Theatrical Clown technique is an indisputable art form, and I am a biased insider.

Theatrical a.k.a. Personal Clown is a centuries-old performance tradition born from the tribal presence of a spiritual shaman, a community healer. The myriad clown pedagogies I’ve learned, performed, observed, and taught throughout two-plus decades each boil down to an intentional, conscious transformation of one’s “mask.” A successful stage clown surrenders their protective, everyday persona in order to mindfully wield their unique idiocy as the stronger, more transparent—therefore more foolproof—and dare I say, more magical embodiment of themself.

It’s a funny business, this particular type of mask work, with or without a red nose—the smallest known theatrical mask. To improve my rapport and honest connection with an audience, I must be willing to reveal and exaggerate my innermost essence and fallible humanity, particularly the weirdness that stokes a solid fear of rejection and social exile. The taking-off of my personal armor is a simultaneous putting-on of what’s raw and tender within me. Like a cloak of invisibility. Except I consciously remove the thing I designed as a disguise, turn it inside-out, then don it reversed to magnify that which I habitually hide. Maybe it’s a meta sleight of hand. Clown is indeed a tricky and humbling art.

In classrooms and on stages, I’ve struggled to lean into my vulnerability. The cognition of the concept is easy. Maintaining an open characterization of my insecurity is a steep demand (besides multitasking that with the omniscient presence of mind necessary for executing the art of live performance). I’d welcome and appreciate a special clown meditation app that repeats the mantra “Audiences want your authenticity!” on loop inside my subconscious every time I get spooked and start to retreat into my buttoned-up personality traits, a.k.a. defense mechanisms. Anyone else who’s attended an Aitor Basauri clown workshop would echo my assertion that the deliberate stripping of one’s shield is an arduous challenge.

Stage clowns live in a joie-de-vivre world of Opposite Day: clumsy foibles aren’t withheld or obscured, in stark disobedience to the ways we people are socially groomed. For the performance technique, I’ve trained my instinctive reflex to look up-and-out in moments of perceived social embarrassment, i.e. tripping in public. This anti-reflex resists the gravitational pull of a downward gaze, resists internalization. (After all, there’s nothing insular or psychological about Clown.) If I accidentally trip or—worse—drop my ice cream cone, I search for anyone around me with whom I can lock eyes. A nonverbal Who saw that?! to establish an honest connection and share my “whoopsie” with my witness. Through this eye contact, I can:

1. acknowledge the reality of the situation (Behold! The tragedy of my ice cream!), and
2. instantly deliver a cue—a.k.a. an offer, a.k.a. an invitation—permitting the witness to connect with me.

I revel in theatrical clown technique, yet after twenty-some years, I still fear this intense flavor of eye contact. I’m the person who positioned herself behind a music stand to avoid looking into the full-length mirror during voice lessons in college. I didn’t want anyone, especially myself, to set eyes on me while I sang and made mistakes for the sake of learning. And ohmygod, karaoke. I’m a skilled singer who has yet to overcome a paralyzing fear of karaoke because of its inherent demand for shameless showmanship. What’s more, now I recognize why my countless auditions for acting roles often resulted in epic failures and few callbacks. Unbeknownst to me then, the process of presenting myself provoked a sneaky internal distress and dissociative survival mechanisms. I have very few memories of what took place in hundreds of audition rooms.

I’ll reiterate that theatrical clown is presentational, not psychological. Stripping my emotional shield for the sake of performance is an excruciating challenge because my psyche has a fear-of-death grip on maintaining an appearance of “normality.” We humans are hardwired (plagued?) to favor acceptance and belonging over outcast exile. Gosh, perhaps I’ve been obsessed with clown technique (notably since I absorbed the musical number “Make ‘Em Laugh” as a youngster) in order to heal my Mother Wound of an early rejection. Does my life’s work orbit around that critical moment?

Informal poll! Clown performers, please comment below with your answer:

Do you grapple with your own inner growth-edge as an ultimate Battle Royale, and does your technical execution of this artistic craft force you to confront that boundary as a personal obstacle?

When I encounter my personal challenge in this bare-all technique, both onstage and off, I conjure a childlike invincibility when I’m persuaded that no one is observing or aware of me. I rest my case by citing Kel Mitchell’s “Invisible Boy” character from the 1999 film Mystery Men. (Interesting superpower there, no? Not to mention Clown Logic.) I feel much more at ease within an anonymous bubble, fully clothed. The phrase “Don’t look at me while I ____” translates to “If you don’t see me, then ____ isn’t a problem.” How else do internet trolls feel so brazen and ruthless? I suspect that some societal message misinformed us that Invisibility = Invincibility. Not so, I retort with confidence. That equation is a fallible myth, and my authority rests on extensive experience. For the sake of staying on task here, I’ll peel through those evidential onion layers in a later addendum of anecdotes.

Like my quest to conquer karaoke, I seek an answer to the final riddle of my personal/professional escape room. What is the last thread I can yank or sever to allow for my full surrender to the craft? And feel the heavy armor finally cascade and clang to the ground?

Wait, wait, wait.

Is sharing one’s authenticity—the requisite for theatrical clown—an act of surrender, or an act of unconditional giving?

Interesting to notice that American Sign Language demonstrates a clear difference between those words. “Surrender” appears as a disconnection, whereas “to give” outstretches the speaker toward the listener.

Subtextually, I’m saying “I give you what I guard” to the audience when I perform and telegraph my self-judged character flaws in a personal clown character. In other words: “I give you my vulnerability.” Even more specific: “I give you my genuine, precious truth.” And if Brené Brown’s theories prove substantiated, then baring my vulnerability is indeed one powerful move.

By the by, I’m grateful for Brown’s research repeatedly validating what’s already well-known to those of us behind the scenes (ahem, masks) of this art form.

Tangent warning: Theatrical clown is a grossly misunderstood art by U.S. audiences in particular. Lips zipped! I’ll save my soapbox of hypotheses re: why people fear clowns for yet another article.

So…

What if the art of personal authenticity propels a new movement: the art of generosity?

Art of Generosity. There’s a squeaky contradiction to our grand social system (a.k.a. capitalism). Changes the power paradigm, yes?

If I approach the work (a.k.a. my life) from a mindset of giving/gifting, my fears of rejection or theft or competition are immediately overridden. Gifts > Scarcity.

Maybe generosity is the key to how I’ll shed my shield. If it’s anything like Fred Rogers’ verb version of “love,” then generosity is an actionable perspective to practice. I must (re)frame the offer, again and again, to unabashedly share my sensitive, bruise-able truths toward this courageous objective. And remind myself that offering a gift is not about seeking or receiving the witness’ acceptance. The resulting confidence and fulfillment are self-embodied gifts unlocked only by my authenticity.