A guest post for the Dell'Arte Alumni Blog--January 26, 2015
Picture it: Clown block, a formative time for most Dell’Artians.
We were told to find a costume up in the racks. I decided “it would be a good challenge for me” not to do the first thing that came to mind. I was determined (I’m a very determined individual) to push myself. One could say that mine would be a concept piece to prove something. Brilliant.
My first brilliant idea didn’t hit. I was told to go back up to the racks again. And again. And--you get the idea. Nothing was hitting. Over and over and over again. I was feeling desperate and frustrated and incapable (not a good place to start).
So then I was mad. Insert existential crisis. Of the daily DA variety.
After I had gotten my fury out by running, or screaming at the river, or throwing heavy rocks[1], and after bemoaning my lot, self-assured that, according to all the evidence, I was utterly worthless and didn’t belong and would never get it, I was empty.
This is a good place. It doesn't seem like it when I am there, but, because I have nothing left to prove, sometimes I can see my immediate surroundings more clearly. Maybe starkly, but more clearly.
I went back up to the costume racks.
In this empty state, I picked out items that sparked any sort of delight:
1. Oversized Converses.[2] 2. Baggy pants with suspenders. 3. Porkpie hat.[3] 4. Bushy mustache and eyebrows.
I faced the mirror. I started to move, or really, be moved—a prance of sorts, that included the mustache and eyebrows. I laughed—I, Ariel, not the clown, laughed. It was so stupid, so simple; unoriginal—the typical “tramp clown.” Old hat, if you will. It was, in fact, that first idea I had abandoned all that time ago (a week ago, but ages in DA time). How lame. Whatever. It’s late. And I have to show up with something.
I showed up the next day wearing this stupid thing that I loved. The funny thing is, it’s sometimes scary wearing something you love. When you wear something someone else told you to wear, you can hide behind the fact that you are just doing what you were told. When you wear something that is your idea, but you’ve worn it before and you know it works, you can hide behind that, too. Even when you wear something that is a brand new idea of yours, but you don’t really care about it, you get to say, “Well, I tried something new and that’s brave and original and brilliant.” But when you come out wearing something so simple, seemingly unoriginal, and for whatever reason, you like it, but you cannot justify it…I guess that is vulnerability.
I got up behind the flat, still not knowing what I was going to do. I entered. And it was a hit! And then it wasn’t. Because, as soon as people laughed, I tried to do more. Ronlin Foreman, leading that class, saw this. He had me start again. When I simply entered and moved the way the mask led me to move, it was a hit. When I tried to do something, it was confuddled because I was putting my ideas, my brilliance, in front of the clown. See, I wanted my ideas to be funny. My ideas are known, so I can hide behind them. But I do not know what will come out when I allow The Other to work through me, when I am led rather than doing the leading. I know what my ideas are, but I do not know what will come out when I listen to, and do, what comes to me. It’s scary, but that is what we want to see. And maybe that is why we want to see it.
Eventually, I got the hang of just going for the ride. Then I fell.
Not on purpose. Right on my butt. How lucky can one girl get! It got a laugh (Phew!). I looked down, trying not to force the next moment, to let the clown do his thing, but also not just go limp–it’s such an annoyingly fine line. My mind reeled for what to do next, straining to listen in this loud silent no man’s land of possibility and nothingness.
Ronlin asked, “What do you say from this place?”
“Ouch.”
As I said it, I thought, “That is so stupid and simple—is that all you could do?” As I was thinking that, people rolled to the floor in guffaws. For a week after that, people would come up to me, chuckling, and just say “Ouch.” Of course that’s what you’d say after falling on your butt! Simple as that. How could I not see that before?
Don’t get me wrong—I am brilliant. Rather, I can be. Rather, I think about things a lot more than might be necessary, in case you couldn’t tell.[4] And I’ve come to love that about myself. But there’s something pretty wonderful about being Stupid. At a certain point, logic doesn’t make sense anymore. Maybe we don’t always need to see someone be smart. Maybe we just need to see someone be moved and affected by something outside of oneself, earnestly, without thinking, without proving; to see someone care about something beyond any logic or agenda. Maybe “stupid” is just caring about something that positively delights you for no reason other than it delights you. And maybe that is enough. At least, it’s a pretty good place to start.
[1] Thank you, Joe Krienke, for teaching us how to do this without hurting ourselves. [2] If you didn’t know me before Dell’Arte, I had always wanted Converse shoes, but I never allowed myself to wear them, because they are cheaply made, too expensive for what they are, too trendy, and bad for your feet. If you know me now, you know that is all I wear. [3] Like Fozzie. Thank you, Alex Blouin, for loaning me yours. [4] For example, I have re-written this post for hours: Alternate Post Ideas: Because of Dell’Arte, I delight in paradoxes. Because of Dell’Arte, I practice the art of Seeing. There is always something more. Because of Dell’Arte, I see the necessity of The Work. …I aim to reach the full extent of the gesture. …I developed a vocabulary for my Voice. …I ran out of excuses. …I strive for the impossible, even though I know it is impossible. …I never fear being at a loss for ideas. …I value my own perspective. …I cultivated a joy of moving and a love of my body. …I know the value of dropping everything to have a good cry behind a flat.