The Travels and Travails of a Freelance Colorado Magician

(Day 3 as I take my prompt from Reverb10 and reflect on this year and prepare to manifest what is next.)

Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors).

Author: Ali Edwards

The Moment: Saturday, August 21, 2009, 7:55pm. The debut of a new show. 5 minutes to show time.

I’m backstage peering out from behind the curtain, but the tension is so high, I’m already not entirely here. I’ve receded into my brain. Reverted to a homunculus: ensconced inside a skull, peering out through a pair eyes, monitoring the sounds that filter in through a pair of ears.

(And this is the moment I choose to describe as feeling most alive? Well, it’s more intense than eating a can of meat flavored food.)

House is almost full; we’ll start on time. Check my watch. The buzz of the crowd, “…rutabaga, rutabaga, rutabaga…” Hands are moist, but the patient’s breathing is steady.

It smells like a high-school gymnasium. Or perhaps I’m emanating Fight-or-Flight pheromones. It smells like Napalm in the morning. And if someone says boo, I’ll jump out of my shoes.

Friends and family are in the audience for the opening night performance. I lock in on every friendly face I can find in the audience. Later, during the show, I’ll seek them out; their presence will help steady my nerves.

By the way, opening nights are over-rated. Yes, they’re full of energy and charged with excitement. But, methinks, a tad too much energy and a bit too much excitement.

Not that the show will go badly, but on opening night, the show runs on emotion. It’s held together by the script not the performer.

Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow it will be my show to guide and shape. Tonight, however, I’ll be carried along on a wave of energy, receiving a distorted view of the performance as I ride a turbulent beam of light.

(Afterwards I’ll have to ask my director how the show went. I won’t remember much.)

I run through a mental checklist yet again, but it’s fruitless; my mind skips and jumps as thoughts collide. I can’t focus long enough to bring a thought to completion. I know I’m forgetting something so I start over from the beginning.

But there’s no time. The moment is approaching too quickly. Check my props, again. Review the order of the show, again. Rehearse the opening lines, again. Once I speak the opening lines, the rest of the show will unfold on its own.

And now it’s time.

I cue the stage manager and a disembodied poet begins the announcement…

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the 5th Annual Boulder International Fringe Festival. Please turn off all cell phones and pagers at this time and…”

Check that your shirt is tucked in, your hat is on straight, your fly is zipped.

Oh, we’re alive all right…

In One Word…Retrenchment.

An awkward word in the English language – though the French might make it lyrical – I select the word “retrenchment” to encapsulate the year 2010.

I am, however, acutely aware that the act of choosing a word immediately filters my remembrance of the year and that in the future, should it suits my purposes, I may wish to re-dub the year. For now, however, “retrenchment” is the word of the year.

The word carries a financial connotation and bespeaks of a cutting back, a reduction in expenditures, a tightening of the belt, and truly 2010 has been a struggle financially – a year in which I’ve had to work harder while making less.

But more critically it was a year of artistic retrenchment.

From 2006 through 2009 I experienced a period of creative abundance. During this time, I created three one-hours performances, almost (it seemed) at will. Each time I went to the well I could draw forth something new, but 2010 was different type of year. And for the first time the creative thoughts ceased to flow.

Though that’s not quite true.

While I did struggle to create a new show, and while new material did elude me, I found myself going back to revisit my older work. Rewriting, modifying, strengthening, honing. The creativity I experienced in 2010 was not of a generative type, but of a refining type.

The creativity of standing in place, of cutting deeper into the old tracks. A retrenchment.

The word I hope to manifest in 2011 is “fecundity.”

A leaping forth from these defensive trenches, a storming of the gates, a bringing forth of that which has lain dormant during 2010.

This retrenchment has made me restless, I look forward to fecundity in the new year.

Worked an outdoor festival for Grant Family Farms in Wellington, CO this weekend (4 shows, over 2 days) and thought I’d share something of value for those who work these types of events.

For performers, festivals can be a bit of a wild card. Sometimes your stage is centrally located and receives lots of foot-traffic and sometimes your stage is on the outskirts. Sometimes attendees are highly attuned to the schedule of events and manage their time well, and sometimes attendees are content to wander about to see what opportunities will arise. And there’s the issue of timing. What other activities are happening concurrently with your performance? At what time does attendance peak? What time does it begin to wane?

As a result, sometimes the dynamics of the festival will drive large audiences to see your show, and sometimes the dynamics of the festival will not.

And yet, as a festival performer it is imperative that I draw a big audience every time.

When I’m hired to work a festival, the event planner wants to provide entertainment to as many of their attendees as possible. In fact, the only way they can justify paying my fee is by the number of people that I entertain.

If my magic is superlative, but my audiences are diminutive, then I’ve failed because the person who writes the check is only interested in one thing: How many people enjoyed the show? And if the audiences are small the event planner will conclude that: 1) People are not interested in magic (let’s not hire a magician next year), or 2) This magician isn’t very good (let’s hire someone else next year).

Given these circumstances, it’s good to have a few tricks up your sleeve to guarantee that you have a good audience no matter what. Here’s what I do:

About 30 minutes before show time, if it becomes clear that the dynamics of the festival will not automatically provide me with a bountiful audience, I go out and began to “buttonhole” as many families as I can with my “invisible ticket.”

The “invisible ticket” is a gambit that I either learned from another working pro or one that I invented myself. Unfortunately, my memory fails me so I cannot take credit, even though I think I invented it. The “invisible ticket” works best when I’m looking to gather a family audience of grown ups and their kids.

If you simply accost people and beg them to watch your show, you run the risk of creating animosity and ill-will because you are trying to sell your show, and some people would rather not be solicited. This is especially true, if you accidentally stop the same family twice and harangue them a second time about the merits of your magic (not an uncommon occurrence as your roam the festival grounds).

The “invisible ticket” works because it gives you a way to engage people playfully and entertainingly so that everyone has a fun time listening to your pitch and they don’t resent your intrusion. You give them a chance to have some fun playing along and if you inadvertently approach the same family twice, it’s still a lot of fun.

Here’s the pitch.

I approach a family with kids and I ask them, “Did you get your free tickets to the magic show?”

If I am speaking to them for the first time, the answer is no, but now I’ve informed them that there will be a show.

I begin digging through my pockets looking for the tickets (assuming that they are interested) and then say, “Ah, here they are…”

I pretend to withdraw a stack of tickets and mime handing them out saying, “The tickets are invisible, but don’t lose them, you’ll need them to see the show. The show will begin in 25 minutes at the tent at the top of the hill…”

I’ve given them all the pertinent information while giving them an opportunity to be a little goofy and have some fun with their invisible tickets.

As you can see there is potential for lots of business with the invisible tickets. Sometimes I drop a ticket and need help finding it. I always recommend that they put the ticket somewhere safe so they don’t lose it (invisible tickets are very easy to lose) which encourages them to be creative about how to keep their ticket safe. If I’m talking to a large family, I’ll give a stack of invisible tickets to the oldest sibling and let him or her distribute tickets to the rest of the family. Or I’ll hand out a few tickets and then lament that I’ve run out of tickets, so only half of the family can attend the show (luckily I find some extra tickets in another pocket).

Generally speaking, I give the invisible tickets to the grown ups first as they are quick to understand the game and the kids will take their parent’s lead. You only have to give people a small opening, and they will take the idea and run with it.

One woman told me she dropped her ticket in the water and asked me if I would still honor her ticket (I traded her for a fresh ticket just to be safe). Kids would walk past me showing off their invisible tickets. One man unlaced his shoe and stashed his invisible ticket under sole to keep it safe. One child bemoaned the fact that she didn’t have a pocket in her dress to store the ticket, but then proudly discovered an invisible pocket just large enough for her invisible ticket.

Very small children hold out their hand to receive their ticket and then stare at their hand, perplexed, when they can’t see anything. Their parents think this is REALLY funny and I let the kid off the hook by saying, “Don’t worry about it. It’s just silly.”

On occasion an older child might refuse to accept the reality of the invisible ticket insisting that, “There’s nothing in my hand.” To which I say, “Well, of course not. You dropped your ticket on the ground.” When I put the ticket back in their hand they’ll still insist that, “There’s nothing in my hand. It’s not a real ticket.” So I reply, “Next you’ll be telling me there’s no such thing as Santa Claus!” And I storm off in a feigned huff.

It doesn’t matter, I can make the premise fun whether they accept or deny the ticket, and they’ll still come to see the show.

And when I inadvertently approached the same family twice to ask, “Did you get your free tickets to the magic show?” Everyone stopped, reached into their pockets and proudly displayed their invisible tickets. So it’s even fun to be pitched twice.

You may ask why I don’t walk around performing magic to help build a crowd. My answer is that performing magic takes too long and while I’m performing a trick for one family, ten other families have walked by and I’ve missed the opportunity to tell them about the show. If traffic is heavy and there a lots of families in sight, I can do the “invisible ticket” spiel in less than 10 seconds and be off to play with the next family.

When it’s time to start the show, I begin by asking, “Does everyone have their tickets?” And those who are in the know will hold up their tickets for me to see. Now I can see how many seats I filled by my own initiative. Some days the audience is entirely due to my rainmaking and it’s a good feeling to know that I single-handedly averted a disaster armed with nothing more than an “invisible ticket.”

From my June 24, 2010 performance for the Meeting Professionals International Rocky Mountain Chapter Annual Awards Gala (MPIRMCAAG for short) at the Cable Center in Denver, CO.

To close the show, I told a Japanese folk-tale while illustrating the story with a special bamboo mat.

(All photos courtesy of Bill Cronin at www.croninphoto.com)

Introducing a 350-year-old piece of Japanese magic -- Nanking Tamasudare.

Using the bamboo mat to depict a large fish, the Sea King.

A mysterious box from the Sea Princess.

Depicting the rising sun

The end.

Given my long-standing policy of self-imposed silence, one may wonder what dire event has incited me to launch a feeble missive to my blog. The answer is that David Mamet has published a collection of essays on theatre entitled, Theatre.

Like he did in his previous collection of essays, True and False, Mamet pulls no punches as he skewers Method acting and the related schools of training, insisting that an actor’s responsibility is merely to speak the text clearly so that everyone can hear.

This time around he also rails against set designers and directors, declaring that  a group of actors (left to their own devices – sans director) would instinctively know how to create an engaging production.

Let me begin by saying that I’m not convinced that Mamet fully endorses his own arguments. In the same way that Henry David Thoreau once claimed that a person could forgo owning a home and could live instead in a more economical coffin sized box, Mamet’s arguments are designed to force us to reevaluate what element of theatre are truly necessary, though it is not surprising that as a playwright, Mamet should extol the primacy of the script.

It is not my intention to provide a through refutation of Mamet’s claims, as I think his writings on theatre are important and deserve to be read and contemplated.

It is clear, however, that he has had more experience with bad schools of acting, bad designers, and bad directors than I. And having suffered at their hands, he is ready to cast them all out of the temple.

My experience with the Method has been more benign and beneficial. When we worked with Stanislavsky’s emotional memory it was to used to develop emotional facility. It was a part of the actor’s training to foster greater access to one’s emotional spectrum, but was never used on stage, in performance, much the same way that an athlete might warm up using the hurdler’s stretch but never strike such a pose while competing (unless they were a hurdler).

The purpose of such training was to enhance the actor’s range of response so that, immersed the circumstances of the script, they might respond appropriately.

The Meisner technique (as I experienced it) was used to help strip away calculated, overly-polite, and logical responses. Actors who could shed their calculated responses were more able to embody the unfolding drama of the script, the clichéd response being the scourge of all actors as it is simply dull to watch.

Mamet takes to task directors who feel the need to inflict new concepts on perfectly sound scripts. And while I’ve never worked with such a director, I have seen my share of Shakespeare-set-in-a-novel-time-period, which I agree (aside from drawing audiences to admire the shear spectacle of the affair) does little to enhance the production.

Mamet, however, seems to overlook what for me is the key role of the director, and that is that someone must evaluate the performance of the actor, as the actors are rarely capable of evaluating their own performance.

Often, an actor will not realize that their actions are drawing focus, that their exit is too hasty, that their emotion is too big (or too small). Even if the only concern is that the actor speak the lines clearly so that everyone can hear, actors need someone to give them direction.

Mamet suggests that a good actor will be able to self-direct. This may be so, but it does not mean that a director is not necessary, only that in Mamet’s view an actor should possess the skills of both actor and director.

Perhaps (in addition to the skills of the director) the actor could also master the skills of a storyteller so that they might improvise a well-constructed and dramatically compelling story, and we could dispense with the playwright as well.

Nederland, CO is a great little town. The kind of town you might imagine exists only in the realm of imagination, or at the very least, only in some distant rural hideaway. But this remarkable community is a just a short 30-minute drive into the mountains west of Boulder.

It’s the kind of community where if you’re wondering where your friends are hanging out on Friday night, you drive down the main street until you spot their car (no need for Foursquare or Gowalla here).

And for some reason, Nederland has an abundance of top-notch restaurants to choose from. The food here is divine!

Also, once a year the community gathers to celebrate Frozen Dead Guy Days, a winter festival in honor of Grandpa Bredo whose body was frozen and stored in a Tuff Shed some 20 years ago, and who is awaiting the day he can be reanimated.

They have frozen turkey bowling, the frozen fish toss, coffin races, and a parade of hearses. And this year, a little magic, too.

I brought my magic to Frozen Dead Guy Days, and I also brought along my video camera so I could have some fun with the Frozen Dead Guy celebrants.

After sharing some of my magic, I asked people to get goofy. Here’s what happened:

Here’s a short post to kick off the new year.

Short because musician, Danny Barnes has done all the heavy lifting.

Danny Barnes plays a ferociously twangy banjo with nasal lyrics that draw heavily from folk music traditions, but he also ventures forth to fuse traditional roots with the progressive sound of rock, jazz, and electronic music.

To learn how to make a living performing magic, read his post: How to Make a Living Playing Music. (Just substitute the word “magician” for “musician” and you’ll realize his ideas still apply.) My thanks to Mr. Barnes for sharing his wisdom.

To Mr. Barnes’s 29 theses I would add this observation (this time from magician Billy McComb) that consistency is more important than brilliance. That is, no one wants to hire a performer who is brilliant one night but mediocre the next — because they can never be sure which performer is going to show up when they hire them, and furthermore erratic performances make it impossible to determine what fee would be fair compensation. Billy contends, and I concur, that you’ll have more success if you are consistent and you consistently deliver good value for the money.

And one more thought.

Before I launched into this business, I asked performers of all stripes if it was possible to make a living pursuing this decidedly off-beat profession. In exchange for my query, I receive a lot of quizzical looks and indeterminate answers.

I realize now that the question (as asked) was not one that could be answered, because I hadn’t thought through enough of the details.

To ask if it’s possible to make a living performing magic is akin to asking, “Do you think I could make a living selling some “thing” to some people?”

Of course there’s no way to answer to that question, except to ask a lot of other questions. What “thing” do you intend to sell? To whom will you sell it? How much does it cost to produce this “thing?” Of what value is this “thing” to your prospective clients? Do they have the money necessary to afford this “thing?” How many people are in the market for this “thing?” How will people find out about this “thing” you are offering?

Oh, and if you reply, “What I’m selling is a magic show,” then you need to dig much deeper. Remember the person who goes to the hardware store to buy a drill doesn’t want a drill — what they want are the holes.

The Pledge.

The Turn.

The Prestige.

(From a recent performance for Blue Mountain Arts annual sales meeting. All photos courtesy of my friend John Hudetz at www.hudetzphotography.com)