A clown’s point of view. Zona 3. Guatemala City

A clown’s point of view. Zona 3. Guatemala City. March 19th.2019.

Photos from Chocolat Exhibit in Paris 2016

I had the good fortune to be in Paris when the movie “Chocolat” came out last February (2016), which portrays the famous turn of the century clown duo Chocolat et Foottit. To celebrate the release, there was an exhibit on the duo at the Maison des Metallos. here are a few photos I snapped.

 

There is a lot written about the duo. John Townsen has a great post about them on his fabulously extensive blog, All Fall Down.

Dominique Jando also has written an excellent introduction to the Duo’s work in Circopedia..

Not as well known is the fact that Chocolat is perhaps the true father of Hospital Clowning. Although not the first circus clown to go visit children in the hospital, he  was the first to visit regularly going to the children’s ward at the hôpital Hérold in Paris twice a week for many years starting in 1908….

Chocolat at the hospital circa 2010.

 

 

 

 

 

 

©Photo M.-L. Branger. Roger-Viollet.

Musing on the nature of humor and clown

Not long ago I wrote a post on constructive versus destructive humor focusing in on if the humor was at someone’s expense or globally uplifting. This was before the whole creepy clown phenomenon exploded into the mediascape, internet waves telegraphing the concept to disparate corners of the western cultural world. I still hold faith that in some cultures, people will recognize the creepy clown simply as a creep with a mask who is too scared to show his or her real face. The media coverage is stunning, raking in front page coverage in the journals de repute.

It would be semi-OK if these cowardly acts were confined to the prankster mode that generated it in the first place. According to the history one article compiled, the first sighting of a creepy clown in the woods was a publicity stunt for a low budget horror film. Somehow that has now escalated into a stabbing in Sweden, weapons brandished in Germany, definitely not a prankster matter.

It’s not as if the clowning world didn’t have enough on it’s hands already with the new modern phobia of coulrophobia, scared of clowns. Thanks Ronald, Bozo, It….

When I quizzed a gaggle of middle school theater students, they described their fear: “we don’t know who they are” “we don’t know why they are hiding.” Yet in the annals of many a clown teacher’s notebook, one will find notes to remind the students that good clowning comes from within, not from what you put on. Clowns don’t pretend, they don’t act, they have fun, they humorize their reality, they put their audiences above them, they embrace their mistakes and failures.

In response to the creeps, a few journalists have re-explored the historical nature of clown, jesters, fools, those with permission to criticize the powerful, dating all the way back to the pharaohs. A few have ventured into a less visible yet very real world, that of the sacred clown, the wise contrarian, the disburser of crazy wisdom that keeps the community in balance, a part of indigenous communities across time found in just about every culture.

There are no lack of responses from the clown community themselves, with a number of wonderful articles reminding folks of all the great reasons clowns are vital.

I’m musing on the nature of humor, the principle tool of the trade. After all, humor is a sense that we all possess, a part of our expressive nature. Yet few of us have capacities of this nature, and, outside of a few physical theater and clown schools, where does one develop this ability? It’s not that we lack the capacity. It’s just not recognized as a significant player in the general currency of the realm.

If I were to generalize, I would suspect that most people, associate their sense of humor with the receiving dial. I would also suspect that this is because most people assume that in order to share humor, you need to say something funny. That humor is most naturally expressed non-verbally is not widely known.

I have always found it rather Funny that humor is referred to as a sense, yet it’s not in the pantheon of the five, or even of the mysterious sixth. Does that mean it’s the unspoken seventh?

Is humor a sense? some form of feeling? Has that question ever crossed your mind? Allow me to quote no greater authority than Startrek, more specifically, Saavik, the Vulcan officer in training in the second movie, Wrath of Khan,

“Humor, it is a difficult concept, it is not logical.”

Indeed humor is generally speaking, not a logical, nor a rational thing. Humor is generated by feelings and heart. My take: it’s one of the flows of energy that we channel in life; a channel on the Joy frequency spectrum, one that is deeply intimate with our Original Nature.

Could it be that our original nature offers humor as a pathway to celebration, as an appreciation, an affirmation, a joyous expression? That’s my take. Then I consider how our human nature twists that sense of humor towards fear, the whole making fun of people, the mean stand-up comics and how this also makes people laugh. In a way, bringing us full circle to the creepy clowns. Is humor a double edged sword? One that can be swung in any number of ways? Or is it that if one considers that humor is generated from joy, one needs to consider what is en-joyable. If a person finds en-joy-ment in making fun of others, in scaring others? If they find this fun, or funny how does one consider this? My first impulse is to demonize them, until my Zen master buddy Nocando reminds me: “Who are the creeps?  If they’re the guys I sit with in jail, they’re just seeking connection/attention in the broken ways that have been beaten into them.”

In the midst of my creepy clown reading, I read a piece that differentiated joy and pleasure, pointing out that pleasure is most often a self-centered happiness, whereas joy is shared happiness. Putting aside the veracity of the statement. If one applies that analogy to humor, more specifically, to the motivation of the humorist, it offers some perspective to the discussion. In the creepy scenario, it’s pretty clear what’s motivating the action hardly suggests the intention to celebrate the space we share? Rather than seeking to bring people together, it seems destined to separate them apart.

Even if one can explain the negative connotations that clown is attracting these days, how to resolve it? How to differentiate between those seeking to help bring the world into balance, and those looking to stir up chaos, between the poseurs and those embodying humor. A brain exercise I engage in frequently, looking for another word for clown, for the funny people we love to love…the world sure needs them.

Scary Clowns Take 3. Terrorist Clown Ring Arrested !!!

The Latest Headline in the Santa Monica (CA) Observer:

Terrorist Clown Ring Arrested in Alabama

Clown Fears Have Spread Across the South in Recent Weeks

Flomaton, Alabama police have taken one adult and two juveniles into custody in connection with a threat that put four local schools under lockdown, and they may be able to link the trio to some of the other malicious clown activity that has frightened communities over the last few weeks…

For more of that story here’s the Observed link.

Scary Clowns Part 2. It was all a hoax!

For those of you following the news of scary clowns in the Carolinas, you can now breathe a  collective sigh of relief as the WXII.12 news reports:

Winston-Salem police said Friday that they have determined that a report of a suspicious clown trying to lure children into the woods last weekend was false. A man was arrested on suspicion of falsely reporting another clown sighting hours later.

The first incident was reported just before 8:30 p.m. Sunday in the 1200 block of East 29th Street near Claremont Avenue and Piedmont Park. Police said in a statement they determined the report was false after conducting in-depth interviews ….

Click here for more on this, and a truly scary mugshot without make-up….

The Selk’nam Sacred Clowns

 

Could this man really represent yet another tradition of sacred clown. I’m always on the lookout for references, especially since my experience with the Hoxua at the Anjos Do Picadeiro festival in 2006. I have certainly posted plenty on the topic, and I wrote a bit about the Hoxua and how the Zen master considered sacred to mean Just Human!

This summer, I came across an article about Les Rencontres d’Arles, the big French photography summit. This article in Le Monde highlighted a dozen of the exhibitions at this 46th encounter. Scrolling to the end, I encountered this photo:

It’s from Martin Gusinde’s exhibit: L’esprit des hommes de la Terre de Feu (The spirit of the men from the Tierra del Fuego-the Southern tip of South America.) The date is 1923.

The caption reads:
“Son rôle est d’amuser les spectateurs du Hain. Cérémonie du Hain, rite Sel’knam, 1923.” (which translates to ‘His role is to amuse the spectators of the Ceremony of the Hain.)

What is that the Hain?  And why is he standing naked in snow….
Great Ohhms to  internet research, as it leads me effortlessly to another article , this one on “High Five Magazine”which is ironically all in French. (Perhaps the expression High-Five now transcends (North) American culture?)

Either way, high fives to this post. It’s a descriptive in depth look at the exhibit, and at the explorer Gusinde. Turns out he was also a priest and a photographer who lived with the Selk’man peoples for quite a time. It turns out that the Hain is an initiation ceremony of Selk’man,  where one incarnates a specific Selk’man spirit, and that the ceremony could last for weeks. Gusinde himself, having gained the trust of the Selk’man, was initiated.

What piqued my interest in the first place is that they are describing the naked man as a clown— His role is to bring humor into the ceremony! He’s taking on the role of Sacred Clown! Amazing to me to read about yet another indigenous nation where humor plays a vital role in sacred ceremony.

The search also brought me to a video about the discovery of Gusinde’s images that led to the exposition.

 

Wavy’s Room

Portugal. Call the President a Clown, maybe land in Jail !!!

In the midst of a morning news internet read.  Scanning the google alerts for the word clown leads to an article about a famous Portuguese writer, Miguel Sousa Tavares. It would seem that in an interview he said the president was a clown. This has lead to an investigation that could ultimately land the writer in jail for 3 years for offending the honor of the President of the Republic. Dang. For all the details, here is the link…
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-22663977

Wavy and a Camp Winnarainbow PIllowfight

I was looking for a birthday present for a friend yesterday, going through a box of black and white prints from my old darkroom days, and came across some I’d like to share. Here is one from Camp Winnarainbow and the traditional last morning of session pillow fight. Tradition has it that the morning wake up conch call is replaced by Jimi Hendrix playing the Star Spangled Banner blasting out from the stage’s sound system. The kids  (or adults at adult camp) come out to have a massive pillow fight. This photo, from an undetermined year, captures Wavy Gravy, standing at attention for the whole song while joyous mayhem and pillows go flying all around him.

Airport Clown Bravado 9.19.2001

I wrote the following piece after the experience I had at SFO (San Francisco International Airport) on September 19th getting ready to fly to Europe….

I pop on my clown nose as the security guard starts to pass his electronic metal detector over my body in slow methodical progressions.  He does not see the nose right away but there are chuckles coming from his coworkers at the other posts of the International departure checkpoint. The fuzzy electronic beeper goes into a bit of a frenzy around my right pants pocket and the security man, a young Philippine face gazes up to me, stands back in surprise and then smiles before diving back into his task, discovering the perpetrator, the metallic handle to the zipper on the pocket.  The fuzz tones increase breaking into orgasmic explosion as the scanner kisses the metal tab. Satisfied, the worker abandons his instrument for a brief pat down that includes my shoes, where he carefully checks the area above my foot’s arch, pushing into the leather looking for a hidden cavity.

My interior debate about whether to clown the checkpoint or not started about an hour earlier as I did my chi gung stretch ritual on the sun drenched rooftop of the parking structure, a deserted moonscape of clean curved cement.  Not one to flaunt a clown nose in public unless the situation demands it, I did not doubt that 911 terrorism tensions would demand release.  My hesitation concerned the reactions of military might, rumored to be standing by all checkpoints.  It was mostly on impulse that I pulled out the clown nose as I assumed the position for the man with the magic wand.

When the security man is satisfied that my foot is not harboring any miniature explosive devices, he dismisses me from my standing search position, I put my felt hat back on only to have it pop off as if there were hidden springs in it.  A cluster of laughter grows with a repeat of the hat manipulation.  The security crew, all of whom seem to be of some Asian Islander persuasion, are fully enjoying the moment, commenting to each other in patterned dialect.  The armed national guardsmen in full camouflage gear watch the scene without a scratch of a smile.  They maintain composure as they survey the overall scene, I could be a distraction for something more sinister, I imagine they suppose.

With the respect for security that the post-911 world requests, I appreciate their dedication to the job.  I attempt to make eye contact with several, as I reason a little bit of chuckle wouldn’t hurt them.  Not a chance -they look right through me.   My antics cause their leader to swagger some steps in my direction, and cast a few thinly veiled suspicions my way, before changing the direction of his parade amongst the four lanes of security, which seems to be a deserted, mostly abandoned highway.

Reassembling my carry-on becomes something of a clown routine as I try to repack my bag, socks and feather pillow keep falling out as I try to stuff the laptop back in.  The woman in uniform opposite me watches with more than a hint of a smile.  She asks me if I have a ukulele in the (other) case.  She knows!  She knows what kind of instrument case it is I realize.   We engage in a surrealistic conversation about ukes and such.  Turns out she is from Samoa and plays herself, telling me that she has a Kamaka uke, had a Martin too, but that it got stolen. I ask her if they play the ukulele in Samoa, “of course” she replies.  I feel blessed to be having such an exchange with this woman in her fifties, her hair dyed black, her body squeezed into the navy blue blazer with her employer’s logo insignia pretending to provide sustenance.

Walking away towards the gate, it is only at the ‘More News and More’ when I dig into my pocket for change and find none, that I realize that I have forgotten my metallic pocket items back at security; mainly two small harmonicas- one  the tiny four holed, one octave Yamaha and a slightly larger Hohner ‘Puck’.  So back to the security I go. Exercising caution as I approach the cordoned off area, I choose to ask the men with guns as to the appropriate method of walking up to the checkpoints.  Indeed a good call as they are very precise in their directedness making sure that I stay out of the cordoned area and head to a security podium on the outer edge.

The supervisor of the screeners and checkers is very friendly and immediately knows what I want, as she offers me my tray of metal. She then comments on my harmonicas, putting in a request that I play them some music.  So after the handover I put the ‘Puck’ to my mouth and start playing an upscale jovial waltz.  Everyone at the checkpoint, even the soldiers seem to appreciate the music, one of the guardsman even putting his hands together to clap to the music for a moment until some inner voice suggests that might be inappropriate.  His smile does not disappear asnd beckons me to come over with an undulating finger. He asks me, in an accent definitely from some Southern part of the country, if I can play ‘Oh Susana’.  I smile and nod, leaving the area playing the tune.  I glance towards the military men, and the one who asked for the song is dancing a modest barely perceptible jig as his cohort is lightly clapping hands. It only lasts 10 seconds before an awareness of decorum brings them back to sobriety. Still I smile.

As I walk down the open marbled corridor towards the gates, pushing a baggage cart amongst more conventional travelers, I feel a little awkward playing.   Oh Susana somehow transforms back into the waltz and then I decide that perhaps that is enough music, returning the space to its airiness.

I believe that I have returned to the land of anonymity but a moment later an airport man with earplugs dangling coming the other way complements my harmonica playing, in a thick Hispanic accent.

Perhaps it is time to reexamine just what are the tools for the modern traveler.