Alejandro Jodorowsky - The Dance of Reality - A Psychomagical Autobiography

I was drawn to another idea: reality, being amorphous in principle, organizes itself around any given act that is put forward, whatever the nature of that act may be, positive or negative, and adds unexpected details. Thus thinking, I decided to carry out an act in the greatest possible secrecy to see if I received a response. I went to a shop that specialized in manufacturing footwear for artists and asked them to make me a pair of clown shoes forty centimeters long. I asked for them to be made of patent leather with red toes, green heels, and gold edges. I demanded further that whistles be affixed to the soles that, when stepped on, would emit a meow. Dressed in a very proper gray suit with a white shirt and discreet tie, I walked through the streets of the city center at midday when they were filled with people, the time when people would take a coffee break or have a snack. Uttering one meow after another, I moved among them. Nobody seemed to consider the shoes abnormal. They would cast a quick glance down at my feet, then continue on their way. Disappointed, I sat on a terrace having a drink, crossing my legs to raise one shoe, but with little hope of provoking a reaction. I was approached by a well-dressed gentleman of around sixty years old who had a serious face and an amiable voice.

“Will you allow me to ask you a question, young man?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Where did you get those shoes?”

“I had them made, sir.”

“Why?”

“First of all, to attract attention, to introduce something unusual into reality. And second, because I love the circus, especially clowns.”

“I’m glad to hear you say this. Here is my card.” The gentleman handed me a business card with his name inscribed on it in small letters, and then in large orange letters: TONI ZANAHORIA (Carrot Clown).

Oh, what an incredible surprise, I had met him in Tocopilla when I was a child! He had placed a lion cub in my arms.

“What’s your name, young man?” When I gave my name, he smiled. “Now I understand; you’re one of us. I worked with your father. He was the first man to hang by his hair; before that it was only women. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree: these shoes show that you want to return to the world where you belong. And this meeting is no coincidence. We’re performing in the Coliseo Theater. There are international artists and a group of comedians: I (the first donkey), Lettuce Clown, Chalupa Clown, and Piripipí Clown. Pacifier Clown walks with the bottle in his mouth, as we say among ourselves. He’ll be drunk for a fortnight. We love him, and we’re worried that the owners will kick him out. You seem to love the circus so much; if you want to try the experience without anyone knowing, you can wear our friend’s costume, wig, and nose, and stand in for him while he’s drunk. The routines are easy; it’s not that much to do. You stick a fake ax in my head, cluck like a chicken while throwing wooden eggs at Chalupa Clown, and participate in a farting contest where you squirt out clouds of talc from a tube hidden in your pants. If you get there a couple of hours before the first act, we’ll teach you the basics and you can improvise the rest.”

“I don’t think I could do it.”

“If you have anything of the child left in your soul, you can. Here’s an example: you ask me in a falsetto voice, ‘How is a live bull a like a dead bull?’ and I answer, ‘Easy, mess with a live bull and you’re bound for grief.’ You say, ‘What about the dead bull?’ and I say, ‘Ground for beef!’ And the audience laughs and applauds. It’s that easy. Now, have you decided?”

I went to the small apartment that Carrot Clown rented across from the Coliseo to put on Pacifier Clown’s costume. It was astonishing to see the ceremony in which the upstanding gentleman I had spoken with on the café terrace was transformed into an orange clown. I had the sensation of seeing the rebirth of an ancient god. This mythical personage then helped me to dress and put on my makeup. In the same way that my friend had designed his costume using the colors of the root vegetable that was his namesake, Pacifier Clown was dressed like a big baby: a ridiculous diaper over long underwear, a hat with bunny ears, and a bottle in his hand; a thick drop of wool representing a booger hung from his false red nose. As soon as I was in the costume, my personality began to fade away. Neither my voice nor my movements were the same. Nor could I think in the same way. The world had returned to its essence: it was a complete joke. With my exterior aspect dissolved into that grotesque baby, I had the freedom to act without repeating the imposed behaviors that had become my identity. How old was Pacifier Clown? No one could know. Mix together the infant, the adult man, and also the adult woman, and here was the ultimate and miserable manifestation of the essential androgyne. When one is young, an immense distress exists beneath one’s joy in life. Once transformed into Pacifier Clown only my euphoria remained; my anxiety vanishing along with my personality. I realized once again that what I believed myself to be was an arbitrary deformation, a rational mask floating in the infinite unexplored internal shadows. Later, I understood that diseases do not actually sicken us; they sicken what we believe ourselves to be. Health is achieved by overcoming prohibitions, quitting paths that are not right for us, ceasing to pursue imposed ideals, and becoming ourselves: the impersonal consciousness that does not define itself.

A reunion in Chile, forty years later, with Pacifier Clown. This clown, who used to play a baby, is now dressed as his mother.

As we crossed the street toward the artists’ entrance, Carrot Clown took me by the hand as if I were his child. Although we walked with dignity a group of children followed us, laughing. Once inside the ring, we mingled with the other clowns. Our task was to fill the time necessary for the workers to take down the trapezes and safety nets. The routines were simple, and with my experience as a puppeteer, I had no trouble in performing them. But the circular theater, full of people all around, made an impression on me. In a puppet show, one performs facing forward. Puppetry has a form like the human head, with the eyes facing forward and darkness behind. I realized that since childhood I had been accustomed to seeing the world from the outside: as I watched events happen I sometimes moved toward them, but most of the time they were directed toward me. Being surrounded by the audience immediately makes one into the center, rather than looking in from the outside. For an action to be seen by everyone, it is necessary to turn constantly. This gives us a bond with the planets. We are not outside humanity; we are its heart. We do not come as strangers to the world, the world produces us. We are not migratory birds, but the fruit offered by the tree. Thinking thus, I had an idea for a joke that I told to my friend Carrot Clown. He very kindly decided to premiere it that very evening.

“Hey, clown, tell me what you are.”

“I am a foreigner, sir!”

“And what country do you come from?”

“From Foreignia!”

This absurd dialogue caused no laughter. I felt very embarrassed. The clown Piripipí approached me, inviting me to his dressing room. He was different from the others. Outside of the ring, he spoke with a heavy German accent. When performing he answered everything that was said to him without speaking a word by playing various musical instruments. His wife and daughter joined him in the final part of his act, where after having fought to obtain a large sum of money and then being accused of avarice he began to throw his coins onto a rectangle of wood that was lying on the ground in order to show his disinterest in them. As they fell there, each coin emitted a musical note. Piripipí got excited, and threw the coins in such a way as to play a waltz. The two women accompanied him, playing accordions, then the whole circus orchestra joined in.