoon class, I wasn’t powering with impulse at all. I was stuck in my head, nitpicking the pedagogy (correctly, but uselessly). I couldn’t find pleasure in anything.

I hate being in this oscillation space.

My roommate disagrees with my whole “frighten them more” instinct.
He thinks I’m conflating playing intensely with playing to win (and that playing to win will necessarily not maximize group pleasure).
He says I lack a lightness—a tiny joke kept in the back of my mind.

And maybe he’s right. On stage today, I lost the game. I forgot the game.
I played it well for a few minutes. Then I forgot it.

Never forget the game.

Look.

When I do have impulse, people get scared. That’s the truth. I’m intense. When I try to win at dodgeball, people get quiet and the light, floaty vibe evaporates. Today I had the ball, and an opponent squared up. I pump-faked twice. Then I whammed him.

During that exchange, the room went silent. The airy part of the game vanished.

Did it become another kind of fun?

Is it not fun to watch two gladiators square off? To see combatants toy with another in a spirit of agreed-upon play? Isn’t that a form of respect—acknowledging we both have power and we’re choosing to use it?

Maybe the audience wasn’t laughing. Maybe they were leaning in. I don’t know. Maybe I’m justifying. 

Maybe I should scale it: go hard against the skilled players, soften against the less-skilled. A consent-based approach to dodgeball. (Unless I’m the last one alive. Then it’s win, win, win.)

I don’t know whether it was pleasant to watch me whang that guy. I imagine it was.

I’m six feet tall, bearded, and frequently voracious. Of course people are scared of me. Underneath any coverings I add (silliness, friendliness, gentleness), they may always feel some amount of fear. 

But maybe their fear isn’t a reason for me to shrink.

Maybe their fear is something they get to deal with.

Because otherwise, I become small and boring. I lose my impulse. And that is absolutely not fun for me.

Fear without safety is fear. Fear with safety is exhilaration.

I guess I need to give people that safety.

To clearly show this is a joke.
This whole thing is silly.
Show them in a way that’s obvious to them: I’m not taking myself too seriously: the thing I’m doing is a joke.
And that way, when you fear me, you also feel safe around me.
And that way, even though you fear me; even though you respect me and my intensity, you love me.

Would you rather I be too much or too little?

Right now, at school, too much. They can work with too much. Too little just gets kicked off. 

In general: Dumb question. 

Nurture the fun.

Clown School Day 31: Absolution & Airflow

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In which Our Hero sleeps, sins, and seeks salvation.

At the end of this week, I’m a quarter of the way through this program. That’s wild. Three times as much left as what I’ve already done. No wonder it feels like I’ve lived six different emotional lifetimes.

I told my sister today about our daily Simon Says game. It’s brilliantly constructed. It’s also deranged.

Here’s how it works: when you make a mistake, you must seek absolution. You get to choose your method of redemption. The menu: 

  • Hug
  • Kiss
  • Swedish handshake
  • Nothing
  • Or… torture

If you choose “nothing,” nothing happens. If you choose “torture,” one of the teachers (or a friend, if you prefer) faux-tortures you in front of the class. If you choose one of the other options, you turn to a peer and ask, “Can I have a [hug/kiss/handshake]?”

If they say “yes,” you receive absolution.

If they say anything else—literally anything: “yep” is interpreted as “go to hell”—you get tortured.

My sister was horrified. Honestly, same. The first time we played, I felt like I’d accidentally joined a cult that prioritizes whimsy over human rights. And yet…it works. The faux-torture weirdly brings us together. There’s something intimate about placing your fate in someone else’s hands and trusting they’ll either help you or throw you to the wolves. (And, sometimes we just choose the torture directly: our Assistant Teacher is an exquisite tickler.)

My sister asked why people don’t always say “yes.”
Partially because we’re learning how to ask and receive asks well. So if you ask poorly (not loud enough; emotionally closed; selfish), your odds plummet.
And partially because, well, that’s the game.

—

Last night, for the first time in ages, I slept well. Deeply. My room traps CO₂, so I’ve been sleeping poorly. Last night I cracked open both the window and the shutters. Oxygen: acquired. Primitive problem, elegant solution.

I don’t have much to write about today. My energy feels softer, steadier.

One woman in class has been struggling to find a lower, more powerful voice. Our assistant teacher stood behind her and performed a kind of gentle, low Heimlich maneuver while she screamed “FUCK YOU, [Head Teacher]!” at full volume. It helped. Theatre is strange medicine.

We also explored two new “substances”: oil/petrol/gasoline and superglue. I’m tired of this exercise. Some classmates love it; I don’t. Maybe that’s the point: finding joy in an approach I don’t naturally love. I can learn it. I just don’t yet.

—

I found a partner for Friday’s scene. The task: play contrasting characters who always agree. Hot, fast, smoky oil in perfect harmony with gentle, falling snow: two beings that shouldn’t coexist and yet do.

It might be funny. It might be a disaster. That’s clown school.

—

My goal this week is simple and impossible: be sensitive, be open, be gentle: with my partners, with the audience, with myself. I’ll do the exercises, but the real work is internal.

Do I have pleasure?
If so, am I sharing it with the audience?
If so, am I sharing it with my partner?
Am I playing together, or am I playing alone?

Clown school is hard.
But at least I slept.
And maybe—just maybe—I’ve solved my CO₂ problem.

That would be nice. 👍

Clown School Weekend 6.1: Putting the Text on the Game

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In which Our Hero explains how to tiptoe text ‘top the tulips.

I spoke today with a close friend who reads my blog religiously. He told me he was this close to calling and saying:

“Dude, maybe you should take clown school less seriously.”

But then, he said, he was relieved to see I’d arrived there myself this week.

I taught him something I learned: put the text on top of the game. (Don’t let the text strangle the game.)

He’s a musician, so here’s the analogy I used:

When you play a song on piano, you can think:
C major, F, G, C-flat.
Technical, correct, literal.

Or—you can visualize a volcano erupting. Or summon some vivid, private memory.

The game is that image/memory/emotional source.
The text is the notes—or the words.

If you play the game and let the text sit lightly on top of it, the audience receives two tracks at once. We receive both the notes and something of the image. 

A common mistake is to use the game to “underline” the text.

If you’re imagining Jesus while playing a hymn about Jesus, the audience gets the same information twice. It’s flat.But if you’re imagining a volcano erupting while playing a hymn about Jesus, the audience receives two different tracks. It becomes richer, stranger, more alive. They can’t necessarily name the image, but they can feel its charge. It evokes something personal in them.

Clown School Day 30: Pleasure Under Duress

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In which Our Hero puts on his big boy pants.

Everyone received a mark of zero today. Every. Single. Student. A new record. Some people earned three zeroes; some two; some only one. I loved it.

The teacher says I sometimes laugh when no one else does. “When Julian laugh, he is alone.” Fair enough. Sometimes I’m not laughing at the thing itself, but at what the thing makes me think of. Like a few weeks ago: a group tried to play a game where they became “scared” whenever someone said a word with the sound boo in it. The game was stupid; the play was bad; and the gap between the silliness of the idea and the flatness of the execution made me laugh. It was like watching someone throw themselves at the ground and miss. Delightful.

I received a zero today. I enjoyed it. I don’t care about their grade. That’s just part of the game. I’m glad I succeeded in doing some new things well.

I had one moment onstage—maybe half a second—where it all clicked. Holding my hands in perfect blades (as I was a stick insect), I tried to open a soda bottle. I was having so much fun; I looked ridiculous in my all-gray outfit; the audience laughed. Then one of my partners stole the bottle away, stealing the game from me and thereby ending it.

During the summer course, I heard the head clown teacher say something like “You have found a problem. That is a very special thing for a clown. If you solve it, you will need to find a new problem and that is not always so easy.”

Still, for that instant, I succeeded. 😀

During talkbacks, Head Teacher said: “And this guy [me]. At least he is finally covering his legs.” (I usually wear shorts.) So I raised one pant leg—just a small, innocent reveal. She laughed and looked away, maybe a little embarrassed. I did the same with the other leg. She laughed again. Light, gentle, generous, giving. Success! You’re not only performing when you’re on stage. You’re always performing. [And, well, I was still standing on the stage.]

Today I took the whole class as a joke. A game. A silly thing we’re all doing together. That shift alone made everything feel lighter. It made me more receptive and open.

I found the fun and the games in her comments. I felt lightness all the way through. (Except for the time when she said I laugh alone. I felt hurt and sad and lonely for a moment there. And then I found the lightness and pleasure again 🙂

Monday was my most painful Clown School day yet. On Tuesday, I started to recover. Today, I find the whole exercise funny. Our teacher literally started class with vocal exercises of her pronouncing the word “zero”. After people performed, she sometimes said “[X person] had a good entrance…” and sometimes said “[Y person was a] total catastrophe” yet still gave everyone in that group the same mark: zero. A farcical grading system! A curve with a mean of zero and a standard deviation of also zero! Only needing one number card to hold up! How droll. What a deeply silly ritual.

One student had a few little flashes of something—tiny moments, not the whole piece—and I told her after the show. She lit up, said it was nice of me to say (and said it in the way that people do when they’re authentically touched). We’re all in this together, and a glimpse of success counts.

Somehow, when we’re in rough waters, I find the pleasure more easily than when we’re sailing smooth seas. On Monday, right after everyone’s big triumphs of last Friday, I was the lowest of the low. Perhaps this is part of why I laugh alone. I suppose there’s fun in that discrepancy too.

“What’s funny about suffering?” you may ask.

What isn’t?

—

I think we’re being trained to find pleasure under duress. A clown’s job is to bring pleasure to the audience, they have to mine that pleasure from their own world, and share it. And the world isn’t always gentle: political trouble, personal strife, illness, rough crowds. If I can find pleasure when things go well and also when things go poorly: that’s a kind of success.

They’re training us to be successful clowns. If you’re going to be a truly successful clown, you need more than one safe trick. One peak of pleasure isn’t enough. To find higher peaks and fill your bag with more tricks, you have to explore: try things, fail, fall into valleys, climb out again. Failure is how you map where the fun actually lives. The teachers are training us to fail well so we can explore more freely. The more I flop, the more terrain I get to see. And I better entertain the audience along the way.

Right now, this stick insect finds more pleasure during the poor times.

What a funny thing to be.

P.S. I watched the second-year clown students today. They were also harangued more aggressively than usual. I’m almost certain this is intentional. I approve. When something works, push it to the extreme.