I must report a disturbance in the order of things. A clown without costume is no clown at all — and yet here stands Banana Boy (that is what he insisted I call him), painted and painted only. Face like carnival, body like… well, body like nothing but itself.
Why does he have no suit? Where did the ruffles go, the bells, the shoes three sizes too large? I have looked at the photographs for hours and still: nothing but flesh.
Some claim the clothes burned in a fire. Others whisper they were stolen by rival clowns to humiliate him. One theory says he was never given clothes to begin with — that A. Clown painted his face and then abandoned him, like a half-finished sketch.
But my favorite theory? The clothes are still here. Invisible. Threads woven from air, only visible if you squint in the right kind of madness. (I tried. I saw nothing.)
Notice how he poses: kneeling, bending, staring up at the ceiling as if God Himself might toss down a pair of trousers. He looks almost relieved when covered by a Del Monte sticker — as though the banana has become his only uniform.
This is what terrifies me: what if the clothes never existed at all? What if the suit is a lie, and the true clown is only ever naked under the paint?
Laugh if you must. I cannot.
— BV