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?
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.
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:
Take it as a sign from the gods and get the fuck out of here, returning in January.
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.
For weeks I’ve been trying to reverse-engineer what we’re actually doing in clown school.
There are moments in class when something works—a laugh, a tiny eruption of joy—and the teacher says, “Yes, that.” And then there are moments when the entire room goes still and we all collectively realize the joy has petered out.
Our teachers keep highlighting the importance of the game. I kept wishing there were actual rules. Not to restrict play—but to name what’s already happening.
So I wrote them.
This document is the clearest articulation I’ve managed so far of how the “game” of clowning works in the Gaulier school of thought: the goal, the metrics, the tactics, the traps, the physics of pleasure, the difference between Major and Minor, how to avoid killing your own play, why dignity matters, why heaviness kills the audience, and the one rule that seems to underlie everything: maximize total pleasure without harming yourself.
If you’re in clown training, or theatre, or comedy, or anything requiring presence and sensitivity, you may find this helpful. Or validating. Or confusing in a way that becomes helpful later. That’s typically how this school works.
Here is the full writeup. Comments are enabled in case you’re curious or want to poke at any element:
How to avoid hurting yourself—physically, emotionally, professionally
If you’re not a clown and don’t plan to be one, it still might interest you. Clown logic rhymes with life logic more than we admit: be sensitive, be generous, be open, don’t force things, play the game that’s actually happening instead of the one in your head.
And share your pleasure. People open to you when you do.
In which Our Hero becomes a stickbug and briefly a rooster.
My b-b-b-boring dance
Yesterday’s boring dance left me with two lingering side effects:
I am now wearing gray facepaint and an all-gray outfit for camouflage purposes.
I am suddenly much more interested in doing dumb things for others’ pleasure—which, conveniently, is exactly what clown school is for. (“Paint my face gray so it matches my outfit because I’m a stickbug? Absolutely.”) [Reader: “But stickbugs aren’t gray.” Me: “It’s for camouflage. Have you ever seen a gray stick bug?” Reader: “No” Me: “So it’s working!”]
A friend asked me today: “What exactly is Neutral Mask?” Good question.
Neutral Mask – the course I’m currently taking – is a theater exercise using literal plastic masks—blank, expressionless, un-opinionated. We use them because:
With the face hidden, you naturally grimace less. (“Grimace” = any habitual expression or tic that blocks the actor from sharing themselves with us.)
You’re forced to communicate with your whole body.
A typical Neutral Mask sequence:
Put on the mask.
Channel some external entity—this week: animals (reptiles, savannah, big cats, barnyard creatures). Last week: elements (fire, water, earth, air, snow). The instruction is always: Find the fun of the image.
Midway, the teacher bangs her drum: “Fixed point!” Students from the audience remove the performers’ masks.
Performers continue and are called on one by one to give voice to their creature.
If there’s not enough pleasure, you’re kicked off.
If you pass, you slowly stand, taking that pleasure “inside,” transforming the creature into a character.
Perform that character, always keeping the fun alive, whether through movement, worldview, or physical logic. This fun must not be ideas nor the concept of fun: it must be actual fun.
My creature: the stickbug
The stickbug mostly sits still, scanning the horizon for predators. When bothered, it:
drops to the ground, or
throws off a limb.
When it moves, it scurries, antennae twitching, always on alert.
My character: Simon Schticklington
Simon is entirely gray: outfit, face, and demeanor. When frightened, he collapses from sudden “heart trouble.” He also has severe imaginary arthritis: elbows locked at 90°, hips straight, fingers in rigid blade-positions forever.
He lends himself to a few games:
Motor incompetence. Want a soda bottle opened? Simon will attempt it with profound sincerity and fail with even more sincerity.
Fear-collapse. When scared, he drops—and because of the elbow/hip rules, he cannot stand without the heroic assistance of classmates.
Projectile panic. Startle him while he’s holding something and he throws it. Today I brought a baguette specifically so I could chuck it at a friend guilt-free.
He also just looks silly. Which is good. Yesterday’s boring-dance taught me the deep wisdom of looking stupid on purpose. It’s liberating.
Today’s unexpected triumph
Today I had my biggest solo success. I entered inspired by a rooster: chest puffed, arms akimbo-ish, each step ceremonial and deliberate. They laughed. I kept the pleasure. I preened (like a gym bro). They laughed again.
I lost the balance shortly after—but for a glorious five seconds, I was clowning.
It’s good to remember that I’m b-b-b-boring. It’s good to remember that I do dumb things. People like people who admit such things about themselves.
Mondays after class, everyone mills around forming groups for Friday’s performance. And every Monday, I feel like I’m picked last in gym. It’s not that anyone is doing anything wrong. It’s that my internal meter flips into nobody wants you. Even though I have no idea whether that’s true or not.
In Movement class, too, I somehow end up in the group of three more often than not. (“Everyone in pairs, one group of three.) Some part of me takes this as evidence. Evidence of what? That I don’t fit. That I’m the odd one out. That I’m in the wrong place even when I want to be here more than anything.
None of this is rational. It just feels real.
I’ve asked people a few times to grab dinner or go for a walk, and the responses have been mixed. That should be normal. It is normal. But this week, the rejections land harder than they should. My brain turns each one into a thesis on exile.
And so I keep circling the same questions:
Is it that I don’t like them?
Is it that they don’t like me?
Or am I simply struggling to be open?
Is this why I can’t clown? Is this the same issue: some belief that if they saw me, they wouldn’t like me → so I don’t show them myself?
Head Teacher once said that even if I don’t want to perform with others, I still have to perform for the audience—to give. I keep wondering if she can see the part of me that prefers single-player games. The part that only trusts what I can control.
So yeah—Friday requires groups of 3 or 5. I still don’t have a group. I posted in the group chat. And a small, childish part of me wants to take my ball and go home. Fuck this. I don’t need this. Except… I clearly do.
—
After class, someone asked how I was. “I’ve been better.” She tried to give me a hug. Kind, if a little awkward. I walked away still feeling disconnected, but I guess appreciating the attempt? That’s the weird part: even gestures of care glance off me this week.
They say you’ll see sadness in the eyes of a clown. Is that because clowning attracts people searching for joy? Who else dedicates themselves to fun except those who’ve had to hunt for it? It’s the old question: Who is the clown for the clown?
For me, the work is spiritual. The connection, the nakedness, the earnestness. And right now, all of that feels out of reach.
I sobbed three separate times today. Is that sensitive enough for you, Head Teacher?
The first time was after class, when groups were forming. Historically, I’ve had terrible luck picking groups—worse than random probability—so now I let randomness decide. There’s also the small practical matter: I came here to learn to work with whoever shows up.
But still: no group. Again.
I’m clearly struggling with the social part of clown school. And it stings, because this is the place people come when they feel misaligned with the “normal” world. The circus is for the outsiders. But what happens when you feel like an outsider inside the circus?
So today, when I tried being an ostrich and got one laugh before retreating into my shell, I felt that same old instinct: run, hide, disappear.
Maybe that’s part of the training. They apply pressure and see what cracks, what softens, what finally opens.
In my case, the message I keep hearing from the teachers is: They don’t love you because you’re not showing them you.
And fuck, that’s hard. It’s hard to show yourself when you already feel unwanted.
Anyway— I still lack a group. So that. Really. Hurts.
P.S. Head Teacher said my clothing looked like broccoli vomit. I believe she’s suggesting I dress differently. So tomorrow, I will. Change.
For someone who has historically liked games—loved games, spent thousands of hours inside them—it’s a surprising question to ask.
There’s no question I like games. And play is what we do in games. So I suppose I like play?
This explanation feels insufficient.
I like lighthearted engagement in low-stakes, real-world-mimicking activities. In that sense, I like playing.
But often when others play with me, I generally don’t experience it as mutual play. And often when I try to play with others, they don’t experience it as playing together. (They sometimes experience it as me playing at them or against them, which has its own problems compared to us playing with each other.) It’s rare for me to find someone with whom play becomes mutually satisfying.
This isn’t necessarily about my love of play. It may be about my skill at play.
Eight or so years ago, a friend told me I didn’t know how to play. It was one of those moments you remember: if not for the bluntness of the comment, then for the proximity of his anger to a fist arriving at your face.
Learning to play requires paying attention to others. It’s a feedback loop: you stoke their fires, they stoke yours. And with rare exception, I’m not interested in stoking fires. The pool of people I like is small; my interest in socializing outside that pool is also small. So perhaps I simply have less experience in social play—either from lack of historical interest or poor methodology.
This, to be clear, is about social play.
Only two (three?) weeks ago did I first play a game to play rather than to win.
Historically, my engagement with games has been more optimization than play. Perhaps that’s why my win rate is high: if most people play, the one who optimizes will win. I analyze, comprehend, break down, and rebuild. These are fun for me, thus part of my play. But how many people do you know who approach a casual board-game night like this? And how many people want to rejoin someone who plays a board game night like this?
My clown teachers say I need sensitivity. I think they mean gentleness, and sensitivity is one route to gentleness. Sensitivity is letting experiences permeate you. Those who know me—family especially—would say I’m already very high in sensitivity (i.e. sensing the world around me, including the experiences of others). My teachers may mean a specific flavor: gentle sensitivity with lighthearted reactions. Not that I lack sensitivity, but that I lack lightness of spirit and gentleness of response.
Yesterday at 4 a.m., a bird flew into my apartment window. I learned this at 11 a.m., when my roommate showed me the box he’d put it in. We called French animal rescues; none were helpful. I made a joke about how the French might simply eat this sort of injured bird. He said (paraphrasing), “Come on. This is an opportunity to be sensitive, man!”
As a classmate, he knows I’m working on this skill. What he might mean is that the joke felt heartless. Some people don’t like dark humor; some don’t like cultural humor. Perhaps what they really mean is: give what your audience wants.
I used this skill when running sales at my previous company: give them what they want; say less—always less—as less is more.
And perhaps my teachers are saying that almost no one wants me without gentleness.
In competitive games, my strategy is often to use my strength against the opponent’s weakness. It’s a good way to win. But it only attracts people who love competition.
So if I want cooperative relationships, I’ll have to learn to play.
(Closing the loop on that earlier story: I have never been punched in the face. I’ve only been punched once, by someone experiencing a very different reality. I have, however, been threatened with face-punching roughly five times. I’d like to keep that streak—and ideally reduce the threats.)
—
Today I watched a clown show. Afterward, I left the theater to go home. And upon stepping outside, I realized that part of sensitivity is patience. So I went back, stood outside, and let myself be sensitive. Two people I enjoy talking with emerged, and we walked to the train together. It was lovely.
Not “You’re being a fascist.” Not “You’re pushing again.” But: You were sensitive. You were open. You were beautiful.
This has been my quest for the last four or five days: trying to soften without collapsing, open without weighing down, give without pushing. So when the assistant teacher said she could tell I’d been trying to be sensitive, something in me loosened. Like the wall I’ve been kicking finally cracked.
They then called “Julian and four others” onto the stage. And somewhere in that transition, I started crying. I don’t remember the moment. The whole experience became one.
The exercise was “snow.”
The teacher gave a confusing description of snow. Something like: “It’s the kind of snow that shuts down a city.”
Which… is just a quantity of snow. That’s not an image; that’s an amount.
So I asked a question that she didn’t answer. And then I started being snow. I grabbed an image that moves me: Lorelai in the first season of Gilmore Girls, stepping outside as the first snow falls. That little gasp, the cup of coffee, the anticipatory thrill, the “I smell snow.”
That image speaks to me. So I used it.
They asked for lighter. I moved lighter. They asked for less movement. I slowed down. And then the crying came—like a release of walls I didn’t even know I was holding.
I felt open. Present. Immersed. And I tried to stay there as long as I could. Even after class, I tried to keep it alive. I wandered to a café because it felt like “the present thing to do.” Then I left, because that also felt present. Then I ran into classmates outside the café, so I went back in. Presence, it turns out, has a sense of humor.
Then, I called a friend. That was hard.
It felt like I came home excited that I’d thrown a baseball for the first time—look, look, I did the thing!—and they said, “Careful not to break a window.”
Not malicious. Just… a mismatch. And when you’ve just cracked open a new emotional door, mismatches hurt more.
After class, one of the teachers said: “You were very sensitive, and very beautiful. You had an intensity—but it wasn’t bad.”
I laughed at that. I’m glad it isn’t bad, because my intensity ain’t going away.
Later, I asked the teacher, “Did I do it? Did I actually finally successfully give?” She didn’t answer directly. She asked, “Were you sensitive? What did you feel?”
Here’s my experience: On stage without my glasses, I am legally blind. I couldn’t see anyone. I didn’t listen to them either. The audience was mere shapes. Just the snow and me. And once in a while, a teacher’s comment.
So if the question is “were you sensitive to the audience?”, the answer is no. I was literally senseless. Ah clown school: you ironic farce.
They don’t mean sensitive. They might mean gentle. One way to arrive at sensitive is to notice that you’re too much for the audience. Another, apparently, is to channel the perfect childhood you never had in idyllic smalltown America.
Sometimes total silence is a good sign, the teacher said. It means the audience is engaged. “A quiet room can be as good as a laughing one. No one doing this [shuffling around, moving in their seat]”.
Earlier in the day, I channeled a storm. They told me I looked “obsessed with the game.” I laughed. “This was the least obsessed I’ve been in days. I literally set myself the gentle mantra, ‘This is for you[, audience]‘”. Light. Open. Giving.
The feedback wasn’t about my intention; it was about my appearance. They saw obsessed. I must change that appearance.
Perhaps I need extra lightness to counterbalance my baseline intensity. Some people need more power or voice. I might need 10x the gentleness.
After class, a fellow student said to me: “Good on you for staying up there. You could have sat down.”
My brow furrowed. Sat down? Why would I sit down? That made zero sense.
This is bottom of the ninth and I’m pitching a no hitter. I will remain here until you drag me off this mound.
It’s funny what other people reveal about themselves when they comment on you.
Somehow, after I left the stage, the right person knew I needed a hug. He gave me one. And, lo and behold, it was good.
All afternoon I kept trying to hold the feeling: café, walk home, phone calls. I wanted to stay cracked open. Even though it’s uncomfortable? Especially because it’s uncomfortable.
I did my first cartwheel today. I went up as the guinea pig because I wanted more than anything not to.
Somewhere in all of this, I realized: This experience with snow is a metaphor of the friction I’ve been having with the social life of clown school. Pushing instead of being sensitive. Wanting to give but not meeting others where they are. The effort to be open met with a congratulations about remaining on stage or a warning about windows.
What next? Maybe the answer is simply: more on-stage openness. Maybe I’ll find some new challenge.
But today, for a moment, I did it. I gave what they’ve been telling me to give. I didn’t perform emotion. Nor pretend. Nor simulate. Nor mimic.
I was open. Light. Warm. Gentle. Like the first snow And it’s You.
Because this snow. This tiny, infinitesimal flake of snow. If you do it enough. Could cover the world.
For a good time, bring a cake to a gathering of friends. Cut slices for each person. Ask how big they want. Invariably, they’ll say “Just a small slice,” or “Just a little one.”
Then, if you move the knife slowly and ask them to “say when,” you’ll find each person’s little slice is different. In some cases, it’s twice the size of someone else’s small slice.
When they say, “Just a small slice,” for whom are they speaking?
They’re not communicating in your language. If they were, small would mean the same thing. Instead, they’re saying something like: “I’m signaling that I’m not greedy.” Or: “I’m allowing myself pleasure, but a restrained version of it.”
Maybe I’ve always found moments like this confusing. Maybe because I’m autistic. Maybe because I never learned the unwritten grammar of appetite and permission. Maybe because the cultural norm to be small and not enjoy yourself is dumb.
On stage, the same puzzle repeats. How much of myself is the right-sized slice to offer?
I have a great and powerful energy in me. I can give a lot. I have given a lot. My teammates, my teachers, and I all agree: when I was fire today, I burned.
But still—I didn’t burn for them.
Fuck.
I have so, so much pleasure. So much deep, physical intensity. And goddamn it, how do I transmit this to you? So far, I’ve tried:
Give it directly. Too pushy.
Increase my own pleasure. Too self-contained.
Recommendation from friends: play with oscillation—me-pleasure, then share; me-pleasure, then share again.
Complicating factors: (1) I can’t see on stage (I can’t wear my glasses with the neutral mask). (2) I don’t find myself beautiful.
The teacher’s aid begrudgingly gave me her speculation today (directness like this isn’t really part of the pedagogy). She said she senses that I have beliefs about how I’m perceived, and that my behavior on stage is an attempt to offer those perceptions, then shatter them. Which isn’t the same as showing myself—it’s showing my idea of myself, or how I imagine others see me.
Maybe she’s right. When I was beautiful, they loved me. Subtle. Gentle. Open. I remember it dimly: tears streaming, face unguarded, giving.
I want to find that again. Tomorrow, I’ll try.
When the Head Teacher told me I was insufficiently sensitive, she began with: “Not bad.” And when I raised my hand to ask a question, she added: “When you have done something good, it is better not to ask questions, no? It is better to think about what you have done.”
Maybe I’m harder on myself than they are. Or, as a friend put it: “It’s nice to know you’re harder on yourself than the teachers are. It’s nice to know you’re not just failing over and over. Or at least that you’re failing over and over—but it’s working.”
Tomorrow, instead of trying so hard to give that I push, I’ll try so hard to open that I break. And I’ll give that to the audience. Maybe they’ll love it.
Julian Wise 