The Extraordinary Teaching of Clowns - a Circus Memoir

MESSAGE TO THE READER

Before getting started, I would like to apologize for, if at any point, I misquote or demonstrate a misunderstanding of any of the slinky concepts portrayed by the characters in this book.  These characters include three major arcana clowns referred to as; the Clown, Goji, and the Great Penda, and numerous minor arcana clowns, including, but not limited to; my mother, father, sister, P.O.D., H.M.P.C. K.K., M.O.B., my nemesis, the professor, all doctors, nurses and lawyers, the chickens, the goose, the Baroness, my writing coach Gay, as well as anyone else who may feel swept up in my story; which may even include the narrator, Sandra, myself, which means I would have completely misunderstood the personal expression of my own life, and in doing, rooted the actual birth and existence of this book in perfect failure. To all those concerned, I would like to say, "I am sorry", but in my defence, "this shit is a piece of art."

Chapter One: The Greatest Show on Earth

My journey with Cirque du Soleil, started in 1993. So much has changed since then. Mega facilities are impeccably outfitted with customized everything, and administrators and managers outnumber the artists ten to one. In the early years, artists ruled. Surroundings were shabby and bohemian, rather than clean and corporate. The feeling of bright lights and imminent success, permeated the building, but it was still some years from becoming the recognizable brand of entertainment it is today.

My choice to leave University, and my home on the west coast of Canada, to join a vaguely "heard something about that" circus in Quebec, appeared random and misguided. My decision drew blank looks and pregnant pauses. I caused dramatic shifts in conversation, and a lingering sense of disappointment. People encouraged me not to throw my life away, but running away to join the circus felt strangely natural.

When I arrived in Montreal, I settled into a studio apartment downtown in a building that would   become home to artists arriving from all over the world.  Training took place in an old warehouse in an industrial part of town. Nothing glamorous, just a dark brown building, surrounded by a gravel parking lot, and a chain link fence.  A huge box without distinction.  I heard the previous tenant distributed paper products, and used the building to store the largest supply toilet paper in the city.

Spring was on its way.  The snow came and went, and came and went, freezing and thawing, digging deeper and deeper pot holes in the already junky looking gravel lot. By April it was an elaborate obstacle course. Artists walked from the bus stop, passing through the chain link fence, leaping, long jumping, and side somersaulting through the maze of muddy holes. We were a tactile bunch, checking out our surroundings as if every structure was a playground apparatus needing to be explored.

Each morning we gathered in the Atwater Metro station for the 45-minute commute across Montreal. Steele bars and passenger loops hung from above, providing constant temptation during the tedious travel to and from rehearsals. The Metro car became a kind of living room without privacy, a place where acrobats and artists chipped away at language barriers, that otherwise separated us into groups of Polish, Portuguese, Italian, and Chinese. We talked shop, and sized each other up, or, we rested, dozing off so that our heads bobbed and blended in with the rest of the bobbing head commuters.

Eventually, random acts of circus began to erupt. Tony was often the instigator. Tony was the only cast member to come from a traditional European circus family, a fifth generation equilibriste, or hand balancing artist. He was a daredevil, clown style of performer, rather than pure athlete. Tony could do a handstand anywhere. Balcony railings 30 stories off the ground in high winds? No problem. The exterior of a gondola car ascending the French Alps? Piece of cake.

Handstands were the building blocks of the circus. We were all turned upside down so the truth fell from our pockets like loose change. As much as Tony could draw attention to himself with his old fashioned "step right up, folks" street performing techniques, he could also do the opposite, discreetly walking through crowds on his hands, so normal and nonchalant, no one even noticed. He hypnotized crowds with a kind of anti-performance, allowing him to execute his random acts of circus in conspicuous public places.

Tony took hold of a vertical pole in the subway car. He placed his hands in a wide V, and slowly transported his body to a flag position; smooth, seamless and subtle. It helped that Tony was short, 5'2" or so, and could hold a flag position out to the side without trembling. Commuters minded their business, reading their papers while Tony held a straight position on the pole at a perfect 90-degree angle. The show began when he loosened up his body, bouncing and shaking, as if to exaggerate every real-time bump in the ride. One by one, commuters turned their heads to look at the impossibly cartoon-like character supporting his body weight in mid-air, animating a kind of imaginary electrocution. The whole train burst into laughter. Everything about Tony was old school, including his humor. Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Tom and Jerry; everything he did came with a similar sense of simplicity and endearing innocence. With a gentle kick through his core, he released the pole and landed like a cat to receive the remaining laughter and applause. From the end of his impromptu performance, until the next stop where we got off the train, Tony's mask was off. No longer was he the inconspicuous guy in sloppy clothes and a bad haircut, he was clearly a man who spent the majority of his life bare chested, in sparkling turquoise tights, and proud as a peacock to strut his machismo in hand-painted leather booties.  

A few rows back in the subway, the bass player sat like any other rebellious street kid wearing thick black eyeliner and a retro, Adam Ant haircut. His brand of androgyny, namely his pearl necklaces and dark nail polish, were way ahead of their time. He anticipated of an age of cell phones where anyone could produce and distribute their own original content. He carried gadgets and sampled sounds of the underground world of commuters, then looped them into gritty soundscapes laced with his own voice overs, telling stories of love and beauty.

Many artists were accustomed to living on the fringes of society. Our moments on the metro were special. We grew in number to become an unexpected majority, nearly filling an entire subway car. Our upside down world, normally secretive and hidden, became stronger and more secure. Carefully we began to revealed our inner worlds. On a late night trip to the 24-hour grocery store I saw Pat, a juggler, standing in the canned food aisle balancing a container of tuna on the side of his head. Juggling was a pastime that traveled easily, and for Pat, it was a way of coping with growing up in a military family that moved, military base to military base. Pat feared being teased on his first day at a new school, and first days at a new school were all too frequent. He worried he would be singled out as scrawny, so he taught himself about nutrition. He understood the body's need for protein and became disciplined in the preparation of three balanced meals a day. He paid no attention to flavour, only nutritional requirements, pouring large portions of canned tuna and canned black beans into a bowl. No heat, nor seasonings required, just a spoon and a bag of unpeeled, washed carrots on the side.

Pat stood part way down the aisle, with his arms pinned to his sides. He bent like a banana side to side, rolling the can of tuna from one ear, over the top of his head, to the other ear, repeating the movement side to side before stopping, and holding the can perfectly still on one ear.

"I can't believe what an idiot I am!" Pat yelled down the aisle. "I practiced this trick for years using a ball! I should have started with a can! It's way easier!"

I gave Pat the thumbs up.

"Awesome," I said and kept walking.

I thought I saw potatoes in Pat's grocery basket. I walked away wondering if Pat planned to cook the potatoes or eat them raw. Later he told me he cooked the potatoes so he could eat more of them in one sitting, but he adding that with a sharp knife, he could cut thin raw slices, like chips, that melted on his tongue like a catholic communion wafer. He described how cutting potatoes was a good strengthening exercise, as long as he stretched thoroughly afterwards so his hands did not become too stiff for the finer articulations of juggling.

I loved the human traits shared by my new familyof circus artists. Life was rich; more emotion and less intellect; more doing and less explaining. The minute an artist began to move, theycreated more than the eye could see. Movement was a language unto itself, so intimately linked to the imagination, there was scarcely any separation. These were thefiner qualities I came to recognize as "talent" and it was all aroundme. Everywhere.