Getting in touch with your ‘inner clown’ is all about tearing that artifice away, about becoming open to failure and in the process also more open to yourself.”
~Duncan Wall, An Ordinary Acrobat
~Duncan Wall, An Ordinary Acrobat
The thing I've learned about obsessions is that, like amorphous TV trope blob monsters, they can take any form or shape, they can be practically unstoppable, and they tend to grow, absorbing whatever they come across. My love of balance has similarly grown in scope, from slackline to balance pipe, tightwire, yoga, and ballet. It's even grown beyond the balance sports, to include other circus disciplines. From manipulation I've taken up juggling, from acrobatics I aspire to learn cyr wheel, from the aerials I'd like to give silks or corde lisse a try. The blob of my balance obsesssion hit a seemingly impenetrable barrier though at the last circus discipline: clowning. I am not a performer, an actor, or comedian; I am reserved and inhibited, an introvert and often a homebody. Clowning was a discipline I felt I had no connection to.1
While reading Duncan Wall’s experience as a young American study abroad student attending a preparatory circus college in Paris, I was struck by his exploration of the art of clowning. It changed how I look at clowning, and how I look at myself. (My obsession may have just breached the final barrier!!)
Clowning is unique in the world of circus arts: rather than feats of athletic daring or dexterity, glitz or grandeur, clowns traffic in human emotion.2 But why are clowns funny? Why do we laugh over their bumbling failures? As Duncan Wall points out, “All our lives we are trained not to be vulnerable, not to expose ourselves, to avoid looking foolish.” Perhaps because of that training, seeing other people’s real-life failures can make us uncomfortable, make us want to look away. How do you react when someone has something stuck between their teeth, stumbles and mumbles through their speech, or wears mismatched shoes? It might be funny, but it can also make us uncomfortable feeling sorry for the person. But when a clown fails, flops, and looks foolish we laugh—and not in malicious superiority (speaking for myself at least!), but with humorous appreciation. What is the difference?
The line in the book that was my moment of illumination read, “A clown converts the tragic into the comic by showing the audience that he is aware of his failure and accepts it. This triggers empathy. [emphasis added]” Reading that, the utterly revolutionary thought flashed across my mind: “I am a clown.” We do not have to be masters of cheesy costumes, exaggerated gestures and expressions, and over-bright makeup to participate in the soul of clowning. In my own way, I participate in what is at the heart of clowning. It is something I already do: in the last few years especially I have learned to share my real-life failures and frustrations, openly, in ways that make people laugh.
Sometimes my clowning is because I want to cheer someone. Laughter is good medicine after all. Since I do try not to joke at other’s expense, I make myself fair game. I think my life is hilarious—or at least at times hilariously ironic or hilariously awkward. I share something personal—something a little absurd, a little surprising—to lighten the mood a little, to make people smile, to make people laugh.
At other times though, when my life has gone a bit awry, I clown because I do crave that empathy. Burying vulnerabilities and mistakes, carrying hidden burdens in stoic solitude is wearisome work. It is cathartic to open up. I portray my struggles and frustrations as a bit ridiculous, a bit absurd. A responsive, empathetic laugh soothes the sting of those failures. And in making someone else laugh, I have given them something even while I ask for understanding in return.
Practicing juggling and slackrope in public areas especially has further motivated me to embrace my inner clown. I fall, fail, and fumble a lot as I practice—generally while in view of more than enough passersby. Even though many don't pay any attention to my antics, the public visibility of my learning errors isn't easy for me. With the choice to withdraw inward in frustrated embarassment or to embrace the moment openly, my rule for myself is simple: "laugh when you fall." It's almost a reflex now. I've lost count of the number of times I've ended up flat on my back in the grass, laughing at the rope wobbling loosely above me, and caught sight of a pedestrian chuckling sympathetically as they passed. Because my practices generally require undivided, unwavering attention, those brief laughing pauses after a fall are actually the best opportunities to connect, the time when people approach me, the time when I turn and focus outward for a little while. Regardless of whether I have an actual audience, with that laugh or dramatic smile, I release the mistake, leaving myself free to try again.
As I’ve learned to laugh off my mistakes, as I’ve seen others' laughing empathy, their uncritical acceptance of my fumbles and character flaws, I have indeed been liberated to accept myself and to appreciate the absurdities of the world and of my own life.
Laugh when you fall, smile when you fumble, be a clown. It really does feel good.
While reading Duncan Wall’s experience as a young American study abroad student attending a preparatory circus college in Paris, I was struck by his exploration of the art of clowning. It changed how I look at clowning, and how I look at myself. (My obsession may have just breached the final barrier!!)
Clowning is unique in the world of circus arts: rather than feats of athletic daring or dexterity, glitz or grandeur, clowns traffic in human emotion.2 But why are clowns funny? Why do we laugh over their bumbling failures? As Duncan Wall points out, “All our lives we are trained not to be vulnerable, not to expose ourselves, to avoid looking foolish.” Perhaps because of that training, seeing other people’s real-life failures can make us uncomfortable, make us want to look away. How do you react when someone has something stuck between their teeth, stumbles and mumbles through their speech, or wears mismatched shoes? It might be funny, but it can also make us uncomfortable feeling sorry for the person. But when a clown fails, flops, and looks foolish we laugh—and not in malicious superiority (speaking for myself at least!), but with humorous appreciation. What is the difference?
The line in the book that was my moment of illumination read, “A clown converts the tragic into the comic by showing the audience that he is aware of his failure and accepts it. This triggers empathy. [emphasis added]” Reading that, the utterly revolutionary thought flashed across my mind: “I am a clown.” We do not have to be masters of cheesy costumes, exaggerated gestures and expressions, and over-bright makeup to participate in the soul of clowning. In my own way, I participate in what is at the heart of clowning. It is something I already do: in the last few years especially I have learned to share my real-life failures and frustrations, openly, in ways that make people laugh.
Sometimes my clowning is because I want to cheer someone. Laughter is good medicine after all. Since I do try not to joke at other’s expense, I make myself fair game. I think my life is hilarious—or at least at times hilariously ironic or hilariously awkward. I share something personal—something a little absurd, a little surprising—to lighten the mood a little, to make people smile, to make people laugh.
At other times though, when my life has gone a bit awry, I clown because I do crave that empathy. Burying vulnerabilities and mistakes, carrying hidden burdens in stoic solitude is wearisome work. It is cathartic to open up. I portray my struggles and frustrations as a bit ridiculous, a bit absurd. A responsive, empathetic laugh soothes the sting of those failures. And in making someone else laugh, I have given them something even while I ask for understanding in return.
As I’ve learned to laugh off my mistakes, as I’ve seen others' laughing empathy, their uncritical acceptance of my fumbles and character flaws, I have indeed been liberated to accept myself and to appreciate the absurdities of the world and of my own life.
Laugh when you fall, smile when you fumble, be a clown. It really does feel good.
1 Perhaps you are put off by “clowns.” To be honest, I was too: Some are almost frightening, others simply far too cliché…but then there are the good clowns, the ones who make us laugh, who make us a part of the show, the ones who let us enjoy the absurd. If you haven’t experienced good clowning, I have a few recommendations: first is the Cirque du Soleil movie Alegria (available on Amazon). The simple white-faced clowning of the main character Frack quite captured my heart. Next, it’s very hard to beat the dare-devil clown Bello Nock: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWTezwTtfi8, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mb6Di1Pe-0&list=TLjfSHy4BZJft_gAanFHmA9AbaczFge2gs .
2 Duncan Wall, An Ordinary Acrobat, pg 252.
2 Duncan Wall, An Ordinary Acrobat, pg 252.
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