Tag: clowns

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 Weekend 3.1: Simple Precision

JulianLeave a comment

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

JulianLeave a comment

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.”

Clown School Day 1: The Honking Commences

Julian2 Comments

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

A pair of large red shoes emerges from behind the curtain. Above, a painted face under a red wig.

“Am I in the right place?”

—

I considered entering clown school in full Ronald McDonald regalia. Starting with a joke. Establish a clear reputation from day 1.

But that’s not clowning. At least not here. Here, clowning is an Earnest Art. It’s Authenticity. Connection. Sharing. Giving. Kindness. Lightness. Joy. It’s a Raw and Unadulterated Openness. The successful threading of a needle where one side is the Error of Honesty, the other Pretense. We do neither.

Instead, we Play.

Light,

Open,

Gentle,

Subtle,

Friendly,

Kind,

Grounded.

And the best part:

it’s all a lie.

—

We began the day by walking around the space. “Think of a naughty thought,” our teacher prompted. Immediately, eyes magnetized. Twinkled. Lightened. Brightened. Illuminated.

I know my Naughty Thought. My cadre of considerations. My illustrious internal illustrations.

Heeheehee.

The strangest feeling:

some of the students remained flat. Some stayed boring.

But others.

Oh lawd.

Drawn to them: intellectually, physically, psychically, carnally. With appetite, curiosity, interest, want and need.

Whoa.

How beautiful is it to watch someone play.

How beautiful indeed.

After class, I approached one of the clowns. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” I said. “But I loved watching you with a naughty thought”.

She promised me she’ll tell me her thought

as soon as this course ends.

—

Have you ever felt you’re in precisely the right place?

I have.

Twice.

Once, in a Chicago airport. I had flown in for an interview at an arts program for a master’s degree. My bag became weightless. I was Following My Purpose.

The other, today, upon entering Ecole Philippe Gaulier.

Glee. Humor. Airyness. Mixed with hard work and trials. Difficulties and action. Giving it your All and then some.

Crying. Caring. Trying. Opening.

And then

ideally

success.

—

I am currently a student at Ecole Philippe Gaulier, the world’s premier clown school. I write and publish daily.