Sad Clown: the Backstory

Travel lets you broaden your horizons. And flaunt your ignorance.

I don't know a lot about art; I just know what I like. So I was looking forward to this package trip to Paris to see all things beautiful and artistic. I was traveling with a friend who loved to research the hell out of a destination. She knew where to buy the cheap Louvre tickets in advance, which restaurants the New York Times loved, and where the hot spots to shop were. I'm the wing-it type, which means many of my trips end with, “Damn, I was right there and didn't see it."
This time, with a little help, I would travel like a boss. I wouldn’t stroll ignorantly past amazing experiences. 

One fine evening on the trip, on the advice of my researching friend, we sought out a tiny bistro on the Left Bank that The Times had glowingly reviewed. In print it sounded terrific. But when we arrived, the restaurant was unoccupied, save for the hostess looking out absently through the window. Were we just uncontinental Americans dining absurdly early? Did we have the wrong address? The complete lack of customers made us hesitate. Too late; the hostess spotted us scrutinizing the vacant seats and waved us in. Okay, why not? 

We stepped into a cliché of white-laced windows, stripy wallpaper, and framed oil paintings, which happened to include a portrait of a Sad Clown. The hostess welcomed us warmly. She turned out to be the waitress, co-owner, and wife of the chef, and we soon got along swimmingly, despite language hurdles. We mentioned coming all the way from NYC for this private dining experience. The chef and his wife seemed pleased to hear of their overseas fame, turning on the full charm and walking us through the menu, assuming we knew far more French than we did. 

I don’t speak French. I studied Latin. And while cognates can be your friend on standardized testing, high school Latin isn't really useful for translating menus, turning France’s best dishes into close-but-no-cigar horrors. So, I shied away from “Ducks in Blood” and ordered steak frites. My choice was greeted with disappointment and mutterings. “You came all the way to France! Tut tut, you should try something else!” I tried to explain I hadn't come all the way to France to eat blood for supper—with the “help” of a pocket French dictionary. Eventually, the wife broke the language barrier and I learned the blood sauce was just a red sauce. Well, I'll have one of those, then. 

In hindsight, this could have been an omen.

Soon the wine was flowing along with the conversation; beautiful food arrived, and vanished quickly down the hatch. In no time, we were all expansive and red-cheeked joyeux compères (I looked that up to impress you), finding any number of commonalities between nations. But after the fluffiest of Grand Marnier soufflés was dealt with, my attention wandered back to the oil painting facing me across the restaurant throughout that entire fantastic meal: the downer clown.

In this tidy little eaterie on the oh-so-French Left Bank, accented with bursts of floral arrangements, and brimming with luscious food and red wine—in the City of Art, no less—there hung that ridiculously corny painting of a sad clown. I had to bring it up. 

“So, there’s that clown picture.”

“Do you like it?” asked the chef.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“It was painted by John Wayne!”                                     

“Sorry, what?”

“You know the cowboy, John Wayne?”

“No, way! John Wayne? Wow, I did not know he painted clowns! That’s weird.”

“Look, he signed it!”

The owner seemed delighted I knew of John Wayne. I left my table for a closer look, and sure enough, there at the bottom of the painting was the signature, “John Wayne.”

“My American friend got it for me,” he said, with no small amount of satisfaction. I have no idea what Cowboy John Wayne’s signature looks like, but the owner was adamant it was authentic. The conversation was turning into one of those stories that was so outrageous it had to be true. I mean, who but The Duke would sign a painting ‘John Wayne’—it’s not like he was the go-to choice for forgers. Struck by the randomness of it all, I asked my friend to take my picture with Sad Clown. I never would have found this restaurant without her help. What a curious tale this would make, back home. 

In truth, I had no idea. 

When I did get back to the States, I visited my dad and his second wife, a psychologist who excelled at trivia games. I regaled them with stories of Paris—the museums, the food—and whipped out the piece de résistance, my photo with the clown. 

“It’s by John Wayne,” I said, with no small amount of satisfaction. "Isn't that hilarious? Did you know John Wayne painted?!"

“John Wayne Gacy?” asked my stepmom. 

“Sorry, what?”

“The serial killer, John Wayne Gacy. He painted clowns. And he signed his paintings, ‘John Wayne.’” 

Hmmm ... no, I liked my story better: the Duke painted a clown and it’s in the French restaurant where I had dinner. The End.

 

Will ask more questions, next time.