The Creation of a Clown Versus the Coming of One (2/3)
A little more about how Olivia the Clown came to be...
There I was, in clown school, dreaming on an idea for a clown named Chartreuse.
She hadn’t come out to say hello in the real world, just lived as an amalgamation of ideas, swimming around in my dreamscapes.
I had been fervently studying the art of clown for nine months and thinking about her for about as long. I always felt that I needed more study, more prep, more practice; before giving her life. Like how pregnant mothers aim to learn Lamaze before they give birth, I wanted to properly learn how to breathe this clown into being before giving it a real go.
I knew I was a clown, in my heart of hearts, even as Julia, but I had not externalized this quality into a clown character that I would introduce as such. With all my dedication to the craft, I had yet to know what that length of it felt like. So, I kept accumulating education from the greats and getting stage reps in where I could find ‘em. I figured I’d feel the moment was right when it was right.
I wouldn’t be forcing “Chartreuse” out into the spotlight until she was ready on her own.
I never believed in just snapping one’s fingers and willing something to happen or exist. I believed in finding fate. This is why I never searched the web for a clown class while seeking the trailhead to my clown path.
I knew that by living in alignment with my dreams and values, I’d meet the right people to point me in the right direction.
Instead of throwing myself into a Google search to pick through scams and over-opinionated salespeople, I looked to the universe for clues to lead me there. It took some years, but I found it.
Similarly, I patiently looked for clues about my clown's identity rather than wholly deciding on her. All while loosely having fun creating the idea of one in my mind’s eye. As it went, I let my writer’s brain toss and turn on this idea of a clown while I trained my body and mind to allow the spirit of clown to come through my being.
I didn’t know how Chartreuse would sound or be, but it was eclectic, and the process was heady. Like the drink, 130 ingredients. No one person quite knows the recipe, but many hands have been involved (the audience as the author).
She would definitely be wearing many tones of green.
It was Saturday night and a palpable buzz of excitement vibrated from our embodied little group of performers. Tomorrow, the petite streets of Blue Lake, California, where our motley crew of clown students were briefly taking up residence, would be filled with the celebration of the Annie and Mary Day parade.
Att: Students–Report to the Oddfellows Hall at 10 AM. Parade starts at 11.
A holiday! A playful break from our rigorous work to put that work into action! To parade for and celebrate with the town! A town that had been so incredibly kind, welcoming, and inspiring.
Getting home, full of a quiet glee, I scrambled up the steps in our shared little hostel. How I cherished the sounds of my friends giggling in the kitchen below, as we settled in from a night out exploring a nearby town. From upstairs, I could hear the space beginning to fill with the clatter of friendly clowns dropping by for a hello. I released the two bags of bought goodies I’d been carrying onto my bedroom floor, and got to work getting on my new favorite dress to show off to those who’d missed it in the shop.
I marched back down and gave her a twirl. Applause! Cheers! How darling! TJ was opening something on the dining table he’d scooped up at the post. His sweet, lively self began to make their way around the room, delightedly gifting each person a foam red nose to use if they’d like to on the morrow in the parade. The commotion was a joy. Our dingy shared kitchen, full of boisterous play. He snuck around to me and popped on my very first nose. Our eyes connected, crinkling in delight.
Just then, the door to the street outside opened. Belle stood aglow in the doorway, a full-bodied beauty with hair as golden as wheat fields at noon on a bright May day. Belle is the most pure beauty I’ve ever known, inside and out. Her existence is that of a drop of sunlight who just decided to roll right on off one of those bright, illuminating rays one day and walk about with us here on Earth for a time.
I looked up at her in the doorway, joy in the polka-dots of my dress and wonder in my new nose, and she let out a laugh that would signal the very birth of my clown.
In the lore of Peter Pan, it is said that the birth of a pixie comes from a baby’s first laugh. Every person has a pixie–Tink, belonging to Peter. Etc. My clown is Belle’s pixie. As her infectious laugh snuggled into our kitchen walls, my heart was in my nose, and little did I know but Olivia was being born right then and there.
The world sparkled different, forevermore.
You can devise and prepare all you want, but your true clown is your true clown, and it is not someone who can be decided upon. It is simply you in your most authentic, playful, naive, curious state.
Chartreuse would ultimately never see the light of day because she is an idea. A bit of writing. A character. But one’s clown is not a character and cannot, at the core, be a bit of writing. I could write for my clown, but I could not write my clown. I mean, I could. We can do anything. But what I mean to suggest is that the spirit of one’s true inner clown is not a concoction but a revealing.
Read part one of this story here & stay tuned for next week’s part three of this three-part tale of how Olivia the Clown came to be.
Happy International Clown Week!
Xoxo,
Julia
Happy clown week to you, too!