Play is a phenomenon of human existence. A world one can escape into. A weapon against sadness, meaninglessness, tragedy, and the incomprehensibility of human actions and the world. It is a space in which a person can hide and experience the joy of simply being, where nothing else has a place. There is no fear, dark thoughts, anxiety, uncertainty, depression, sadness, awareness of one’s own weaknesses and imperfections, or failures—because everything exists within play. Try playing again sometime. To be like a child. Experience being absorbed in your own play and existence. And then tell us what it felt like for you.
I love La Strada by Federico Fellini with Giulietta Masina and Anthony Quinn. Masina plays Gelsomina—a fragile, slightly simple-minded, but playful, sincere, pure young woman who travels with the rough circus performer Zampanò. When I watched the film, Gelsomina firmly took hold of me and dressed me in herself—in my gestures, voice, and way of being. I realized she wanted me to portray her, that she needed to come into the light. Perhaps there is something similarly comedic in both of us that needs to come alive. Bringing fragments of her existence into the light also means understanding my own, touching another part of my identity. That is the magic of play. Through play, our human identity emerges—pieces of ourselves. And it does so in such beautiful, liberating humor and grotesque laughter that everything heavy disappears. Like when the grandfather of little Vašek in How to Get Daddy into Reform School sighs at his wife’s grave: “You see, Máňa, that boy can turn everything into such nonsense.”
I looked into the wardrobe and the clothes began to leap onto me. A grey trench coat wrapped itself around me and guided my arms into its wide sleeves. A brown knitted dwarf-like hat jumped onto my head and twisted itself into a strange shape. Red lipstick painted my lips into a heart shape, and a black pencil, with clown-like precision, created long lashes and drew a clownish nose. Notes arranged themselves and, through my vocal system, began to produce a strange, playful melody. My legs started to bounce, and my eyes stared straight ahead. Gelsomina was alive—present in my character and actions, in individual situations. Nothing needed to be invented. I only had to let her be, exist, and act—and watch how my own being was fulfilled through her.
Gelsomina dissolves everything gloomy and heavy within me. Fear of the future. Life becomes beautiful, like for Giosuè in Benigni’s film Life Is Beautiful. Of course, not everyone has the surplus energy to embody a stage character. But I believe everyone can experience play—or life as play. It is something like meditation, where a person exists only in the present moment. Yet it carries an extra spark. One does not take oneself too seriously, because then it is no longer play. In play, the whole of life turns into a space of performance, with a stage, props, and a person as a playing character. Play is magic. Truth itself, where what is heavy becomes absurd and what is absurd becomes pure and true. Everything is rearranged and functions in reversed logic. The serious becomes grotesque, and the grotesque becomes serious. In this inversion lies lightness and truth. This is what filmmakers like Fellini, Kusturica, or Jakubisko worked with, what Václav Havel wrote in his plays, and what Ivan Vyskočil created in his non-theatre. Because in an apparently absurd but truthful space, the powerful lose their strength and the fragile triumph over forces of evil. A parrot becomes more respected and speaks wiser words than a renowned university professor. Loud, crooked hats become more enchanting and beautiful fashion pieces than the creations of the most famous fashion houses. A heart pounding with fear sings louder, clearer, and more soulfully than the most perfectly performed Gregorian chant. And where human fragility and vulnerability become the ground for truth, a fulfilled existence, and a real, joyful, radiant world emerges.
This is authorial creation and play. A world in its absurd, inverted truth—in a logic opposite to apparent reality. And yet this inversion is almost chillingly real. Everyone carries within themselves the grotesque nature of their identity and life story. Perhaps what helps them understand it is only a small, unobtrusive grotesque figure—the tramp Chaplin, or the touching village girl Gelsomina. And life, through this moment of insight, becomes entirely illuminated.
When you are somewhere and it feels too serious or uncomfortable, try the insight of hospital clowns: imagine people with red clown noses. You will see how the whole situation takes on a different dimension, and people begin to reveal themselves in their true identity. How absurd. The clown nose removes the mask, and a person becomes who they truly are—but in complete fragility and kindness. I tried this once during a church service, and I could not believe it—I mostly just smiled the whole time. It felt as if we were characters from Comenius’ Labyrinth of the World. Perhaps that is why hospital clowns exist. Because absurdity and grotesque elements heal the human soul. Laughter heals the human soul. It disarms a person from themselves. In its absurdity, the world—and the human being—is more truthful than the seemingly serious illusion we call reality. And so a question arises: what if God is one great colourful clown with a huge childlike heart, and our only task is to imitate him and laugh at ourselves?
P.S.: Do you know what you cannot put a clown nose on? Evil. Because evil cannot bear a clown’s red nose.
