Clown Pleasure, Commitment, Confidence and Desire

A clown loves being here. On stage, in the light, in your gaze. They want to be seen, to be involved, to show you their thing. It’s the energy of a kid trying to impress the grown-ups — “Look at me! Look what I can do!” — except their big showpiece is likely to collapse in a tangle of limbs and misplaced props.

This love of being in front of people doesn’t mean they’re blind to what happens. When the idea flops, the clown lets us see the sting. They show their sadness, their embarrassment, their tiny heartbreak. And then, without missing a beat, the eyes light up: This time. This time it’s going to work. That hope is real. The failure has already been forgotten in favour of the next glorious plan — which will probably fail too, but the clown doesn’t know that.

They are well-meaning and joyful idiots. Their commitment is absolute, even when they have no clue what they’re doing. That contrast — the slump of defeat followed by a wide, excited grin — is what makes us fall in love with them. They want to do the best job they can. They just can’t. And we adore them for it.