Vagabonds no longer own the circus. In recent decades, Latin American performers have made a concerted effort to elevate the social caste of their trade and the circus has succeeded in reinventing itself as a serious art form. Aerial silk acrobatics has emerged as one of the quintessential aesthetic elements of modern circus.

You can’t help but breathe in the subtle yet distinct air of superiority at La Instalacción. It’s the circus equivalent of a Buenos Aires’ member’s only club – no one here has just wandered in off the street. In fact, you’re more likely to do the wandering on the street, as the studio’s venue is unmarked and its address unlisted. Everyone on the inside did their homework.

If it weren’t for the trapeze, rings and jellybean-coloured cascade of silks hanging from the ceiling, La Instalacción would have the feel of a yoga studio. Mate is available in recently washed, non-disposable cups in the waiting room. Outdoor flora hugs the wall-sized windows of the workspace. The macaw-like squawking heard on the way in is almost overkill.

Classes at La Instalacción live up to the studio’s aura. Of the two-hour class, about an hour is dedicated to stretching and challenging the limitations of your muscles, with practice on your chosen skill area in between.

The classes, which range from only five to seven people, begin with an aerobic warm up and are then divided into three groups. In this instance, one man chose the trapeze, a couple worked on the floating ring and two women opted for the silks. Many stuck with the same element throughout the class, which participant Eugenia Di Fiori says helps you to improve by focusing on just one.

The instructor, Veronica Arabetti, releases one royal purple and one dandelion-coloured curtain from the ceiling’s ropes. The violet one spills onto a black cushioned mat, while its sister hangs like twin stirrups resting slightly a foot above the ground.

The most basic, fundamental task to learning the ropes is, quite literally, climbing them. The move is, of course, by no means as instinctive as the skilled would lead you to believe. While grasping the fabric of the silk above your head, you use one foot to coil the loose-hanging silk around it, creating a kind of step for your other foot to climb up on to. Using your arms to lift yourself about a foot higher you unravel the silks and repeat the process to climb the silk.

The beginner’s class administers just the right dose of achievement to entice a return visit. It allows you to feel a certain amount of accomplishment, while Veronica serves as a constant reminder of your inadequacies. There’s a nagging sense that even if you’ve completed a task, there was almost certainly an easier, prettier way of getting it done.

Veronica, like all great athletes, makes aerial acrobatics look easy. She knows which muscles to use to extend her energy most efficiently so that each move is deliberate, yet liquid. As she double-stags her legs and spins horizontally, her body rests within the silk’s tangles haphazardly and as if it was only an afterthought. The stiffness of gymnastics gives way to the fluidity of ballet as her slender limbs dance with the air.

Eugenia says La Instalacción’s focus on wellness and body awareness allows its premium status among Buenos Aires’ circus studios. “You learn to listen to everything that your body is telling you,” she says. “It helps you to be more conscious of your centre and equilibrium.”

“The circus used to be a low socioeconomic class,” adds Veronica. “But recently they started using the activities for gymnastics and body expression. It started to give the activity another point of view, an activity that could include everyone.”

Just be sure to call in advance.

Upon introduction to Gustavo ‘Mono’ Silva, few would doubt his involvement with the circus. With his long curls, V for Vendetta-style facial hair, and wild eyes magnified by thick black-rimmed glasses, Silva looks like he walked straight out of a central casting call for “ringmaster.”

But despite charmingly nostalgic appearances, Silva says the circus he represents is a distant descendant from the Water for Elephants era.

“It’s a new aesthetic, a new way of seeing the circus,” he said after teaching a double-bill of trapeze classes. “The focus is different, but many of the techniques are the same.”

Silva himself is one of the main attractions of La Arena in Palermo, a professional circus school that has democratised circus activities by making them available at a casual hobby level.

The 53-year-old ex-performer still has the physique of a male gymnast, and has trained some of those now working for Cirque du Soleil.

With two Argentina Independent reporters in tow to help shoulder any beginner’s humiliation, I survived my first two attempts at Silva’s trapeze class.

The first thing you should know about the course is that it’s not designed for one, spectacular Facebook-worthy visit. For at least the first 20 minutes, you’ll be wondering if you shouldn’t just fudge the five sets of 100 jump ropes he orders, and experience a painful flash back to your high school gym class when he tells you to climb a rope.

The second thing you should know is that you will not be necessarily “flying” in this trapeze class. La Arena’s small indoor gymnasium houses about eight bars in a row, ranging from maybe 10 to 15 feet high, directly above large, life-cushioning acrobatic mats.

Silva is quick to ascertain each student’s skill level, but does not allow the beginner to coast. Upon our first class, we were hanging from the backs of our knees, doing pull-overs and posing in no-handed arabesques— a pose where one foot stands on the bar, and the other stretches out the side rope like a bow and arrow.

The third thing you should know is it’s a blast. Silva also instructs the school’s professional classes but is enthusiastic and encouraging at every level. Students who have advanced through multiple classes will be given directions to a new trick, and then left alone to practice.

For those of us who don’t feel quite as steady, his tuition is very hands-on, spotting and doling out real-time, step-by-step instructions.

For one of the most sweat-inducing stunts, we are instructed to sit on the bar like a swing, hands clutching the metal, and legs spread eagle. As Silva yells “Hasta la vista, baby!” we trustingly fall backwards, our shins catching the ropes, and hang upside down.

Perhaps the biggest motivation to return is the seemingly lightning fast progression through difficulty levels. Justo, a pre-teen who had only attended for a few weeks was already pretzeling his body through the ropes, and hanging head first about five feet above the bar.

“I knew nothing of trapeze when I first came here,” said Victoria Manchinu, an interior designer who has taken the class for two months. “But [Silva] is very supportive. He’s holding you every step of the way. I trust him.”

The intimidation factor among classmates sits at around an orange-level. Your typical Argentine knock-outs are there, with sweeping ponytails, natural flexibility and elongated muscle tone that only adds to the beauty of the sport. But there are plenty of normal people among us as well, clad in gym shorts and t-shirts, ready to just give it a shot for fun.

A modest level of fitness is helpful, but Argentina’s summer months prove a bit of a discovery period in terms of bringing new people to the class. The regular training season is from March to December, culminating in an end-of-the-year performance for family and friends.

Samanta Fiorino has been taking classes recreationally for four years now. “It’s a very famous school here in Buenos Aires, one of the best ones,” she said. “This is a very cultural city, and the circus is big here. If someone’s serious, they come to [La Arena] because of its history. It’s very prestigious.”

The late 80s and early 90s were something of a period of cultural enlightenment for the circus in Argentina. Silvia says it was 1989 when the modern show was officially born and, having trained in France as well as Argentina, he notes a strong European influence in today’s spectacles.

The present day company was conceived in 1992 by professional circus artists who sought to create poetry in their performances through “dramatic movement, space and body in action.”

Silva appreciates that the modern circus revolves around people rather than animals. “Everyone here wants to be here,” Silva said. “The day an elephant comes to me and volunteers, I will let him perform.”

To date, however, Silva isn’t short on volunteers. At $50 a class, both of the 7:00 and the 8:30 Wednesday classes are filled with 10-15 people vying for his attention.

Although the content is different between the recreational and professional courses, the level of professionalism he brings to his students is the same, and borne from his early love of the sport.

“I just realised that this was what I wanted to do,” he said. “I fell in love.”

Ana María Shua – born in Buenos Aires in 1951 – is famous in Latin America as an author of microfiction. Her many books in the genre (including ‘La suenera’, ‘Casa de Geishas’, ‘Bontanica del caos’, ‘Temporada de fantasmas’, ‘Los días de pesca’, ‘Viajando se concoce gente’ and ‘Como una buena madre’) have received national and international prizes and have been anthologized in collections around the world.

Ana María Shua at work (Photo: Beatrice Murch)

She began her career as a poet; ‘El sol y yo’, her first collection, was published in 1967. Since then, she has produced more than forty books. In 1980, her novel ‘Soy paciente’ won the Losada Prize; other novels include the Guggenheim-winning ‘El libro de los recuerdos’ and ‘La muerte como efecto secundario’, which received a Municipal Prize in the novel category. Her latest novel, ‘El peso de la tentación’, was published in 2007. In 2009, ‘Cazadores de Letras’, collecting four of her microfiction books in one volume, was published in Madrid. ‘Que tengas una vida interesante’, an omnibus collection, was published the same year in Buenos Aires.

This year, her most recent collection of microfiction, ‘Fenómenos de circo’, was published simultaneously in Argentina and Spain.’Fenómenos de circo’ takes as inspiration the circus, portraying notorious impresarios, freaks, and feats across a series of incredible, paradoxical and ludicrous vignettes. Houdini has a cameo, as do more fanciful circus archetypes like the Magician, the Sword-Swallower, and the Tattooed Woman. Like a series of circus acts themselves, the stories burn for an instant and then disappear – readers are left beguiled and enchanted, with no choice but to start again from the beginning.

We caught up with Ana María Shua in her home in Palermo and spoke about the circus feat that is writing, and the inspiration behind her circus-themed collection.

Tell us about your writing process – and specifically about the process as it pertains to this new collection of circus-themed microfictions?

I usually start with a single story, and then write them down as they come to me. [This time,] when I had gathered ten or twelve short stories, I started reading about the history of the circus, the biographies of famous circus performers, and I identified different people and different circus phenomena. My research gave me more ideas, and I went on from there.

What does the phrase “Fenómenos de circo” (Circus Phenomena) mean to you?

Well, phenomena as in “freaks” – unusual people; people with deformities, different bodies, strange abilities – but also in general terms: all the components of the circus. The freaks, the performers, the trainers, the impresarios, the animals. Everything that belongs to the circus. But I also have a special interest in freaks.

Why is that?

They’re part of the history of the circus. They’re still out there on television. For some reason, our society considers it politically incorrect to exhibit them as freaks in person, but has no problem with gawking at them as long as it’s through a camera. The Discovery Channel documentaries, for example, the Tree Man, the subject of the documentary – the man with the branching tumors. I believe there’s nothing wrong with curiosity about the strange and the different. It’s a way for the performers themselves to support themselves, when their circumstances would otherwise prevent them from working a normal job. It’s a way for them to become famous, and to travel, and to live interesting lives. They can also earn a great deal of money.

So, why microfictions? These short-shorts and circus acts; the brief glimpses into performers’ lives and their routines, their “numbers” – they make for an interesting pairing. Was that your intention?

I enjoy the extreme condensation of the form—the condensation of a profound sensation or idea into a few words, a brief significance.

Circus acts are very brief. They’re quick because the artists have to demonstrate their abilities before a demanding public. They have to show off because the audience will stop paying attention right away. They’re always trying to surpass themselves, because the audience gets bored. That’s why nobody ever does three front flips in a row on the trapeze – by the third one, the audience has stopped watching.

It’s interesting to see these long, eventful, and sometimes disjointed histories condensed into such a short lyrical form. Do you have difficulty restraining yourself as you write, choosing what to include and what to leave out?

Never. When I write in this format, my mind is set to this pattern. My stories are born brief. I don’t have to cut details or condense an idea. It never happens that a long piece of work comes to me as a short story.

Big Top Circus (Photo: Tim)

You include a long and detailed historical appendix to the collection; brief biographies of all of the circus performers that appear in your short short stories. Why?

I wanted people to know what was invented and what was real. In the first part, I worked with historical information to create short fiction. This follows the way that I worked chronologically: I started with my own ideas and impressions, memories from childhood, impressions of the circus and the idea of the circus. Then I started to read about famous people in the circus, about the origins of the circus and its various incarnations. I wrote, and then I investigated, and then I wrote some more.

It was important to me, however, that the reader understand what actually happened. It’s very important to me that they read the historical appendix. That they share my curiosity. Also, the authentic has a great deal of prestige in our society. Something on film, in photographs – it’s important that people understand that these things did occur, that these people did exist.

What sorts of things did you look for? Did you seek out a particular type of story?

Not really. Whatever jumped out at me as I went along.

The story that interested me the most was the story of the monkey woman who married her impresario and then died after giving birth to a child who looked just like her. Their corpses were subsequently exhibited, sold to a Russian university, exhibited, bought back, exhibited, lost, recovered without her child’s corpse, and exhibited again. She is currently on display in Oslo, at the university, but anyone who wants to visit her has to get special permission. The archbishop of Oslo is campaigning to have her buried. It seems like there is always someone trying to display her and someone trying to inter her. It’s a fascinating story in all, a terrible story – I didn’t add much.

Below are original English translations of a variety of Ana María Shua’s fictions, translated by Steven Stewart. Click here for an interview with the author.

Bearded Lady and Man as a couple.

A Bearded Woman

Some stories don’t even give your imagination a chance.

On a trip through Mexico in 1854, a circus promoter noticed the servant girl of one of his hosts. She was a shockingly hairy girl of twenty or so years. She looked like a bearded orangutan. She had protruding jaws, a double row of teeth (like a dogfish), a slim waist, and natural feminine grace. We don’t know if she followed him for love, money, or adventure, or to escape the tragic tedium of her life. The promoter exhibited Julia Pastrana all over the world; he made her famous and possibly happy.

She was already a pro when Theodore Lent met her. To swipe her from her agent, he married her. That way, in addition to getting what she made at the circus, he could sell much more expensive tickets to their own house, where the monkey woman would serve tea to the astonished guests. Lent got his wife pregnant and sold tickets to the birth, which took place in Moscow in 1860. The baby was born with the same characteristics as its mother and died two days later. Julia died three days later, always surrounded by spectators. Lent had the corpses embalmed and sold them to the University of Moscow. Nevertheless, when he learned that the university was exhibiting the mummies for “scientific” reasons, he reclaimed the bodies of his wife and child and took them with him to exhibit throughout the world. Some time later on, in Sweden, Theodore Lent married another bearded woman. He died insane in 1880.

Some stories don’t even give your imagination a chance.

The Tree Man of Java

Dede Koswara, the tree man of Java, is afflicted with a rare variant of human papillomavirus. Knot-like warts deform his extremities, making them look like tree branches. Through a costly surgical procedure, fifteen pounds of warts and calluses were able to be removed, but these soon started growing again. For a time, Koswara, who is the father of two children, was forced to work in a Badung circus to earn money for food. Luckily he no longer has to go back to the circus: thanks to a well-paying special on the Discovery Channel, he’s been able to buy some land for growing rice and a used car that he can’t drive with his branch-like hands. Not even Barnum paid his freaks so well (but neither did they have such a big audience).

Nevertheless, one shouldn’t spurn the trees’ opinion, who have a different perspective on the whole situation.

The Ambassadors from Mars

The brothers George and Willie Muse were kidnapped by unscrupulous promoters. They were first exhibited as Iko and Eko, the Ecuadorian Cannibals, and some years later as the Ambassadors from Mars.

In reality only one of them, Willie, was a Martian, but he never achieved the rank of ambassador. He was sent to earth and was implanted into his supposed mother’s womb at the same instant George was conceived. The original plan was that he would develop and be born as the twin brother of any old child.

Unfortunately for the planned invasion, the other occupant of this particular uterus turned out to be a very rare combination of genes: a black albino. The twins were so strange that they soon became circus attractions and the Martian operatives, not wanting attention, abandoned the experiment. Willie Muse died on Earth, at 108 years of age, 30 years after his twin brother.

Tiny Lucia Zarate

As an adult, the Mexican Lucia Zarate was twenty inches tall. She weighed five and a half pounds and was perfectly normal in every other way. She was the best-paid dwarf in history. In 1880 she earned no less than twenty dollars an hour. She died one night of hypothermia when the train she was traveling on got stranded in the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Those who go on a pilgrimage to the site of her death consider her an intercessor before deity. Sitting at the feet of God’s throne, she is the only one in the whole hierarchy of saints who is capable of resolving the small problems the others disdain. We plead with you oh smallest Lucia to save us from calluses, bad breath, untimely visitors, people who talk at the movies, food stains on clothing, and itchy allergic reactions.

Secret Wish

Deep in the heart of every child, every mother, every spectator, lies that secret wish to see the trapeze artist fall, to see him smash his bones against the ground, spill his dark blood on the sand, that fundamental wish to see the lions fight over the tamer’s remains, the wish to see the horse drag the rider around with her foot caught in the stirrup, striking her head in rhythm against the edge of the ring, and for them we have launched this circus, the best, the ultimate, the circus where human pyramids collapse at their base, the knife thrower sinks his blades (on accident, always on accident) into his assistant’s breast, the bear shreds the gypsy’s face with his paw, and because of this, because the worst case scenarios play out and because we always want what we don’t have, the audience’s desires shift: sick of disasters and failures they begin to wish that the trapeze artist’s hands reach it in time, that the tamer keep the lions under control, that the rider make it back to the saddle, and instead of being filled with death and horror, the secret places of their hearts begin to brim with horrified kindness, with hope for the happiness of others, and thus they leave our show happy with themselves, proud of their humanity, feeling they are better for it, that they are decent, sensitive, and well intentioned people, the generous public of the most perfect of circuses.

Dragon (Photo: Ville Miettinen)

The Dragon

The problem is that the dragon doesn’t know how to do anything. He’s too old to fly and can hardly manage a pathetic liftoff similar to that of a chicken. Though two columns of smoke do weakly ascend from his scaly nostrils, he’s no longer capable of expelling his punishing fire. He’s interesting, the director says, very interesting, but better suited to a zoo than a circus. When the time comes he could be stuffed and make a fine addition to any museum.

And the owner, or perhaps the dragon’s agent, leaves the circus depressed, his troupe of winged species in tow, a sluggish-looking griffin, a family of vegetarian vampires, a former angel who clumsily displays the stumps of his amputated wings.

Naumachias and Pantomimes

In the beginning, they imitated us. The ancient Romans, more than anyone, achieved a level of perfection. In the circus pantomimes, the actors were typically criminals condemned to death. They would enter the arena with gold-embroidered tunics and purple capes. The clothing was shortly lit on fire and the wrongdoers would burn to death. The public called these garments the tunica molesta. These would also be smeared with resin: the blaze would convert the people into human torches that would light up the night. Sometimes the pantomimes would recreate historic events or essentially tragic myths, like the castration of Attis.

But the pitched battles and more than anything the naumachias, simulated naval battles, were much bloodier due to the number of participants. The most significant naumachia was clearly the one organized by the emperor Claudius in the year 52 A.D. In an enormous artificial lake where a simulated Sicilian fleet battled a Rhodian fleet, 19,000 men fought to the death.

Among us, no show has been as successful as that of World War II, for its duration and for the number of people involved. Nevertheless, when it ended, some people condemned it. Fifty-five million people had died, and you don’t reproduce that easily. From that point on, and especially since the development of nuclear weapons (how wonderfully inventive they are!), they prefer limited confrontations, like Vietnam, tribal wars in Africa, the war on terror, the Balkans, ultimately limited situations that allow us to enjoy the show and make bets without truly risking this entertaining and warlike species.

Circus Prometheus

Art or entertainment? If the vulture digs his beak deep into Prometheus’s liver, is it art or entertainment?

It’s art if it’s blood that’s dyeing the bird’s beak, if it’s blood that spouts and gushes from the body, if it’s blood reddening the rocks to which the man is chained. But if it’s a mixture of glycerin and ketchup, it’s just entertainment, a big circus. Of course, there are those who believe just the opposite.

Meanwhile, since we can’t test it from this distance, you just have to enjoy the spectacle. There’s a show every day.

Sword Swallorwer Miss Behave (Photo: Amanda Farah)

Sword Swallowers’ Misfortunes

Sword swallowers are seldom talked about. They live under a cloud of misfortune: the audience can only see part of their act. For this reason, half of their act is designed to demonstrate that the other half isn’t a trick. Many have died trying to prove something.

Signor Benedetti would swallow objects given to him by the audience. According to a Havana newspaper in 1874, at one event he swallowed a general’s sword and several canes but failed in an attempt to swallow an umbrella.

Maud Churchill would pass her sword among the crowd so that people could examine it. In 1926, performing before the King and Queen of England, a spectator nicked the blade. Maud died several days later, believing that she had finally proven the authenticity of her act.

In 1947, Tony Marino was the first to swallow a neon tube and light it to demonstrate that it wasn’t a trick. The circus erupted in applause. The artist, caught up in the moment, bowed. They saved him in a hospital in Detroit.

In a town in Hungary in 1952, the German artist Stephan Baum swallowed a skeptical spectator whole. When a microphone was near his esophagus, a voice could clearly be heard saying “Turn on the light. This is a trick.”

When Arnoldo Iriarte started working in a shoe factory in his native Uruguay at age 14, he likely never thought he would be known one day as Juan Clodomiro, an artistic name he acquired as his shoemaking career took an unconventional turn.

Arnoldo Iriarte, now known as Juan Clodomiro (Photo/Jessie Akin)

“I was selling regular shoes at a stand in Parque Lezama, and I was approached by a clown from Barcelona named Miquelet,” said Iriarte. “He had been on a two-year tour with the circus through Latin America, and his shoes were worn through. He asked me if I could make him a new pair, so I did.”

It was then that he realised he could put his finely-honed skills to work crafting the unusually large footwear of the clown, and he’s now the maestro of the clown shoe – or chalupa – in Argentina.

At 19, Iriarte left Uruguay for new opportunities in Buenos Aires. Raising a family, he worked with several of the best shoemakers in the city. During the mid-1990s, his employer at a factory became heavily indebted, and stopped paying the workers’ salaries.

“I decided to make my own shoes and go to the park to sell them,” said Iriarte. “They were colourful shoes. I could have easily made boring black and brown shoes. But I was in the park – in a hippy, artisan world that came from psychedelia and rock and roll, so the offer at my stand was greens and violets and intense reds. I think that’s what attracted the clown.”

But the clown shoe trade was non-existent in Argentina, according to Iriarte, and he had to examine Miquelet’s worn shoes in order to make his first pair.

“He came back a week later when the shoes were done,” said Iriarte. “Then he ordered another pair.”

After his encounter with Miquelet, Iriarte began attending a monthly gathering of clowns and magicians in Barracas called the chalupazo.

“I found myself standing before a new world,” he said. “This was in ’99 and ’00, in the middle of the economic recession in Argentina, and here there were 800 people gathering to laugh.”

Iriarte made contacts with clowns and directors from around Argentina and the rest of the world that came to participate in the chalupazo. The orders for clown shoes began to multiply. Arnoldo Iriarte became Juan Clodomiro.

According to Beatriz Seibel, a theatre historian and author of the book ‘History of the Circus’ (Historia del Circo), there is a long tradition of clown performance in Argentina.

“It has to do with society’s need for laughter,” said Seibel. “You have to go back to pre-Colombian times to the ritual contortionists for the origin of the circus and the clown in Argentina. Later came the Spanish acrobats (volatineros españoles), and the circus troupes from Europe in the 19th century.”

But the current clown movement in Argentina picked up after the last military dictatorship, according to Seibel.

“With the return to democracy in 1983, there was a sustained increase in the number of clowns performing in Argentina, especially street performers,” said Seibel. “Every day, there are more and more students in the clown schools.”

Juan Clodomiro's workshop (Photo/Jessie Akin)

Indeed, from his shop in Lanús, Iriarte maintains a waiting list of about three weeks for all of the orders he receives.

“Right now I’m making shoes for the circus,” he said. “There’s one in Puerto Madero, with 60 actors…another in the Panamericana. There are also clown schools, magic schools, and clown therapists (payamédicos).”

Iriarte has done multiple TV and radio appearances, and often turns down requests because they consume productivity time.

“Media appearances are tough because I have to come back to the workshop and work, and try to forget about what the encounter may have generated in me,” he said. “Because here there’s another reality, which is the dynamic of the process.”

Visit Arnoldo’s blog at www.clodoclown.blogspot.com

Beatriz Seibel’s book is available at the bookstore Fray Mocho

Photo by Kate Stanworth

Roberto Carlos Bringas is a professional juggler from Veracruz, México. He usually works performing in fire shows in hotels in Baja California. He came to Buenos Aires to train at the Circo Criollo circus school in the Montserrat neighbourhood. A normal day in México sees him waking up with yoga, going to the beach to snorkel, juggling with friends, cooking his own food, performing in the evening, and then going to a bonfire on the beach. It’s a rough life.

If you could import one custom from México to Argentina, what would it be?

The Mayan calendar, because the Mayas were more connected to Nature… and here there’s plenty of nature, but people are more connected to the urban world.

If you could import one custom from Argentina to México, what would it be?

Circus school… I began doing circus by performing in the street, at traffic signals.

What do you want to have written on your tombstone?

Happy… or a happy face, but with x’s over the eyes.

If you could have one superpower, what would it be?

Manipulating fire. Being able to shoot fire-lightning out of my hands. Imagine, being able to make fireballs come out of my hands and juggle them…

Please complete the following sentence: I wonder___

I wonder what will be.

I could’ve told you the answer to that: ‘que será será, whatever will be, will be’. Anyways, what’s one object that you have a special relationship with?

Juggling clubs… I can not bathe, but I always have to bring my clubs around.

If you had to eat one crayon, what colour would it be?

Violet, because it’s the combination of all the chakras and the violet flame is the flame that cures.

What would your ideal job be?

Own a restaurant where we have juggling shows. And that the cooking be exactly that, alternative: juggling and rhythmical. That’s why I came here, and that’s my short-term goal, to be able to set that up in Los Cabos [Baja California, México].

When your thoughts wander, where to they go?

I try and find intrinsic consciousness. This is baring the soul through naked consciousness. How can I explain?   With intrinsic consciousness you realize that your consciousness is nothing, but rather just a spark… ah, how do I explain this? My thoughts wander… It’s something I have from years ago, half-Buddhist maybe. It’s a non-attachment to everything, realising that nothing is real, but rather that you are a co-creator of your realities… so you can do and be whatever you want to do or be. And intrinsic consciousness helps you to do this.

What do you have in your pockets?

Nothing right now… Magic lint.

If you juggle four things in your life (metaphorically), what are they?

Work, juggling (which includes shows, training, juggling with different folks), family, and cooking (especially cakes).