The Spell of the Screen: Magic in the Age of Social Media
Magic is my trade—sleight of hand, misdirection, the alchemy of turning skepticism into wonder. It’s a craft that thrives in the electric hum of a live crowd, the shared pulse of a moment when a coin vanishes or a card defies physics. But today, in 2025, magic doesn’t just live in the flicker of candlelit tables at Atlantis The Palm or the raucous brunches of Jumeirah. It’s caught in the relentless churn of social media—Instagram’s glossy grid, TikTok’s frenetic scroll, YouTube’s algorithmic hunger. Like a street hustler with a deck of cards, these platforms seduce and deceive, promising connection while threatening to steal the soul of what I do. In the style of Anthony Bourdain—raw, reflective, and unapologetic—let’s peel back the layers of this digital paradox: the magic of social media’s reach and the dark undertow of its traps.
The Bright Side: A Global Stage for Wonder
Social media, for all its flaws, is a magician’s megaphone. In Dubai, a city that’s one part mirage, one part ambition, platforms like Instagram and TikTok are portals to the world. I’ve posted clips of a levitating ring at Ossiano, the underwater restaurant at Atlantis, its fish tanks glowing like a sci-fi dream. The video hits 50,000 views overnight—likes from Mumbai, comments from Miami, a DM from a São Paulo event planner asking me to bring my act to Carnival. That’s the power of the screen: It finds people who’d never stumble into my show at a Dubai brunch. A single reel can spark an invitation to perform in Tokyo, where I once wove a routine inspired by cherry blossoms for a tech conference, or to London, where a viral clip landed me a gig at a Mayfair gala. These aren’t just gigs; they’re cultural exchanges, each one enriching my craft with new flavors—Bahraini folklore in my coin tricks, cinematic flair from my film studies in my storytelling.
The platforms are also a treasure trove of discovery. Scrolling Instagram, I’ve stumbled across artists who inspire my work: a Moroccan calligrapher whose fluid designs influenced a silk scarf routine, a Japanese illusionist whose minimalist approach taught me the power of restraint. Social media unearths talent—musicians, dancers, comedians—whose creativity fuels mine. I’ve connected with Dubai-based businesses, like event planners who saw my TikTok vanish and booked me for a corporate retreat, or artisanal jewelers whose creations I’ve incorporated into close-up tricks. It’s a marketplace of ideas, where a Bahraini kid who grew up watching war films with his dad can now collaborate with global creatives. In 2020, when the world paused and I retreated to Bahrain, social media kept me tethered—sharing practice clips from my parents’ living room, getting feedback from magicians in Vegas and Mumbai. It was a lifeline, proof that the digital world can amplify passion, not just noise.
The Dark Side: Addiction, Herd Mentality, and the Loss of Soul
But there’s a shadow to this digital stage, and it’s as seductive as a perfectly executed sleight. Social media is a slot machine, each like a coin dropping, each view a dopamine hit. I’ve spent hours in my Dubai studio, lights glaring, camera rolling, repeating a card flourish until it’s pixel-perfect. Why? Because the algorithm demands it. Instagram wants polish; TikTok craves chaos. A shaky hand or bad angle, and your trick drowns in the scroll. I’ve posted clips that took days to film—sweat-soaked, eyes burning from screen glare—only to watch them rack up 100,000 views and feel… nothing. The applause is digital, hollow. It’s not the gasp of a child at Atlantis when a coin reappears in her pocket. It’s not the laughter of a couple at a private party when their ring emerges from a lemon. Magic is meant to be felt, not swiped past in three seconds.
The addiction creeps in subtly. You check your phone at 2 a.m., refreshing for new comments. You tweak your bio, obsess over hashtags, chase trends like a dog after its tail. In Dubai, where every skyscraper screams for attention, social media amplifies that pressure. The city’s obsession with spectacle—Burj Khalifa’s light shows, influencer brunches at Nobu—bleeds into your craft. You’re not just a magician; you’re a content creator, expected to churn out reels while keeping your live shows flawless. It’s exhausting, a mental toll I’ve learned to guard against. In 2020, living with my parents in Bahrain, I found solace in Mum’s hammour fish soup, its spicy warmth a reminder of real connection. Social media can’t replicate that—it’s a cold mirror, reflecting only what you feed it.
Then there’s the herd mentality. Social media breeds conformity, urging you to mimic viral trends to stay relevant. I’ve seen magicians abandon unique routines for cookie-cutter tricks because they “perform” better online. It’s like chasing fool’s gold—shiny, but soulless. Audiences on these platforms can be brutal, too. Post a trick, and comments flood in: “Fake!” “I saw the switch!” Unlike a live crowd, where skepticism melts into wonder, online viewers dissect with surgical precision. It’s a job hazard, one I accept but don’t love. I’ve had to thicken my skin, reminding myself that magic isn’t about pleasing everyone—it’s about sparking joy for those open to it. Yet, the negativity can weigh heavy, especially after a long weekend of five or six gigs, when you’re already drained from dodging hecklers at a loud brunch or navigating skeptics at a private party.
There’s also the comparison trap. Scrolling through feeds, you see other magicians with slicker edits, bigger followings, flashier stages. It’s easy to feel inadequate, to question your worth. In my early Dubai days, I fell into this spiral, wondering if my Bahraini-rooted, storytelling-driven magic could compete with the glitz. But I learned to step back, to focus on what sets me apart—my ability to weave personal connections, like the ones I forged in 2020 over Mum’s cooking or Dad’s war film debates. Social media can amplify your voice, but it can also drown it in noise if you let it.
Balancing the Spell: Rediscovering the Real
So how do I navigate this? I’m not complaining—social media is a tool, not the enemy. It’s brought me clients, collaborators, and a global stage. But I’ve had to be smarter about it, treating its downsides as job hazards, like the skeptics who try to “catch” my tricks or the exhaustion of back-to-back shows. I set boundaries: No phone after 10 p.m., no obsessing over metrics. I prioritize mental health, leaning on rituals from 2020—jogging along Bahrain’s corniche, journaling about gigs, savoring Mum’s fish soup that tasted like home. Those months with family taught me that magic’s heart lies in the real, not the virtual. The laughter of my parents during a card trick in our living room, the quiet pride in Dad’s eyes during The Bridge on the River Kwai—those moments ground me.
Live magic remains my north star. At Atlantis The Palm, where I’m a resident magician, I perform for global travelers—families, tycoons, dreamers—who crave wonder. A table-side illusion for a British couple, a levitation for a Dubai local’s birthday—these are unfiltered, unscripted. No algorithm can capture the tension in the air when a card vanishes, the shared heartbeat of a crowd leaning in. Social media can amplify my reach, but it’s the live gasp that fuels me. I’ve been invited to perform across 20 countries—Japan, Brazil, France—because of connections sparked at Atlantis, often amplified by a viral clip. But the magic happens in person, where imperfections become human, where a fumbled trick can still win hearts with charm.
Dubai, with its obsession with the next big thing, could easily swallow a magician whole. Social media amplifies that pressure, demanding you be a brand, not just an artist. But I choose to see it as a dance—a chance to share my Bahraini roots, my love for storytelling, my belief that wonder unites us. If you’re in Dubai, catch my next show at Atlantis or book me at www.onewithmagic.com. Magic isn’t in the likes or follows—it’s in the fleeting moment when the impossible feels real. Let’s chase that, not the screen.
