By Anna Pulley
By Erin Sherbert
By Chris Roberts
By Erin Sherbert
By Rachel Swan
By Joe Eskenazi
By Erin Sherbert
By Erin Sherbert
Bringing in the Clowns
Huge baggy pants striped in vibrant primary hues. Squeaky, oversized shoes. Short, broad polka-dotted ties. Shocks of electric-orange hair. Bulbous noses. That tiny car. That gigantic foam pistol. That permanent Crayola-red grin.
Even as the somber-hued Tramp, clowns are not neutral, as a subject. Adults, and children alike, rejoice or recoil from clowning, as their personalities and experience dictate. Even on the rare occasion a non-clown can remain impassive in the face of a clown, the impartial reaction is highly suspect. Happy or sad, clowns are painted in broad strokes that provoke like-sized emotions, and everyone has an opinion.
"Clowns are wonderful," coos Mira James, a 23-year-old horticulturist whose Saturday night duds are a cross-pollination of latex, stripes, and floral prints that tread a provocative line between clown and har-lot. "All that color, the pockets, the balloons, the smell of greasepaint. Of course rodeo clowns hold a special place in my heart -- I'm from Texas -- but any ol' clown will do."
Just four barstools down, it's a decidedly different story.
"I fucking hate clowns," says 29-year-old Jocelyn Mateo. "The smell of that makeup makes me break out in hives -- well, not really, but I really, really do not like clowns." Mateo's three male companions agree wholeheartedly.
"Clowns are creepy, man," says Ed Ghaney. "You ever read It[by Stephen King]? Or see Poltergeist? Shit, I was about 7, had to throw out all my wind-up [clown] toys after that flick. What about John Wayne Gacy, huh? There's a clown for you."
"I don't remember how old I was," recalls Mateo, "maybe 2 or 3. We were down at some tourist spot like Fisherman's Wharf, and my mother shoved me in the hands of this guy with a white face and bloodshot eyes and a big smeared smile and one of those ruffly collars that kept sticking me in the neck. I was freaked out, but kind of frozen, and my mother was just taking pictures. It sucked."
Coulrophobia is the psychological term applied to a fear of clowns. There are a few Web sites and a couple of chat rooms where folks commiserate about their clown phobias. Most postings are tongue-and-cheek diatribes about teeny-tiny umbrellas and giant bow ties, but some are, like Mateo's, genuine recollections of agonizing childhood birthday parties, overstimulating circus experiences, and overanxious parents whose desire for a Kodak moment left more than pictures behind; mostly, the posts relate a vague but potent unease caused by the permanent face-paint smile.
"You just don't really know what they're thinking under all that stuff, do you?" asks Ghaney, suddenly becoming very thoughtful. "I mean, even as a kid, you can tell they're not really smiling. It's that fucked-up duality that freaks you out."
Duality is certainly part of clown lore. According to clown historian Bruce "Charlie" Johnson, in early Chinese, British, and Aztec courts it was the duty of jesters to humor and satirize royalty; they could and would say things normally punishable by death. In many North American Indian tribes, the clown character was said to be able to cure certain diseases, even while acting the buffoon. The Auguste Clown, a style which uses very little face makeup, evolved out of the early Shakespeare Clown, which was considered indispensable to high theater during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. During the Civil War, popular Character Clowns like Dan Rice commented humorously on current events, and politicians found it to their advantage to be seen riding in circus parades. The original Tramp character emerged after the Civil War to convey the plight of homeless African-Americans, and Tramp clown Bert Williams was among the first to break down the barriers of segregation in vaudeville shows. In the early 1800s, a deaf-mute sailor was said to be cured while watching Joseph Grimaldi perform; Grimaldi is considered the "Father of Modern Clowning" for elevating the Whiteface Clown to a starring role, where it replaced the pinched-lipped Harlequin.
Clowning, like most good comedy, is funny because it makes us laugh at the uncomfortable things within the human experience -- the awkward, graceless, sometimes gross aspects of our nature -- and, in the most sublime clowns, an acute sensitivity to the discomforting aspect of the genre seems to play just beneath the surface of the face paint.
"The thing that most distinguishes clowns is our heart," says Mary Nagler, the sixth female clown to be accepted in the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College, and a Santa Rosa resident who has been clowning for 29 years. "Sometimes the easiest way to cheer yourself up is to make someone else laugh."
Nagler stands in an upper balcony of the Clarion Hotel, where 350 clowns have gathered for the Clowns of America International convention; she is dressed as the sunny-eyed Hoopla, wearing a 4-H costume that appears to ride a very large, highly animate, prize-winning chicken. The "walk-around" costume, with its huge expressive eyes, moving head, and flapping wings, took Nagler three months to assemble for this year's Paradeability competition. Other clowns from Nagler's group pass by on equally intricate fowl: a pelican, a parrot, a dodo bird, a duck, a hummingbird, a hornbill, and a stork. They mingle under a Golden Gate Bridge constructed of balloons, bumping tail feathers, as a throng of Tramp, Whiteface, Auguste, and Character clowns in a kaleidoscopic array of sizes, shapes, designs, and colors greets them. Barrel laughs and cartoon voices bounce through the halls; unicycles lean in corners of the foyer; crepe-paper flowers and confetti flutter to the floor; there are balloon animals galore. It's not even 9 a.m. Clowns not competing today sit in the banquet hall, wearing everyday clothes. There are clown "alleys" from all over the world represented. (Alleys are regional clubs named for the unenclosed area, left between rows of dressing rooms, where clowns are expected to change in most circuses.) Voices fade in and out of character and accent, discussing the week.