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On Sunday at 11:00 am, in a location at the top of Nutibara Hill between Avenida del Ferrocarril and Calle 30A, a sweet smell signals that the popcorn is almost ready. This nostalgic aroma mixes with the scent of frying as empanadas cook in front of the confectionery.
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The intense sun saturates the colors of a large circus tent. Fanfare music from speakers fills the space as a lean master of ceremonies takes the stage, announcing the “great Circus Medellín, the art that heals,” promising a show of international quality about to commence.
In front of stands meant for 300 people but with only six spectators, the master of ceremonies quips that “many are called, but few are chosen.”
The show begins with Stepany’s acrobatics on a flying arch five meters high, followed by Manuelillo, a contortionist resembling an 80s rockstar. Javi-Javi, the clown, amuses with his giant camera and instant images, while Victorino juggles with magic skills. Chochi, another clown, humorously threatens to leave if not applauded, and magician Naúl performs classic card tricks.
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This circus, although informal, aims to enhance the skills of street artists. Alvarez estimates training around 50 youth.
Chochi, a product of this dream shared by Alvarez and a Spanish priest, exemplifies how art can transform lives, leading him from the brink of a street lifestyle to a career in entertainment.
The circus has positively impacted many artists, teaching techniques and values, as mentioned by me.
Carlos recounts how a young woman’s life changed after joining the circus group, where art served as therapy and healing.
Meeting of two desires
Carlos, recalling his fascination with the circus since childhood, turned his passion into a career, becoming a renowned mime and actor.
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After investing in a tent and uniting with a group of boys with similar dreams, Carlos established a circus school to train children in the art of performance.
Despite financial challenges, Carlos persisted in his circus dream, eventually securing a lot to set up the circus school.
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Struggles with sponsorship and financial stability have plagued the foundation, especially during the pandemic, leading to difficulties in covering expenses.
Financial challenges continue, with the need for public support to keep the circus running and provide entertainment for children.
Sunday. 11:00 am In a place located at the top of Nutibara Hill, which is formed between Avenida del Ferrocarril and Calle 30A, a sweet aroma announces that the popcorn is almost ready, and that fragrance evoking childhood suddenly mixes with the smell of frying because there are also some empanadas boiling in front of the confectionery.
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The intense sun of this day makes the colors of a huge circus tent become more intense. Fanfares come out of speakers to liven up the momentary wait until, suddenly, a gaunt-faced master of ceremonies who also controls the sound from one side of the stage welcomes the “great Circus Medellín, the art that heals” and announces that “a show of international quality” is about to begin.
Then, faced with the evidence of some stands for 300 people with only six spectators adds that in this temple of laughter and fun there are “many called but few chosen.”
The first to emerge through the black curtain is Stepany, who amazes with his acrobatics on a flying arch placed at least five meters high. Then come Manuelillo, a contortionist with long hair, like an 80s rocker who bends and unbends his body as if it were made of gelatin; the clown Javi-Javi (son of the legendary Bebé) with his giant camera that takes instant images and laughter; the juggler Victorino with his magic skills; the other clown Chochi who comes on stage and when he sees the dwindling attendance he makes a show of leaving if the public does not give him a thunderous applause; and the magician Naúl with the classic card tricks and the inevitable scene in which he seems to take off the head of his wife and stage partner. But before the magician, Carlos Álvarez, a mime, has already appeared. clown who has traveled the world with his sketches mute.
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This circus was never a formal school, but from the beginning it set itself the goal of improving the technique of the artists who make a living at the traffic lights and streets of the city. Alvarez estimates that they have given training to around 50 young people.
Chochi, the little clown with curly hair and a lively expression, is one of the products of this collective dream that resulted from the conjunction of the individual desires of Álvarez and a Spanish priest who came to the lofty 13 de Noviembre neighborhood, on the slopes of the Pan de Azúcar hill, in the central east of the city.
He also personifies the slogan “the art that heals” that identifies Circo Medellín because, from being a child on the verge of succumbing to the world of the street, like many of his neighbors, he was guided by art and has been bringing joy to people for 18 years now.
“The circus had a positive impact on me. I learned many techniques here, we participated in national and international festivals, and Carlos also taught us many values because he always instilled in us that before being artists we had to be good people,” he says.
Carlos himself tells another anecdote where art fulfilled its healing function. The protagonist was a young woman who joined the group but left after a while and then they were told that she was in a place of rest because she had become violent in the middle of a performance. They went to get her, and she was absent from the world, but in those days, she participated in some oriental dance sessions that served as therapy for her. “A week later she was already laughing and hugging,” says Álvarez.
Meeting of two desires
The mime tells that his first encounter with the circus was at the age of 9 when the clown Bebé came to the city – the one who appeared in the 1980s on the Sunday show Animalandia – with a whole cast of celebrities who were located where the Plaza Mayor fair and show center is today. He was taken from school and He was captivated by the sequin-clad trapeze artists, but especially by the clowns.
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“My mom got on my case because she had to take me to every tent there was. If we saw a hot dog stand I thought it was a circus; I got hooked on the circus and when I grew up I was the one who took her there.”, he reports.
Carlos even planned to fly away with any group that came to the city until he leaned more towards clowning and theater and made a career of international recognition, but that bug stuck with him forever.
At a time when Álvarez was treated like the pantomime star that he was, he also helped the religious brother Rubén Sánchez by preparing a group of boys from the 13 de Noviembre neighborhood. He was there when a friend told him that in Bogotá they were selling a tent and He decided to invest all his savings in it, plus a bank loan of 50 million pesos.
The tent remained stored in a garage and in a room for almost a year until another religious friend of Sánchez sold him the idea of uniting two dreams because the boys also wanted, like him, to set up a circus.
Coincidentally, the Spanish priest had been transferred back to his country of origin by his community and left those boys to Álvarez as an “inheritance.”
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He rented a house in Bethlehem and took ten of them with him. The intention was to create a kind of school where these children could learn more and dignify their art.
Coincidentally, the mime heard about a piece of land at the base of Nutibara Hill that had been a garbage dump, a school camp where children were taught how to plant crops, and later, a kind of Panaca-style theme park, but in miniature; all failed attempts.
In 2010, he proposed to Mayor Alonso Salazar and the Secretary of Culture, Miguel Úsuga, that they give him the 7,000 square meter lot and they accepted.
“Even though it wasn’t allowed, the boys practically moved in here and since many of them were children of bricklayers, they started doing things,” recalls the mime and director of the Circo Medellín Foundation.
The only successful season he remembers was 2016 because Comfama hired them all year to perform in their parks; it was enough to pay the artists’ fortnightly salaries and even to buy a second tent that is still installed on the esplanade that is reached after overcoming some open-air stairs that start from a bend in 30A Street with Ferrocarril. “Some even bought their motorcycle or fixed up their house,” recalls the mime.
After that, almost all of them have been dire times, including the Covid-19 pandemic, when public shows were banned.
Every month they live the odyssey of bursting wherever they can to cancel $1,600,000 utilities, plus infrastructure maintenance, plus grass weeding, the cost of night surveillance, and of course, to pay the artists something.
“I was on the verge of throwing in the towel because one lives in pain and thinking about how to survive,” admits Álvarez, who with his appearance and the merits of his life experience could well personify Don Quixote.
The situation is more critical in the first months of the year because the efforts to obtain sponsorship for Concerted Halls (from the Ministry of Culture) and Open Halls (from the Mayor’s Office) only bear fruit from July onwards.
Two months ago, for example, they swallowed hard because they had two electricity bills and a power cut was imminent, putting their Sunday performances at risk at eleven in the morning and four in the afternoon.
“We thought about going to anyone who was a ‘pay-a-day’ person to get the money and we finally managed to do it late on Friday. What we didn’t want was to go through the embarrassment of explaining why there was no show,” says Carlos Álvarez, who emphasizes that they don’t want to ask anyone for anything. “What we need is for people to come.”
A good additional push would be for the District of Medellín or companies to buy ticket packages, or for schools or entities to pay for the classes that can be offered here to teach and entertain children and young people.
On Sunday when EL COLOMBIANO visited them, the magician Naúl joked with the audience before his act, saying: “Don’t worry about the number of people. Don’t worry, the others didn’t come, but they sent the money,” in a display of humor that is difficult to understand.
