Tag: Relationships

Clown School Break Day 8: Selfishness

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero… is selfish?

A friend says my attending clown school is selfish.

A second friend concurs.

The second friend, at least, says it without judgment. They think it’s a selfish act, but not necessarily a bad one. (I didn’t ask the first whether “selfish” = “bad,” so I can’t report on their view.)

The second friend is a professional poker player. I asked if studying poker is selfish. They said no. I asked why. They gave reasons like: “it keeps my mind sharp,” “it teaches me skills I use in other areas.” I pointed out that clowning does the same. Just swap “understanding randomness and variance” for “learning to connect with others and bring them pleasure.”

I’m surprised people find clown school selfish. I don’t find it more selfish than acting school, sales training, or learning accounting. Maybe slightly more selfish than learning to be a plumber. Definitely less selfish than being a momentum trader or a poker player.

I get that performers are self-involved. Sometimes self-obsessed. But selfish?

The job of a clown is to bring people pleasure. Joy. Happiness. Are the best in the profession—Jim Carrey, Sacha Baron Cohen, Robin Williams—selfish? That seems unfair.

So what do people actually mean when they say “clown school is selfish”?

They might mean something like:

  1. “Clowning doesn’t contribute much to other people.”
  2. “Julian will get more personal joy out of clown school than he’ll generate for others.”
  3. “Clown school isn’t contributory (either because clowning isn’t, or because clown school won’t lead to clowning).”
  4. “Clown school interferes with more contributory things you could be doing.”

Here’s how these land:

1. “Clowning doesn’t contribute much.”

I’m dismissing this outright as a misunderstanding of what this school teaches. This school teaches how to find pleasure in order to share it. You can believe pleasure is unimportant, but if you believe it matters, clowning is clearly contributory.

2. “You’ll get more out of this than others will.”

This becomes a comment about skill.
If I will always be a bad clown, then yes: clown school would be more self-pleasure than other-pleasure. But that assumes failure as destiny. I’m earnestly trying to learn these skills. I want to be good at play, connection, and generosity. Multiple people—people with no incentive to flatter me—have said clowning seems like a particularly great fit for me. I think so too.

3. “Clown school won’t lead to clowning.”

This is the critique I take most seriously.

My goal isn’t to become a professional clown per se: it’s to become a better performer, a better player, a better connector. I want to learn charisma. I want to learn to bring joy not just onstage but in everyday life. I want to learn to play for the sake of fun rather than optimization. I want to play well with my nephew. I want to play well with future kids of my own.

If I’m truly seeking personal enrichment more than professional clowning, then yes, one could call that “selfish.” But personal enrichment that increases one’s capacity to love, play, and be present seems… not exactly a moral failing.

4. “Is clown school the best use of your time?”

Honestly? I don’t know. A year is long. (Well, seven months of actual school.) But I’m not locked in. Students drop in and out. There’s one course in March I’m particularly excited about. For the rest, I’m open: if more-contributory opportunities appear, I’ll take them. If someone offered me a full-time job tomorrow, I’d consider it. (And, notably, I applied to one recently.)

At the moment, my time is quite unoccupied. I’m writing for one company, and that leaves plenty of space. So: clown school.

I want a family someday. I want kids. Cultivating lightness and play feels deeply aligned with the values I want to bring into a home. And I’m at a turning point: many friends are settling down. If not now, then when would I ever have the time to go to clown school? When else would learning to stay light during stress be so valuable?

I was bumming around the U.S. in a van.
I was working half-time, sometimes quarter-time, vaguely searching for more.
Given that reality, filling the time with something joyful and growth-oriented seems… pretty reasonable.

But if someone wants to hire me for something more productive, I’m here for it!

(Finally: when pressed, the poker friend admitted he couldn’t clearly articulate what he meant by “selfish.” He guessed it was closest to number 3, but also said his inability to articulate the position probably means it’s weakly held. That’s reassuring. I thought this assessment was more associational than well-considered. Still, it’s good to check.)

[P.s. I’ll share this write-up with the first friend, too. They might have a whole different analysis of how the selfishness works, in which case I’ll jot up a part 2 🤓]

Clown School Break Day 7: Manufacturing Pleasure

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In which Our Hero demonstrates the void is optional.

Today I managed to manufacture—or maybe discover—some pleasure.

After a generally empty day (and I hate empty days), I was riding in the car feeling mildly dissatisfied when it hit me: I could change this. And the moment I realized that, I actually did. Suddenly I wasn’t dissatisfied anymore. I wasn’t stuck in that void of nothingness. I felt…pleasure. And that was nice.

Clown school is teaching some real skills! 😀

I was driving with a friend who kept trying to play with me. I rejected the first three or so times. Playing with other people is still hard, especially when I’m dissatisfied. It’s so much easier to play alone.

Which is unfortunate, considering I can’t play games alone until at least January 7th.

(I made a self-binding bet before I broke my foot. And now…well, here we are.)

So therefore:

Time for me to find new occupations for my ample free time whilst my foot heals.

(Or should I say “heels”?)

It’s nice that bored dissatisfaction isn’t mandatory, even if you’re bored.

It’s nice the game is still in me.

Perhaps some day I will learn to share it with others.

For today, at least this is nice.

Clown School Break Day 5: On Play and Depression

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In which Our Hero muses on the interaction of these forces.

The question came up at dinner:
What’s the relationship between play and depression?
Is play the antidote? Is the lack of play the cause? Or are they simply two dancers who keep stepping on each other’s toes?

My take:

  • I love Play. Play is enlivening and delightful and deeply satisfying.
  • Play is a sign of a healthy environment: one that nurtures the growth and expression of its members.
  • Some environments don’t require play or can’t support it, especially high-stress or high-stakes ones in intense moments.
  • If you lack play long enough, you will feel like crap.
  • If you can’t play with people, you won’t feel good around those people.

Blockers to play:

  • Lack of safety. If you can’t experiment or express, you shrink. The body contracts. The options narrow. The world gets small.

I often think of depression as a kind of flatness. A greying-out of inner movement. And a lot of what prevents play, at least in my own experience, is fear/anxiety. So the loop becomes:
fear/anxiety → no play → depression.
It’s not the only description of the loop, but it’s a fair one.

Another view:

  • Maybe depression is fundamentally the lack of experienced pleasure.
  • If that’s true, then you can find pleasure through play. But also through other avenues, including observation and appreciation.
  • In that framing, play is one antidote, but not the only one. (And it may not be the proper antidote for a specific situation, nor a permanent fix.)

Still, I think social play is necessary for social satisfaction.
It’s a treadmill you have to keep running on—just enough—for the system to stay stable.
Stop for too long, and you get flung off the end, cascading into a wall of lonesomeness. Start running again, and the world comes back into color.

However, you can’t force play. You can only create the context for it to naturally emerge.
Even if you’re a player?
Even if you’re the game.

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 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 34: Frustration Sans Fun

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In which Our Hero wonders what specific problem is afoot.

My roommate asked if I’m on the spectrum.

He teaches improv to autistic kids professionally, so the question wasn’t random. He even offered some lightly camouflaged feedback he gives his students:

  • They find the game and play it very hard, but ignore the pleasure of the people around them.
  • They approach situations with a kind of childlike openness, but the moment someone comments on them, they build a thick, impenetrable shield.

I asked him if he is on the spectrum.
He said no.

I’m grateful for his attempt to help. I’m also aware his description fits me in class. What I’m still missing are the “what” and “how” of changing it.

–

I’ve only worked in one real office. I was 19, a sophomore in college, with a summer job at a NYC marketing agency. They paid me $16/hr to make the same repeated mouse clicks, transferring digital assets from one system to another. I downloaded a mouse-recording tool and automated my job. Then automated the interns’ jobs. Then automated my direct superior’s job.

And nobody liked me.

I was there to work. To do the task. To be effective. Clock in, clock out, $16/hr. Promotion was not on the menu. Mostly, they just wanted me swept quietly under the rug.

The connection between that summer and here isn’t skill: I’m far worse at clowning than I was at automating workflows. The connection is the feeling in the room. The details are different, but the emotional texture is uncannily similar. There, as here, I tried to make friends. There, as here, people were cordial but uninterested.

To me, clown school feels like a coworking space. Others have formed friendships; I’m batting maybe 2-for-10 on hangout invitations, with no successful follow-ups/second hangs from the two. Eventually you give up, videochat friends from home, and read a book.

It makes it harder that I’m not enjoying the classes.
Nor am I learning well.
It’s just terrifically challenging.

Maybe that’s intentional: the hardest class comes after the fundamentals.
Or maybe I’m unraveling.
I keep wondering whether the problems I had back in April/May were different ones. I was in a completely different psycho-emotional state then.

–

After class today, a teacher asked what I planned to do with my broken foot.

I told them I’m of two minds:

  1. Take it as a sign from the gods and get the fuck out of here, returning in January.
  2. Stay and see whether this new, legless constraint allows for new growth.

–

Last night a friend told me I only ever talk about myself.
Sure.
My pleasure is in the game. And it is vast. But it doesn’t seem to be in the sharing. More autistic people become computer programmers than clowns. Perhaps I’m less naturally equipped. Maybe my version of sharing the game is the multiple clowns who I helped with visa applications. Maybe it’s in the creation of a clown house so people aren’t stuck with individual roomshares. Maybe it’s cleverness or intellect. Those play poorly on this stage.

High achievers share one trait: grit.
Do I want to grit through this?
Do I even want to be a clown?

At the beginning, my clown school goals were 80% spiritual and 20% tangible. The tangible ones were:

  • Learn the practice.
  • Learn the theory.
  • Make friends.

Right now:

  • I’m injured.
  • People keep telling me they don’t connect with me (and act like it).
  • Peers are also sharing their suffering.

–

One performer friend says the physical restriction might actually help my clowning. Another says being forced to “not try so hard” might help me be better at clowning and enjoy myself more.

Personally, I’m unconvinced the foot bone is connected to the trying bone. Or that either one attaches to the funny bone.

Meanwhile I spent six hours crying on Tuesday.
Cried three more times today.
And feel like I’m banging my head against a wall.
(This feels like a particularly intense few weeks, not my new permanent state.)

With my foot injury, I even lost morning movement class, which I liked more than afternoon improv.

Ugh.

Today in class I performed one of the “substances”: Chloric Acid. I struggled because I didn’t know what specific acid she meant. She said it was something used to unclog drains, so I did drano. She said my rhythm was too slow. My later googling suggests chloric acid can have a fast, popping rhythm—but it is definitely not a drain cleaner. Maybe she meant hydrochloric acid? If this is my problem at clown school, maybe I’m better suited to be a chemist. (Tomorrow, I hope they ask me to play Barium Disodium.)

When it came time for “cream,” I sat out.
Then I lied down on the floor so I could elevate my fractured foot above my heart. Which my roommate later said indicated to him I was autistic.

What’s next?

Ugh.
Time for more searching.
The searching is the practice, I guess.

😮‍💨

​​Clown School Day 33: Milk, Movement, and Metatarsals

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In which Our Hero boils over, breaks down, and opens up.

I was milk.

Not your boring half-full breakfast glass:

I was milk on the stove that someone had forgotten about.

Warming gently, then rapidly, then dramatically.

I boiled, I foamed, I rose.

A glorious dairy geyser.

I was beautiful, exciting, energetic, light.

They loved me.

I was milking it for all it was worth.

And then I landed. Hard.

On the outside of my right foot.

The outermost digit rolled under the meat of the foot.

My milk, so recently ascendant, suddenly boiled over and ran down the sides of the pot.

Call it a turning point.

Or a turning-sour point.

Someone asked if I was hurt. I said no.

Classic milquetoast behavior.

They told me they loved my milk.

I felt genuinely glad: I’d worked hard yesterday—six hours improving myself, skimming off the emotional scum, clarifying my internal butter.

And today, between movement and improv, I stayed in the classroom to feel my feelings.

To laugh, to cry, to laugh-cry.

Just to be with myself.

A short personal pilgrimage to the Land of Milk and Honey.

No wonder my performance rose, like cream to the top.

Now I’m at the hospital.

I don’t think it’s broken.

I assume they’ll give me an X-ray, recommend some painkillers, and send me home.

A quick skim.

The triage nurse, Leo, asks if I’m a clown student.

The international ones usually are, he says.

Last year he had:

– a ruptured Australian Achilles (hi, A!)

– an American with a back problem, delivered via ambulance (hi, M!).

This year, he gets me: whole milk, 2% structurally compromised.

Leo asks where I’m from.

“California.”

He says “Alcatraz.”

I say I’ve never been.

He says it’s scary.

(It curdles his insides.)

Now I sit in the waiting room, surprisingly not souring.

Throughout this whole experience, I’ve actually felt my feelings pretty well—

and feeling them has made them less bad.

So much has to work in concert to enable walking, let alone clowning.

Bones, muscles, tendons:

a whole orchestra playing in tune.

Until suddenly the music sours
And my fifth metatarsal decides it has a bone to pick with me. (Alternate joke: “has beef with me”.)

The teacher who drove me here says I’m the first of the year.

The first!

The early bird. The early calf.

The first one to fall before the cows come home.

—

Diagnosis:

A fracture non-déplacée—a nondisplaced fracture of the 5th metatarsal.

Pain meds.

No weight on it.

Three weeks to heal.

A season put out to pasture.

Oddly, I’m calm.

It’s almost a relief to have a socially acceptable excuse for being bad at clowning.

(“Sorry, I should have been cream of the crop, but I was overwhipped/overbeaten and now I’ve split. Maybe I need to find butter things to do.”)

And despite the pain, I stayed with it—

full-fat presence.

—

I bought crutches, pain meds, and a boot from the pharmacy.

The pharmacist noted the challenge of carrying crutches while also needing crutches.

She asked where I live.

“Just across the street.”

She walked with me.

A small, wholesome kindness:

like a neighbor bringing over cookies and saying,

“Here, I brought you some warm milk for your soul.”

She knows my upstairs neighbor.

They have coffee together every day.

We bonded over our love for her cat, chausettes (“socks’ in french).

—

A surprising emotion: relief.

I told a friend about the injury and she asked how much of it might be emotional—

how sometimes a bone breaks when something else is begging to break.

She said when she broke a bone, it partly came from a life she didn’t love.

I get that.

My milk was already foaming over.

I wasn’t enjoying clown school.

I wasn’t doing it right.

I wasn’t satisfied personally either.

Then—splat.

Here comes God to shake it up.

And by God, I mean my own discoordination.

(Or the universe saying, “Time to churn.”)
As a friend sometimes describes about me: “Julian plans, and Julian laughs”.

So now I have a fracture.

And honestly… I don’t mind.

Sometimes the carton needs a dent.

—

My teacher offered to let me watch the rest of the course now and then take the actual course next year.

I’ll take them up on it.

The cows will come home eventually.

Perhaps it’s better that I watch this course.

I might have been trying too hard, mooving with too much vigor.

And at least—

miraculously—

I didn’t cry over spilled milk.

​​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

JulianLeave a comment

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.