Olivia Finds Her Name (3/3)

Part 3 of the tale of how Olivia came to be

Aug 20, 2023

Rainy Day Clown was the plan.

I found a wild pair of rain boots at the thrift store. They were covered in monochromatic, female-driven comic strips that dripped emotion, a la Lichtenstein.
All in blue.

I had a lot of pout to put forward. In life, in general. Pout I didn’t preferably bring into contact with my play. However, through consistent feedback in response to my wide variety of offerings to clown classes back in LA, it would seem that people very much rooted for my stage presence when I got big and mad.

I usually denied giving them that, though, as much as my teachers would vie for it.

I just personally didn’t have very much fun with that direction. Infact I profoundly resented it. I presume they loved it because it felt edgy and bold, vulnerable and daring. A LOUD LADY WHAAAT! AND SHE’S TINYYY!!!?! But it didn’t feel that way in the slightest–edgy or bold–from my performer’s perspective. For that is how I came forth in much of my real life. Aggressive. My at-home norm was angry and cutthroat. There was no real risk for me embodying “angry.” & my interest in clown had much to do with risk! Alas, they didn’t know me and perhaps thought it was particularly liberating for me to do, and thus watch.

I can only imagine…

But, here in Blue Lake, we weren’t learning via negativa, and no one was giving me any such direction. So, I felt much more available to explore it! Then, I found the boots. I got to thinking, perhaps Rainy Day Clown would be the perfect exploration for the Annie and Mary Day parade! From all my feedback in LA, we can predict that a small persona with loud tangents would work well just about anywhere. TJ was playing at being Safety Clown, and I loved the straightforward name and motivation he adopted. He gave me my first red nose the previous night…even let me borrow a make-up palette (Safety Clown came very prepared, of course).
I was off to the races.

It came together with a very perspicuous, blue, artsy, somewhat carebear aesthetic.

Geared up to go, I took three steps out of my room at the shared hostel I kept during my Summer at Dell’Arte International.

clomp / clomp / clomp

It all felt wrong.

Boring.
Malade.
Uninspired.

Not interesting or truthful or fun. The forced clunk of the boots and the absurdity of playing at being an emotional child was a put-on I wasn’t enjoying putting on. So, I turned back around and wiped it all off.

Sitting on the floor, centering into my being with all of my heart, I took a breath and began again. I slipped on the red dress I had found for me, Julia, at the thrift store. I dipped back into the makeup, letting something intrinsic move my hand to make the shapes. Something in tandem with thought. Choices were woven with a flow braided by both inside and outside myself. I slipped on my red nose, I turned and faced the mirror, and I saw her for the first time.

My clown.

Clear as day. 20s vibes, enamored with it all. Surprised and in love with just about everything. That was my risk! That was my true vulnerability. Love. Affection. Caring. I left the room and crept downstairs to join the party gathering in the kitchen.

Safety Clown had a hoot. His genuine astonishment with how well my clown makeup came together was flattering in a way that made it seem like I’d been doing this forever. Or should’ve been. Which is how it felt. Every step I deliberately took forward with clowning felt like I was walking the path I was meant to.

Henry the Clown joined us, a helpless romantic, dapper and darling, poetry springing from his green eyes. James the Clown showboated their physicality, a sailor and a sprite. Keki’s clown threw a tantrum in the hall, barrelling with their emotions out into the street, where Abby’s clown wandered in the shape of a curious snake, eyes and stance wide with electric presence.

Stephen and Belle’s natural cool-kid energy frothing into cool-kid clowns

My clown had taken on a language of her own, filled with non-verbal sounds and an alphabet of physical responses stringing together communications that were being read by my peers clear as day. It was all so natural; not a single over-thought went into it. She did say one thing outright. When asked by the organizers of the parade what her name was, she looked to her sweetheart, James the Clown, and it popped into her present and came out in a whisper, “Olivia.”

“It’s OLIVIA!” James announced. Cheering for her, they spun around together in glee and danced through the streets with a crowd of puppeteers and clowns and persons.

And so, it was.

The Skinless Grape

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