I arrived at 9 a.m. as Lauren.
By 11 a.m., I was Dottie, my newly adopted clown persona.
I made it to the Latin Clowns Evolution Congreso expecting to report on a gathering of clowns. Instead, somewhere between the face paint, rainbow suspenders, and relentless warmth of the community, I became part of it.
Every year, the collective hosts the Congreso, a multi-day gathering where clowns from across the United States and Latin America swap techniques, attend workshops, discover new products, and uplift one another, even hosting an Oscars-style awards show on the final night in one last hurrah.
I first heard about the gathering from documentarians Jacob Koestler and Michael McDermit.
“We have been documenting this world for five years,” McDermit tells L.A. TACO. “The idea began in my classroom at El Camino College, when student Melanie Moreno wrote an essay about her parents, who helped found the Latin Clowns group in South L.A.”
Clown elders painted red noses and rosy cheeks onto quiet children who had barely spoken since they arrived. As the wigs went on, the children lit up; suddenly they were dancing between the chairs, introducing themselves to strangers and making everyone laugh. The clown personas seemed to wake something up inside them.
That essay became the seed for Latin Clown Evolution, the documentary that the two have been building ever since at their company, Blurry Pictures.
Walking into the hotel, there wasn't much life to be seen. I wondered if I'd come to the wrong place. It all felt a little bland for a gathering of clowns. Certainly different than the pictures painted in other clown gatherings, no Faygo in sight. Then I spotted a small sign above a stairwell that simply read, "Latin Clowns," with an arrow pointing downstairs. I let the sign guide me like a mouse to cheese.
The moment I walked through the door, it felt like the instant that “The Wizard of Oz” shifts from black and white into Technicolor. Everything suddenly became bright, playful, and sweet.
The banquet hall had split into two worlds. One room overflowed with clown supplies: rainbow vests, oversized shoes, unicycles, trick card decks, wand flowers, and every gag imaginable.
The second had been transformed into a gathering space, lined with folding chairs, red, blue, and yellow drapes, and balloons, ready to host workshops and performances.
Clown elders painted red noses and rosy cheeks onto quiet children who had barely spoken since they arrived. As the wigs went on, the children lit up; suddenly they were dancing between the chairs, introducing themselves to strangers and making everyone laugh. The clown personas seemed to wake something up inside them.
One little boy, just after getting into his clown outfit, came up to me and said, "Do you like 'Mortal Kombat?'"
"Sure," I responded.
"I like Sub-Zero," he said and then walked away, never speaking to me again.
Just a vibe check, I guess.
We got there early—the clowns had told us to be there by 9 a.m. to get the big group photo, but the clowns started to slowly float in closer to 10.
The man of the hour and co-creator of the community, Tony (better known as “El Jefe”), arrives and people are eager to see him. A short blond wig pokes out beneath his hat, bunny teeth are painted over his lips, and white eyeshadow forms rabbit ears above his eyes. Every few minutes someone interrupts him with a hug, a handshake, or a joke.
I was eager to have him walk me through how this all came to be.
"It all started as a friend gathering. It was everyone coming together to show each other tricks. At first it wasn't Latin Clowns—it was just friends hanging out,” he explains.
He notes that they didn't get to hold the Congreso last year due to the ongoing ICE raids. They’ve chosen to focus on protecting their community instead.
"This is our 12th year as Latin Clowns,” he adds.
Social media has been a great way for the clowns to connect and support one another.
"I started with social media, then started connecting with people who wanted to evolve,” he says. “There are a lot of big clown events in Mexico. We started bringing clowns in from there to the States to show their styles, and then when they went back, they would spread the word."
He notes that they have some of the biggest clown gatherings in Mexico, like The International Clown Convention, where more than 400 to 600 people gather.
"People have tried to do what we are doing in the U.S. They will do one, but never as consistently as we do,” Tony says, referring to other people who've attempted to build a gathering like this one but haven’t stuck with it. “We have so much love here—we don't do it for money, we do it because we all support each other."
Tony's smile faded for the first time when he was asked what the usual turnout for this kind of event would be.
"Normally, we'd have many more clowns here," he says. "But with everything happening around immigration, a lot of people were afraid to travel."
He notes that they didn't get to hold the Congreso last year due to the ongoing ICE raids. They’ve chosen to focus on protecting their community instead.
"People in the United States don't have the ability to dedicate their time to being a clown—many will work in construction, then be a clown on the weekend,” he says, explaining why clown culture is much bigger in Mexico than in the United States.
Tricky comes in wearing pants easily five sizes too big for him, held up with suspenders. I compliment his pants, and he drops them to his ankles.
"If you want them, you can wear them," he says, before offering some advice for newcomers.
"Learning is so important—there are balloons, gags, street performing. It all depends on the vibe and what is necessary,” Tricky says. “You learn so much about the personalities of the people you are performing for and adjust your performance based on them, but you also will find your specialty."
That’s when Little Bean, a clown from Las Vegas, comes in wearing a giant oversized hat, which reminds me of the Arby's hat sign on Sunset Boulevard.
I say to Little Bean, "Little Bean, but big hat!"
Little Bean then lifts up his top hat to reveal a smaller hat underneath.
"No! Little hat!" he says, as he starts to walk away to go prepare the music—he's also doubling as the DJ for the day.
I then started talking to Emmi, Tony’s daughter, who is wearing a red long-sleeve shirt, a white vest, and a black skirt. Her eyes are so big and naturally cartoony that the clown makeup really just fits perfectly; she makes you feel comfortable instantly.
"We're Latin, we are [on] Latin clown time," Emmi says while taking a flat iron to her hair in the entrance, and explaining why they were later than expected.
"I was born into a clown family," Emmi tells me. "My dad became a clown when he was 13 years old; my mom met him as a clown, so she can't complain.”
Then she offers a confession that immediately punctures any romantic idea of growing up around birthday parties.
“Fun fact about me, I hate cake,” she says, quiet enough that her dad wouldn’t overhear. "The parents of whoever's birthday party my dad was working at always made him take it home. We'd eat cake for breakfast every day. I hate cake now.”
The room is starting to fill in with clowns, every outfit and face paint different than the next. The clothing ranges: women in Minnie Mouse-style dresses, flowy, colorful vests with geometric shapes on them, top hats, and, of course, many different types of noses.
There was a vendor named Red Nose Factory selling the most recent invention in clowning: a new and easier way to wear your clown nose that doesn’t require glue. The crowd of clowns gathering around his section of the merch table was noting that this is a top-notch product.
Emmi and Melanie begin giving me the crash course on clown history. The White Face is the polished one—the leader of the group, almost a little bossy. The Tramp is the working man's clown, face smudged with soot and permanently down on his luck. The Auguste, which originated in Berlin, is all oversized shoes and giant expressions, the more chaotic counterpart to The White Face.
There is even a newer clown style called "the disconnected" that has come out of Mexico City. Typically a Pierrot-style makeup where the face paint stops abruptly at the jawline, or a modern aesthetic featuring disjointed, asymmetrical clown elements.
One clown at the gathering wore this style: straight, colorful hair giving 1980s rocker vibes, a bright yellow suit covered in X’s, and face paint that brought to mind David Bowie's iconic Ziggy Stardust lightning bolt. The Disconnected has a little bit of everything, which is what makes him so different.
Emmi explains that when her parents first started clowning, performers typically worked through agencies that dictated where they could perform and how they ran their businesses.
"They wanted to evolve," Emmi tells L.A. TACO. "They wanted to grow."
That desire for independence eventually grew into the Latin Clown Evolution, which created a space where performers could learn from one another, instead of competing.
"So many people left their country and can't go back," Melanie says. "If you want the type of clowning you had from your country, we'll bring a piece of that to you."
"Every country, every culture has its own origin of clowns," Emmi adds. As the two spoke, they effortlessly finished each other's sentences, occasionally pausing to help translate a word from Spanish into English.
"We consider each other family," Emmi says. "We've known each other for 15 years."
“Everything started at Bombolín’s house: He would have 60 people in his house in Compton every Tuesday from 6 p.m. to 12 a.m. He opened his home to others, and that's how this all works. There is so much love in the community,” Emmi says.
On that note, Bombolín, with a bright pink face, big white painted eyes in a yellow, red, and black vest covered in stars, brings me over some neon overalls with rainbow suspenders, a red-striped shirt with a clown peeking through the stripes like a window curtain, and a rounded, red, derby-style hat to wear.
It was time to join them for their big family photo in my new persona, Dottie.
Melanie, wearing a pinup-style black dress covered in roses, with a detailed pearl necklace, specializes in face paint. She gave me my clown smile, rosy cheeks, and a red heart on my nose.
“The nose is the heart of the clown,” McDermit said to me as we entered the room for the group photo.
It is true that something about the costume makes you embrace feeling sillier—you feel more relaxed and joyful. There is something about going, "Fuck it, I'll paint my face and wear this clown outfit over my clothes for this event," that makes you check your ego at the door.
The clowns all started to gather, sitting in rows of chairs while some stood on the chairs in the back row. I landed myself somewhere in the middle, unbelievably thankful to be included in this. It felt like being inducted into a family—everyone loving each other and embracing with open arms.
Tony started to sing an original song called "Latin Clown Evolution," and the crowd knew every word. The room roared with cheers and laughter, everyone clapping on beat—except me.
Two hours earlier, I had arrived not knowing what to expect for the day. I had never even seen a real clown in real life before this. Now I was standing shoulder to shoulder with 50 clowns in rainbow suspenders, singing a song I'd never heard before.
Nobody cared whether I'd earned the costume. They simply handed it to me and made room.
Watching everyone sing together, I realized this gathering wasn't really about balloons or oversized shoes. It was about protecting joy itself in a country that deports you solely for the color of your skin. In a moment when fear keeps some members from crossing borders, and others work construction all week before entertaining children on weekends, choosing to laugh together isn't frivolous.
It's an act of resistance.
Consider hiring a clown for your next event. Keep up with the Latin Clowns Evolution on Instagram.
The documentary premieres this August at the Sidewalk Film Festival in Birmingham, Alabama, with a Los Angeles screening—featuring live performances and activities with the clowns themselves—to be announced soon.
