The Unexpected Power of Not Taking Photos

I recently delivered my final magic show.

Early in 2022 I announced my retirement from professional magic, after a lifetime in the field and over a decade working full-time as a corporate event entertainer.

I’ve been moving away from magic since my TEDx talk went viral in 2015 to focus on my work as a speaker and consultant on human connection.

Today I also run a core messaging company, Clarity Up Consulting, and a speaker training program for TEDx and TED-style speakers, Conquer the Red Dot™.

With my energy being pulled in so many different directions, it was time to close the magic chapter to be fully present in this one.

It was bitter-sweet, but I felt good about it and never looked back.

Until last weekend, when I realized there was one show that had been rescheduled twice due to Covid, still on my calendar.

I literally dug my magic show out of the basement and had to spend hours practicing the old routines, re-memorizing scripts I’d delivered thousands of times.

And on Saturday October 9th I drove to a New England boarding school for one last show.

The Phoenix

Students, faculty, and families packed out the theater for an hour of magic and laughter. It was a wonderful show. I felt relaxed and comfortable.

Actually, I had a lot of fun!

I’d decided that instead of a narrative-driven show, I was simply going to perform my personal favorite tricks from my entire career in magic. Some tricks had been in my act since I was 16 years old, and others were brand new from my last pre-covid tour.

Near the end of the show I explained the myth of The Phoenix, and demonstrated the story’s core lesson about rebirth as part of a beautiful burned-and-restored napkin routine with a (very bad) origami phoenix.

At the show’s conclusion I received an emotional standing ovation. It was the perfect end to a joyous career in magic.

Or so I thought.

A Gift

Back in the green room when I was about to change out of my stage clothes, a member of the stage crew approached.

“There’s a student waiting to talk to you now that the rest of the audience is gone. What should I tell them?”

“Oh,” I said. “Tell them I’ll be right out.”

When I walked back into the empty theater, a Korean teenager nervously introduced himself. He gushed about the show, but then turned his attention to The Phoenix routine.

He told me, “During the pandemic I rediscovered my love of origami from when I was a kid. I got really into it. One of my favorite pieces is a phoenix. Your story and magic really moved me. I was thinking, I want you to have it.”

I stared at him blankly.

“You want me to have your origami phoenix?”

“Yes. I do.”

I was stunned. “Wow, okay. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure! You should have it. It’s back in my dorm. It’ll take me 10 minutes to get it and come back. Is that okay?”

I told him to come find me in the green room, where I’d be packing up the show.

10 minutes later he arrived with the most beautiful golden origami phoenix. It was way bigger, and way more intricate than I expected. He was carrying it in a large plastic container, where he’d been keeping it safe for years in his dorm.

I asked him to sign his name and put some info about it on a piece of lined paper we found in the green room.

We chatted for 20 minutes. I asked him about origami, how he got into it, and what he loves about it.

We talked about South Korea, one of my favorite places I’ve ever visited. I told him about a photo I captured during one of the Navy Entertainment tours I did back in the day, that I printed and framed and hangs on the wall of my office.

Eventually I thanked him again, told him how to stay in touch on the socials, and he left. I finished packing up and got on the road.

It wasn’t until he’d been long gone that I realized we never took a selfie together.

“Crap,” I thought.

What is a selfie for?

I’ve written about this before, but I believe the culture of taking selfies to capture a moment is overrated.

The moment itself is to be savored. Selfies can be great memories, but more often than not they simply serve as proof.

He never asked me for a selfie, and it never occurred to me to offer one.

Why?

Because we were both fully present. We were sharing a real human connection. Our energy was focused on the moment we were actually having, not having proof of it to show off later.

The origami phoenix is now on display in my office, and I’ll never forget it.

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