The artist and his clown

Since Jean’s clown has developed through many Calentures, then ventured into foreign lands (the land of the classics actually), now is probably the time to glance back at him, at them, at the way it all began for them, at the way it does begin for each new show, for each new performance.

Here are a few thoughts, a few questions that I bear in mind while preparing this show, and which may be useful to get an idea of Swamps Clown poetical landscape.

In this peculiar specular show where Jean is turning into his clown while telling us how he became a clown, the issue of the origins logically pops out first: where does this clown come from ? How did he first appear?

Here is Jacques Lecoq’s famous account about the way he discovered one must discover his own clown: “One day I asked my students to form a circle (remembrances of the circus ring) and to make us laugh. One after the other, they tried tomfooleries, somersaults, ever more whimsical word plays, but to no avail! The result was disastrous. We had a lump in our throat, felt dread into our plexus: it was turning into something tragic. When they acknowledged their failure, they stopped improvising and went back to sit down, aggrieved, distressed, embarrassed. A that moment, seeing them so fragile, everybody burst into laughter, not about the characters they intended to show us but about the actual individuals thus exposed. We had discovered something! A clown cannot exist independently from the performer. All of us are clowns: we believe we are beautiful, bright and strong, whereas we all carry our share of weaknesses, of ridiculousness which, when expressed, produce laughter.” (1)

There is no reason to doubt this account, nor to question its pedagogical function, but I believe that this text, and the path it suggests, overlooks the nature of great clowns. In their case, I think that the bond between the artist and the clown is more intricate. Each one of us might well “find his own clown”, but one’s clown cannot always come down to oneself, to the “exposed actual individual”, to “our share of weaknesses, of ridiculousness”. Great clowns are more than that. In the case of a common man, of a common actor, exploring one’s own clown might well just unleash a buried creative force (and, in other contexts, eventually cause therapeutic effects), but great clowns reach far more obscure dimensions and the show will have to deal with them.

Let’s dig deeper.

Here is another recollection, from Chaplin’s autobiography. Producer Mack Sennett had asked him to find some make-up to shoot a comedy scene. “I had no idea what makeup to put on. [...] However, on the way to the wardrobe, I thought I would dress in baggy pants, big shoes, a cane, and a derby hat. I wanted everything a contradiction: the pants baggy, the coat tight; the hat small, and the shoes large. I was undecided whether to look old or young, but remembering Sennett had expected me to be a much older man, I added a small mustache, which, I reasoned, would add age without hiding my expression. I had no idea of the character. But the moment I was dressed, the clothes and the makeup made me feel the person he was. I began to know him, and by the time I walked on to the stage he was fully born.” (2)

Jean is unquestionably linked to this tradition. Now this kind of founding story fundamentally questions Lecoq’s famous idea that “a clown cannot exist independently from the performer”. First of all, neither did Chaplin nor Jean discover their clown deep down into themselves: their clown just came out, just came out to them. As a matter of fact, when Jean becomes his clown, he does not really perform: he is haunted by his clown. Here is a proof: Jean is haunted by his clown when he performs Lucky or Richard. Let’s not confuse the bond between an actor and a character (or between a clown and a character) with the bond between the artist and his clown! When an actor pretends he is Hamlet pretending he is mad, the two layers of performance are identical in nature. When a clown performs a character (Jean’s Lucky or Richard, Chaplin’s Fuhrer (3)), they resort to two totally irreducible processes.

Furthermore, if we admit that Chaplin and Jean have actually been haunted by their clown as soon as they put on the clothes of their clown, may we really state that their clown cannot exist independently from them? Shouldn’t we rather consider this as some sort of possession (grounding the meaning of this word on that particular experience)? For Chaplin or Jean, the clown cannot come down to an intimate and ludicrous part of them, nor can the actor perform the clown: Charlot seizes Chaplin when he puts on his costume, as well as Jean’s clown seizes him when he puts on his pajama.

Nevertheless, and that is the dramatic core of Swamps Clown, this seizure is not immediate. Let's not overlook makeup, this slow and meticulous transformation of the skin, of the carnal envelop, through which, most probably, the clown finds its way into the artist. This process shall take place on stage: it will be a major driving force throughout the performance. Hence a new dimension, since the script and the show will try to seize the seizure… then surrender to it on stage (which is why this show is a performance rather than a regular play: I will develop that just below).

The semi-wise man might pretend this is all hysteria, if not swindle – as he does regarding mystical experience or poetical inspiration. In the realms of logos, possession has a poor reputation. Other cultures probably allow a better understanding of what is at stake here, of what will unfold on stage during this Calenture as it does during many performance practices seemingly alien to clowning. Using my own vocabulary, I would say that, if a clown cannot be reduced to the artist hosting him, one may consider taming as a good way to conceptualize the bond between the artist and his clown. This ghostly presence which seizes him could then be apprehended as something wild, which would both be indomitable by nature and partially domesticable, since the dressing room rituals would manage to summon it but never to master it – something shamanic in a way, where artistic creation requires a total surrender, a void hosting of alterity, a journey, that would produce short-circuits, flashes, gripping ellipses, which are typical of great clowns laughter and poetry.

Poetizing that, finding the proper words, gestures and magic to evoke and provoke this bewitchment, such is the topic, the stake, the poetical landscape of Swamps Clown.

Marc Goldberg, Singapore, March 2016