To caring clowns, their goal is to shift the attention away from themselves-and on to the needs of the patients. "Empathy separates a caring clown from a regular clown," explains Richard Snowberg, a caring clown and past president of the World Clown Association. "We deliberately give up control to the patient. We're not entertainers, we're listeners. If the patient wants to be quiet, I become a sponge. If he wants to be playful, I play."
And so, caring clowns use very different props than those used by regular clowns. For instance, loud music, oversized props, or anything that might startle a person (including snakes popping out of cans, and over-the-top costumes, face paint, or wigs) would be unacceptable. In some hospitals, that even includes a ban on latex balloons.
Caring clowns often spend no more than 5 or 10 minutes with each person, and start backing out of the room the minute a raised heartbeat is detected, or if the patient begins to tire. The focus, for a caring clown, is on quality, not quantity. And as their repertoire is rarely performed before a large audience, due to the difficulty in moving patients to a central location, they have the honor of focusing on individual patients.
During Clown Camp 2003, which was offered by the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse in May, Snowberg shared his expertise as a caring clown during a week-long workshop.
Snowberg stressed how important physical touch is to some patients, and how, unfortunately, some patients "may lash out at us in a negative fashion" when presented with a friendly face. Their anger may be fueled by their health condition, or may stem from their frustration that their own family doesn't visit.
If he can, Snowberg tries to engage those persons until they attain a more positive frame of mind. One of Snowberg's endearing attributes is his clown giggle. It truly invites those within earshot to laugh along-and it's a tool he has often used to fill uncomfortable "dead space" during a conversation.
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