Why Clowns Cry

In recent weeks, I’ve been finding myself in a frequent position that plagues every entertainer. First, let me be very clear: I am not suicidal. I do, however, understand why many musicians, comedians, actors, and other personalities take this tragic course of action, and given that the response to high-profile suicides is always “hOw CoUlD tHeY hAvE dOnE tHaT?” it seems most people do not.

There’s a common misconception that the phrase “tears of a clown” describes a loose association between pain and creation. That’s what the term “tortured artist” describes, and while the correlation may be true, correlation does not imply causation, meaning that pain does not necessarily create art. In fact, there’s a well-established link between abuse and mental health problems, and a society that abuses entertainers is guaranteed to have a higher rate of depression among artists, which indicates the opposite causality.

Clowns don’t cry because it’s selectively inherent for artists, and that belief manifests in an effort to brush their pain off as “necessary.”

Clowns cry for one simple reason.

Nobody cares about them.

And before you think “well I care” — No. You don’t. And you need to recognize that fact.

In this age, it’s difficult to discuss the topic at hand without mentioning Robin Williams, whose death shook every Millennial and Gen Xer in 2014. Each and every one of our lives were made brighter by his comedy—from childhood to adulthood. He had joy to spread, so like many, you may have found yourself wondering how a man like that could have taken his own life. He had fame and fortune. Everybody loved him.

But herein lies the problem. You didn’t love him. You admired him, and there’s a difference.

It’s easy for consumers to blend the two, and with an increase of anti-artist capitalism the line between loving and using is becoming increasingly blurred. You love entertainers the same way you love your phone, or a TV show, or Saturdays, or anything else that brings you joy. You don’t love your phone; not as you would a spouse or close family member. You love what your phone does for you. What it provides. If your phone diverges in any way, you hate it, even if its disfunction is caused by your own misuse. You’re not concerned about your phone’s feelings. You want it to perform without causing you bother. To consumers, an entertainer is merely another device.

This doesn’t only apply to those in the limelight, it happens on an interpersonal level. Friends of entertainers often want them around as a commodity. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been invited out somewhere halfway through the night by people who planned the evening days before. Even during the worst times in our lives, when we explain that it’s not a good time to jump into their party bus last minute, the response is still to guilt us into showing up. To make us feel bad for letting them down. And when we soldier through and join, anyway, if we can’t pretend to be happy it’s not good enough for them.

I vividly remember being lambasted as a bad friend until I went to a bar during the lowest point in my life, to which I was told, “I don’t like you when you’re sad.” Guess what? I don’t like it, either. And I still got berated multiple times over the alternate universe where I’d stayed home.

Look, I don’t want to mince words here: this attitude is why artists kill themselves. It’s what causes entertainers to be alone in a group. To have nobody to turn to while surrounded by people. To be “loved” by everybody and loved by nobody. When your clown needs you, you’re not there. If times are rough, you don’t want to hear about it. Our running makeup disgusts you. Our painted-smiles insufficient if we’re frowning.

How can consumers err away from this unquestionably toxic behavior? Unfortunately, there isn’t a quick answer. These problems are systemic within our culture and policies. We, as Americans, want entertainment but don’t believe entertainers deserve to make any sort of living. If an artist is suffering, we say it’s their fault for being an artist while simultaneously demanding they create art for us.

And it should be free—we expect them to work unpaid.

We devalue art, we devalue work, we victim blame, we scoff at mental health support…

If you’re looking to do something and aren’t interested in the whole “change our country” course of action, you can still make the appropriate changes in yourself and your attitude towards entertainers.

A good place to start is with artists you know. Recognize, though, that this most likely means being less involved. However long it takes you to consume their art is a fraction of a percent of the time they spend making it. It’s work, and excessively time-consuming work at that, all of which has to be done on top of a full life of paid work and chores. You’ll need to understand that, sometimes, there’s legitimately nothing you can do to free up your clown to entertain you.

This is the cultural cost of free entertainment. If you demand the suffering of clowns and chastise our tears, we stop showing our faces.

NOTE: If you or anyone you know has been considering self-harm, feeling helpless, or are otherwise in a mental health crisis of this nature, please spend a minute to call the National Suicide Hotline at 988, or pass the number along.

Additionally, I’d like to spread wisdom from my father on this topic, which I’ve carried with me for years. No matter how bad things get, you can always cut ties with everyone you’ve ever known, move far away, and start over. Yes, people would be sad, but not as sad as the alternative, and there’s literally nothing about existing that requires you to remain in anyone’s company.