Thoughts — Mark Toland | Chicago Mentalist & Mind Reader

Perspective

Have you ever seen the Albert Einstein/Marilyn Monroe illusion?

Basically, it's a photograph that is designed to make you see Einstein up close and Marilyn at a distance. It's a fascinating demonstration of how our eyes focus on things at certain distances.

If you're close to the picture you see the finer details (Einstein) but as you move further away the picture blurs together, leaving you with an image of Marilyn Monroe.

Recently, I was talking to someone who said "We're always in a state of hypnosis."  As a clinical hypnotist, she viewed the world through her own frame of reference. She felt that we enter a different state of mind depending on which situation we're in, and categorized those mental states as "trance states". 

I argued that I didn't view the world that way. As a theater student, I viewed our "different selves" as various roles we were playing. They were all extensions of our self, just slight variations depending on what situation we were in.

We were both looking at the same room - just through different windows.

We all see the world through a different lens, based on our own personal set of experiences. We're forever prisoners of our own mind, unable to truly see the big picture.

As a creative person it's hard to see anything but Einstein. Most of the time I'm too close to my work to see anything else. 

I'm my own director, writer, producer, manager, agent, film editor, researcher, marketer, and performer. I'm too self-absorbed and caught up in my own projects to be able to look at my work with a discerning eye.

This is usually apparent after I come offstage and tell my wife "Wow, that was a terrible show." She usually replies "What are you talking about? They were loving it!"

Unable to step back and see the whole picture, I'm dreadfully unaware of how my performance is being perceived. Thus, I am constantly asking for feedback and forcing myself to watch my act on camera (painful) or listen to an audio recording of the show (the horror!).

Feedback is crucial to a career in the arts. As hard as it is to hear, you have to be quiet and listen to what someone else is telling you.

Once, I showed Stephanie two ideas I was working on and asked her which one was better. She said she liked the first option the best and I quickly responded "Really? I like the last one better."

Stephanie has an uncanny way of making a brilliant point in as few words as possible. She paused, then said "Oh, I thought you were asking for my opinion."

After that I ate my words, shut up, and listened to her thoughts. She helped me step back and see it from an outside perspective. With her assistance, I could see the "Einstein" and the "Monroe".

Being open to feedback is hard. It hurts. But you have to do it.

Several years ago, I finished a gig on cloud nine. The show was firing on all cylinders, the audience had been receptive, and I had crushed my performance. I was sure the corporate client would be thrilled and positive it was going to lead to many more bookings.

As I walked offstage a man waved me over, saying "Good show. Can I ask you something?" I smiled and leaned in to shake his hand.

Then he pulled me closer and quietly said "Just thought you should know...your zipper is down."

My fly had been down the whole show!

Sometimes a good show feels bad and sometimes a bad show feels good. And on a rare occasion, the show feels great but no one knows because you forgot to zip your pants.

It's all about perspective.

 
 

My Own Little Corner

After college I slept on couches in Los Angeles for almost a year and did my best to get my name out there. I was simultaneously seeking work and trying to find my voice as an artist.

It was exhausting.

But there was a moment during those nine months that changed that. A piece of advice that gave me the courage to continue the somewhat absurd pursuit of art as a full-time career.

It came at a lecture given by visionary choreographer Twyla Tharp on the campus of USC. I had attended SC as a freshman theater student and, still on their mailing list, tried to catch any free events I could.

After my freshman year my father passed away and money was tight. I transferred back to Kansas to finish my BFA at Wichita State University. I'd gone from my dream school to a place near my small midwest hometown that I'd never even been to before.

I was wildly depressed and alone.

Losing my father was my first real experience with loss. It shook me to the core. A soft-spoken, intelligent, kind man, my father had always supported me in my endeavors. Even if he didn't understand them. When I left home for theater school, he never questioned it. He just smiled and wished me good luck.

He believed in me, even when I didn't believe in myself.

But with my father gone, I was struggling to believe again. I was lost and sad. Any creativity that had come in my short year at USC was gone. My desire and enthusiasm for what I did was missing. The friends I had made didn't stay in touch and the opportunities I had worked for had come and gone.

I was back to square one.

I contemplated suicide and holed up in my dorm room. I was not the confident performer I had once been. I was scared of the future and unsure of my goals.

But I knew I had to get out. I knew I had to push through and make my way. My dad had always told me that it didn't matter what I did, as long as I worked as hard as I possibly could. And so I did.

I practiced relentlessly and wrote my first show. I wrote a countdown of days on my wall, impatiently waiting to move back to southern California. And finally, the day arrived.

With nothing more than a bag of clothes and a bag of tricks, I hopped on a train and headed west. But the roadblocks kept coming.

I wasn't original. I just felt like I was one of the crowd. Just another performer that could easily be replaced. I had no idea how to stand out and how to find myself in my art. I'd been so busy studying other people's approaches that I'd failed to develop my own.

And that's when I went to hear Twyla Tharp's lecture.

Tharp had authored one of my favorite books, "The Creative Habit", which I had studied in a class while attending WSU. I was excited to soak up her knowledge as best I could, hoping she would hold the answer I was seeking.

When Twyla invited the attendees to ask questions I nervously raised my hand and asked her what advice she had for an artist who was just starting out and trying to be original. And this is what she said:

"You have to get away from all the other artists and find your own little corner somewhere. Then you sit in that corner and say 'What does my art mean to me?' If you stay there long enough, then you'll find the answer to that question. Once you do, everything else will fall into place."

It seems obvious but for a small town kid who never had a mentor growing up that was the advice I'd been seeking. It was life changing for me.

I feel like I'm just starting to come out of my own little corner. I've been asking myself every day for eight years, what does this art mean to me? Sometimes the answer is vague and too hard to decipher.

But most days I feel like the answer is right in front of me, closer than it's ever been.

Falling Through The Cracks

My phone flew through the air in slow-motion before bouncing across the pavement like a rubber ball. The screen flickered then went black, a spider web of cracks branching out from the upper right corner.

I had flown over the handlebars, not far behind my iPhone. I wasn't injured. But I'd been going too fast to slow down in time and it had cost me my go-to distraction: my small, portable, pocket computer.

I couldn't call my best friend for a week. Or listen to my daily political podcasts. Emails transitioned to my MacBook, along with any social media projects. 

A phantom vibration lingered in my pocket for the first 48 hours - a hint of a missed text or a new voicemail.

But there was nothing there. No phone to charge, no glowing screen on my nightstand. Not a single little red number to aimlessly fill my time.

So I did other things.

I read a book. A big book. I stayed up until 2 am getting lost in someone else's thoughts. No music, no cat videos - just me and 400 pages of non-fiction bliss.

I went on a run. My first post-injury-and-8-weeks-of-physical-therapy jog in the park since January. I went out without my phone blaring hip-hop in my ears or telling me how far I'd gone. Just me and the crashing waves of Lake Michigan.

I talked with my wife. Like, really talked with her. Not about a new meme I'd seen or a trending topic on Twitter. We talked about things that mattered and a lot of silly things that don't. Just me, and my beautiful wife.

And I did some thinking. Okay, I did a lot of thinking.

For the first time in years, I felt truly connected to everything around me - without the very device that promises to make me more connected

With my shiny gadget I know everything about the people I care about, but I don't put in the effort to truly connect. A thumbs up here, a red heart there - meaningless signs of approval in the digital age. 

In a time when I can do anything I spend most of that time filling the void. The vast, beautiful world is right at my fingertips, blocked by a rectangular piece of plastic and glass.

So, here's where I stand:

I'm not getting rid of my phone. That's not going to happen. But I'm glad it broke last week.

I needed to remember how great it feels to get lost in this world of ours. I needed a reminder of how great the people I'm surrounded with can truly be. And I needed to fill my time with the things that really matter.

From now on, I refuse to let any of those things fall through the cracks.

A Room With Four Walls

The walls of my childhood bedroom were covered with inspiration. A Houdini poster hung to the left of my bed, directly opposite from a picture of the Blue Angels. My baseball cards and valuable coins were in a box two feet under my pillow.

A complete set of Hardy Boys books, chess pieces, yo-yo's, and decks of cards lined a small shelf in the corner. Everything was within arm's reach. I didn't even have to leave my bed.

Most days were spent reading or learning a new skill. The bed became a stage, with sheets draped around me like a lavish Broadway proscenium. Without complaint, a row of stuffed animals patiently watched my mediocre performances ad infinitum.

I found a ship porthole at a flea market, modified into a stylish clock. The porthole became a portal - to a dream world. I wished to climb inside and leave my small town life behind. The hustle and bustle of the big city could almost be heard through the opening, much like the ocean in a sea shell.

I was Steve McQueen making a "great escape" from a small Kansas town. My shovels were books, my motorcycle was a train ticket to Los Angeles. No matter what, I was going to break through those four walls and out of that room.

The Hardy Boys stayed behind, shoved carelessly into a storage bin. Tangled and broken, the yo-yo's never saw the light of day again. My forgiving audience of Beanie Babies and Teddy Bears never flinched as I hugged them goodbye.

I kept the Houdini poster.

But I wasn't ready.

I'd get to the stage and run back to the dressing room sick to my stomach. Throwing up before a show became routine. It got so bad that I had to cancel one night because I was shaking and feeling so ill.

All the dreaming and wishing hadn't fully prepared me for being a small fish in such a big pond. I was terrified. I thought about giving up.

The audience was so big. The room was so huge. It was intimidating and scary. I couldn't control my nerves. I didn't think it would ever change.

That's when it hit me.

It didn't matter who was in the audience. It didn't matter where I was performing. The audience may number in the thousands or be fifty people packed into a small space. It doesn't matter.

It was just like my bedroom. It was just another room with four walls.

Suddenly, I wasn't nervous any more.

And I haven't been nervous since.

My 30 Favorite Gigs

I turn 30 years old today! Wow. I can't believe it.

I've spent most of my life studying the art of magic and mind reading. When I got out of college 8 years ago I started performing full-time. Performing is all I've ever known and it's been the through line of my life thus far.

So, with that in mind, here is a list of my 30 favorite gigs from the past 30 years. (In no particular order.)


1. The Early Days - When I was younger I'd perform for anyone who would watch. I wanted to be a magician, a clown, or a detective. Now I get to be all three. 


2. School Talent Show - My friend Tim and I did a partner magic act at our elementary school talent show.


3. Senior Showcase - In 2009 I did a magic/mind reading show to earn my BFA and graduate from college.


4. Children's Shows - In the early days, I did a ton of children's events at libraries, schools, and parties.


5. TED Talk - In 2014 I checked "TED Talk" off my bucket list when I presented at TEDxParkerSchool in Chicago. You can watch my talk below:


6. Bowlus Fine Arts Center - A childhood dream was to headline at this beautiful performing arts center in my hometown.


7. Harvard - I drew a standing room only crowd for my show at Harvard. They said it was "Unlike anything we've seen before."


8. WGN TV - I've been on WGN in Chicago several times but this clip is one of my favorites.


9. Stage 773 - My first attempt at a theatre run. It was a disaster.


10. Bar Below - I sold out almost every show of my 12 week run at the Bar Below in Chicago.


11. Public House Theater - The following year I did a six week run in north Chicago. You can watch the full show here.


12. Chicago Fringe Festival - My first fringe festival was a blast! Watch the behind the scenes below or click here to see my full show.


13. Disney World Boardwalk Resort - One of my earliest gigs! I spent 9 months performing in Orlando. It was SUPER HOT outside but it gave me time to develop the material and persona I have today.


14. The Aldrich Mansion - I performed in the same place Brad Pitt stood in "Meet Joe Black".


15. The Hemi Hideout - Outside Houston is a barn with hundreds of collectible neon signs, gas pumps, and vintage cars. It's incredible.


16. National Museum Of Wildlife Art - An incredible show and one of the most incredible places I've ever been.


17. Snow College - I was flat broke and flew to Utah for one of my first college performances. The students were incredible and I used this photo to book dozens more colleges in the coming months.


18. WGN Web Series - I did a 10 part web series with WGN, culminating with this blindfolded bike ride through downtown Chicago.


19. UT Austin - The Longhorns took a chance on me early on and I gave them a show they'll never forget. I've been back five years in a row.


20. NCAA Prediction - I predicted the final four teams, the championship score, and the headlines of that day's newspaper. Here's the proof:


21. Crown Uptown Dinner Theater - This was a benefit show for children with special needs in Wichita. My first marquee!


22. Cupcake Comedy Cabaret - My friend Casey let me on his show week after week so I could work on new material. It was my first show after I moved to Chicago five and a half years ago and I still do it whenever I can.


23. Walking On Broken Glass - I used to ride the bus in LA with two buckets of broken glass so I could do this in my show. It helped me stand out but it was a huge pain in the ass. It's easier to read minds.


24. The Heckler - People hardly ever mess with me during a show but when this guy spoke out I had to respond.


25. Converse College - Most college shows are memorable but the way this girl reacted makes it a stand out.


26. Corporate Events - It's too hard to pick just one but damn this is a good picture.


27. Appearing Convertible - The first magic video I ever made.


28. Havencrest Castle - I can't do it justice with words. Just go.


29. Hard Rock Cafe - A rock band was onstage downstairs and I brought the house down upstairs. Crazy.


30. Chicago Magic Lounge - I'm performing there tonight. Will you be there?