By Ed Huyck
By Melissa Wray
By Patrick Strait
By Jonathan McJunkin
By B Fresh Photography
By Ryan Siverson
By Kendra Sundvall
By Ed Huyck
As anyone who has ever looked for love in a Minneapolis bar can tell you, the world is full of clowns; the catch is that only a few of them wear costumes. While the clown's life seems to come naturally to some, for others it is a high calling that requires diligent training. Minnesota's Sean Emery and Vladimir Kharitonsky both attended clown colleges to pursue their lives' comic calling. Though Kharitonsky has shed his face paint to put acrylic on canvas, Emery continues to bring the floppy feet and bulbous nose out to the people. The pair, who have yet to meet, will show their art Sunday night on a bill at the Loring, and might in the process convince audiences that not all clowns in this state aspire to hold high office.
"Somebody can see a bad band and they won't hold it against all bands," says Emery, who performed for a stint with the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus. "But if somebody sees a bad clown, they hold it against all clowns." Emery, who is 40 and lives in St. Paul, has no stage name, preferring to announce in a matter-of-fact tone, "I'm Sean Emery. I'm a clown."
Emery's road to becoming a career clown started atop a unicycle in Culwood, North Carolina, where as a teen he would ride in an annual parade. While studying commercial art at college, Emery took an elective in miming, believing he would have a good chance to meet women and wear tights. Little did he know that the white makeup and the gloves would bring about a more lasting passion. "It opened up a whole new world," he says.
While under the sway of Marcel Marceau's art, Emery came across a program for the Ringling Bros. Circus. Inside was an address for applications to their rigorous clown college. "I found myself staring at the weird faces on the brochure," he says. "I sent for an application, and it took me three months to fill it out." So much for the spontaneity of clowning around. Emery entered the eight-week training program and emerged with a coveted contract to perform with the circus. He stayed with Ringling Bros. for three years.
This assignment put Emery among the clown elite. There are an estimated 50,000 to 80,000 clowns in the world today, many of the birthday-party variety. To separate himself from such rank amateurs, Emery "trademarked" his signature face. When Emery is in makeup, wedges of color radiate out from his eyes and a long paisleylike line swirls below his chin and hooks up around his dimples. After sending a photo and a nominal fee to the Clown and Character Registry, clowns can have their images painted onto goose eggs, which are then kept in clear cases for storage.
Despite having reached the acme of his trade, Emery found the circus life exhausting (though it may not have proved quite as harrowing as Dumbo or Freaks). The life of a circus performer, Emery explains, is one of long train rides and a diet whose staple foods are popcorn and hot dogs. "It's like living in the Target Center," he says. "You get up, get on the bus, go to the building, get in your makeup and costumes, do your acts, finish the show, go out and back to the train." Under the big top, coffee, cigarettes, and booze served as a kind of currency. Among the strangest distractions of the touring life: clown groupies. Some of these, Emery claims, would be disappointed if the clown took off his makeup before an assignation. "I could perform cunnilingus with my makeup on," Emery says. "That's a real clown."
This comment raises the eyebrows of Emery's wife, Meg Elias-Emery, a former Ringling Bros. aerialist. Elias-Emery began her career as an acrobat dancer for a small carnival in San Francisco. She joined Ringling Bros. to learn the Spanish Web, a form of aerial ballet that involves hanging by the wrist from a spinning cable.
Today Sean Emery makes most of his money performing on cruises and at fairs and corporate functions. At the Loring he'll present a personal reflection on the life of a clown--call it meta-clowning, perhaps. Meg Elias-Emery, meanwhile, teaches at Circus of the Star, a St. Paul-based circus for children. The circus was founded in 1994 with 50 students and a space at the Hillcrest Recreation Center. This year Circus of the Star received a $100,000 Bush Grant to expand its staff and build new facilities to accommodate a waiting list of over 300 kids. Since the circus began, it has performed with the Shrine Circus and the St. Paul Winter Carnival.
"Circus of the Star is finally recognized as an art form," Elias-Emery says of the new infusion of money. "It's a great nonmainstream outlet," her husband adds. "It's an art and it's a life."
Having grown up in Russia, Vladimir Kharitonsky may never have had to contend with one of the more pernicious risks of contemporary American clowning--comparisons to John Wayne Gacy. Yet his journey, Emery's, was often as long and difficult as an interstate haul in a Volkswagen Beetle with a few dozen clowns in the backseat. Though Kharitonsky occasionally still performs under the stage name "Red Square," he now primarily devotes himself to painting. "The visual arts became my language of self-expression because for so long I could not fully communicate in English," he says.
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