Street Magic: True Illusionist or Total Phony?

Oddly enough, I quite enjoy magical performances. I know it's all just tricks, that the magician in question is freakishly skilled at sleight of hand and utilizing angles and turning my own senses against me. But even so, it's fun to suspend your disbelief for a moment or two and indulge in the possibility that their magic is real.

At nearly every school school event I can recall, there was some sort of magician present. From my high school's homecoming dance to TCU's Frog Camp, it seems to be a beloved practice. Part of me thinks it's because teenagers think we know everything, and the only way to prove us wrong is to do the impossible, to stretch our mental limits so thin we begin to doubt our severe skepticism. 

This indulgence in street magic isn't new though. A History of Magic, Witchcraft, and the Occult described performers in the late 1400s to early 1500s and one of "their signature turns [which] was the Cheppum Panthum (Cups and Balls trick, in which balls are made to randomly appear and disappear)," (DK A History of, p. 128. DK Publishing. Kindle Edition). 

The Conjurer—this is a 16th-century copy of an original painting by Hieronymus Bosch, now lost. (Page 515)

"[By] the medieval era all kinds of magic were performed as street entertainment. Renaissance conjurers continued this tradition, bringing their illusions to marketplaces and fairs, as well as into the homes of aristocrats and royalty," (DK A History of, p. 291. DK Publishing. Kindle Edition). 

It's absolutely insane to me that a version of what was once an enthralling magic trick is now a common game played on stadium big screens during football timeouts. Funny what sticks around. If it's not broken I suppose, don't fix it as the saying goes.

Anyway, magicians are arguably pretty cool, talented people, and while I'm no Phil Dunphy enthusiast about them, there was one street illusionist that I was fairly obsessed with for a few years, and now seemed like the right time to revisit him. 

Introducing Justin Willman, host of "Magic for Humans" on Netflix (naturally, as opposed to "Magic for Lizards").  The tagline claims that "Justin Willman blends good-natured magic with grown-up laughs," and the show consists of just that, a mix of mind-bending magic and truly baffled adults.

This specific video clip is one of my favorite tricks, though. Every time I watch it, I'm struck by the power of performance. Simply through good acting and shared suspension of disbelief, the crowd is able to convince not one but TWO people that they were turned invisible. (Cup, meet ball.) Even rewatching it now, I still laugh at the vastly different reactions between the two victims: pure panic and unrestrained joy. 

I love knowing the secrets behind the magic tricks. It doesn't kill my fun, In actuality, I like to be reminded of human talent and wit. It makes me appreciate our creativity. 

So the faking invisibility piece of the trick is easily, logically explained. Even the water trick is a simple collaboration between Justin and a chosen audience member. But what the hell happened to Mike? Justin makes Mike disappear first to convince Jonathan that achieving invisibility is possible. The video glosses right over that piece. How did Justin successfully hide Mike, creating patient zero and laying the mental groundwork to fool Jonathan?

Now that, I have no answer for. 

Regardless, modern magicians are just as enthralling today as they were back when their main trick was Cups and Balls. And if you're ever looking for new magical entertainment, Justin's combination of sharing secrets with the audience while still creating illusions is a great place to start.

P.S. 

A quick note on superstition.

One of my best friends is Persian. A while back, I accidentally busted our teapot (because yes, two college girls own a real kettle and teapot) and felt horrible about it. When stuff breaks in my house, it's met with lots of yelling. And this teapot was ancient.

When I confronted my roommate to apologize about it she said something unexpected. She told me not to worry about it because breaking dishes or glassware in her family means you take on the bad luck of that person. So in ruining the teapot, I actually got rid of some of her bad luck.

She's very superstitious about these things, so she was weirdly grateful. And while I tend to land more on the logical side, I found her response comforting because I'd never broken something and been thanked for it before.

Anywho, maybe pull that line if you accidentally break something important that belongs to someone else.