The nature of the artistic experience is almost always a humiliating one. As artists, we face more than anyone else the badgering questions of friends, of relatives, of lovers, of total and complete strangers. “What are you still doing in that job?” “When are you going to grow up and pick something different?” “Why can’t you let this go?” No matter the love we feel for our craft, creative expression and public shaming seem to forever exist hands entwined, only more true when combined with the queer experience. Thus, we are faced with the question we must all ask ourselves if we plan to take art seriously: What do I care about more? Being a good, well rounded grown up person with a real job, grounded relationships, and a steady future- or this?

It’s this question that The Balloon Dog Bites tackles in its fifty minute interrogation into the humiliation ritual of artistry. As a one man show, we are invited into the intimate and vulnerable crevices of Paulie Accio’s mind (Micheal Louis Kennedy), and lead through his no-good-very-bad day as a practising clown at an Eastern Suburb brat child’s birthday party. Upon entering the space, the aesthetics of the show immediately jump out at you. Blues and whites invoke both a children’s birthday party in all of its cruel innocence, and simultaneously, the feeling of a long-standing depressive episode. Immediately, classic conventions of theatre are broken as Kennedy wanders through the audience, handing out scripts, birthday party hats and instructions for heckling. Immediately, I was impressed by the costuming. An aesthetic combination of Paris’s Pierrot and Comedia del Arte’s Harlequino, big fluffy gently sparkling patches of baby blue and creamy white seamlessly meld Kennedy into the aesthetics of the piece, harken back to clowning’s history whilst also being ever so slightly uncomfortable to look at.

The play starts with a jump of classical music, and a single spot on Kennedy as he somberly applies makeup, wasting no time to introduce us to the comedy of the piece as he cuts face powder into a line with a credit card, then artfully presses to his nose and cheeks. Credit here must go to Oliver John Cameron’s brilliant sound design. Although Kennedy’s voice largely suited the script’s grinning pessimism, I was left wanting in a few key moments for more vocal strength and inflections through his performance - each emotional moment incredibly valuable in a piece this dry. As he jumped between characters, first, the tyrannical French clown teacher, then the buttoned up Eastern Suburbs mother, the genius of the script-writing was exposed. Each character, including Paulie himself, could’ve benefited from slightly more physical and vocal commitment, but with each razor-sharp quip of the writing, constantly moving so fast you had to pay attention or be left behind, any complaint is quickly forgotten. Much of Kennedy’s performance was beautiful in its subtlety, each turn, step and facial expression delightfully deliberate. This continued into the clowning work done throughout the piece. Although two out of the three “sets” acted more as a satire of their original form, the first set, a mime act, was a stunning example of the form. Kennedy zeroed in to a crystal clear objective, and each movement brought the joke forward in a way that dripped with expertise. It was at this moment that I became utterly convinced of the character’s love for clowning, which was a necessary cornerstone to the larger thesis of the piece.

The emotion of the piece comes out through Accio’s cigarette breaks (a brilliant use of prop comedy as he pulls a lit cigarette out of his clown costume) and the conversations he has with one of the neighbors, John, and his senile dog Daisy as he recovers from his sets. Here, Accio admits to us the mourning of past lovers, the discomfort of committing to art as he gets older, and how his will to continue is tested. In easily the most beautiful moment of the show, Kennedy describes a friend from clowning school who’d just lost their father, who delivers a joke about it so well crafted and well timed, Accio began to cry. The older man, in turn, represents the average Australian response to the committed artist, in both his lack of understanding and tentative support. These moments of vulnerability and comfort drive our sympathy for Paulie, and allow us to connect to him properly and feel both his anxiety and wrath when faced with the abuse at the party. The children at the party, played by us in the audience, take turns poking at Accio’s insecurities and asking the questions every artist has heard a hundred times (clearly, as Kennedy mouths along to the script on stage). Kennedy feels this humiliation, then the subsequent exhaustion completely in his body, and we watch the costume literally disintegrate as his will to continue does. It is here that Chekov’s cream pie is first brought up, serving as a brilliant metaphor for society’s willingness to abuse art for entertainment without regard for the artist themselves.

The stakes continue to build as the abuse from the party-goers worsens, the demands for Accio’s degradation increases and the heckling from the audience becomes targeted and more specific. Suddenly, in a flashing red and white, the children begin to attack him and he is forced to retaliate by flinging one of them over the fence into the neighbour’s garden, straight into Daisy’s jaws. In perhaps the only heroic moment of Accio’s life, he leaps after the child, and is in turn bitten. Time stops, a spot from above opens bright, white heavenly light onto Accio’s panting face. He begins to break down from the pain, and through this breakdown has a moment of true self-actualization, delivering a profound message on the nature of accepting shame for the purposes of artistic expression. His costume is in tatters by this point, and the violence has built to where it almost isn’t quite funny, and yet, as he stands there, leg covered in blood, he is grounded for perhaps the first time. The play ends with the world’s final attempt to degrade him, a cleverly disguised AIDs comment from Christina’s father - “you didn’t get any of that clown’s blood on you, did you honey?” - and yet, instead of being forced into the acceptance of this humiliation, he is finally driven into a moment of power and vengeance. The clown hat comes off, revealing a second, smaller clown hat, and Chekov’s cream pie is realized through the hurtling of a creme brulee at his attackers as he sprints off stage.

The Balloon Dog Bites presents a sharp, funny reality check for the artists of the world, reminding us that we cannot escape the humiliation society will shove our noses into. Our only power then, is through radical self-acceptance and reminding ourselves that we have chosen this needlessly difficult path because we love it. Although the piece could’ve benefited from slightly more energy, on a holistic level, it thrives as a cynical dissection of the creative experience, and the fact that though we may create hungry, though we may create in pain, or sick, or bored, or heartbroken, we cannot stop ourselves from continuing the act of creation.