by R. Thorne
It’s 10pm at night on a Friday and I find myself parking my car in a Rite Aid parking lot adjacent to Barnsdall Art Park on the suggestion of my companion who has assured me that the evening will be weird, possibly funny, and the last one of its kind in that location.
My friend has informed me that we are about to encounter a performance by a clown troupe who normally performs in a brick and mortar location, but has been conducting these offsite alley performances and that this evening’s will be the last in the location.
We get out of the car in somewhat chilly weather by June Los Angeles standards and make our way to the farthest corner of the parking lot (directly adjacent to the park). As we walk up we notice a group of people all dressed in red, milling about among tarps, tents, and a makeshift curtain partition. It does not look unlike a homeless encampment—a clever disguise perhaps to deter curious authorities to their obviously unsanctioned parking lot alley takeover.
We make our way past the curtain partition and notice a large crowd forming. Some are seated on stools, but most are standing readying themselves for what’s to come. Make no mistake it is a parking lot armpit / alley way, and it’s dirty. There is trash strewn about and I hear someone ask if the piece of shit is still there, and the person confirms that it has indeed fossilized.
The performance begins with a man (Oscar Fuentes—the ring leader of the Clown Syndrome clown troupe putting on the performance) laying on the ground in thin overalls. He, along with the audience, is being admonished by his wife for him allowing another pussy to straddle his chest. During the admonishment—she pours bottles of water on his body and his face and then proceeds to “shit” on him, emptying the contents of a ziplock bag which looks like refried beans, but smells like cocoa. She empties it into his mouth and onto his chest. When she is finished, she leaves the stage and Fuentes proceeds to stand up, wipe off his face, take handfuls of the brown sludge that have fallen on the ground, eat it, and then proceed to force vomit it back up into a bowl.
This is modern day clowning.
I would say there were not wigs, or clown shoes or red noses—but that would be incorrect. Those were all worn by one singular performer, Milla Wafer, a contortionist, and theatrically cranky fire eater.
The premise of the evening, from what I could gather, was the devil’s birthday, 6/6/6 and that all in attendance should hail Satan. The show, aptly named Devil Syndrome offered a mix of wonderfully strange and sometimes off-putting bits, but not much else. It read like an open mic comedy hour or a student art show where you invite all of your friends to bring their artwork (in this case performance bits), but nothing is really curated and there isn’t a strong throughline or narrative to tie anything together. Which is fine if you expect an open mic type event going in.
I expected not much, so was amused with the offering. But after 2 ½ hours of watching individual performances, some better than others—I had the distinct opinion that it would.never.end. The show would have been far stronger had they kept it to an hour/hour and half featuring only the strongest bits tied together in some kind of arching (even if loose) narrative.
But, it was free and I was with friends. I saw a clown pee, another cover their face in shaving cream (Gabe Kessler), and I saw someone eat shit off the floor and then vomit it up (Oscar)—in all it was a pretty regular Friday night in LA.
Image: Staff.