I’ve been performing magic longer than I’ve been dating or driving. I am not alone: even in the mid-‘80s,
when magic was far from the relatively mainstream “thing” it has since become,
the arcane arts attracted their fair share of adepts. Back then, of course, one
learned from books: teaching DVDs were but a dream, and DropBox videos would
lay dormant for two more decades.
Gatherings proved equally
problematic in those pre-Internet times. Whereas nowadays each and every geek
can reach dedicated online fora—no matter the subject matter—in olden days,
magicians were only afforded two avenues. The first was a handful of select clubs
(such as the fabled Magic Castle in California) where a personal invitation was
the only thing that could get you in; not the most realistic prospect for a
budding legerdemain. But option 2, despite its more accessible trappings, was
no less intimidating.
I’m talking about the magic shop.
Entering one of those special
lairs was a sort of test. The location of magic shops was not kept secret, nor
was a password or special handshake required to gain access to the premises.
But the minute you walked in, you knew you were being judged. Evaluated.
Weighed. Were you the tourist, wandering in as you might any other strangely
inviting shop? Or perhaps the casual performer, looking for a new self-working
trick to have fun with friends and coworkers? Or maybe, just maybe, you were
the serious student, questing for the next move to add to your arsenal, the
missing tool from your box, the final feather in your cap. Whoever you happened
to be, you were welcome in there, and the old wizard tending shop would see to
your particular needs.
I’ve always loved those exotic
places, but it took me a while to grasp the exact reason. Many other establishments
sold items I was excited about. Why did magic shops hold me spellbound in that
regard? It eventually dawned on me that these surroundings made me feel like a
kid all over again. Everywhere I looked, amazement waited, barely contained. A
new mystery to solve, a new world to explore, a new question to answer… And I
know it’s precisely what keeps calling to me, after all those years.
Over the course of my magical
studies, I’ve come across quite the array of spectators. I know all the types:
the easy-going guy who just enjoys the show, the girl who won’t stop screaming
in excitement, the broody kid who wants you to fail, the know-it-all who calls
the shots in advance, the guy who feels insulted because he can’t comprehend
what he’s seeing, the pleased grandfather who wears a smile as big as his hat,
the grandmother with a hand to her chest who looks like she’s about to faint, the
alpha male who fumes at seeing his girlfriend melt at your fingertips—it takes
all kinds. But I have to say that the vast majority of spectators are on the
magician’s side and genuinely want the experiment to succeed: they understand
it’s a little collaborative lie we’re telling ourselves, and that it functions
best when everyone is onboard.
Similarly, I’ve encountered a
wild variety of magicians, from the smug performer who assumes an air of
superiority at being the only one in the room with any knowledge of what’s
really going on (or so he likes to think), to the shy illusionist who almost
apologizes when something out of the ordinary happens (which it’s supposed
to!). Again, I’m happy to report that most magicians are a friendly bunch whose
only desire is to entertain in a mystifying way.
To my absolute delight, I have
found myself performing in several different settings. In a darkened corner at
a fundraiser for a friend’s theater project (where a passerby ripped the deck
out of my hands, looked at one of the pasteboards and shuffled it back in with
the others, before handing the whole mess back to me and daring me to find his
card); on a bumpy cab ride en route to Heathrow airport (during which bad
lighting conditions both helped and hindered everything I did); at a large
wedding in San Francisco (a completely improvised affair at the request of the
groom, and one which was met with such enthusiasm that it derailed the
proceedings and earned me the eternal wrath of the wedding planner); as part of
actual magic shows (it does happen!); in the middle of an open-air market in
Tunisia (where I was dragged from one stall to the next—with live chickens
flying and clucking out of the way—so that I could repeat my demonstration for
a friend or a relative); in multitudes of friends and family gatherings; and so
on.
Now there is no denying that I
enjoy the art of magic as a whole, but close-up magic holds a special place in
my heart—and my hands. To me, magic has always been about the connection with
spectators, and there’s no better way to connect with them then a close-up
performance. The impossible happens right under the onlookers’ noses, sometimes
directly into their hands: they are part of the event in a very personal way. I
have specialized in card manipulation, always with a completely ungaffed deck:
no shenanigans, no secret thing added or taken away, no special cards. Pure
manipulation and misdirection. Not because I look down on special
apparatuses—many of which are incredibly clever and allow for mindboggling
miracles—but because I like to use a borrowed deck of cards, or else give mine
away after I’m done. People actually enjoy this: their cards have gone through
“something special,” and/or they walk away with a magical souvenir most of them
will cherish for years to come.
So what does all of this add up
to? The simple fact, I guess, that people from all walks of life, in all sorts
of situations, will usually react the same way when presented with an
entertaining demonstration that they can’t possibly explain. Their brains will
look for a solution in column A, then in column B, maybe in column C (where all
the clutter accumulates), and realize there’s none to be found. What they’re
witnessing can’t be filed anywhere. And at that moment, that truly magical
instant, their mouths will part in a toddler’s grin and their eyes will light
up like those of an infant witnessing the world for the first time. Something
ethereal will emanate from their features, something profound and beautiful.
It’s there for just a second, but it (almost) never fails to show up. No matter
where you are in the world, no matter whom you’re performing for. It’s there.
And I am hopelessly addicted to
that unique something, that primordial look in their eyes. Like a vampire on
the prowl for human blood, I keep performing magic to stimulate that response,
so that I may quench my special kind of thirst, if only for a little while.
(At the same time I feel a bit
guilty because everyone is busy looking at me: I’m the only one who gets to
look back at all of them and take in that luminous glory.)
Living legend Paul Harris often
refers to magic as “the art of astonishment,” a phrase that sings in its exactness.
People are not just puzzled: they are SO puzzled that they revert to a state
when everything was still new and full of wonder.
So the next time you see a
magician at work, sacrifice your own enjoyment for a moment and look at the
person next to you—especially towards the end of a trick. That is where the
true magic happens.
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