Authors are not the only creators of fiction. Actors, both on the stage and the silver screen, are our brethren. They breathe characters in and walk around in their shoes, like the most intimately connected of readers. Visual artists, too, can create fiction. They may draw scenes or give a face to a character who visits readers only in little snatches.
But there is one creator of fiction who is often forgotten, and that is the illusionist.
I hope no one makes their entire way through life without experiencing the magic of the theater. When the lights go down and the curtains come up, it’s like your body doesn’t exist anymore; you are not in your seat, but somewhere between a movie and reality, more thrillingly real than the best IMAX theater. But how could we forget the show in which you are a character, where the lights may go down but only to direct your attention, and where art is created in the space you share with other strangers?
Illusions fascinate me. When I was little, they used to frighten me because I couldn’t understand them and was young enough to fear that the showman really did have magic powers or some touch with the occult. But now I’ve reached a place in my life where I simultaneously believe that there are logical explanations for everything and that I don’t always feel the need to know what those reasons are.
When some friends and I watched another friend perform several card tricks, I noticed two different ways to be an audience member. One kind watches every little movement of the performer, trying to catch him out or see how he did it, and spends the rest of the day trying to work out the answers. The other merely laughs in delight, content to be fooled again and again, glad to feast on a little amazement, a little wonder, without knowing how it was done. I am happy to have joined that latter category, and it has greatly increased my joy in multiple areas of my life. There is a strange, wild freedom in admitting the words, “I don’t know.”
I’ve said before that as a lover of fiction and a weary human soul, I’m constantly searching for new places to disappear. I love to find new experiences and let them swallow me up, between the new setting, new people, and new culture. I find some relief in music, but only as long as the song holds me spellbound; once it ends or I’ve finally played it to death, it no longer provides shelter and I must look elsewhere. As a child, I used to always feel a sharp pang of depression whenever the credits of a movie rolled, because I would have to transition back to reality. Though I had a happy life, I wanted to continue enjoying the weightlessness of the great disappearing act that is fiction.
Lonely schoolchildren know this sensation well; perhaps that is why so many of us could be found ever engrossed in a book, a TV show, or a video game. Those imaginary worlds gave us a place to be ourselves without fear. It’s funny; we could face the idea of a heroic death at swordpoint, but it was the daily grind with its loneliness and antagonism which seemed unbearable.
“Escapism” is a word often used to vilify the safety we find in our secret worlds, but while we can’t run from our problems forever, a safe haven which enriches our inner lives and makes us believe that one day, things will be better, that we can be better, that not everyone is as small-minded as those around us, and that one day we could be loved, is not a concept that deserves to be reviled.
But it is not only an escape which I seek in my own disappearing act. The intoxication of wonder, the sense of safety when being guided through the illusion, and the wild adventure of the unknown all combine to take me to a higher plane. It’s the thrill of being invited into someone else’s fiction, a story they’re weaving all around me, that makes me want to pay homage to the storyteller that is the illusionist.
As soon as a performance starts, you have stepped into the illusion. You are not merely an onlooker, but an active participant. You are the Watson to his Sherlock Holmes; you are the voice of amazement and the narrator who cannot believe his eyes.
I write my fictions on paper, but an illusionist writes his fictions in the air. He paints reality with images of what cannot be, but for the moment, somehow is. He does not merely tell a story, but wraps it around you, steps into it and invites you to do the same.
As an audience member, you simultaneously experience the safety of reality and the freedom of leaving it behind. It is a secure yet startling way of letting go, and as an exhausted, responsible control freak, I find it thrilling and deeply satisfying.
It also makes me think about the things that weigh me down. Why is it that in reality, everything is so unbearably heavy, but when lost in an illusion, I feel free?
One of the biggest reasons is that no matter what happens, you know that no real harm will come to you. The lady may get sawn in half, but at the end of the show, she is back in one piece. The illusionist may perform death-defying stunts or even put you in a trance, but you know you will always return to your seat, amazed and maybe dazed, but still back to normal. In other words, we trust the illusionist to take us through that journey but bring us safely back.
I wish I could say I felt that kind of confidence in my life. I wish I could say that believing in a loving God is enough to take away all my fears, but it isn’t, because in this world, we are not in an illusion, and the consequences are far more dire. The point of accepting salvation is so that there will be a safe ending, but it’s hard to see past the dark scenes that lie between us and that end. We are not here to watch for an hour from our seats; we must go into the fray and risk it all, and sometimes terrible things will happen, and somehow we still have to trust the Creator who loves us and knows every twist and turn before it happens. Yes, we will feel pain, we will feel fear. But what then?
Then it will all matter. Then the one thing we need to know, that it all comes to an end with good winning and evil dying, that we are eternally loved and will never be alone, is secure.
I wish I could have that kind of trust. I wish I could see that it will all be resolved in the end, but I can’t. The world right now is too heavy. It doesn’t seem possible for him to put everything back together or to make everything new. But then again, in the moment every illusion feels like a reality.
This is another talent of the illusionist which I deeply revere, the ability to make us ask ourselves deep questions. What do we believe? What makes us believe it? What would it take to challenge those beliefs? It also draws on some of our deepest needs: the need to know that someone is in control, even when it seems everything is spiraling into chaos. That the darkest unknown is known to someone. That, as terrifying as it may be, our deepest thoughts are seen and known. And while the illusionist only plays at these things, to believe in God is to believe that he fulfills all those needs. It’s just hard to see from in the midst of the illusion.
Therefore, I treasure the artistry of the illusionist. He breaks us free from our daily grind, reawakens awe and wonder, and forces us to confront ourselves at the deepest level. In the end, that is what all artists aspire to. In many ways, we share a calling.
To the illusionist: Keep amazing us. The joy you bring is wonderful, and it wakes us up in more ways than mere entertainment ever could. And while every artistic medium has its limitations, you bring your fictions to life in ways that I cannot, and for that, my fellow creator of fictions, I tip my hat to you.
