Like many boys of my generation, I became interested in magic during my preteen years. Partly it was because performing magic tricks was a way to get attention and recognition, which was pretty much my full-time job. Beyond that, though, I think wanting to learn magic was a response to the powerlessness that came with being a child. Knowing secrets that adults didn’t know, being able to baffle and mystify them, would in a small way give me power over them.
The library had plenty of how-to magic books for kids, and from those books I learned to build a few practical illusions, such as an apparently empty box that would become full of knickknacks, or a sheet of newspaper that could be torn up and become whole again. But I found that no adults were particularly mystified by them: It was clear to everyone that the trick was purely mechanical, even if the exact details of the mechanism weren’t obvious. (In one case, I demonstrated to my uncle a crank-and-roller device that would convert a one-dollar bill to a five-dollar bill; he grabbed the resulting five-dollar bill and tore it up. “What’s the matter?” he said mockingly when I broke into tears. “Can’t you make more of them?”)
Eventually, I discovered — as with so many other things — that I’d gotten magic all wrong. Knowing the secrets of how tricks were done was only a small part of it. The real power of magic lay in being able to do things: feints, sleight of hand, misdirection. These were physical skills that needed to be mastered through intensive practice. That realization marked the end of my ambition to become a magician. The idea that anyone could acquire skills like those was a form of magic that was beyond my comprehension.
When it comes to physical skills, the adage that “practice makes perfect” has rarely applied to me. In my freshman year of college, I chose tennis for my required phys-ed course. The first step in learning tennis was being able to repeatedly hit a ball against a wall. I spent the entire semester fruitlessly trying to hit the ball as it bounced back at me, never reaching the level where I could play against another person. In my 20s, inspired by my college roommate Jay, I decided to take up juggling. Despite dedicated daily practice, I never got past the first step of being able to toss a single beanbag from hand to hand. Later, I rehearsed a relatively simple piano accompaniment for weeks on end in preparation for a performance, but never got to the point where I could play it without mistakes.
Even when skills are not explicitly body-based, I’m not sure that the length of time spent exercising them has much of an impact. We tend to think of knowledge and skills as going hand-in-hand, but I, for one, experience them quite differently. I certainly know more than I did when I was in high school, but I wouldn’t say that my skill level — my ability to apply what I know — has changed much over the past fifty years. The things that I’m good at, such as problem-solving, writing, and doing creative work, I’ve been good at right from the start. The things that I’m not so good at, such as big-picture thinking (see “The Freeway Problem”) and social interaction, I haven’t gotten much better at despite a lifetime of trying to do so.
My experience of skills being relatively static has led to one of my big deficiencies as a teacher. I’m very good at explaining things — the knowledge part — but not good at enabling students to get better at what they’re doing. If, despite repeatedly getting detailed corrective feedback on their work, a student remains unable to tell a well-composed photograph from an ill-composed one, or a well-timed video edit from a random one, my internal reaction is, “Well, it appears that you don’t have the knack for this. Maybe you should try something else.” Of course, I would never say that directly to the student. Doing so would go directly against what we’re supposed to do, which is to encourage the student to persist no matter what.
On the other hand, despite my instincts to the contrary, I must admit that there is something to be said for persistence. I have known actors and designers whose skills — in my judgment, at least — are mediocre, yet who have continued to believe in their own excellence. Somehow, their self-regard rubs off on others, and their careers continue to advance. (I can also think of a recent president who falls into this category.) Their skills don’t improve, but it turns out not to matter.
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