Clowndance Summer Course 2022
WEDNESDAY: Clowns (dancing)
Prime Objective- To explore whether laughter is essential for clown,
or for clowndance.
Material Covered:
- Finding a state of bafflement through walking, running, reversed instructions and sudden stops. A mixture of my own material and John Wright’s (2006, p. 188)
- Introducing failure and ‘The Flop’ (Davison, 2013) (Simon, 2012) (Murray, 2003) through a range of core clown training games:
- Attempting to make the audience laugh (Davison, 2013, p49)
- Holding a simple idea in your head in John Wright’s Secret Weapon Game (2006, p. 200)
- Incorporating ideas of the flop with dancing, in an adapted version of another Jon Davison game, Saving The Show (2015, p. 84)
Moment 1:
I attempted to recreate a game from John Wright; a director and teacher I have worked with, and who I like and respect immensely. The rule of the game is for the participants to run full tilt around the space, then on a signal from me, stop dead and act as if they have not been running- to do nothing. I, as the boss clown, then tease, berate, and congratulate them on the success with which they are doing nothing. The principle of the game is to foster a state of bafflement as the participants have no idea whether or not they are ‘doing nothing’ and how they are succeeding or failing.
Reader, I failed miserably. Coming out of the revelatory and intimate work we had been exploring previously with the Dance Like Everybody’s Watching game, I could not pull off the boss clown persona. It felt cruel and divisive, and I could see the defensive shields dropping back down over these dancers’ faces, their bodies tensing, closing in, putting on the armour of technique. In the last round of this game, I berated them (quite truthfully) for looking like they were in a Cunningham class, about to start his opening sixteen bounces exercise (Feidelson, 2013). The success of a game clearly does not only lie in its structure or intent, but also in who is leading it, and the relationship they have established with the players.
I attempted to recreate a game from John Wright; a director and teacher I have worked with, and who I like and respect immensely. The rule of the game is for the participants to run full tilt around the space, then on a signal from me, stop dead and act as if they have not been running- to do nothing. I, as the boss clown, then tease, berate, and congratulate them on the success with which they are doing nothing. The principle of the game is to foster a state of bafflement as the participants have no idea whether or not they are ‘doing nothing’ and how they are succeeding or failing.
Reader, I failed miserably. Coming out of the revelatory and intimate work we had been exploring previously with the Dance Like Everybody’s Watching game, I could not pull off the boss clown persona. It felt cruel and divisive, and I could see the defensive shields dropping back down over these dancers’ faces, their bodies tensing, closing in, putting on the armour of technique. In the last round of this game, I berated them (quite truthfully) for looking like they were in a Cunningham class, about to start his opening sixteen bounces exercise (Feidelson, 2013). The success of a game clearly does not only lie in its structure or intent, but also in who is leading it, and the relationship they have established with the players.
Lucy Wordsworth (L) makes us laugh. Kitty Winter (centre of the group R) leading and laughing from within, not from the front.
Moment 2:
The Make Us Laugh Game (Davison, 2015, p. 49) and the Secret Weapon Game (Wright, 2006, p. 200), on paper, seemed similar. The rule in each is that the performer must enter the space, engage with the audience, and exit only when the audience tires of them. The principle in both is to explore a state of bafflement and unknowingness and to listen closely to what the audience is telling you about what they are enjoying.
The first of these games, Davison's, (inspired in turn by Lecoq) had some ‘successes’- moments where we participants-as-audience laughed, and we were able to intellectually identify what those moments had been…
The Make Us Laugh Game (Davison, 2015, p. 49) and the Secret Weapon Game (Wright, 2006, p. 200), on paper, seemed similar. The rule in each is that the performer must enter the space, engage with the audience, and exit only when the audience tires of them. The principle in both is to explore a state of bafflement and unknowingness and to listen closely to what the audience is telling you about what they are enjoying.
The first of these games, Davison's, (inspired in turn by Lecoq) had some ‘successes’- moments where we participants-as-audience laughed, and we were able to intellectually identify what those moments had been…
Playing peekaboo, invading personal space- like playing games with babies
Abusing the audience
Committing to something stupid- hissing aggressively at a scarf, exiting as a human worm
Journal extracts from group discussion: 20/07/22
Abusing the audience
Committing to something stupid- hissing aggressively at a scarf, exiting as a human worm
Journal extracts from group discussion: 20/07/22
... and where we had failed...
A tendency to overcomplicate
Panic means missed moments- a chair bopping a hat or being strangled by a scarf-
that we wanted to see more of
So focused on making us laugh that there’s no space to listen to the audience
Journal extracts from group discussion: 20/07/22
Panic means missed moments- a chair bopping a hat or being strangled by a scarf-
that we wanted to see more of
So focused on making us laugh that there’s no space to listen to the audience
Journal extracts from group discussion: 20/07/22
… but the game felt stilted and unsatisfying. We discussed the idea that there might be a reset of mind required for dancers attempting to clown- we don’t generally want to be laughed at when we dance, we want to be taken seriously. Esme shared a painful memory of having to wear a ridiculous pompom-covered costume to play a ‘Winky Guard’ in a childhood dance show and how the audience laughing at her had shocked and mortified her.
The second game however contained sparks of the same intimate, vulnerable-power magic as we’d conjured on Tuesday. Before entering, each performer was given a ‘secret’- a tiny compliment or observation to hold in their mind- by another performer. They then simply held the space, with the audience, until we applauded to dismiss them. The material the dancers improvised was much more physical, much weirder, and there was a sense of excitement, of playful tension, arising from the sense that they had something to share with us. Crucially though, there was pleasure, a desire from each performer to be there, with us, and a clear and personal emotional presence. There was also much, much more laughter.
So what was the difference? Perhaps we had warmed up and relaxed a little more? Perhaps having some tiny spark of an idea to play with made dancers, so used to creating material from an idea, more comfortable? The crucial difference seems to me to be that there was something supportive, nurturing, in the moment of one performer giving another a ‘secret’. The moment is captured in a tiny, out of focus clip at the start of the next video, and you can see the joy, the pleasure, in both dancers’ bodies as the ‘secret’ is shared:
The second game however contained sparks of the same intimate, vulnerable-power magic as we’d conjured on Tuesday. Before entering, each performer was given a ‘secret’- a tiny compliment or observation to hold in their mind- by another performer. They then simply held the space, with the audience, until we applauded to dismiss them. The material the dancers improvised was much more physical, much weirder, and there was a sense of excitement, of playful tension, arising from the sense that they had something to share with us. Crucially though, there was pleasure, a desire from each performer to be there, with us, and a clear and personal emotional presence. There was also much, much more laughter.
So what was the difference? Perhaps we had warmed up and relaxed a little more? Perhaps having some tiny spark of an idea to play with made dancers, so used to creating material from an idea, more comfortable? The crucial difference seems to me to be that there was something supportive, nurturing, in the moment of one performer giving another a ‘secret’. The moment is captured in a tiny, out of focus clip at the start of the next video, and you can see the joy, the pleasure, in both dancers’ bodies as the ‘secret’ is shared:
VIDEO: Secret Weapon Game
Esme Blood gives Samantha Bosworth a 'secret' and the dancers share their secret weapons.
Thank you to fellow PaR PhD adventurer Ruichao Wong for filming.
Esme Blood gives Samantha Bosworth a 'secret' and the dancers share their secret weapons.
Thank you to fellow PaR PhD adventurer Ruichao Wong for filming.
Moment 3:
In the afternoon we leant back into dancing with music, and found more treasure in the combination of spontaneous movement and being put in the shit. The game was Jon Davison’s Save The Show (2015, p. 84); the rule is that the performer walks in the space to music, and when the music stops they must do something to save the show. When they start to flop and lose the audience, the music starts again. We developed this beyond walking, so that each performer danced wholeheartedly to the music between each interruption. For performers and audience there was joy, laughter and pleasure to be had in both the dancing and the dancers’ attempts to save the show, that seemed to transcend either action, either game, on its own. I wrote a thunderstruck note in my journal:
In the afternoon we leant back into dancing with music, and found more treasure in the combination of spontaneous movement and being put in the shit. The game was Jon Davison’s Save The Show (2015, p. 84); the rule is that the performer walks in the space to music, and when the music stops they must do something to save the show. When they start to flop and lose the audience, the music starts again. We developed this beyond walking, so that each performer danced wholeheartedly to the music between each interruption. For performers and audience there was joy, laughter and pleasure to be had in both the dancing and the dancers’ attempts to save the show, that seemed to transcend either action, either game, on its own. I wrote a thunderstruck note in my journal:
Dancing IS bubbling with pleasure!
Journal extract from group discussion: 18/07/22
Journal extract from group discussion: 18/07/22
In our group discussion we identified a difference between ‘doing dance’- a trained, codified practice that we all felt the need to be good at, and ‘dancing’- an act of unbridled release, using your body to say something about who you are in this moment. This felt the closest we had yet got to something new, to Clowndance as distinct from either of its constituent parts.
Much of the laughter and enjoyment in watching this game came from the dancers showing us honest emotion, particularly in the moments of saving the show...
Much of the laughter and enjoyment in watching this game came from the dancers showing us honest emotion, particularly in the moments of saving the show...
VIDEO: Sarah Butler
For Sarah it was exhausted, frustrated determination to stick to a stupid rule she had imposed on herself- to massively increase the tempo of her movement every time her slow ballad soundtrack cut out
For Sarah it was exhausted, frustrated determination to stick to a stupid rule she had imposed on herself- to massively increase the tempo of her movement every time her slow ballad soundtrack cut out
VIDEO: Esme Blood
For Esme it was the ‘pure anguish’ she had identified the previous day- her profound discomfort at being onstage, exposed, with nothing to hide behind. She shared that anguish so frankly and that it became compelling, moving, and very funny.
For Esme it was the ‘pure anguish’ she had identified the previous day- her profound discomfort at being onstage, exposed, with nothing to hide behind. She shared that anguish so frankly and that it became compelling, moving, and very funny.
VIDEO: Ana Raquel Azevedo
Ana recruited both the audience and an invisible offstage presence into saving the show with her- she wasn’t going to let anyone off the hook she found herself on.
Ana recruited both the audience and an invisible offstage presence into saving the show with her- she wasn’t going to let anyone off the hook she found herself on.
Lucy and Samantha’s performances were unfortunately lost to a low camera battery, but each was filled with personality and honest emotion, simply expressed. Lucy narrated much of her attempt to save the show, telling us that she was: ‘adding punches… missed that clap’ as if commenting on what her body was doing from the outside. Samantha continued to play with two key themes from previous days; reconnecting with her pelvis through laborious hip grinding, and the joy of saying ‘no’- in this case to the music she was dancing to. Seldom have I seen such wholehearted yet contemptuous head-banging.
Lucy and Samantha’s performances were unfortunately lost to a low camera battery, but each was filled with personality and honest emotion, simply expressed. Lucy narrated much of her attempt to save the show, telling us that she was: ‘adding punches… missed that clap’ as if commenting on what her body was doing from the outside. Samantha continued to play with two key themes from previous days; reconnecting with her pelvis through laborious hip grinding, and the joy of saying ‘no’- in this case to the music she was dancing to. Seldom have I seen such wholehearted yet contemptuous head-banging.
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Samantha Boswell (L&R) Lucy Wordsworth (C) attempt to save the show
(we were) seeing just the part of you that turned up today- stripping away everything else. Like Disney’s animation principle of exaggeration, or Athene Seyler’s ‘distorted truth’ (Seyler and Haggard, 2013, pp. 26–27)
Crystallising clown identities- like movement identities (Roche, 2015)
Journal extracts from group discussion: 20/07/22
Crystallising clown identities- like movement identities (Roche, 2015)
Journal extracts from group discussion: 20/07/22
End of day thoughts about art featured staying with the unknown, un-planning, and working with what we have: our fears, imperfections, desires and opinions, as well as our trained bodies. Beautifully, someone also noted that we need a safe environment to really play, and that this isn’t always achieved, but that we had made one here.
Personal reflections were about acknowledging failure and vulnerability, the unexpected gifts that ‘the flop’ can bring, and the joy of saying no.
Personal reflections were about acknowledging failure and vulnerability, the unexpected gifts that ‘the flop’ can bring, and the joy of saying no.
Bibliography
Davison, J. (2013) Clown. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan (Readings in Theatre Practice).
Davison, J. (2015) Clown training: a practical guide. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
Feidelson, L. (2013) ‘The Merce Cunningham Archives: The dancer or the dance?’, n+1. Available at: https://www.nplusonemag.com/issue-16/essays/the-merce-cunningham-archives/.
Murray, S. (2003) Jacques Lecoq. London: Routledge (Routledge Performance Practitioners).
Roche, J. (2015) Multiplicity, Embodiment and The Contemporary Dancer: Moving Identities. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
Seyler, A. and Haggard, S. (2013) The Craft of Comedy. 21st Century Edition. Edited by R. Barton. London, New York: Routledge. Available at: https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/dmu/reader.action?docID=1128307&ppg=3.
Simon, E. (2012) The Art of Clowning: More Paths to Your Inner Clown. second edition. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
Wright, J. (2006) Why is that so funny? a practical exploration of physical comedy. London: Nick Hern Books.
Davison, J. (2013) Clown. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan (Readings in Theatre Practice).
Davison, J. (2015) Clown training: a practical guide. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
Feidelson, L. (2013) ‘The Merce Cunningham Archives: The dancer or the dance?’, n+1. Available at: https://www.nplusonemag.com/issue-16/essays/the-merce-cunningham-archives/.
Murray, S. (2003) Jacques Lecoq. London: Routledge (Routledge Performance Practitioners).
Roche, J. (2015) Multiplicity, Embodiment and The Contemporary Dancer: Moving Identities. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
Seyler, A. and Haggard, S. (2013) The Craft of Comedy. 21st Century Edition. Edited by R. Barton. London, New York: Routledge. Available at: https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/dmu/reader.action?docID=1128307&ppg=3.
Simon, E. (2012) The Art of Clowning: More Paths to Your Inner Clown. second edition. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
Wright, J. (2006) Why is that so funny? a practical exploration of physical comedy. London: Nick Hern Books.
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