Harriet Alida Lye and participants at Catherine Cédilot’s 'Seeing and Being Seen' clown workshop, in April.Photography by Shelby Fenlon/The Globe and Mail
Clown school is in a cold church basement near Metro Jarry in Montreal. There’s electrical tape on the black vinyl floor, and black velvet curtains held together with bull-dog clips. The instructor, Catherine Cédilot, has titled the workshop “Seeing and Being Seen.” There are 11 of us, ranging in age from 30 to 70, from all across North America. Many are real-life professional clowns – including one who trained with legendary Canadian clown Richard Pochinko, who once said “the clown is the space between the lightning and the thunder.”
My partner and two kids dropped me off that morning after a family weekend at the clown festival. I tell my daughter, who cries every day at kindergarten drop-off, that I’m nervous.
Harriet Alida Lye on narcissism, mother-daughter bonds and growing up
“Why, mama?”
I don’t know how to explain, not really, and not in a way that would make sense for her. I’m not sure I even know myself. But I tell her I’m worried I won’t make any friends, because this feels relatable for her.
“Don’t worry mama,” she says, “You’ll make friends.”
When my family leaves, beginning the drive back home to Toronto, I realize: this is my first time being alone in two years.
I had signed up for clown school as an experiment, a test. I did clown in high school and something opened up in me: it felt like a nerve, suddenly exposed. I haven’t performed in 20 years. My third novel, Motherclown, which will be published by McClelland & Stewart on June 2, is largely about a young woman’s journey to self-discovery at a prestigious physical theatre school in Paris, which everyone calls “clown school.” Elise, one of the two protagonists, comes up against the prejudices of the program and justifies herself constantly. “It’s not clown-clown,” she tells her mother, the other main character, defensively.
Workshop leader Catherine Cédilot, Harriet Alida Lye, and participants watch Niko Ikami perform.
To write the novel, I’ve spent the past few years immersed in all things clown, but as my book is about to hit the shelves, it felt important to revisit that deep, weird, inchoate thing inside of me: my clown. So I enrolled in a two-day atelier at Montreal’s Clown Festival in April.
Cédilot starts the day with some warm-up exercises that feel familiar; they’re about developing the awareness of our bodies in space. I can tell I’m not the only one who is nervous, but I begin to relax simply because I’m enjoying watching everyone.
My introduction to clowns was at Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children, where, at 15, I was diagnosed with a never-before-seen variant of leukemia. I lived there for nine months. There was a therapy clown called Posy, who wore a lilac wig and had a painted red nose. She didn’t do a formal show or anything; she sat with kids in their rooms if they wanted a visit. I remember having the expectation that a clown would be there to be funny, and at 15 years old, I was pleasantly surprised that that wasn’t Posy’s goal. She was just a gentle, open presence, and there was a real lack of performance – from her, as well as me.
Workshop participants discuss everyone’s interpretation of 'The History of the World, delivered in 3 minutes.'
When I recovered and went back to school – a performing arts school in Unionville where I majored in drama – I’d missed the semester on clown. Because it was a foundation for all that followed, my teacher and teaching assistant did a private clown session with me. The room was dark; there were floor-to-ceiling mirrors along one wall, and black velvet curtains around the other three. I remember the way my body moved – light on my feet, heavy in my head – and the way I felt; I remember the questions they asked me and how the words that came out of my mouth no longer felt like my own. Suddenly, it wasn’t me who was responding; it wasn’t even my own voice. I sounded smaller, lighter.
“Yes,” they said, and I could hear the excitement. “That’s it. There you are.”
There she was: me, my clown. But my clown was so sad! And I couldn’t help it! She was terrified of being seen, but she had to perform, because that’s what clowns have to do. She had to pretend to be happy, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. I felt protected in that space, but also – well, I felt so sad.
Clowns are frequently sad; they certainly aren’t as unequivocally happy as people often imagine. The most ancient clowns we know of date back to Egypt in 2400 BC, where the roles of priest and clown were interchangeable – they both met the same vital human need. Long before there were circus clowns, there was a ubiquitous presence of characters typifying the jester and the fool across non-Western and Indigenous cultures.
Casey Galligan performing at the workshop.
Quebec is the home of the National Circus School (founded in 1981), Cirque du Soleil (founded in 1984) and the Montreal Clown Festival, too, which has more than tripled in size since its founding in 2016. The popularity here might be partly attributed to the province’s deep cultural ties to France, a country which has a strong tradition of clowning and physical theatre tied to 16th century Italian Commedia dell’arte. It might also be connected to the fact that, as the only French-speaking province in our country, a style of performance that doesn’t rely on language makes it easier to cross borders.
Whatever the reason, it’s not just Quebec: Clowning is everywhere in the culture at the moment, but the general representations are flattened. “Clowncore” aesthetic is trending in fashion, and Gen Z deploys the clown as a symbol of political and institutional failure. To call someone a clown is seen as an insult. But this version of the clown – nihilistic, sarcastic, prioritizing absurdity over connection – misses what the tradition is actually about: vulnerability and radical sincerity. The jester is the only one allowed to make fun of the King.
Coulrophobia is the fear of clowns, and some of them are genuinely terrifying. Pennywise, John Wayne Gacy’s Pogo, even Krusty the Clown – I wouldn’t want to hang out with any of them. But this isn’t what I think of when I think of a clown: For me, these are versions of the “bouffon,” just one character in clowning, meant to bring out the basest, most vulgar instincts in people in order to create a kind of release.
Vanessa Rigaux, the artistic and general director of the Montreal Clown Festival.
Vanessa Rigaux is the founding director of the Montreal Clown Festival. I ask her whether she encounters these prejudices about clowns, and if so, how she handles them. “Of course,” she says. “And with persistence. I find it ironic that clown is all about having an open heart, and yet people can have such limiting ideas of what a clown is.”
In the afternoon of the first day of the workshop, Cédilot tells us: “Now, you will present your clowns. You don’t have to do anything, you just have to be. Think only about the pleasure of seeing, and being seen.”
We are supposed to go behind a curtain, find a hat that feels right for our clown, take a red nose and then knock on a wooden box before we pull back the curtain and come out onto the stage.
“The red nose is the smallest mask in the world,” Cédilot says. “It does not obscure, it reveals – it reveals who you are.”
I have to present my clown to the class?
“There is no winning, and there is no failure,” Cédilot says, by means of assurance and instruction. “There is just the experience. There’s no need to try to control your experience – if you do, it will not be real. Be simple.”
What if my clown isn’t there any more?! What if I want a new one! Then, I suddenly know where my nerves are coming from: not only is it terrifying to be vulnerable in front of people, but my teenage clown was so sad, and I’m worried she will still be so sad. I wonder if the red nose will be a portal, rewinding me twenty-three years to when I was living in the shadow of leukemia. Is that clown still the one inside of me?
Harriet Alida Lye's upcoming book is largely about a young woman’s journey to self-discovery at a prestigious physical theatre school in Paris.
My turn to present comes later, though, and in the meantime, it turns out that I love seeing and being seen by the other clowns. I have surprisingly deep connections with people I’ve only met a few hours ago; I am moved to tears as we stare and stare and stare at each other. Each of us, wordlessly, knows what to do, and it’s different each time. Sometimes we hug and nuzzle and play with each other’s hands; sometimes we just stay still, not breaking eye contact. I am absorbed in the pleasure of each person’s presence. I think of Posy.
Some of the real-life professional clowns, when it’s their turn, are told to let go of their performance; they’re trying to be funny, and it’s getting in the way of connection. “Keep it simple,” Cédilot says to them. “Let the other person in.”
When my turn arrives, I come out onto the stage wearing the red nose and a fur hat the same colour as my hair, feeling this ancient, primal sadness, but as soon as I see the people sitting in a semi-circle in front of me, I feel my posture change. I want to go and see them; I feel drawn to them, excited. I feel goofy, childlike.
Her book, 'Motherclown,' will be published on June 2.
The time goes quickly. Afterwards, Cédilot tells me I was “simple.” I know this is a compliment. She says every clown has many facets: “It’s a never-ending unfolding sheet of giant paper.” Sadness is mixed with joy, which is mixed with everything else.
On the walk to the metro, I call home, buoyant.
My daughter grabs the phone immediately. “Mama! Did you make any friends?”
Oh! She’s been thinking about this all along! My heart breaks open. I think about it. I felt befriended by all these strangers as I watched them, and then, as they watched me. I smile, and tell her “Yes, I made so many friends.”
The second day, we have to get our clowns to explain the world in three minutes. Everyone interprets this in different ways. I love them all. While at clown school, I’m staying at the writer Heather O’Neill’s apartment; the first night, as I was thinking about my homework, I was drawn to two sweet little dolls on a shelf. I asked her if it was all right to borrow them for my performance, and she said yes. On the stage, I play with the dolls as if they’re my children, and introduce them to all my new friends. When it’s time for me to get off the stage, I have to leave them there, in the world. I cry as I go behind the curtain.
Afterwards, Cédilot tells me I am a “classic Pierrot:” melancholic, pure, tender and nostalgic. I feel struck. This part of me is so deep, and it feels terrifying and exhilarating, cathartic and beautiful, to be seen.
Clowning is often called “the art of failure,” but after the workshop, and seeing so many brilliant clown shows during the festival, this doesn’t feel accurate. Rather than being about failing, it seems more about learning how to sit with the feeling when things don’t go your way and reacting to that with authenticity and curiosity, rather than frustration or shame.
Carmen Aguilar y Wedge at the workshop.
I ask Rigaux, of the Montreal Clown Festival, what she makes of this idea. Her eyes widen behind her gold-rimmed glasses. “I think that’s a really interesting instinct, and the idea of failure might be tied to the more old-fashioned, elitist teachings from – I hate to say it – old white men, which were about breaking students down.”
When I get back home, my kids run into my arms.
“Show us your clown moves!” my son says.
I don’t have any moves, though. I just play with them. We build structures out of Magna-tiles, and then we crush them. We do this over and over.
Some people say that your clown is your inner child. I wonder about actual children, then. Are they natural clowns? The more I think about it, the more it seems to be true. Childhood is a place where the only thing that exists is the present moment; inner desires and emotions are communicated fluidly, and for a long time, non-verbally. In clowning, accomplishments are exaggerated, and they can be quite banal accomplishments in the first place, but we celebrate them, just as we celebrate the failures.
I celebrate the successes and failures of my children all of the time. “You built the tower! Oh no, it broke!” Everything is important, but nothing is serious. And every part of it feels, whether funny or tragic, authentic.
We all have clowns inside of us. If you think you don’t have one, find one. Open your heart. Let the world in.