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.”
Julian Wise 