Excruciating Vulnerability: How Contemporary Clown Training Can Benefit Everyone

Photo: Dylan Woodley

I’ve noticed something curious in my clown workshops. Many of the people who come; curious souls, corporate leaders, teachers; never dream of being on stage. They aren’t actors, nor do they seek a spotlight. What draws them in is an almost gravitational pull toward the courage and vulnerability that contemporary clowns embody. They don’t just observe failure; they sit in it, splashing in it like a puddle, unafraid.

I think of this as a kind of excruciating vulnerability; a phrase Brené Brown once used. And as I’ve read her work, as I’ve delved into the research on happiness and creativity, a fascinating overlap emerges. Seeking vulnerability; whether to innovate, to lead, to create; is what clown training can offer us in bucket-loads. It invites us to be fully seen, sometimes ridiculous, sometimes radiant, but always real.

Clowning, right now, is still a bit wild west. There are grand institutions, drama schools with rigorous programs, but many of us train privately, ad hoc, like pioneers mapping an uncharted country. And from my own training, I’ve seen this truth: when a person stands in front of strangers, armed with nothing but a willingness to be the object of laughter, and they fail - oh, when they fail - that’s when something shifts. That’s when they become beautiful. Not despite the failure, but because of it.

Brené Brown says that in vulnerability, we find strength. I see it every time a student dares to fail; there, in that moment of ‘the flop’, they discover a pleasure that no polished skill could ever offer. It’s a beautiful irony: strength and beauty are twins, birthed in the same fire of risk.

In the past, perhaps in the '90s or early 2000s, the corporate world flocked to improv; quick wit, a clever comeback, a polished pitch. Now, I see a new wave: the corporate leaders, the innovators, who are discovering that clowning is a different kind of courage. It’s not about adding a skill; it’s about shedding a mask. It’s about being laughed at, not for something you try to be, but for the exact thing that makes you unique. Maybe your voice, maybe your way of seeing the world. And so, in front of a room, with an open wound, we offer that ridiculous thing about ourselves and say, "Yes, laugh at me. I give you permission."

And when we do that, when we let ourselves be seen, we realise: very little is frightening anymore.