Episode VI: Spooning

Friday morning began with a lecture by Uri Geller.

Uri Geller: in the words of Vice President Biden, this was “a big fucking deal."

Despite his reluctance to associate with magicians, Geller has been an influence on magic for five decades.

When I was becoming interested in magic I knew only an handful of names and his was one of them. I would watch Doug Henning and Mark Wilson on American TV and “Magic Tom” Auburn on our local channels and I would read about Geller.

He came to North America in the early 1970's at precisely the right time. There was a boom in interest in all things paranormal and, as a result, his talents were eagerly received. Each deformed spoon or key, each restarted clock seemed to demonstrate that despite all of the upheaval of war and social and economic unrest, it was within our capacity to control our environment.

It should be noted that this was also the time of Rod Serling's “Night Gallery,” “Ghost Story” with Sebastian Cabot and a host of other TV shows with paranormal themes like “The Sixth Sense” and “The Night Stalker.”

I'm not sure that I ever fully bought into the notion of Geller's unique abilities. I had read enough about Houdini's campaign against fraudulent spiritualists to be convinced that Geller was doing sneaky business and was very good at it.

But while bunking down in Camp Skeptic, I was nonetheless impressed by his powers of self-promotion. Believe him or not, it was hard not to know about him and the abilities he claimed.

And two generations later, it was possible to still see his impact on the magicians gathered in Orlando for Genii's 75^th Anniversary Birthday Bash.

In a number of comments made from the stage it was clear that some performers were uncomfortable sharing the program with Geller. And in the lobby, there were conference attendees lined up two and three deep to have their picture taken with him.

Needless to say, there were very few empty seats at his morning lecture.

It is not overstating it to say that Geller played his audience masterfully. At least indirectly, through the power of his mind, he was able to transform the room from a group who had the previous day snickered at comments about spoon bending to one that gave him a standing ovation and he did it all without exposing his methods.

That in itself is a great trick.

Instead of lecturing about effects and methods, Geller told his life story with the same kind of optimism and good humor with which earnest and sincere people on television convince you that you can lose weight without exercise, or earn vast profits without risking any money.

After years of hearing magicians complain about his refusal to acknowledge that his effects are the product of skill and technique rather than paranormal abilities, Geller's response is that he doesn't have to respond. He demonstrated through a series of examples that the only thing that matters to him is, in essence, that they spell his name right. (It's pronounced “Ooo-ree” and not “U-ree.”) At one point he said that he didn't bother to read the articles written about him, he just measured the number of column-inches.

And so now he travels the world selling versions of a competition show the goal of which is to ostensibly name his rightful successor. He has reinvented himself as the Simon Cowell of “mystifiers.”

Despite all the too-clever remarks and the manufactured animus between him and magicians, it is too easy to dismiss him as a footnote. He did something significant in the history of magic. He built an original act and sold it to the world. He made his reputation on deforming flatware and the general public knows his name. These are all feats to which magicians of every stripe aspire.

Regardless of what magicians may think, there is much to learn from Geller about building a career and continuing to stay relevant in the eyes of the public. He's done it, is doing it and should be celebrated for that.

That's what I think..., or maybe that's just what he wants me to think. 

 

Meeting the Elusive Moth

The greatest trick ever performed by a magician is to inspire others to take up the art.  Each of us who has ever dabbled with a Svengali deck or the Ball and Vase has been engaged by seeing another performer.  While the bulk of the audience may be fooled, there are always a few in every audience who become motivated to learn the secrets and possibly even become performers themselves.

In my case, it was from seeing Magic Tom on local TV in Montreal, seeing Mark Wilson on the talk shows and watching The Amazing Kreskin who, in those days, had a weekly TV show.  For those who have come after me, those inspirations might be David Blaine and David Copperfield.  For those who came before, it was for several generations, Blackstone.

http://www.otrcat.com/z/blackstonesignede.gif

Harry Blackstone, Sr. was among the last of the great touring magicians.  Each summer, he and his company would set out from their summer quarters in Michigan to work the circuit of theatres and auditoria throughout the United States and Canada.

Blackstone was a popular name because he put on a popular, fast moving show that was a hit with children and their parents.  Perhaps the most accurate measure of his popularity was that he became the subject of both a comic book series and a weekly radio program.

Blackstone represents a link to the days of Thurston and Houdini, of Carter and Kellar.

One of the classic effects in magic is the Linking Rings.  Like the soliloquies of Shakespeare, this is one of those effects that tests the mettle of every performer.  Though well-known, the effect still has the capacity to inspire and amaze.  Done poorly, the Rings can speak volumes about missed opportunities and misunderstanding.



The Linking Rings are also an appropriate metaphor for the history and culture of magic itself.  Each period in magic is its own closed loop that is seemingly impossible to penetrate.  These rings overlap with each new generation and there inevitably arrives students who seek out the wisdom of their predecessors and use that knowledge to create their own period.  And like that, the rings become linked.

Lance Burton promoted his show as being of a tradition that stretched back through Lee Grabel to Dante, to Howard Thurstan to Harry Kellar to Alexander Hermann.

* * *

I recently attended Magi-Fest in Columbus. 

For 81 years, magicians from all over the middle of the country have gathered in Columbus to talk magic and learn from its leading practitioners.  There is camaraderie, competition, conversation and lots and lots of magic.

A focal point of this, or any other magic convention, is the dealer room.  This is an opportunity to sample the wares of leading manufacturers and resellers from around the country.  In the absence of access to a real brick and mortar magic shop, this is when you can actually put your hands on the latest and the newest that you may have only read about online or in your favorite magazine.

The days are filled with lectures by visiting experts and the evenings are taken up with performances. 

At the Friday night show, a number of notables were introduced from the audience and this was how I learned that Adele Friel Rhindress was at the convention.

Adele was an assistant with Blackstone during the last years of his two-and-a-half-hour evening show, is one of only 5 people from that period who is still alive and, as she said, "the only one who's talking."  She feels a real responsibility to make sure that history records the experience accurately.

When they introduced her from the stage I was impressed, but I thought that I would never get a chance to meet her, or talk to her.  I am a shy person.

The next afternoon--the last day of the convention--and after making a final pass through the dealer room during which I purchased a copy of Adele's memoir from Abbott's Magic, a company that was founded by Percy Abbott who used to work with Blackstone, I went into the common area to examine my purchases and figure out what session I would go to next.

Across the room from me, I noticed Adele seated at a table with maybe four conventioneers.  She was signing copies of her book and telling stories.

One of the guys at the table was keeping an eye on a video camera that was running in the background.

They were getting their books signed.  I would like to have my book signed.  How could I ask her to sign my book?

She was right there, a link to another ring and I didn't know how to ask her to sign my book.

Should I ask?  Is it too rude?

I packed up my purchases and walked across the foyer to stand at her table.

She was in the middle of a story and I didn't want to interrupt.

I stood there a little longer.

I think she noticed me and was about to speak to me when a couple of guys came out of the dealer room and she knew one of them who quickly introduced her to the other and they were off into a whole different conversation.

I decided to go get a coffee.

When I came back, Adele was still there talking and signing.

What to do?

Finally, I got up the gumption to approach one of the other guys who was waiting to have his book signed and asked him if it would be too rude to have her sign mine.

How pathetic is that?

He invited me to join the line.

As it turned out, Adele was not just repeating the same anonymous inscription from one book to the next, but rather she was interviewing each person to find out about their connection to magic so that she could write something personal in each one.  And in the course of each of these mini-interviews she would connect to some aspect of her personal story and she would share an anecdote either from her days with the Blackstone show, or from her re-entry to the world of magic.

She talked about being energized by being with "her people."

The Blackstone show as she knew it closed in 1950 and it wasn't until 2006 that she returned to magic and began thinking about telling her story.  She read a book about her old boss and noticed a number of errors and omissions.  She contacted the author and he managed to persuade her to relate some of her stories.  Unbeknownst to her, he had those reminiscences assembled into a manuscript and set the pages to Adele to edit.  And, as if by magic, her book appeared late last year.

Adele spoke of her "best friend in magic," Terry Evanswood and how he brought her to Magi-Fest and provided her with a hotel room and how he was going to put her in his performance for the conference's closing night.  She met him, almost by accident, at another convention in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.  He is a magician and, as it would turn out, a huge collector of Blackstoniana--if there is such a word.

As I waited my turn to have my book signed, I heard her make several references to the slight breakfast she had had many hours earlier and that she need to have something to eat before that night's performance.

It seemed the least I could do to take charge of making sure she got something to eat and, as a result, I got to be her lunch date.

What an honor!

* * *

At one point, while I was standing at a respectful distance from the table, I watched a couple of young guys walk out of the dealer room and past Adele's table.  They both took note of the table and the video camera and one of them turned to the other and said, "What's that?"  The other guy took a second look and said, "I don't know," and they walked on without ever breaking stride.

Adele and her colleagues are the reason those two and every other person was at this convention.  Through her work, she lit a spark in someone who kept the spirit of magic alive so hat it could be passed from one generation to the next.

With so many discovering magic through the Internet it is all to easy to lose sight of what came before.  With the latest custom printed playing cards and transistorized trickery in hand, we stop thinking about those who came before and were able to make a living with a bit of thread and some wax.

It is fitting that Adele's book is called "Memoirs of an Elusive Moth."  The "Elusive Moth" was a signature illusion in the Blackstone show but the moth is also an appropriate metaphor for magic and its history.

Not only is it ephemeral and difficult to capture, but it can be easy to overlook and gone before you know it.

At 86, Adele spoke of preferring to be around "her people" than those "old fogeys," but it is all of us who are moths to the flame of magic that she and those like her kept alight.

Brick and Mortar

It didn't happen very often, but Agnes would take my brother and me out to lunch.

We would get the bus from school and ride down to the corner of Sherbrooke and Claremont and meet her for lunch at Murray's.

Not a diner in the Eat at Joe's sense, Murray's was a family restaurant where the waitresses wore uniforms and the milkshakes came in  a tall glass and with a metal container direct from the blender.

The Claremont location was in an area of Westmount that had a lot of apartments and bordered on a residential community.  It was a neighborhood place where the waitresses knew your name and very quickly learned your order.

These lunches were a great treat.  Normally, we would have to walk home, which took about twenty minutes, eat for twenty and then walk back to school.  When we would meet Agnes for lunch, we would have a whole half-hour for lunch and, most times, enough time left over to visit the Trainatorium.

As the name suggests, this was a hobby shop specializing in model trains, but they also carried a variety of other items including what used to be innocently described as novelties.



These were simpler times, when you could readily find a retail establishment that sold simulated dog poop and the ironically named joy buzzers.  Trainatorium carried a small selection of these treasures that continue to delight young boys and middle-aged men. 

While my brother studied the model kits, I went straight for the novelties to search through the handful of magic tricks that were displayed in the same section.  Interspersed with the black soap and the whoopee cushions would be the items like the ball vase, the three shell game and coin to nest of boxes.

I had been to the library and read through the general interest books on magic.  They were a very helpful introduction to the mechanics of the art, but for those effects that required special props, you were left to your own devices to make your own devices.  My brother was the artistic one in the family.  My attempts at such projects always ended up disappointing.  These little packages were my earliest apparatus and represented my first steps to becoming more like Magic Tom.

From the Trainatorium, I expanded my search to other toy and hobby shops.  Every time we went anywhere, I would seek out the toy stores and search through their Games section to try and find more equipment.  It was a source of constant frustration that the selection was always limited and the offerings were startlingly similar from one store to the next.  I was always hopeful that I would find something new and frequently disappointed when I did not.  Some of the earliest entries in my rule book of life's lessons were generated by my falling victim to a familiar product being repackaged and renamed.

In addition to my stalking of toy shops, I also was reading my share of comic books.  I didn't get wrapped up in the expanding mythology of the characters as I did by the ads that appeared in the back of these publications.  There were ads for Charles Atlas and for opportunities to sell greeting cards, but there were also ads from companies like Honor House.

Honor House carried everything: from gags and spy radios, to serious tools like X-ray Specs.  They also carried a selection of magic tricks.  I have very clear memories of taping coins to a piece of cardboard and sending away for some of the exotic treasures contained in these ads.

Never once did it occur to me that this was not serious equipment for the budding magician.  After all, it was in these same pages that you would see ads for submarines and space flight simulators.

I don't remember exactly when it was, but it was around this time, maybe a little later, that I became aware of magazines like Genii and Tops.  And from the ads in those magazines I learned about mysterious places like Tannen's and Flosso-Hornmann.  These and places like them were the storied meeting places of the performers who were profiled in these magazines.  It was here that magicians would meet and show one another their tricks and get and give advice.  From time to time, the magazines--the "trades"--would profile up and coming talents and these rising stars would tell of visits made to their local magic shops where they would watch and learn from the old-timers.

I needed to find a serious magic shop.

Montreal, at that time, was home to Morrissey's Magic on Rue Decelles, just east of Decarie.  The address is and was an apartment building, with their shop in the first apartment to your left on the first floor.

The showroom had a window, but that was the only part of any of the walls that was not covered by shelving and stuffed with stuff.  Lots and lots of packages containing lots of secrets.  It was kind of like that last scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark:  so much stuff that you couldn't ever hope to take it all in in a single visit, or even a lifetime of visits.

And, best of all, no fake vomit or plastic dog poop anywhere.  This was a store for professionals.  I won't say I ever made it into the inner circle, but visiting Morrissey's let you know where the inner circle was.

Not only did they sell the professional equipment, but they also manufactured a line of their own.  Herb Morrissey manufactured and sold cups for the Cups & Balls, Dove Pans, Zombie Balls and Coin Pails.  Their stuff was so far beyond the plastic "toys" that I had started out with that just to hold it in your hands was to be in a different league.  This was the stuff the pros used.

I remember when I was able to purchase a Chop Cup from them.  This was going to be a turning point for me.  I was going to, once and for all, put down the toys and dedicate myself to mastering the sleights required to make the trick work.  Having a professional rig meant that it was time to get professional about magic.

But better than any single prop that I ever purchased there, or in any other magic shop, was the sense of possibility that Herb and Richard gave to even a hopeless beginner like myself. 

From the very first visit, they treated me with respect.  They assumed that I was serious about magic and, as a result, I became serious about it.  They treated me like I was an insider and not an outsider.  They pitched their talk just above my head so that I had a sense of how much more there was to learn, but not so far that I would get discouraged and give up.

They asked me what kind of a performer I was.

What a loaded question.

If I identified a specific area, they knew what sorts of merchandise to steer me towards.  If I did not, I would be marked as a tourist and I would be shown the Svengali decks and the ball vases.

They could demonstrate anything in the store and, based on how you responded, they would show you other similar effects.  If price was an obstacle, then they could direct you to a similar effect that was perhaps a little less expensive. 

The were terrific salesmen.  They could inspire and intrigue, flatter and challenge.  They empowered diuffers like me to think that we would be headlining at le Caf Conc--one of the last supper clubs in North America--in no time at all.

I do not have a lot of fond memories of being a teenager.  It felt like I experienced just about everyone of the topic areas covered in the ABC Afterschool Specials.  There were not too many places where I felt valued and respected.  Morrisey's was one of those places.  I remember after having having a tooth pulled--pre-trial punishment prior to being sentenced to a term of braces--I was offered the opportunity to have a "treat."  I chose a trip to Morrissey's.  I believe that was the day that I came home with an appearing cane:  seemed a fair exchange for a disappearing tooth.

Like the cane, eventually other interests "sprang up" to occupy my time and my committment to magic was redirected.  And while I was "misdirected," Morrissey's closed up and moved to Toronto.  And like the braces I wore, the application of technology has caused the important role that the so-called "brick and mortar" magic shops played in nurturing new magicians has been all-but erased. 

Today, just as in the Honor House days, magic is primarily a mail order business.  Instead of taping quarters to cardboard, we type credit card numbers into a computer and, sooner or later, new magic appears at your door.  It's all very efficient and makes good business sense, but like buying a suit off the rack, you never can be sure whether what you bought is a good fit.

For an old variety art, magic has made a real effort to stay relevant.  All you need is a web connection and you can see performances by the greats of today and many of those from days gone by.  You can comparison shop for particular effects in shops all over the world.  Performers, both living and dead, have fan pages and are present on Facebook. 

The price paid for all of this relevance is the loss of magic as a social medium. 

First and foremost, magic exists as live theatre.  It's a thousand and one stories about small miracles such as making a rabbit appear out of a hat, or being able to pluck coins out of the air.  In print, or online, these stories can seem silly, or unbelievable.  On stage, they become truly miraculous. 

If you have ever had the experience of watching a much-hearalded scary movie on television, you have a sense of what I am talking about.  It's so much easier to scare people in the dark then it is in the comfort of their own living room and easier still if there is a crowd.  Fear, like laughter and wonder, is contagious.

And just as magic need an audience, magicians need to engage with and be engaged by other magicians.  And hope-to-be magicians need to work for and be corrected by the more experienced.  Encouraged whenever possible and discouraged when necessary.  That's how you build the next generation of performers and sustain the art:  brick-by-brick, one magician at a time.

The Mystery of the Props

Television is as responsible as anything for my interest in magic. Not only was there Marshall Brodien and his TV Magic, but in Montreal we had "Magic Tom."

Magic Tom Auburn was THE local magician.  He hosted a local kids show that was our equivalent to Bozo.  He also seemed to be the go-to performer for live events around town.  And why not?  At the point when I was introduced to him, he presented himself as everyone's idea of the uncle who could do cool stuff.  He was friendly and respectful, great with kids and he could do magic.  What was not to like?

It was with this image in my head that I thought I too could perform for kids.  He made it look so easy that I thought it was easy.  It was not until I had retired from the stage that I came to understand that it was only because of absolute mastery of his material that he could appear so effortless. 

Here are some videos where you can get a sense of what I'm talking about.

So, not only was I hearing that "magic is easy once you know the secret" but I was seeing it every week in the person of Magic Tom.

At about the same time that I first saw the ads for TV Magic Cards, I remember seeing a similar style ad for the Wonder Mouse.  I don't know who was selling it, or even if it was called Wonder Mouse at the time, but I have a memory of seeing this advertised and being completely fascinated by this magical plastic mouse.  There was no abracadabra, no magic wands, just an inanimate plastic mouse that appeared to be able to do impossible things.  It looked like real magic.

Well, here, take a look for yourself:



This isn't the actual ad, but it gives you some idea of what I saw.

As I was preparing this piece, I was surprised to see that the mouse is still being sold. There is a more modern variation called the "Squirmel," but the mouse is still going strong.

This surprised me because when I finally got my hands on one, I remember being so completely disappointed in the "secret." The little "motor" that made the mouse do his wonderful tricks didn't make me think so much of Magic Tom as it did Rocky's famous line to Bullwinkle: "those tricks never work."

As I have noted elsewhere, I was pretty focused on getting caught and so a trick's "technology" had to pretty bulletproof. The part that I didn't get about performing is that elaborate technology comes with its own set of problems. The more the moving parts the more parts there are to break. In its own way, the Wonder Mouse is pretty bulletproof, but for a different reason. It's simplicity means that the performer doesn't have to think about it and can instead focus on his presentation.

What continues to impress me about magicians is that they willing enter into a performance with a hostile audience. The promise of trickery means that the audience is alert for possible clues that will enable them to discover the method. Nontheless, the magician distracts, misdirects and charms the audience so that he or she can pull the wool over their eyes. That's a kind of bravery that I can respect, but otherwise can't get close to.

Magic is storytelling, not technique. Every set of instructions I have ever read begins with the effect of the trick. That is the primary consideration: what does the audience see? The path to accomplishing that effect can take many routes and the actual work of the trick can happen at any point before the end. Some tricks are done before the performer has even begun and others can have a variety of outcomes depending on what happens along that path.

When I was still doing kids shows, I would go to the magic shops--Morrissey's in Ville St. Laurent, or Cramer's on Bleury--and look for the items that I saw Magic Tom use. I remember getting a piece of used equipment from Cramer's that became the close of my show. It was something I had seen Magic Tom use, a glass of sugar that turned into a glass full of candy. That was something a professional used. I used it, so I was on my way to becoming a professional.

It has taken me some four decades to recognize something that should have been painfully obvious: magic is not about the equipment and the technique. These are the details, the accents in the story told by the performer. It's not what happens when the simple metal tube covers the glass, but all about what happens to the spectators when the tube is removed. When they are transformed from cynics and secret-seekers into those who believe in wonder, that's when the magic happens.