Performance artist Francesca Montanile Lyons took to the stage in an oversized tee shirt, hair piled in a messy bun and nails drying a wet shade of blue, and binge ate an entire pizza while blasting Gilmore Girls and making baggy eye contact with the crowd.
“It’s you!” my roommate whispered into my ear.
“Uh, no it’s not,” I stuttered back in self-defense.
We were watching Les Pierrettes, a troupe of eight fem-presenting clowns that debuted at the Trestle Inn Thursday night in honor of Women’s History Month.
They’re part of a growing sect of women clowns, a phenomenon that’s been documented as a collective undoing of the idea that only men can be jesters. But Les Pierrettes’ show was more than some kind of second-wave attempt at evening the playing field; it was commentary that we’re all clowning our own ways through life. We’re kidding ourselves if we don’t see the absurdity of our modern existence.
The collection of sketches celebrated our 21st century archetypes of womanhood by eviscerating them. Over the course of the night, we met a dog conversion therapist named Connie Lingus; observed a J.K. Rowling impersonator slur out false promises of alliance with anyone they could think of other than trans people; and got hit in the face by the bags of a girl wearing a 1960s headscarf who exuberantly picked up phone calls from Target, Navy, and Nordstrom while declaring: “Practical pants and outstanding outerwear? What an absolute treat!”
The artists critiqued the unseriousness of consumerism and gender discrimination without stuttering to articulate their own inevitable participation in a culture of self-indulgent psychological policing.
Take, for example, Lyons’ pizza skit. A demented smile pasted on her face, she mouthed slice after slice, using her feet to funnel crust to face. Then she employed her toes to pick Tums off the pie like pepperoni. Her nose was painted tomato red.
It was a genius choice to blast the Gilmore Girls’ Carole King theme song in the background. I’ve seen enough of the popular comfort show to know what it’s ultimately about: A single-mother and daughter duo who are beloved by their Connecticut neighborhood for their ability to eat boxes on boxes of cheesy dough while staying male-gaze skinny. As Lyons luxuriated in consolations turned evident gassy displeasure, she was also giving us a soft lecture on the ridiculous romanticization of contemporary cozy complacency.
It’s a comic tragedy that so many lives now largely revolve around watching supermodels eat high calorie foods on screen to deal with the reality that we will never meet the shriveled ideals of mainstream America. But what’s both entertaining and depressing is that we all know exactly what we’re doing — and we continue to repeat those unhelpful actions because we are stuck in the constructs, false notions of femininity included, and commiserations that others imposed on us.
It’s ultimately self-awareness of our own foolishness that makes behavior so funny to reenact. Take this article sourced somewhat ironically from Elle Magazine, which explores how “clowning” became such a popular insult in the last decade, and, particularly, during the presidential race of 2020: “In a year filled with trick mirrors, emotional juggling, and an unpredictable ringleader — is there any wonder we’re hung up?” the author inquires.
We’re the butt of the joke in this circus of a country. But at least inside the Trestle Inn on a Thursday night, we were finding ways to laugh at ourselves rather than lie about who we are.
That said, my roommate still found ennui in the atmosphere: “The last time I was at this bar I was watching go-go dancers and making out with my boyfriend,” she grumbled mid-show and post break-up. “Now I’m here with you watching this bitch eat pizza with her feet.”
My favorite act of the night was watching the event’s organizer jump up during intermission to clean cheese grease off the floor. It was a woman doing woman’s work.
