A recurring theme in the notes I took at the Genii 75th Anniversary Bash has to do with magic as a theatrical form.
Like theatre, magic is primarily a medium of storytelling and the magical moment--when the trick happens--is not so much the climax of the story, but the inevitable outcome of bringing a specific set of elements into conflict with one another.
What does that mean?
Stories take many forms, but all involve conflict and resolution. Whether we are talking about the Joads, or Indiana Jones, or a playing card that wants nothing more than to rise to the top of the pack, the storyteller's job is to set the scene, establish the characters, introduce obstacles, raise the stakes and resolve the story.
Stories are about transformation and so is magic. Melodrama is about the peaks and valleys of experience, but truly powerful stories affect the characters and, by extension, the audience.
While it may seem that I am advocating for Sam the Bellhop as the apotheosis of magic tricks, I am merely pointing out that which was stated explicitly, or conveyed implicitly, by the lecturers in Orlando: witnessing raw technical skill may be engaging to technicians, but lay audiences want to invest their attention in a compelling story. Put another way, while the patient has a vested interest in the outcome of the surgery, only other surgeons care about what instruments were used during its performance.
I find it remarkable that so many of the presenters and performers who lectured at the convention chose as their performing character one who was equally amazed as the audience that a particular trick worked. This was less a reflection on specific technical skill as a choice of framing for the audience. The magic was happening for them at the same time as for the audience.
Case in point was Chad Long. From the outset, he projected a torrent of nervous energy that clearly masked a high level of technical skill.
The note I took away from his presentation reads as follows: "Take a thing they know..., add something and it's a new thing."
That's all I wrote down. I have been trying to work out why that stuck with me long enough to find my pen and I think finally it has to do with surprise and storytelling.
We humans are quick to recognize patterns. It is a fundamental component of our decision-making process. We observe and then make predictions based on those observations. Anyone who has ever pulled out to pass a car on a two-lane road will know exactly what I am talking about.
Storytellers use this primal skill against us as a way of sustaining out investment in the outcome of their tales. They establish the conventions of their story and then intentionally subvert or destroy those conventions. And magicians do this all the time, for what is a "kicker" ending if not a demonstration that the assumption of the audience are mostly, if not completely, in error.
Mr. Long's notion of taking the familiar and adding new elements to create a new "thing" speaks directly to this.
Surprise, this subversion of convention, is closely tied to the magical moment. The power of the magician comes, in part, from the ability to present the idea that whether through skill, or "strange and hypnotic powers," they can, if only in the context of their performance, live outside the conventions to which the rest of us are held hostage. When you or I put the "ambitious" card in the middle of the deck, it stays in the middle of the deck. But when the magician does it, there are no rules, no telling where that card will end up.
A big part of the discoveries I made at this convention was in recognizing a kind of universal coherence across the various silos of my life.
After four decades of following magic and bemoaning my complete lack of skill, or ability to perform, I find that my "safety" interests in theatre and storytelling are more closely related to magic than I had once thought. My appreciation for a well-told joke and the associated comedy arts draws on similar skills as those used by the magician.
I wrote earlier about wanting to master The Pass as a way of connecting to the sleight of hand masters. This is still a goal, but I now understand that technical skill without context--without a good story--is like being a comedian without timing: you may know where the punchline is, but nobody else will.
So, I will end this installment of my report on the conference by illustrating a combination of elements that in combination create a magical moment for the audience.
I have been away from this blog for too long. It's not that I ran out of things to say, it was that I never have seemed to have the time to say them.
For my birthday, I got a copy of "Maestro" the 4-disc celebration of the work of Argentine poet Rene Levand.
You won't find his work in the poetry section of Barnes &Noble, but rather one the shelves and websites of your favorite magic suppliers.
Levand is a magician in the same way that a Lamborghini is a car: while the props may be familiar, in his hand the cards, the crumbs, even the tea cup become something more. They become transparent. They are the means to convey an idea and each idea in turn becomes part of a larger philosophy.
I wrote elsewhere about the poetry of Steinmeyer's Origami illusion as performed by David Copperfield. The right effect presented in the right way and under the right conditions becomes more than the sum of its parts and it transcends the "catch me if you can" performer-audience dynamic. It is so secondary to the experience of watching the piece that thoughts of "how" are drowned out and washed away. It is almost as though the surprise of discovering that, as an audience member, you are still capable of being amazed drowns out everything else.
Levand is able to do the same thing without the Peter Gabriel, without the atmospherics, without the beautiful assistants and without his right hand.
I make this association not to compare and contrast performers--each are masters of their media--but to suggest something of the impact that is possible when talent and creativity are brought to the service of a singular vision.
I don't remember how I first came across Levand and his work, but I recall seeing a performance of "It Can't Be Done Any Slower"--a six-card Oil and Water routine--and being completely captvated by this man who looked like a beloved family friend and, even though limited by working through a translator, was able to convey a casual charm that made the audience hang on his every word.
On the DVD, Levand talks about his inspirations. He makes reference to great composers and other magicians, a poet and Mae West.
In translation, he says he remembered a quote of hers that informs his work: "The thing is not what you say, but in how you say it. The thing is not what you do, but in how you do it. And, especially how it looks when it is said and done."
And while her selection as one of his influences may seem strange when placed next to Mozart, Bach and Beethoven, her philosophy is most especially relevant for magicians.
The props and techniques used by the close-up magician are relatively few in number and many performers tend to visit the same "classic" plots in their performances so what then is there to differentiate one performer from the other? What makes one an artist and the other a craftsman?
I once had a colleague who taught film theory and criticism. He kept a sign in his office that said something to the effect of "And what is the audience doing during all of this?"
That is the question that all artists need to answer. Whatever your medium, it is far too easy to become seduced by techniques. Learning the latest knuckle-busting move is a challenge and, once mastered, can become the go-to tool for every situation irrespective of whether or not it's the right tool.
I heard one account of the famous encounter between Harry Houdini and the legendary Dai Vernon in which Vernon is said to have fooled Houdini with a card trick even after repeating it 7 times in a row. In this account, the speaker says that Vernon, an expert in sleight of hand, performed an Ambitious Card effect using a gaff. No sleights, but rather the genius of the printer's art in order to fool the one-time "King of Cards."
I don't know if it's true and it really doesn't matter. It illustrates the idea that effects are designed for an audience and technique, while important, is secondary to "how it looks when it is said and done."
In his mid-eighties, Levand continues to adapt his technique as he experiences greater and greater physical limitations. That he has osteoarthritis in his hand has meant that he has changed how he performs and has become "more artistic."
The DVD set is aptly named "Maestro" because it not only documents a life's work, it also is full of many important lessons that can only be learned from a perceptive and gifted teacher.
More than a simple recipe book full of tricks, "Maestro" will guide the viewer toward being a better artist by providing them with a way to approach their magic in a more thoughtful manner.
I am grateful to Luis de Matos for producing this testament to the art of magic.
