“Find your light and take your bow! This is your moment!” I prompted 130 students over the past few days as we wrapped up ten days together in circus with two energetic performances.
Now I look at the photos and videos on my phone: students balancing feathers while wearing oversized coats and clown noses, a troupe of ribbon dancers on a blue-washed stage, two umbrella performers looking like giant raindrops, two fan dancers stirring the air at the top of an act, three students making a hoop sun, the signs for the elements of nature lining the stage.
There is a short rehearsal video where you can hear my voice saying, “It’s okay if it drops. Just pick it up and give it a go again.” In some ways, that was the whole ten days.
We explored elements of movement with our bodies and with objects: weight, time, space, force, flow. I taught hoop skills, balancing, scarf juggling, ribbon dancing, and we spent two days on clowning. I was surprised by how much the students enjoyed exploring the two clown archetypes, Whiteface and Auguste, and equally moved by the kindnesses they showed each other in improvisation.
Somewhere in the process of paying attention, trying, failing, trying again, and discovering that you “have it in you,” the theme for our show emerged. As I watched kids become wind, water, fire, and earth, all five classes transformed into The Circus of the Elements. We built Circus Air, Circus Water, Circus Fire, Circus Earth, and finally Circus Storm, where all the elements came together.
I became the ringmaster/meteorologist, guiding the acts and occasionally vamping with my pinwheel hat and slide-whistle weather instruments. The band instructor handled the music and lighting cues. The art teacher worked with sixth graders to create our circus sign. The music teacher helped with rehearsal and performance logistics. The gym teacher generously gave us her space for all ten days.
The first performance was for the school, with the fourth graders performing for the fifth and sixth graders. There was a considerable amount of pep talk around that. I reminded them that they were doing things the “big kids” hadn't done yet, that they could find a friendly face in the audience if they needed an anchor, and that this particular circus was ephemeral.
“What does ephemeral mean?” a student asked.
There will never be another Circus of the Elements exactly like this one, I said. It will only last for a brief time.
Through their presence, their abilities, their willingness to try, and what they created together, they made a singular moment of circus theatre.
This was a good reminder for me too, as I dealt with last-minute broken feathers, knotted ribbons, clown anxiousness, schedule conundrums, and one particularly long and dizzying day when I forgot to eat.
After the school performance the students were ecstatic. Flying higher than eagles, they all wanted me to visit them during lunch. I sat with each group as they shared their performance experiences.
“I was scared but I did it and I want to perform again!” There were a lot of pizza-sauced smiles in the cafeteria. “Is it really your last day today? It’s over?”
They were blindsided by what happens to time when you are having fun learning something new.
I received lots of side hugs, and later some pretty incredible artistic interpretations of what they had enjoyed most about their time in the circus.
Then came the evening performance for families and the community.
The evening cast was much smaller because of soccer practices, dance practices, and other extracurriculars. Kids have busy schedules. The school show had been choreographed for five classes totaling 130 students. The evening show had less than half that number, and I had one rehearsal with the group. A creative challenge!
When my clown duo couldn't be there, two students stepped into their roles at the last minute. We had a pickup rehearsal in the art room during my break. I brought in the other clowns to work on their busking ideas. The art teacher made last-minute origami creatures for them to hand to audience members. The clowns busked before the show, weaving through the audience, and then appeared again during another act.
Somehow, it all works out in theatre. You throw yourself into it fully, a free fall of efforts: time, space, weight, force, flow. And then, somehow, two girls with umbrellas emerge looking like giant raindrops. The quiet kid becomes the rising sun, a clown balances a feather like it is his entire world and before you know it everyone flaunts and takes a bow. Balloons bounce into the audience, and remarks are made and donors thanked. Group photos are taken. The power lines switch off, the tent is packed up, and the circus disappears.
What remains, I hope, is my reminder:
“It’s okay if it drops. Just pick it up and give it a go again.”
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