"The Forgotten Magic of Being Joyfully Stupid: Lessons From Clown School" by Cyrena Lee
In the age of the Internet, being called a clown is decidedly not a compliment. Nor is being an idiotic respectable. A well-known meme uses clown imagery to scathingly call out increasingly illogical arguments, and clowns in the modern consciousness are more terrifying than funny—see Pennywise and the spike of errant, creepy, clown sightings around Trump’s election in 2016.
So the last thing I thought I would do in the midst of a global pandemic, especially since my experience in theatre starts and begins with a nerve-wracking audition for the 5th grade school play (in which I did not even land a non-speaking role), was to voluntarily sign up for a two-week intensive at a world-renowned clown school in France, notorious for the brutal nature of the headmasters’ training. They break you down. Students at Ecole Philippe Gaulier all nearly go home crying at the end of the day, a friend warned me about the school. But the opportunity to join was a rare one: in a summer intensive that’s usually sold out, spaces were available due to travel restriction related cancellations. Gaulier himself is also in his eighth decade of life, and so in the spirit of why not and vestiges of a capitalistic drive to continually improve myself, I enrolled. I thought it would be funny, fascinating at the least, to get a glimpse into a world I am never exposed to. Never did I think two weeks at clown school would so profoundly change me. I think about the lessons I learned and the importance of clowning every day. Especially when we live in an era that constantly pushes the sharp and harsh edges of reality on us at every angle, every minute, every where.
In class, phones were absolutely forbidden. In the morning movement class, I found myself with thirty other students, tip-toeing around a studio in the toe-steps of the likes of Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter, while trying to balance a large wooden stick on our hands. The absurdity of the scene took me out of my body—a group of adults, of all shades, shapes, and ages, traipsing around the large white-walled studio on a wooden floor, with windows open to the unassuming town of Étampes—an hour south of Paris. Adults attempting to play children’s games seemed absurd in a hectic world wrecked by a pandemic and an anxiety-inducing news cycle. But what we were really doing was unlearning to be ourselves, and to find out who we were underneath the masks and roles we’ve each adopted as we grew up into society.
There are surface level benefits to attending clown school that anyone serious about their career trajectory heading towards the C-suite or management can benefit from. But to take the lessons of what being a clown really means and applying it to achieve business excellence misses the point completely. It’s like Silicon Valley tech bros who boast about microdosing but never dare to lose themselves on a full-blown trip, which would take them out of the system. Finding your true clown is about finding out who you would be like if there were no expectations imposed on you or if you grew up without having to adhere to social norms or customs. The morning movement class was merely a warm-up to the real work: having to be confronted with the constructions of ourselves in the afternoon class with Gaulier himself.
On the first day, at the tail end of lunch as we were chatting on picnic tables in the courtyard and chewing on the last bits of our boulangerie sandwiches, silence fell: Gaulier materialized, ambling steadily towards the studio. He cuts an imposing figure at nearly eighty years old; his wizened, chaotic, grey hair and beard contrast with his signature red spectacles. Everyone rushed to the studio wordlessly; we were all terrified of his magnetic aura. For Gaulier’s improv class, the black curtains were pulled out, creating an intimidating stage. We opened with Simon Says and a few rounds of corporal punishment for “misbehaving”. Then we introduced ourselves with names and nationalities. His responses were equally offensive across the board—if you were from Austria, you were a fascist. If you were from LA, it was a fucking boring town. He kept calling me the Chinese Girl, despite my protests that my parents were from Taiwan. He sneered, Taiwan will be communist soon. Everyone kept looking at me, to see if I were okay. I shrugged. My entire life, I had been classified as “the Asian girl” so it wasn’t shocking to me. It was repeated so many times that some classmates even asked if I were okay, but I almost preferred the repetition of the stereotype which rendered it meaningless like when a word is repeated ad infinitum: it was as if I could really be seen for what I was and not my own race.
By the end of the first week, when we were each assigned our clown costume, which was bestowed by Gaulier by watching us perform on stage alone. There, he struck more of a nerve. I was meant to dress as an “unfuckable teenager who wants a boyfriend”, and when he announced that in front of the class, I nervously giggled. But inside I thought: how did he know? How did he spot that exact blend of insecurity from my adolescence, which was a desperate wanting to fit in and find love?
In the unnerving position of being in the spotlight, old insecurities creep out. The stage conditions one to want to perform, but being a good clown is not about doing what is expected. It’s all about making believe and not playing pretend—the difference is subtle but significant. Little kids pretend to have tea or ride rocket ships in cardboard boxes with their whole hearts, while adults are told to “fake it ‘til you make it”, or often don a mask to play a role (at work, especially), presenting themselves as what they think a manager or mother or lawyer should be like. Real clowns make believe and make magic. They are the truest influencers, which are often the outlier visionary artists, CEOs, and leaders of our time. The power of influence comes from an unshakeable belief in a vision that others may not yet see. The spotlight illuminates artifice and makes it crystal clear when someone is putting on an act, which renders the person unlikeable, and unbelievable. It's not about faking it until you make it, it’s about losing your ego. Gaulier helped by repeatedly telling us we were all “fucking boring”. It’s easy to pretend to be somebody else, but it’s much harder to be yourself.
What makes someone the most boring is when you can’t see them—when they are holding back a part of themselves by either pretending they don’t care or pretending that they’re having a good time when they’re not. What makes a clown—or anyone—succeed is their unbridled pleasure and joy of existence. Joy is transferable. I had to imitate a 1940s motorbike several times over and felt miserable doing so. I kept thinking to myself: is this what a motorbike sounds like? How long do I have to keep doing this for? Why is nobody laughing? When I had to sing a Britney Spears song while maintaining a grotesque grimace, none of those thoughts rang in my mind—I simply enjoyed the moment of ridiculousness, and it prompted a few chuckles. The lesson: even if you’re failing, if you and everyone else is having fun, what else matters? Gaulier stressed to us the importance of pleasure, the pure pleasure of being an absolute idiot who thinks that they’re going to win a Nobel Prize.
What people mostly value today is being right over anything and we’re so afraid of being seen as stupid that our long-held beliefs can blind us to the possibility of alternative perspectives. The drive to be smart, to be right, keeps us in a filter bubble, which is a death knell for expanding ideas. This is an especially bad combination when many of us already exist in an echo chamber on social media and choose to align ourselves only with people that do and think exactly as us.
Complicité comes into play here, and how to find it—after all, the game of life is more fun when one can make spontaneous connections with a stranger. Life can be awfully dull with people that take themselves too seriously (which is nearly everyone on Twitter today). We tend to size people up quickly, judge them at face value, and then see them without really seeing them. Complicité teaches us to really look into the eyes of another being, of another soul, instead of avoiding eye contact with strangers. We were taught to ask ourselves: are they funny? A bit intelligent? And most importantly: can I play with them? Can you be open to find people to play with? Can you make life a little more bearable? Is the person you're looking at hiding and pretending to be someone else, or are they really there, present, and ready to create with you?
Vulnerability was the most important lesson, tying everything together. Often people shy away from feelings, cover them up, or abdicate control over their emotional state. But even if you can’t control what you feel and simply allow yourself to fully feel it, life’s stage is in your direction. This important lesson on emotional vulnerability was hard-earned. On the last day, a lovely girl dressed as Marilyn Monroe with a red nose strapped to her face had to sing in gibberish. After being told that her work was la merde repeatedly, tears welled up in her big eyes.
The room grew silent. A strong sense of malaise took over. Finally a student called Gaulier out for being mean.
"Ah yeah?" Gaulier retorted. "I'm being mean? Go on, cry more then. Louder. Louder."
Marilyn began to sob loudly, unabashedly. Her mascara ran in dark black streaks down her face, comically. Everyone remained in uncomfortable silence until she was prompted to speak.
"I—I—" Marilyn gasped, struggling to break through her sobbing. "I ju-jus-just wanted to sing for you guys." The earnestness in her voice prompted a few chuckles. "I'm sorry I was bad.... I promise to do better next time." At that, the tension popped like a balloon, leaving us relieved and roaring with delight. Marilyn wanted us to love her so much that she was shamelessly sorry for being bad. In turn, we loved her back. It was an unforgettable moment.
Clown philosophy has shifted my perspective; I see masks and clowns and pretenders everywhere I look. I try to be less productive and more joyfully stupid. Weeks later, when I resumed my life of writing and internet scrolling, I stumbled upon the latest track by Elon Musk, NFT. Whether you love or hate the contentious leader, it can be hard to look away. The secret of his success may lie in his track Don’t Doubt Ur Vibe (seriously)—which is exactly what a clown does. A clown is unapologetically herself, like a child who wants to be loved. Maybe if we all let go of what people think and expect of us, we would take a little more pleasure in our lives. Maybe if we were all our true clowns—our true selves—we could quit playing roles we think we should have and make more magic. Then maybe being called a clown won’t be such a bad thing, after all.
Cyrena Lee is a writer based in Paris. Her work has been published in Whetstone Magazine, Into the Void Magazine, The Climbing Zine, Paste Magazine, Olit Magazine and others. She is also the author of A Little Bit of Lucid Dreaming.
