One of my great moments as a magician, on a personal level, was being invited by Ricky Jay to sit with him and a few other magic notables at a table at an exclusive gathering of magic historians. This may seem like high school cafeteria “cool kid” nonsense, and maybe it is, but to me it was a great moment of validation.

Ricky Jay was a singular magician. Not only was he expert in sleight of hand, not only was he an engaging, thoughtful, and artistic performer, but he was also an historian of the highest order. I don’t think I appreciated this latter element until diving into his last book, “Mathew Buchinger ‘the Greatest German Living.’” To peer through the footnotes is to see a consummate scholar who went to great lengths and spared no expense in his hunt for information on the obscure and spectacular individuals who made our planet a little more magic by virtue of their talents, and sometimes simply their existence.

Ricky Jay was a master of many obscure artforms.

I remember seeing Ricky as a child (I was the child, not him). Even before I understood what magic was, I had this knack of being able to recognize it when it was being featured on television. I recall flipping through the late morning/afternoon talk shows of my youth – Bob Braun, Mike Douglas, Dinah Shore – and stopping the moment I sensed “magic.” I will never forget the time I stopped on Merv Griffin and saw Ricky performing a card trick unlike anything I could have imagined possible. The “effect” (as magicians call it) was a card to impossible location. A selected and signed card vanished from the pack and reappeared inside a different, SEALED pack, which was out of the magician’s control from the beginning. I distinctly remember, my senior year of High School, while preparing for a talent show, thinking about that trick and how, even after all those years, its secret had remained a mystery for me.

Soon thereafter Ricky starred in a television special featuring variety acts and unusual performers of all stripes. I will never forget seeing, for the first time, a performance of the legendary automaton Antonio Diavolo. He was presented by his restorer and owner, Johnny Gaughan. I have been enamored with automata ever since.

Later, I made a pilgrimage to Boston to see his legendary stage show, directed by David Mamet, “Ricky Jay and his 52 Assistants”. It was presented at a small theater near Harvard. I was in the second row, and Ricky was great. His “On the Stem” show was equally great, but completely different. A personal highlight was being asked to assist him onstage. While I’m happy to have had the experience, it was an uncomfortable position: Ricky didn’t suffer fools gladly and he (not without reason) considered most magicians fools. The last thing I wanted was for him to know I was a magician and think I was trying to steal his thunder (or his tricks) – again, experience having taught him that some would try to do that.

I’m pretty sure I managed to fly under his radar.

Ricky Jay performs in On the Stem

The highlight of that show for me, artistically, was his presentation of the Robert-Houdin Orange Tree. It was gorgeous, in part due to his collaboration with Tony Award winning lighting director, Jules Fisher. It was like watching a year of seasons pass before your eyes in a moment, witnessing the life cycle and culminating in a charming mystery,

Ricky and I had a handful of contacts over the ensuing years. My friend Richard Garriott and I had a lovely dinner with him after a film screening of the documentary on his work “Deceptive Practices.” We would see each other at the magic conferences, and eventually, I was asked to sit at “the table.”

While I’m sure many magicians had relationships with him far deeper, to me, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that a man whose work I had admired for years, whose values had inspired me so much, thought enough to include me in his time.

I will never forget that evening, and I will never forget Ricky Jay.