I did a clowning masterclass in France a few months ago. (That was a whole, wild experience that I’ll be haunted by for years). While I was there I realised I’ve been operating under a certain kind of dumb philosophy my whole life without realising it. The philosophy is something like this: “I believe if I’m “good” enough, nobody will reject me for being “bad” and people will like me.” And fill in whatever you want for good - be clever, say the right things, get a good mark on the test, remember everyone’s name, be competent, and so on.<p>When I was at clown school, I realised that philosophy is totally wrong. We don’t like people who are perfect. We like people for their flaws. At the heart of clowning is something called “the flop”. That is, when something doesn’t work and it’s seen to not work, instead of going down into shame, working with the flop is looking at the audience and acknowledging it. Everyone’s acknowledgement is different - but in that moment of failure we’re all deeply connected. And the clown being ok with it is catharsis for everyone.<p>I think the clowning philosophy is something like: “When I make mistakes, people connect with me the most. But it has to be real. I have to enter with a dream, and when it falls apart they love me when they see my eyes”. Or something like that. I think I can’t quite articulate it yet.<p>Anyway, of course there’s a set of clear psychological traits associated with comedians. It’s not because comedians are uniquely messed in the head. It’s because connecting to others through failure is different from connecting to others through success. They can both be used as coping strategies. And both can be used to bring out the best in us.<p>It was quite the slap in the face for me to realise my perfectionism meant I was doing everything all wrong on stage. I cried a lot. But there’s also something beautiful in it. In having new ways to show up. I like it.