21
Alistair’s suggestion of a celebration lunch is sweet, but not really what I need. Because I know exactly what the doctor ordered in such circumstances. Three days of silliness to celebrate the joy of being alive.
And luckily, I know just where to find it.
It all started with the Jolie Rosette, the circus venue I described at the start of this tale. Let me refresh your memory.
Every two weeks from July, troupes of performers come to this careworn manor house near a village some twenty minutes from our home. When I say ‘come’, some do indeed cajole their props, pianos, wigs and paraphernalia into too-small vehicles that rattle in from out of town. Others, those who live at the manor house, simply push open the heavy front door and stroll outside onto the grassy stage of the back lawn.
All are actors, comedians, improvisers and general purveyors of madness and absurdity. And yet for me they represent a burst of sanity in an otherwise inexplicable world. It’s all immensely reassuring … their infantile curiosity, their pantomime energy, their unashamed love affair with chaos, their willingness to brazenly unzip their inhibitions and wave their imaginations around in full view of other grown-ups with mortgages, health insurance and to-do lists.
And there is a magic about La Jolie Rosette. An unreal quality. A gauzy uncertainty that lies gently over everything. Like the ‘domaine mystérieuse’ that is the château in the novel Le Grand Meaulnes, you almost suspect that this house and its enchanted garden might just not be there if you check the next day.
The Jolie Rosette exudes a sense of time stood still. It’s a place of long grass where conspiratorial cats live and actors dream, and skinny kids run barefoot. And the world holds its breath for a night.
Everything is hints, whispers, half-truths, imaginings. Especially in the hazy light of dusk.
The entertainers are a motley line-up of jugglers, jokers, fire-eaters, comedians, buffoons, satirists and acrobats, with some having multiple talents. My favourite was a man, a clown of sorts, dressed in a white lab coat and purporting to be a nuclear scientist. After giving the audience a tour of his ‘nuclear facility’, he performed a spot of old-school juggling (of foam ‘protons’) and balanced on various ‘Don’t try this at home kids’ items like the top bar of an easy-lift trolley. All the while he was engaged in banter with the audience and making satirical jibes about the nuclear age. He occasionally ‘nuked’ the children in the front row, to their utter joy, and the whole thing was dark, zany and beautiful.
Yes, I am smitten with performers and most especially clowns. I used to think they were simpletons whose idea of comedy was a shaving-cream pie in the face. No, no, and thrice no.
It’s not unusual to end up with a red nose after drinking to excess. In my case, a glass or three of merlot produced precisely this outcome. Except the red nose in question was fake, and attached with elastic.
You might recall that lunch at the Boutique d’à Côté, where I met clown tutor Tony? Intoxicated on wine and by the idea of a Chaplinesque version of me, I signed up for his stage de clown (clown workshop) to be held in September. It was a bargain 100 euros for three full days and sounded like fun.
As it turns out, the clown course couldn’t be better timed. Three days after the hospital visit, and fully aware that I just dodged a bullet, I am in the mood for frivolity.
That’s not to say I am free of apprehension. Apparently we all have a clown somewhere inside us, but my biggest fear is that I won’t find her (or him). That she will be buried under piles of laundry and life admin. I fear that at the closing night performance, my fellow course attendees will be bowing, patting each other on the back and taking encores and I will be laying out the after-show tea and biscuits in the kitchen.
But my brother tells me not to worry. When I suggest I will have to dig deep, he snorts. ‘Your clown is right there on the surface, believe me.’ This is said affectionately, though not without a dash of concern at the cavalier way I breeze through life and the chaos I leave in my wake.
On the morning of the first day, I hop into the yellow Deuche — a circus car if ever there was one — excited and nervous. I rumble in through the grand rusty iron gates of the Jolie Rosette, where some of the course attendees are staying, and meet my fellow clowns-to-be.
There is Sophie, a beautiful 26-year-old from Bordeaux whose family run a theatre company and who’s been doing clown work since she could walk. Great.
There is Jerome, a 30-something with a man-bun who looks too cool for school, but who turns out to be gentle, sensitive and a great listener. I like him from our very first conversation.
Alain, in his late forties, I already know because he volunteers in the Boutique d’à Côté and is a regular at the Jolie Rosette. At the lunch where I enrolled for the clown workshop, he got up and performed a poem. For some unfathomable reason, Alain always intimidates me. Perhaps it’s his intense stare and slight air of impatience.
Finally Joelle, a woman of about my age with a cascading silver bob who seems incredibly self-possessed. The sort of person who knows what to do with a pashmina and wears her maturity with confidence.
We drink an uber-fortified espresso then travel together in two cars to the community centre, our workshop venue. A large square of red carpet maps out our rehearsal and performance space, and we plonk ourselves down in a circle. Tony asks us to exchange our hopes for the course.
Sophie knows how to perform but feels her clowns are always unsubtle; she wants to work on the ‘micro’, the finer details of her clown persona.
Jerome has done some clown courses, absolutely loved them, and wants to learn more.
Alain describes himself as an actor interested in expanding his repertoire.
With a toss of her hair, Joelle says she’s at a new chapter in her life and wants to get out of her comfort zone.
I surprise everyone and myself by launching into a mini-speech about how life is absurd, we have no control over anything, so we should just embrace and celebrate the nonsense, and clowning seems the best way to do this. They all look a little puzzled. I don’t know if it’s the content or the vocabulary. So I quickly add, ‘And I just want to try something new.’
So that’s it. Over the next three days, we return to childhood and it is the most fun and exhilarating experience of my life. Through a series of exercises, improvisations, dress-up sessions and games, we begin to breathe life into our clowns.
Jerome’s clown turns out to be a Spanish man called Lorenzo el Magnifico who, when he is not looking bewildered, does everything with a flourish and a bullfighter’s panache.
Sophie’s is a ridiculous opera diva called Carmen who wears little black lace gloves and busts out a somewhat discordant aria at every opportunity.
Joelle’s is a clumsy femme fatale named Michelle, who sports thigh-high boots that she caresses often. Michelle the clown has an over-inflated idea of her seductive powers.
Alain becomes Esmonde, a wild-haired buffoon in a kilt held up by braces who is easily offended.
My clown is called Maria Jesus de Los Milagros (or David for short) who trit-trots around like a pony in vertiginous pink satin heels. She also makes Tony laugh every time she opens her mouth, but I put this down to my flawed French rather than any natural theatrical talent.
So there you have it.
Several interesting points to note.
In clowning, the slightest modification to your demeanour, way of standing, where you fix your gaze — even a detail in your outfit — can change the way your character presents. Take Sophie, for instance. She has been trying overly hard to make us laugh, trilling like a soprano on meth, falling about the place and, while she’s clearly confident as a performer, it all feels rather forced. But she truly steps into her Carmen persona when Tony tells her to open her eyes wide when she looks at the audience. The effect is instant and hilarious. Her lemur-like glare and bright red-lipsticked mouth, forming an exaggerated O, make a mockery of her self-styled diva status. While elegant, beautiful and seemingly poised, the comedic expression betrays the truth. That this woman is a hot mess.
Point number two. As a wannabe clown, don’t think: just act as your clown would. Thinking is your enemy. The minute you distance yourself from the character and look at it from the outside in, you lose the comedy. For the time you wear the red nose, you ARE the clown. By the way, not all clowns wear a nose but for us it’s a device to signal the transition from our everyday selves to our characters. If we touch ours we have to scratch our backsides in penance. You mustn’t be seen transitioning from yourself to the clown. You turn your back to the audience to chausser le nez (attach your nose) and turn away again to take it off.
Point number three. The art of clowning is incredibly sophisticated. And hard. To be a clown isn’t simply about contrived pratfalls. It’s about being entirely vulnerable and digging down into your deepest, sometimes most shameful, feelings. When you are standing there in your over-sized shoes and wonky hat, you’re not just trying to make people laugh. You are aiming to connect your audience with a clown’s-eye view of the world, one that’s steeped in childlike curiosity and innocence. The red nose is a vehicle, a portal to a different version of us where we let go of all previous conceptions about ‘how we should behave’. It’s about finding the truth of a moment, and playing with that truth. Letting it breathe.
Tony describes this perfectly when he talks about un cadeau (a gift). For the clown, dropping your hat or accidentally breaking a chair isn’t a mishap but an opportunity. It’s a chance for the clown to interact with his environment and reveal another side of himself.
I receive such a cadeau on my clown’s first solo entrance. Taking tiny goat steps in my heels to the front of the stage, I introduce myself. Silence. Tony says nothing. I say nothing. I am panicking and not sure what to do. Suddenly a fly lands on the stick I am holding upright next to my face. I glance quickly at the mouche, eyes swivelled towards it and wide with alarm, but still facing the audience. Tony starts to laugh. Encouraged, I take this further. I stare back at the audience, in obvious panic, then back at the fly. ‘Madame, il y’a une mouche,’ says Tony. ‘Oui,’ I reply. ‘Une mouche. Ma mouche,’ extending the play to claim this is my pet fly that I have trained to land on the stick. It’s ridiculous and impromptu, but it’s causing much laughter, so I run with it. It’s the most freeing thing you can possibly imagine.
The trick, of course, is not just to seize these ‘gifts’ but also to generate the humour and entertainment without relying on exterior provocations. It’s difficult, and dispiriting when you try to be funny only to get nothing but blank faces.
But Tony is a wonderful facilitator. Even when he’s not openly chuckling, he’s leaning forward eagerly, a laugh just waiting in the wings, his eyes shining in anticipation and delight. Every few minutes he shouts ‘PUBLIC!! (audience)’ because for the clown, looking at your audience is key.
I realise this is all very ‘You had to be there’. That it probably sounds infantile, pointless, not at all refined. But there is something so magical, privileged even, about being allowed to spend three days just playing. Making ourselves completely foolish, running around like idiots, being scared, joyful, trusting our clown partners to have our back on stage.
This time spent clowning is a breath of fresh air after the past few angsty months with Alistair. Our relationship has turned into a cumbersome, weighty thing — a topic of po-faced study, devoid of playfulness. When we’re not engaged in open verbal warfare, we are taking faltering steps towards some form of healthy communication. And honestly? Learning to conjugate French irregular verbs was a breeze compared to this. Using non-blame, non-inflammatory ‘I’ statements is a noble aim. But it’s hard to have a conversation that flows when you are seething with resentment and minding your pronouns at the same time. Saying things like, ‘When you raise your voice, I feel unappreciated and unheard’ is a righteous approach. But it feels constrained. Less like building bridges, more like putting traffic cones around a damaged one.
Hence the appeal of the clown’s world, where making rude and silly sounds, talking gibberish and generally being immature is positively encouraged.
Each day we ‘work’ from 9 to 6, with an hour for lunch at a small table in the garden of the Jolie Rosette, everyone bringing a dish — home-made quiche, a courgette Thai curry with coconut sauce, goat’s cheese, fresh bread, couscous salad. No wine. We want to stay focused.
On the night of the second day, we have dinner at the manor house at a large trestle table under the trees. There are light bulbs strung through the branches, it’s a warm evening and Avril — one of the Jolie Rosette’s resident performers — brings to the table a dish of creamy patates dauphinoises, spicy merguez, tomato and lettuce salad, crusty wholemeal bread, several bottles of red wine, a plate of cheese, and carrot cake to finish. Her five-year-old daughter Céline brings her dolls to the table and, when bored, cycles off to play with the dog, a beagle with a weakness for camembert and whose undercarriage sways as he pads around. I can’t imagine a more dreamlike place to grow up. As I watch this carefree child clamber onto a rope swing, singing quietly to herself, I am already nostalgic on behalf of grown-up Céine. A Céline who may one day remember this place as she stares out the window of her high-rise apartment. Or not. Maybe the house will pass along to her, and the magic will continue to weave its way through her life and that of her children. I really hope so.
Around the table we chat about everything … including the French language, which Avril says is easier than you think. ‘Forget grammar and pluperfect tenses,’ she laughs. ‘You just need to litter your sentences with “bah ouai” and “du coup” and you’ll sound fluent!’ ‘Du coup’ appears to not mean anything but you hear it all the time. It’s a bit like seasoning, sprinkled around sentences willy-nilly and with a value similar to ‘you know’ or ‘like’ in teen-speak.
I tell Tony I won’t be able to do the next stage de clown if my visa isn’t renewed in a couple of weeks’ time. He offers to write to President Macron, or if that fails, marry me so I can stay. Everyone thinks this is a fine idea. We clink glasses and I delight in the idea of a clown wedding — complete with exploding bouquets, a bouncing wedding car and an exchange of red noses at the altar.
The workshop wraps up the next day, with a very small performance to about three people, one of whom is Alistair. It’s not my finest clown work, I have to admit. Even with that tiny audience, I get nervous and my clown retreats, leaving just Maria — a 64-year-old woman in a bright pink shirt with a blob of plastic on her nose. I have fallen into the trap Tony warned us about, distancing ourselves from the clown and overthinking it. But clowning takes many years to master, so I am not upset. In fact, quite the opposite. I am insanely happy. Yes, it’s been exhausting and at times scary, but it’s the closest I’ve come since arriving in France to having a true sense of belonging.
After the show we sit in our circle again, and Tony says encouraging things about our clown personas. He talks about the next course, how we’ll build on what we have learned, and I so desperately want to stay for that. Though it does occur to me that deciding to stay in France should be driven by a desire to get closer to Alistair, not to a pink-heeled buffoon who exists entirely in my imagination.
We go round the hall, pulling down the blinds, rolling up the carpet, sweeping the floor, and cramming the clothes and wigs and preposterous shoes into boxes and bags. It takes just 30 minutes to dismantle the clown world and restore the real one. After ten minutes of loading, Tony’s car is crammed to the gills with bright, colourful stuffing. We flop down for a cold beer at a table outside and talk — but even when the conversation has died, we sit. For a good hour we linger, as if reluctant to break the spell and return to normal life. But eventually we stand up, stretch, exchange emails and phone numbers, hug one another and say our goodbyes. We have trains to catch, places to be, water mills to drive home to.
I wander over to the 2CV and see that Alistair, who left straight after the performance, has thoughtfully rolled back the leather roof for me. I’m glad of it; it’s already 7 p.m. but the sun is belting out a dazzling final number before vacating the stage. Rows of sunflowers form a rapt audience, gazing up in awe. As for me, I’m singing ‘Let’s Go Fly a Kite’ at the top of my voice. And grinning like a fool.