Oleg Popov

A clown doesn't simply retire. Even for the jester among circus performers, his role is one that simply transcends the ring. This explains why Oleg Popov, the best and most famous clown in the world, was still touring in Rostov-on-Don at the age of 86. There, on Wednesday evening, he 'peacefully fell asleep in a comfortable armchair at his hotel,' according to Edward Zapasjni, director of the Moscow State Circus. It may not be the dreamed-of farewell for Popov, who for decades enchanted Russia and the world with his infectious clowning. A global star with a checkered cap, straw-yellow wig, bulbous nose, and floppy shoes, who, in the Russian tragicomic tradition of Ivanushka—in which the stupid clown turns out to be clever after all—got a laugh from both young and old. Yet the final farewell of Popov, son of a Moscow clockmaker who vanished without a trace overnight in the 1930s because a watch for dictator Joseph Stalin turned out to be damaged, fits a life in which the unexpected invariably turned everything upside down. It explains how a penniless apprentice plumber ended up at the Moscow State Circus School in the offices of the communist newspaper Pravda and managed to graduate in 1949 as an acrobat, tightrope walker, trapeze artist, and even a juggler. But Popov was going to become a clown. Because he simply found it more fun to do more than just keep his balance. Popov wanted to entertain people, but also to cheer them up whenever possible. The famous clown Karandash took him under his wing. But it was ultimately the misfortune of another popular clown, Pavel Borovikov, that would herald Popov's breakthrough in 1954.

Borovikov broke a rib during a performance in Saratov, forcing Popov to take his place. An improvised and loudly acclaimed act involving knives, spoons, and other kitchen utensils marked the start of his decades-long successful career. The Russian audience, the bosses of the State Circus, and the Soviet authorities were so delighted with their clown that, just two years later, he received permission to join them on tour abroad. First to Poland, and later also to the other side of the 'Iron Curtain' that separated Europe at the time. And so, Popov became the very first Russian clown to perform in Western countries such as England, France, Belgium, and the US. But also in Fidel Castro's Cuba during the weeks surrounding the Missile Crisis. Always in the company of his wife Alexandra, a violinist with the State Circus and mother of his only daughter Olga, and the inevitable KGB secret agents. In 1964, Popov visited the Netherlands for the first time with the State Circus. It was love at first sight. He would return to our country many more times for performances, much to the delight of his many Dutch fans. The greatest of all? Undoubtedly cabaret artist and self-proclaimed clown Toon Hermans. He invariably named Popov as one of his sources of inspiration. The question remains how a Russian clown, who never learned English and spoke only a few words of German, could become the greatest in the world. Perhaps the most beautiful answer comes from the German woman who eased Popov's grief after the death of his wife Alexandra from cancer. Gaby Lehmann, by her own account, came to a Dutch circus performance for the horses in the early 1990s and eventually became Popov's wife. A marriage that was even officiated in Breda by VVD luminary Ed Nijpels. Lehmann, 32 years younger than Popov, told de Volkskrant years ago that Popov had managed to create a new type of clown. 'He was the first without a mask. He doesn't laugh at other people either.' The French journalist Jacqueline Cartier gave Popov the nickname Sunshine Clown. Perhaps the finest honor he received during his career. The awards were numerous: from People's Artist of the Soviet Union in 1969 to the prestigious 'Golden Clown of Monte Carlo Award', a kind of Oscar for circus artists, in the early 1980s. But anyone who ever saw Popov perform knows that the famous clown, whose movements sometimes reminded one of Charlie Chaplin—the legendary English film comedian he admired and also met personally in Italy in 1960—never performed for honors. "For me personally, the circus is like the air we need to live. To me, the circus is oxygen," Popov said of his existence as a clown. After 66 years in the ring—a record according to the Guinness Book of World Records—Clown Popov has now finally breathed his last. Source: De Volkskrant 03-11-2016