If you were born after, say, 1955, chances are you think clowns are scary. Whether your fear is rooted in pedophilic scandal, horror flicks, or a bad audience-participation experience, for you a bulbous red nose and size-100 shoes can turn a perfectly pleasant parade into a cavalcade of unease. “They don’t look all that friendly,” said Luverne Seifert, a good clown who lives in Minneapolis. “I mean, they have this macabre white make-up on… they’re not all that appealing.”
Lori Hurley, a good clown who lives in St. Paul and who was trained in the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, has another theory about the younger generation’s deep-seated fear. “You never see a movie with a good clown in it,” she said, citing Killer Klowns from Outer Space and Stephen King’s It as examples.
Despite the bad reputation, both clowns take their discipline seriously, describing it in almost religious terms. “Once it’s a part of you, it is used in every aspect of your life,” said Hurley. “The art of clowning is really getting in touch with a different sense of self. It’s about being fully present in life, whatever you’re doing.”
The usually coltish Seifert became earnest when he described the difficult exercise of “finding your personal clown.” It was, he said, a humiliating process he underwent with his mentor, Pierre Byland. (Byland is best known around these parts for training the folks at Theatre de la Jeune Lune in clowning.) “You have to put yourself in the shit,” said Seifert. “First you find that state of tragedy, that state of humility. The next thing you do is work on a walk. Maybe your butt sticks out a little bit—you accentuate that. Or maybe you’re pigeon-toed; you find a way to increase that.”
If that sounds terribly degrading and sad, consider this other nagging stereotype: Clowns are lonely. Given their relative scarcity, they certainly cannot hang out in squads or workgroups, each finding solace in the others’ self-deprecating foolery. Even if clowns are rare, their popularity does appear to be building, at least in some circles. A few mainstream theater companies, like Children’s Theatre Company, are incorporating more clown work into productions. In August, the population of theater clowns in the Twin Cities nearly doubled after a group of young actors returned to Minnesota after studying in Switzerland.
There are several distinct clown genres, each with its own culture and look. Although Hurley traces her roots to the greatest show on Earth, these days she makes her living as a “close-up clown” (for hire at birthday parties and other special occasions). To some, it may seem she has finally landed in “the shit” with this career move, but she does not see it that way. “I left the circus because I was missing an intimate connection with an audience,” she said. With close-up clowning “you can look into their eyes and know if you are reaching them.”
While Hurley performs wearing traditional clown garb, Seifert prefers a more individualistic approach. This has, perhaps, a more European aesthetic, where personal characteristics and flaws define each clown’s costume. Seifert sees not a lot in common between his and Hurley’s work. “For me, the circus clown tends to find a trick,” he said. “It’s not so much about the persona. It’s not so much about the character.”
Hurley laments clown-certificate programs, fast courses designed to crank out clowns for companies that provide them for birthdays, rodeos, and so forth. “That lowers the standard for the real clowns who have invested in their training.” Of course, anyone can buy a rainbow-afro wig and a water-squirting boutonniere. Are real clowns offended by uncertified imposters? Seifert does not care. Hurley said, “If they are not dishonoring the profession, I say fine. Maybe they’ll one day catch the spirit of clowning.” —Christy DeSmith
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