Dustings #108

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The eclipse performance went over spectacularly. We were gathered at my friend’s lake house on the northern border of New York state. I spun the top on my palm a few times leading up to the event, as if I was trying to get the right “feel” for it.

In reality, I was trying to gauge the interest and make sure the moment was going to be right. The first time I spun it, one of my friends asked me about it, and I said something about how there’s supposed to be a moment during or around the eclipse that affects spinning objects strangely. Had he just said, “Oh,” and turned around, I probably wouldn’t have bothered with it. But he showed some interest and asked some follow-up questions. So I decided to go forward with it.

In the hour or so leading up to the event, I was able to get everybody in the group on board to the idea that I was waiting for this one moment where the “anomaly” would occur. I hadn’t decided if I was going to do it during the totality of the eclipse or just afterward. I knew we would have a few minutes of darkness, and what I wanted to show them would only take a few seconds. But still, I didn’t want to take people away from this potentially once-in-a-lifetime event for them to bring the focus on me. “Hey everyone! Over here! Stop looking at the moon passing in front of the sun. You can see that again when it happens 55 years from now. Instead, give ME your attention. I’ve got something fun to show you from former Ellusionist general manager, Adam Wilber!”

So I was going to feel it out. Magic at a special event can come off as a superfluous distraction. Or it can be the perfect finishing touch. Like a little bookmark for their mind that focuses their memory on that one moment, from which they can extrapolate and remember everything else going on around at the time.

I wish I could tell you how to know when a moment is, and when a moment isn’t improved with a trick, but it’s something you just have a feel for, I guess. Like knowing if it’s a good idea to go in for a good night kiss at the end of a first date. I’d like to think you’re attuned enough to the situation to trust your instincts. But I can’t say most magicians I’ve met give me that kind of confidence.

For my situation, though, it worked out perfectly. After just being still in the darkness of the eclipse for a couple of minutes, I noticed people’s attentions turning from the sky. I considered that an opening. “Oh, wait… I almost forgot I said.” I spun the top on my hand, where it lifted and floated to my other hand. “Holy shit.”

I tried again, but the anomaly had already past. Well, there’s always, 2079.

Tuesday’s post reminds me of something I’ve done in the past.

I’ve used it when doing something like a Triumph routine with a Cheek to Cheek deck. I’ll ask my friend if I can practice some sleight-of-hand and get their opinion on how it looks. Now, the Cheek to Cheek deck doesn’t need any sleight-of-hand. It’s a gimmicked deck. And if they get it in their head to examine the deck, then you’re sort of screwed.

By saying, “I’m going to do sleight-of-hand,” I find that people become much less interested in the deck at the end. For laypeople, “I’m doing sleight-of-hand” is both exposure and explanation. They don’t need to examine the cards at the end, because you already told them how it works.

So if you’re dealing with a lot of heat on a gimmick at the end of a trick, you can maybe deflect some of it by indicating at the start that what you’re showing them is sleight-of-hand. (Assuming it’s the sort of thing that theoretically could be accomplished via sleight-of-hand.)

I don’t use this technique anymore because I don’t really ever want people thinking I’m better at sleight-of-hand than I actually am. But you may find it helpful in certain situations.

I’m reading the book Paperbacks from Hell by Grady Hendrix. It’s a great discussion of 1970s and 80s horror paperbacks, with 100s of pictures of some of the crazy covers of those books.

It’s always good to remind yourself of the stereotype of magicians—what you need to fight against. And this book really slaps you in the face with one:

“Hating clowns is a waste of time because you’ll never loathe a clown as much as he loathes himself, but a magician? Magicians think they’re wise and witty, full of patter and panache, walking around like they don’t deserve to be shot in the back of the head and dumped in a lake. For all the grandeur of its self-regard, magic consists of nothing more than making a total stranger feel stupid. Worse, the magician usually dresses like a jackass.” —Grady Hendrix

Fair enough.