My life as a clown, chapter 1: the beginning

When I was eight years old and a third grade student at Walgrove Elementary School in Venice, California, the class teacher, Mrs. Fecho gave us an art assignment. We were to make self-portraits using chalk.

I sat at a table with three other boys; Mickey - an intimidating, over-sized future Cholo, Danny - who was the Chicano love child of The Fonz and Tony Manero, and the shy, bespectacled Eddie. I was afraid of Mickey and Danny, and often the target of their bullying. I liked Eddie, but don’t think he thought much of me. After all, I was one of the favorite targets of the school’s bullies, with the good fortune of sharing a table with two of them, I think this repulsed Eddie. He was a shy quiet kid and my presence threatened to draw unwanted attention to him.

Large pieces of black construction paper were handed out along with boxes of multi-colored pieces of chalk. I don’t recall the feelings or thoughts racing through my then eight year old self. Everyone, as I recall, attempted to create a life-like self-portrait. This was in accordance with the directions as well as the examples the rather school-marmish Mrs. Fecho had provided. All I do know is that when the assignment was over, I had created a self-portrait of a clown. What I drew was most certainly my own face, my egg-shaped head, my full lips and slightly down-turned eyes, but the finished creation depicted a sad-faced hobo clown. There was an off-kilter tiny bowler hat with a flower sticking out of one side, round red nose, white clown make-up around the eyes and mouth. The painted on smile barely concealed a melancholy frown. But most strikingly, there was a tear drop, not a painted on tear drop, but what I represented to be a real tear falling slowly and softly from one of the sad brown eyes.

Looking back on that assignment and the end result, two things stand out. It was incredibly prescient. I did indeed become a clown. In fact, I have always held an affinity for the clown, be it Emmett Kelly’s hapless Hobo clown, Buster Keaton’s superb stone-faced clown, Charlie Chaplin’s lovable everyman, or my favorite slap-stick champions Laurel and Hardy, the clown has always been a source of inspiration and joy for me. The self-portrait still exists. It is framed - my maternal grandmother gifted me years ago, and currently is in a storage container in my mother’s garage. When it can be retrieved I promise to add a photo of it here. The other thing was that the self-portrait was, though contrary to the reaction from Mrs. Fecho, who did not approve of my failure to follow the assignment directions explicitly, was a reflection of my own self-image at that time in my life. Ya know, slings and arrows and that sort of thing.

As for the rest of my life as a clown, well, that will be revealed in the chapters to follow.

Thanks for reading. Please contact me with questions, comments or just to say, hello you clown!

Peace and love always,

Jon