Harlequinade

Harlequinade is a theatrical comedy, part of a pantomime featuring a harlequin and clown in the leading roles. It emerged in England between the 17th and mid-19th centuries, evolving from the Italian commedia dell’arte.

The Harlequinade centers on a comedic play involving five main characters. Harlequin adores Columbine, but her father, Pantaloon, disapproves of him. Pantaloon tries to separate the pair using the mischievous clown, Pierrot.

Harlequinade has been performed many times since it began, but never like this.

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1901

I watched my father transform into Hooper the Clown. In my dream, I was a child again, awestruck by every dandelion, every daisy. I’d never experienced heartbreak or depression, because those emotions hadn’t hit me yet.

Daddy was good at painting his clown face. Like an artist, he applied each brush stroke with care. His face was his canvas. Because he knew all the makeup tricks, his face didn’t smudge. The hoops he painted around his eyes were bright and clear, a tribute to his name.

He was getting ready for the main event. Daddy dedicated more time on his appearance than any clown traveling the circuit. His presentation was flawless.

“The greatest clowns take their time applying their makeup, Annie,” my father explained, adding, “Your character’s face is everything. One wrong move, and you’ll scare the kids. Oh, and keep away from dark colors. Harlequin clowns are unsettling to some.”

Our place was shabby. Daddy sat on a rickety stool before a chipped mirror balanced on wooden crates. The old canvas tent was getting worn. It sagged in the wrong places, and it was starting to leak.

As a child, I understood our broken-down sideshow was the reason the crowds were thinning. Daddy couldn’t afford anything better. He lost his best carnival talent to competitors, including my mother. She was a half-Russian acrobat with a talent for juggling. She broke my heart when she left.

Despite our poverty, Daddy rambled on and on about clown makeup like it was the most important thing in the world. Despite the mess around him, he applied the white grease paint to his face with a steady hand.

“Feel this stuff,” he said, “Grimaldi himself used the same concoction.”

“Joey the clown?” I blurted, remembering a postcard picture I’d seen of the famous clown. There were other notable clowns to admire, but Grimaldi was my father’s favorite.

“That’s right,” Daddy replied, offering me the can of viscous makeup to test. His hands were worn, and his movements stiff. I could tell he was sore.

I pushed my ten-year-old index finger into the greasy white substance and moved it in a circle. I laughed at the texture of the strange, oily goop. It was solid, yet slippery.

“That’s enough, Annie. This can has to last ten years!” Daddy joked, but I knew he wasn’t kidding around. The clown makeup he preferred was expensive.

“Okay, Daddy,” I replied, working the dab of grease paint into the skin of my hand. The white paint smothered my skin.

As I watched my father smear the opaque makeup on his face, I thought about the many times he’d erased his tan face with blotches of white. The first coat was thin, but by the time he applied the second, I didn’t recognize my father at all. The white was so bright, it startled me. It was supposed to.

My father smiled, and said, “Do you want to know the secret of a perfect clown face?”

“Yes! Tell me!” I replied, excited to learn the answer. In those days, I still believed in him.

“I apply a bit of powder to the white layer before adding the rest of the colors,” he said.