Magic Is Dead, page 20
He soon realized that his career would benefit more if he dedicated himself to YouTube full-time. He didn’t need to work for Ellusionist anymore—his vision for his personal brand, and magic in general, extended beyond the confines of the ordinary magic community. He could be his own boss. He pondered it for a few weeks but eventually made his decision and uploaded a video to his channel with the title “I Quit My Job to Make YouTube Videos.” He spoke simply about his decision—from the heart. “Today I am venturing off onto my own path, and it is with a heavy heart that I am leaving Ellusionist. I am very thankful for the opportunity they have given me. But today is the day that I work for myself. And what an incredible feeling. I am terrified, but at the same time I have never been happier.”
He called me the same day. “I did it,” he said. “I’m finally following my dreams, man. It’s all happening!”
Ramsay always stayed at my loft in Brooklyn when he visited. It’s a converted industrial space with concrete floors and high ceilings cross-hatched in exposed beams. Being a full-time YouTuber meant traveling on your own dime (no more magic corporate credit card), so my door was always open for him. He stayed in our “guest room,” which is basically just a small nook above our bathroom, kind of like a tree house.* He’d set up his workstation—laptop, card reader, camera, lenses—on my dining room table, and edit videos in the mornings before heading out to film more stuff in the afternoons. He’d grumble at the mandatory workload—having your own reality show on YouTube is a full-time job—but he always woke up early and, coffee mug in hand, opened his laptop, put his head down, and got to work.
We woke up early the day after he arrived, had a quick breakfast, and Ramsay edited some footage before we made our way to Complex for his performance. We were early, so we decided to have a coffee and kill some time. We bought our drinks and sat down at a table on the sidewalk, traffic whooshing by, the Big Apple in full swing.
“What have you been working on, story-wise?” he asked, taking a sip from his cappuccino.
“I’ve been working on this big story for Playboy,” I started. This was a story that had me by the throat, to be honest. I’d been dying to talk about it. “It’s about this guy from Louisiana—a black guy who lived in this shitty, racist little town—who joined the army. He went off to war, hoping to escape the realities of his hometown, only to come back with post-traumatic stress disorder. When he was out there, his team ran over a roadside bomb, an IED, and he pulled his best friend from the wreckage. He saved his life, but it really took a toll on him. All that shit he saw in the war really messed him up, and he ended up moving back to his hometown. He never reached out to anyone for his PTSD and, one night, he was having a breakdown, and he called the Veterans Crisis Line for help. Cops came to his house, and the guy had a gun, so the cops shot and killed him. Just a super tragic story, you know? Like, this guy thought he could get away from where he came from, and the route he chose ended with him dead on the street in front of his grandfather’s house, right back where he started. Just sad, man. So sad.”
Ramsay sat silent for a minute.
“You remember how I told you my father was in the military, right?” he said. “And that’s why I had to move around so much as a kid?”
“I do, yeah,” I said.
“He had PTSD, too. He was in really deep with the Canadian Army—special forces, psychological operations, all these crazy secret missions he could never talk about. He helped a bunch of our allies, as well, with the worst shit that they needed done in Afghanistan and all over. He’s been a part of every major conflict for the past few decades. He’d go off, be gone for a few months, come home, and try to be Dad again. But I could always tell that he couldn’t shake off the things he saw over there. It really made an impact on my childhood.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he tried, he definitely tried, but you have to realize that war and the military, once you’ve been there, is something you can’t escape. It affects how you see the world, how you treat others around you. It was such a strict household, the way he ran it. Like, dinner was at seven o’clock sharp, and if you were late, even by one minute, or if you wore a hat to the dinner table, you weren’t allowed to eat. He’d make you sit in the other room while everyone else ate, and you’d go to bed hungry. And, sometimes, he’d do random cleaning inspections of our bedrooms. He’d walk in, and make us stand there, while he inspected how we made our bed, if our stuff was put away properly, if the room was dirty at all. I hated him, sometimes, for being so hard and so rigid, you know? I just wanted him to be there as my dad. When I was a teenager, I actually signed up for the army, to follow in his footsteps. But I dropped out at the last minute.” He put his cup down onto the table. “I just couldn’t do it. I’m not sure he ever forgave me for doing that.”
“How did that affect your relationship?” I asked.
“Well, you know, I started becoming defiant to his authority. After a while, I wanted to be the complete opposite of him. I wanted to be creative, I wanted to do my own thing. I wanted to be a musician, or an athlete, or a magician. I didn’t want to go through my life knowing that I didn’t become a man of my own making, as if my life was dictated by him, you know? I wanted to become completely me, not a version of him. So that’s the real reason why I started dedicating myself to magic. I saw it as a way to truly be me—to be free, in a way. Magic, that creative space, that new way of looking at things, getting lost in that world, was an escape for me.”
“You know, ever since I started this whole journey into magic, I keep thinking about the same sort of thing. Like, you became your own man in spite of the person your father was, right? But lately I can’t help but face the question of what type of man I would’ve become if my dad hadn’t died. Like, what would’ve happened? And would I have been happier with that path than this one?”
“I think the hardest thing in life,” Ramsay said, taking off his sunglasses, “is to be truly honest with yourself in terms of who you want to be. There are always people and forces out there that want to mold you in a certain way. I think that I, personally, have found happiness in knowing that I was the driving force in becoming who I am today, however strange and unorthodox the path I’ve chosen has been—magic, YouTube, this whole thing. It feels good, you know, to be at peace with that struggle, that I’ll never be my father, and that’s okay.”
I turned to look at the street. A cab screeched to a halt, nearly hitting a pedestrian. The driver rolled down his window, honked his horn, and shouted at the man, who just scurried across the street, lifting his hand in an apologetic wave.
A few weeks before coming to Brooklyn, Ramsay released his first for-sale trick through his YouTube channel. It was a new version of the classic voodoo routine, where the spectator chooses a card, signs it, and then makes a voodoo card; whatever they do to the voodoo card (rip it up, burn it) magically happens to their signed card as well.
Effects had always been disseminated either at magic shops or through self-published books and lecture notes; or, if sold digitally, through big online retailers. These companies acted as a gateway for upstart magicians to have their tricks, gimmicks, or routines reach a wide audience.* This path could also act as a stepping-stone for bigger opportunities, like working in the industry as a full-time creator, or accumulating contacts and accolades to obtain higher-profile gigs. As the magic community became more savvy with the internet, however, the necessity of retailers-as-intermediaries began to decline. For a hypervisible, big-time figure like Ramsay, who had built an intensely loyal fan base, he no longer needed to rely on a magic company to release his products, hence why he quit working for Ellusionist. With YouTube, he could do it himself—and keep all the profits. He sold the voodoo effect for a relatively cheap ten bucks. It was very much like the influencer model spearheaded by fashionistas, wellness gurus, and fitness heads, but instead of only promoting other brand’s products, magicians like Ramsay were able to market and sell things they created themselves. And the effect’s release proved his point: he sold thousands of downloads and raked in a boatload of cash.
After proving that this approach held sustainability and promise, Ramsay began coaching others to also become YouTubers, including Xavior Spade.* It was an open secret that Xavior was struggling with Lost Art Magic. He couldn’t get the company to grow. People respected his online store, and him as the owner, but the process of developing, marketing, and selling tricks—not to mention juggling a host of social media handles exclusive to his business—was cumbersome and time consuming. Plus, his personal page on Instagram was vastly more popular than that of Lost Art. People were more interested in him as a community influencer than the business he owned.
Ramsay told Xavior that using YouTube as a business platform afforded advantages that owning a company did not. For one, it elevated the personal brand of the creator rather than a faceless company, for which people proved to be entirely more loyal. Second, it combined all of the necessities of running a successful business into a single platform. Your channel was your content, your advertising, your marketing, and your store all in one. It was a one-stop shop for anything someone could ever want from a personality they followed online, especially if that person was a magician. They could get free how-to videos, vlogs and other adventurous content, as well as shouts and murmurs on inside-baseball topics that other magicians cared about. The platform afforded connectivity and expediency not seen in other models run on a work-from-home, shoestring-style budget.
Moreover, once trust and loyalty is built with an audience, once they feel invested in the creator and the content in which he or she produces, viewers are much more likely to buy a product created by the individual personally; not only do they trust that it would be worth their money (and, coming from guys as skilled as Ramsay and Xavior, it obviously would), but they also feel an emotional attachment to this person, and want to support them in their hard-earned endeavors.* They want to see people like Ramsay and Xavior—people they look up to—succeed. With social media, fans feel wholly invested in the personalities whom they follow, and they’re always ready to click, like, share, and drop money on their favorite creator’s products.
It took Xavior a few months to get a handle on YouTube’s ins and outs—playing to its algorithm, the need for a catchy title and enticing thumbnail, the little editing nuances that kept people watching—but over time he built a stable following of 20,000 subscribers. He then followed Ramsay’s lead and released a how-to project through his channel. It was on the pass, a widely used sleight where a selection of cards are moved within the deck, and for which he was famously known. He did it better than almost anyone out there. He filmed an enticing trailer and offered the project for $15. In just ten days (with a shout-out from Ramsay), he sold 1,400 downloads and netted nearly $30,000. It was the largest payday of his entrepreneurial career.
But making magic so visible online has its drawbacks. It’s true that some magicians have overlooked the delicate nature of promoting a secretive art form on an unruly thing like the internet—a place with loose morals, the Wild West of the twenty-first century, where any tidbit of information, no matter how revered, could be exposed. Sure, random snot-nosed kids will always give away secrets on YouTube for the fun of it, but a lot of magicians are more worried about performers with large followings who are giving magic a bad name.
Recently, a small crop of so-called viral magicians have popped up on the internet, armed with a base-level understanding of illusion and a penchant for catchy (but equally mindless) content. Most of these magicians operate on Facebook, where quick-hit videos can spread like wildfire. They largely post clickbait meant to get likes and shares rather than something that will enlighten the viewer. Some of these magicians, like Jibrizy, a Chicagoan who sports colored contact lenses and operates under the tagline “Swag Magic,” however, take it a step further. He actually coaches spectators on how to react—scream, run around in circles, the whole bit—before the trick is performed. After a hidden-camera video of Jibrizy stooging spectators surfaced, the entire magic community jumped on him, including Ramsay, who posted a video denouncing his immoral tactics.
Ramsay and many other well-known magicians have not only fought hard against these types of egregious trends, but they have also tried to make sure that, as their own followings grow, they understand the responsibility that comes with being the face of magic online. It’s a strange set of circumstances that may only be specific to this esoteric art form: the inherent secrecy of magic’s complex norms has created a system where spectators aren’t able to differentiate good magic from bad magic, or which tactics for disseminating magic online are detrimental rather than beneficial to the longevity and widespread understanding of the art form itself. It’s up to each individual artist to be not only a performer but also a gatekeeper of secrets and a critic of their own policies. It’s an ever-evolving enigma: once you think you’ve found the solution, the puzzle transforms into something else entirely. Ramsay has taken it upon himself to present magic on YouTube in a way that allows his viewers to learn more about the craft and respect its artistic foundations, with the hope that they, moving forward, can themselves distinguish between right and wrong when thinking about how the craft can progress or be innovated.
People will always be able to find a clickbait magic video on their Facebook feed, or secrets behind tricks on YouTube, but if guys like Ramsay can instill an element of integrity into how they showcase magic online—by recommending books, crediting creators, giving history lessons, asking for permission to use certain material, consulting with other magicians on what should and should not be included in a video, and giving sound advice on how moves or tricks should be performed—they may be able to control magic’s future and instill some semblance of respect that the art form has for decades so desperately tried to hold on to. And, after spending so much time with Ramsay, I could see how much he wanted, more than anything else, to establish a community based on his content. I could see how deeply he cared about creating sustainability through YouTube, not just for his professional career and personal ambitions but for the art form to which he has dedicated his entire life.
Ramsay didn’t talk much about it, but fans sent him emails and letters all the time, some of which were incredibly personal.
“I mean, look at this,” he said once, scrolling through the inbox associated with his channel. He thumbed through hundreds of unread emails. Dozens had come in that day alone. He kept swiping, picked a random message, and opened it. The subject line: You saved my life. He read it aloud:*
I may be one of thousands, tens of thousands who email you daily. When I say you saved my life I don’t mean that lightly. I was a soldier in the army for 4 years and got severely injured, during my service I got married to who i thought was the person who i was supposed to spend my life with. In my accident I herniated 4 discs one bulging on the nerve sustaining paralysis in my right arm/fingers. Continuing to serve my condition got worse developing severe arthritis and scoliosis in my cervical spine. I was medically discharged and due to the amount of physical and emotional repercussion I developed severe anxiety ptsd and depression. My wife found it was too hard to bare so she wound up dippin back home to California. Within a month she had a new boyfriend and a baby on the way. I fell deeper and darker into depression and started to take pain medication. It wound up consuming me and leading me to heroin. I would pray at night I wouldn’t wake up. Everyone told me to find a hobby but everything I pursued I quickly lost interest in. Until one day I went on YouTube and typed in magic. And there you were, Chris Ramsey. Needless to say I binge watched all of your videos some of them multiple times. I then went to Wal-Mart and bought a deck of cards and then went to my local magic shop. There I asked if anything magic related was available and believe it or not there was a magicians society here in myrtle beach south Carolina where I live. I went nervous and introverted. Because of you Chris I was able to reach out developing a major passion for magic and gaining new friends. After a couple lectures and meetings, the owner of the magic shop offered me a job . . . i almost cried after everything I had went through. My first day is tomorrow. Wish me luck. I don’t even know you but I love you for legitimately saving my life. Continue to do you, continue to inspire and I already know through your videos you will always remain humble. I will never be able to thank you enough for rekindling me and my family and the new friends I’ve gained through branching out all starting with magic. Again thank you Chris.
Ramsay looked up from the screen. “You see what I mean?” he said, his face pained. He must’ve been thinking of his father, I thought. “This all can’t just be for nothing.”
Ramsay and I came from very different worlds and experiences. But we have one very fundamental thing in common: both of our fathers wanted to watch their sons grow up, become men, and hopefully be like them in all the best ways and not like them in all the worst.
19
Not Just a Female Magician
I hadn’t spoken to Laura in months. We sent each other the occasional DM on Instagram, or dropped a comment on each other’s posts, but nothing really of substance. And then one day, out of the blue, she sent me a message: “Hey love,” she began, “what are your plans coming up? Would love to have you over here in London. I see Ramsay has been taking you around, showing you the ropes . . . thought it’d be great to have you over here, too.”
“Of course, would love to come,” I typed back. Laura had always been the worker of the bunch, gigging relentlessly, someone who truly loves to perform. I wanted to see her in her element. “What are you thinking?”
“Well, I’ve been helping Daniel recently, you know, with his issues, and we have to figure out the next members of the52, so there’s a lot going on. But I would love to have you along to one of my shows, to show you what I really do.”
