Chanin’s Studio of Magic
Fred Siegel
The magic shops are almost gone now.
You may still find novelty stores that have magic tricks between whoopee cushions, joy buzzers, and doggy dunnit. You may also see magic kiosks in tourist areas where overpriced tricks are pitched to those in a holiday frame of mind. But the magic shops of the past were dark, exclusive places on the second floors of downtown buildings where teenaged boys and ordinary Joes imagined themselves as men of mystery. They escaped their parents or wives, told grand tales of their magical adventures, and kept secrets under their hats.
In my formative magic years, the 1970’s, no fewer than five magic shops operated in the Philadelphia area. Chanin’s was my favorite. You’d walk up the rickety old steps and through a dark hall into the studio of magic. It was dangerous in there—you might trip or tip something over—so a familiar voice from the back room would order you to sit in one of the soft, ancient upholstered chairs along the picture-covered wall. From there you’d stare at shelves and showcases filled with colored balls and metal rings and boxes with little doors. There were bottles made of tin and tubes in graduated sizes. And there were cards on every surface including the ceiling.
The dusty planks and stacks of cartons and piles of pictures and musty smells made you feel like a four-year-old in your grandfather’s walk-in closet. But just before you started to search for treasure or climb into a drawer or burrow under a pile of old cloth, Chanin would enter from the back room and the show would begin.
“You again?” Chanin would bellow, exaggerating his Ukrainian/Jewish accent. “Gimme your money or get out of here. I haven’t got time to waste wit you.”
“But Mr. Chanin,” I’d say, “I hear you’re a fair card man.” He knew what I was up to, but he wouldn’t give in immediately.
“Why should I have to prove myself?” he’d say. “Look at my trophies.”
And there they were, high up on the wall on special shelves across from the chairs. The loving cups and card fan statues were lined up in front of Chanin’s giant rabbit logo. It took me two years to realize that the rabbit face was made up of Chanin’s initials: J. C.
“I won those awards. There are plaques, too, but they’re at home. I can’t fit ‘em in here anymore. A fair card man, haah?”
And out would come an old deck. He would start with some fans and maybe a waterfall. Then, some color changes: ace to king to three. Finally, when you least expected it, the deck would disappear. It would melt away in his fingers.
I was an arrogant boy, so I challenged Chanin to duels. Cards were the usual weapons. He would watch me with mild amusement as I did a few fans and changes. Then he would outdo me with ease. I didn’t care. I only wanted to watch him and learn from him.
One day when I was 18 or 19 we played a game of “Which hand is it in?” using a wooden cigarette. I did my move and said, “OK, which?”
“Left.”
I opened my left hand. It was empty.
“You son of a bitch,” Chanin said.
That was a great day.
I knew Chanin for a relatively short time—from the early ‘70s until he finally closed his shop in 1981. I regret that I did not keep in touch with him in subsequent years. He died in 1997 at the age of 90.
These days, with the decline of magic shops, young magicians purchase their supplies through websites and learn by watching DVDs, online downloads, and YouTube. Because of the new technology, very complicated techniques can be exposed easily. Young magicians imitate the more experienced magicians on their screens. I wish them luck.
I prefer to close my eyes and watch memories of Chanin. I imagine him amidst the dust and debris in his magic shop. I try to follow the location of the giant coins and balls that seemed to fly from place to place in his enormous hands, and I listen to his ludicrous patter. When I open my eyes he vanishes, the way coins and cards and people do.
**Note: The photos of Chanin in his studio, as well as this one of the author, were taken around 1980 by Joel Schwartzberg, a magical adolescent who grew up to work in television production.
