I took a couple of classes in clowning, but that was more like

June Diane Raphael, in recalling her early training, once said: “I took a couple of classes in clowning, but that was more like Lucille Ball kind of slapstick, not Ringling Brothers. But we had to do things silently, and the teacher would do this running commentary. ‘Does this make Clown sad? Oh, Clown doesn’t like that, does Clown?’ Always ‘Clown.’ Never a name.” These words, though playful, hold a deeper truth about identity, expression, and the strange alchemy of performance.

At the heart of this memory is the transformation of the self into Clown. When the teacher refused to use names, insisting on only “Clown,” the performers were stripped of individuality and invited into archetype. The Clown is not June, nor is it a private soul; it is a vessel, a mirror of humanity itself. By calling the student not by her given name but only “Clown,” the teacher forced her to surrender ego, to dissolve into the timeless role of the fool, the misfit, the truth-teller who hides behind painted face and silent gesture.

This recalls the ancient role of the fool and the jester, who in courts and villages could reveal truths no one else dared speak. Their identity mattered less than their mask, their name less than their function. In Shakespeare’s plays, the Fool often speaks wisdom hidden within jest, truth cloaked in nonsense. Likewise, the “Clown” Raphael became in her lessons was not herself, but a symbol, a conduit through which human joy, sadness, and folly could be magnified. The Clown is not one, but all.

The demand for silence in her lessons also carries meaning. Without words, the Clown must communicate through movement, expression, and exaggeration. It is a stripping-down of art to its purest form: body and soul, unadorned by speech. In silence, vulnerability is heightened, and every gesture becomes weighty with meaning. This is why the teacher’s commentary mattered—by narrating the Clown’s inner world, he forced the students to embody it physically, reminding them that all great comedy and tragedy begins in the raw expression of the body.

Consider also her comparison to Lucille Ball. Ball, queen of television slapstick, conveyed entire worlds through her face, her stumbles, her comic silences. Her genius was not in witty lines but in embodying the Clown’s eternal archetype: the one who suffers humiliation yet rises again, who reflects human absurdity in its most physical form. The lessons Raphael recalls are part of this lineage—art that transcends words, laughter born from recognition of ourselves in the stumbling figure before us.

The sadness of Clown, too, is essential. Every Clown, no matter how brightly painted, carries sorrow within. For the laughter they evoke is not only joy but recognition of pain, of longing, of the fragility of life. The teacher’s insistence—“Does Clown like that? Does Clown feel sad?”—was not trivial, but a call to inhabit that duality: the Clown is always both comic and tragic, both absurd and profound. In learning this, Raphael touched upon a truth older than theater itself: that the line between laughter and tears is thinner than a painted smile.

The lesson for us is clear: there is power in stepping beyond the self and into archetypes that reflect the human condition. By surrendering ego, by embracing silence, by inhabiting both joy and sorrow, we can learn to communicate more honestly with one another. Not every stage is a circus, not every moment a performance, yet each of us at times must wear the mask of the Clown—to make others laugh, to reveal truth gently, or to show vulnerability without shame.

Thus, Raphael’s memory is more than anecdote; it is a teaching. To become Clown is to remember that in every one of us lies folly, laughter, and hidden grief. To live fully is not to deny these things, but to express them with courage, even if wordlessly. And perhaps that is why we love the Clown: because beneath the painted face, the pratfalls, and the silence, we recognize our own story—at once ridiculous, sorrowful, and beautiful.