Clown Class Closing Night

This newsletter is the theater and Clown Class was one show. The new show will open very soon in this same space. Rehearsals are underway.

Welcome, welcome. Thank you for coming once again to another—the last—performance of Clown Class.

I didn’t know this was a limited-run performance, myself, not until last week. I wouldn’t say I’m as surprised as you are but if you find yourself on the surprised spectrum, look over and you’ll see me there, too.

You might be thinking, “What do you mean, performance? How is a newsletter a performance? Isn’t a newsletter just supposed to be…what it is?”

A newsletter is a blank space. It’s an empty stage. You can do whatever you want with one of those.

I started Clown Class because something wanted to happen before I knew it wanted to happen. The idea jumped into my brain one morning, title and all, mission and all, and I had zero questions about whether it was worth clearing space in my newsletter and letting Clown Class happen there. No time was spent in deliberation. Deliberation is for when you don’t know. I knew! The impulse was too strong. I knew the whole thing in one bite without even having all the words for what I knew.

struggle, strugglers, love them, admire them, care for them, talk about it

I wanted to do this, I wanted to make Clown Class, and I’m so happy I did.

We did. I’m so happy we did. Your presence and participation has been central to the whole venture. All our strugglers gathered together in a space made to love and honor them. If you weren’t here with your internal strugglers, all of this would have been meaningless. Your magnificent letters for the advice column, your beautiful responses both in the comments and in email-reply form, they were the venture itself every bit as much as whatever I was doing.

Some things you can only discover in the doing. I didn’t discover that Clown Class was the wrong idea. I discovered that Clown Class was an exploration that needed way more space and intensity than one issue or a few issues of a newsletter could give it. Then I learned, with some discomfort, that if I were to keep following this exploration out into the undetermined future, it was going to hurt. I would be going against myself. I would also be going against whatever creative wind blows through me and pushes me around to do things.

Maybe those are the same thing. I can’t quite say but I don’t think that’s right.

Here’s a creepier thing, almost creepier than a clown.

There’s a “real-world”, street perspective—a marketing perspective? a business perspective?— that says it’s not sensible to…what.

To fuck with your brand.

I’m going to tell you that when I had the idea for Clown Class, and when I got it rolling, and when the response was so enthusiastic, I got excited in a Not Pure Artist way as well as a…sure, let’s give me a “pure artist” way. But I got excited in a new, business-y way, too. Oh my god, might this struggling sad clown deal be my brand?

A personal brand, a brand, it’s awful. What a life-force killer.

The part of me that got excited, though, is the part of me that needs to buy food and pay bills, things I will always want to be able to do.

I’ll tell you what another part of me liked about this…this brand. This assumed identity. This character in this performance.

Strugglers are underdogs. Who doesn’t love an underdog? And who doesn’t want to be loved? Strugglers are nonthreatening. Sympathetic. A clown, in particular, is a low-status being, and a sad clown is an even lower-status being. People might want to stay away from a clown but nobody needs to take a clown any farther down than they already are.

It’s a vulnerable proposition, putting yourself and the things you make out in the world. You’re declaring that you have some kind of value. If you find a way to do it that feels kind of risky and kind of safe at the same time, like going into deep water with water wings on, that feels like a win you might want to extend.

I have value but don’t worry! I also don’t have value! I’m just this pathetic clown!

When I was an actor, before I knew I was a writer, I had to wait to get cast in a show to explore the parts of myself that didn’t get a full airing in my day-to-day life. It was always a gift and a relief when a director saw something in me and gave me the opportunity to walk that something around stage for a few weeks. I loved performing comedy but I lived for the sad and angry roles. The black-and-purple roles, that’s what I called them in my own mind. I knew I could smash a black-and-purple role.

I was so sad and so angry, see, always, and I squashed those things down from childhood on as much as I could to feel welcomed into company. There was always a feeling of intense power and catharsis when I got to let that squashed part loose.

But then the show would end.

Shows are supposed to end.

Also. My struggler, my clown, my sad one, she’s not a brand. She’s not something to be sold. She’s straight from my childhood. It’s offensive to package her for sale. Telling—and selling—a sensitive story is perfectly great. Selling the most sensitive part of yourself is something else.

I sat down on Monday to start writing this farewell to Clown Class. Words didn’t want to come. I drew the picture of my sad clown up top to procrastinate, and thinking I’d use it as an illustration for the post. But when I was done drawing her the words still didn’t want to come.

I knew I had to say goodbye properly, in ritual form.

I’m not going to reveal everything that happened but I cut out the picture like a paper doll and listened very closely to everything it wanted to tell me. There was a lot and it was private. I wondered before I started the ritual if I was going to, I don’t know, burn the doll for closure. The answer was OH MY GOD, NO, NOT UNLESS YOU’RE PLANNING ON BURNING YOUR INNER CHILD. WRONG. WRONG. VIOLENT. NO.

What I can tell you is that sending this little doll totem away, ritually rejecting her again, was off the table. I would keep her, outside of my body but always in view. I made a paper dwelling for her, cut out a circle to put underneath her dwelling and hold her, like a little stage. I promised that I’d always listen to her and never send her away for being too much.

She consented to be photographed in her new home, as you can see. (She looked lonely so I’ve given her my Lucky Cat to keep her company. Also I like how the red parts of the cat match the red clown nose she’s holding in her lap. It looks right so I like it.) I think I’ll probably doll up her dwelling as time goes on, maybe sew her some small black-and-white floor pillows, maybe some colorful ones as well, knit her a tiny red blanket. Make her place cheery and welcoming and not just an austere theater tent.

I’m most definitely keeping her, just not here on this screen.

She would like me to tell you that she knew you were there and she was glad you were there and you were all very nice and she thanks you.

The end.

Thank you for coming to be with her.

Thank you for coming to be with me.

Thank you to your whole selves.

black nightgown, feather boa, clown nose, floor

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So what’s next for this newsletter?

A new idea is forming. I don’t think it’s going to take long at all. It will happen right here and if you’re subscribed, it will be delivered straight to you when it’s ready. It will say “Tina Rowley” somewhere in the title so you’ll recognize that it’s from me.

While the new thing cooks, I’m going to do something I’ve never done before.

Every day next week, Monday through Friday, I’m going to post an archived piece from The Weekly Zephyr. (My pre-Clown Class newsletter.) This will be something like a best-of week: a week of my favorites, a week of posts that made the people glad. I want to give newer readers—those of you who signed up for Clown Class right before it shut down—a sense of the vibe, so you can see if you still want to hang out.