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Book Review: Don't Call It Art

My review of Don’t Call It Art: 10 Ways to Create Like a Kid Again by Austin Kleon.

Overall Rating: ★★★★⯪

Format: e-book
Difficulty: N/A
Price: £10.99 (approx. $15 or €13 at time of release)
Available From: All the usual places you might buy e-books!

Image Credit: AustinKleon.com.

I’m a big fan of artist and writer Austin Kleon. I first mentioned one of his earlier books, Show Your Work!, in a 2023 email newsletter update (see Marty’s Magic Ruseletter: Monthly Update #3). Although his books tend to focus on the visual arts, they’re also relevant to magicians, mentalists and mystery performers. This is because they address topics such as self-promotion, perseverance, and creativity, which are often underexplored (or completely ignored) by most authors of magic books.

I pre-ordered Austin’s new book, Don’t Call It Art: 10 Ways to Create Like a Kid Again, earlier this month and have just finished reading it. His first book in seven years, it’s the follow-up to the Steal Like an Artist trilogy and grew out of the time Kleon spent as “studio assistant” to his two young sons.

Even though it isn’t a magic book, I thought it would be helpful to write a detailed review here, since, like his previous three books, it includes many ideas relevant to the creation, practice and performance of magic. I’d also argue that rekindling our inner child—the book’s central theme—is fundamental to both the performance and experience of magic. And, well, one of its ten chapters is even titled “Believe in Magic”. That’s certainly sound advice for all magicians to live by!

The book is divided into ten chapters corresponding to Austin’s ten tips for artists. Here’s the full list:

  1. Throw out the instructions.
  2. Don’t take things too seriously.
  3. Give yourself time, space, and materials.
  4. Permission to be bad!
  5. Believe in magic.
  6. Think outside your head.
  7. Problems of output are problems of input.
  8. Borrow a kid!
  9. Nothing is wasted.
  10. You don’t need a vision.

The book’s title was inspired by a quote from the American conceptual artist John Baldessari:

“I learned so much about art from watching a kid draw… Kids don’t call it art when they’re throwing things around, drawing—they’re just doing stuff.”
— John Baldessari (1931–2020)

The author’s writing style is accessible and engaging. This isn’t a dry book of highfalutin art criticism or abstract art theory. It’s full of practical advice for supporting the pint-sized Picassos in your life. Much of this advice can also help boost your own creative output. For example, Austin identifies four simple ways to keep young artists happy:

  1. Fetch art supplies;
  2. Fix snacks;
  3. Soothe tantrums;
  4. Stay out of their way!

This is equally good advice for anyone trying to support a magician in the throes of developing their own magic show! ๐Ÿ˜‚ But, in all seriousness, the advice spread across the book’s 213 pages can be used by parents and performers alike. The author draws on many quotes from other writers, artists and musicians to support his worldview. I like this approach because it encourages you to dig a little deeper, do your own research and read around the topics discussed in each chapter. (In the same spirit, I’ve extracted my favourite quotes from the book and included some “bonus quotes” from other sources that relate to the topics covered.)

For those of us who do have kids, Austin suggests thinking of Don’t Call It Art as “a parenting book in disguise”, which, on balance, is a pretty accurate description. For clarity, you don’t need to have kids to buy the book, nor do you need to be a children’s entertainer to get any value from it as a performer. You don’t even need to like children to read and enjoy it! But as a father of three demanding daughters, I certainly want to try several of the ideas in the book with them.

Austin begins the book by posing four important questions:

  • Why are we doing all this stuff for our kids but not ourselves?
  • Why aren’t we all taking time to play?
  • Why aren’t we all letting ourselves get bored?
  • Why aren’t we all limiting our screen time and going outside?

He goes on to encourage readers to treat themselves with the care of a loving parent, so the wild, creative kid who still lives within them can come out and play. This sentiment, which runs throughout the entire book, reflects my own quest for playful, mischievous magic that brings out the inner child within every adult.

For the rest of the review, I’ll discuss each chapter in turn, then share my overall thoughts on the book so you can decide whether to buy it or not (spoiler: I think you should!). I’ll also try to show how the author’s ideas and concepts relate to the world of the amateur magician.

Throw Out the Instructions ๐Ÿ“

“Trying to make art is the easiest way to keep yourself from actually making art. When you’re trying to make art, your head is full of all kinds of instructions about what is and isn’t art and what you should and shouldn’t do. But if you don’t call it art, you take all the pressure off. Now you can just make stuff.” — Austin Kleon
The Steal Like an Artist trilogy. Image Credit: AustinKleon.com.

The first chapter encourages you to tap into your creative self by adopting the fearless, exploratory mindset of a young child. As someone who has taught growth-mindset principles to teachers, I found myself in familiar territory. However, I particularly liked Kleon’s take on the importance of wonder to the artist:

“Our world is awash in information. What it’s lacking is wonder. We think we need more information, when what we really need is to spend more time figuring things out on our own, fumbling about, exploring, getting lost, playing through our frustrations, and discovering something of our own.”

The chapter is split into four sections:

  • Don’t call it art.
  • It’s better when you don’t know.
  • Nobody knows anything.
  • Figure it out for yourself.

Kleon believes that labelling things as “art” immediately fills your head with rigid rules and invites a harsh, deeply destructive inner critic who relentlessly questions your talent, originality and personal worth. If, however, you simply refuse to call what you do “art”, you remove this pressure. This leaves critics with nothing to care about and the artist unencumbered—free to make whatever they want.

Likewise, ignorance can be a creative superpower because when you don’t know what’s “impossible”, you’re willing to try anything. Reaching a state of mastery often leads to boredom, so the most creative people deliberately return to an “amateur mindset” to keep their work interesting and to open themselves up to wonderful mistakes.

Just as parents often pretend to have it all together, experts and established artists are essentially just guessing as they go. The author compares making art to parenting, noting that you never fully figure it out and that past successes don’t guarantee future ones. Realising that nobody truly knows what they’re doing is incredibly liberating, as it means no one can dictate how you should do things.

Our modern world is overflowing with video tutorials, life hacks and instructions, but relying on them takes the fun out of creating and, most importantly, deprives us of a sense of wonder. The lessons and discoveries we make through our own fumbling, exploring and experimenting stick with us far more deeply than anything we are explicitly taught by a teacher.

For Kleon, wonder is an input—what the artist must protect within themselves. For the magician, it’s also an output—what we want an audience to experience, and you can’t give away what you no longer feel. An effect practised, rehearsed and performed to the point of boredom ceases to astonish its performer, and a bored performer will struggle to astonish anyone else. In a world overflowing with reveals and new releases, the wonder we’ve held on to is the only thing we truly have to offer.

Don’t Take Things Too Seriously ๐Ÿฅธ

This chapter argues that playfulness and humour are vital to sustaining a creative life. The author breaks this concept down into five main sections and shares many practical strategies along the way:

  • Who’s having fun?
  • Pretend it’s a comedy.
  • Play the fool.
  • Ask a lot of questions.
  • Don’t be afraid to do what comes naturally.
“If you pull the card in a tarot deck, you’ll see that The Fool is about to step off the edge of a cliff without a care in the world. The fool leaps before looking. The fool doesn’t think too much. The fool just does stuff. The fool is optimistic that things will work out.”
— Austin Kleon

In this chapter, Kleon is certainly talking my language, as one of the thematic categories on this blog is Playful Presentations.

The Fool in a standard deck of Tarot cards. Image Credit: Liudmila Chernetska via Canva.

The idea I found most compelling in this chapter—and most relevant to performers—is Kleon’s concept of playing the fool. The fear of looking foolish prevents us from taking risks and doing our best, most daring work. It can paralyse some magicians, especially amateurs, who are so frightened of messing up in front of an audience that they rarely or never perform. By willingly playing the fool (leaping before you look, acting naively and constantly admitting “I don’t know”), you empty yourself of preconceptions and stay wide open to new ideas and opportunities. Better to take the Fool’s leap—to perform as much as you can, fluff the odd trick and risk looking foolish—than to cling to the cliff edge and remain forever a wizard without wonder.

“Your first attempt might not be very good, but nobody’s early work is good. There will always be a gap between where you are and where you want to be. And the bridge between that gap is courage. The courage to look foolish in the beginning. The courage to show up again when your early work is criticized. The courage to look yourself in the mirror and say, ‘I realize I’m not good enough yet, but the only way to get better is to keep working on it.’”

— James Clear

Willingly play the fool! Image Credit: Hรฌnh แบฃnh cแปงa tranvinhphuc77 via Canva.

“Our fear of looking foolish holds us back from learning, trying new things, experimenting, and doing our most wild, daring, creative work. If you act as though you know everything, you will learn nothing and never discover anything new. It is much better to willingly play the fool.”

— Austin Kleon

Kleon isn’t the only writer to identify the power of foolish optimism. In Magic and Meaning, Eugene Burger and Robert E. Neale place the magician squarely within the trickster’s lineage. On what the trickster gives us, Burger and Neale write (page 103):

“Trickster confidence is boundless. Call this exuberance joy. Or call it disillusioned delight. Trickster’s gift to humanity is joyful optimism.” 1

This characteristic of “joyful optimism” is almost exactly what Kleon finds in the Fool, who “is optimistic that things will work out”. So here we have respected writers from entirely different worlds reaching the same conclusion: that things will turn out well if you simply dare to begin. The trickster and the Fool remind us to leap into the lightning—to be bold, seize the moment, step out from behind the curtain, risk humiliation and trust that great wonders will follow. ⚡

There’s no use waiting for the storm to blow over
Leap into the lightning

— Rou Reynolds, Enter Shikari

Give Yourself Time, Space, and Materials ⏳๐Ÿš€๐Ÿ“ฆ

This chapter explains that creative play requires the same three essential elements children need to thrive: time, space and materials. If you ever find yourself creatively stuck, you can usually get out of your slump by improving one or more of these constraints.

The chapter is divided into three sections that reflect these three elements:

  • Time to travel in.
  • A safe place to play.
  • Materials at hand.

As a father of three young girls, I’ve learned the hard truth about Christmas. You can spend an arm and a leg on a fancy toy, but your child will inevitably spend more time playing with the cardboard box it came in! ๐Ÿ“ฆ Austin Kleon makes this point in Don’t Call It Art, noting that, with a little imagination, a box can become a multitude of things—a rocket, a car, a TV or a bank safe full of gold bars! But a toy rocket can only ever be a toy rocket. ๐Ÿš€

The same criticism applies to many modern magic tricks. Most apparatus dictates exactly what the effect will be and how you must perform it, allowing you to create just a single illusion. In the world of magic, a gimmick is usually a toy rocket. A classic utility prop, however—like a thumb tip or a chop cup—can help you perform a myriad of miracles.

And then there is the magic equivalent of the cardboard box: the raw materials. Playing card stock, tuck cases and rubber bands. Magician’s wax, rubber cement and roughing fluid. Dental dam, elastic cord and invisible thread. Magnets, black art material and flash paper. These are the true cardboard boxes of our craft. If you leave a pile of magnets, an X-Acto knife, some rubber cement and a spool of invisible thread on your desk, you aren’t just making a mess—you’re building a magic laboratory!

Kleon effectively argues that artists need a physical environment where they can make a mess, leave it out without cleaning it up and hide from the surveillance of others. This space doesn’t have to be a grand studio—it can be a corner of a room, a kitchen table or even an unassuming public “third place” like a diner, cafรฉ or public library. This applies to magicians as well. When you surround yourself with a collection of magic props, gimmicks and ordinary objects—gaffed cards, a handful of coins, some rope, cardboard, paper, sticky tape, blue tack, paper clips and pens—you invite experimentation. I don’t have a space like this at home, so I’m going to prioritise creating one to support my growth as an artist (I have long-term plans to convert our unused garage into a workshop and art studio). In the meantime, the kitchen table will have to do!

One thing I really like about Austin’s writing is that he shares the thoughts and ideas of the other artists who have influenced him. In this case, that artist was Lucy Liu, the well-known American actor, producer and passionate artist. Here’s the original quote:

“It’s a safe space. You can make a mess and you can leave it and come back to it. I think it’s important to make a mess because sometimes that’s how creative things happen. At my son’s school, if he was doing something creative and had to transition to another project, they would put a work-save card on it and say just don’t touch it. And that’s essentially what a studio is. The whole space is a work-save card.” 2

Often, we think we need a great idea before gathering the raw materials to bring it into existence. This isn’t always the best approach. Simply playing with the raw materials can spark new, innovative ideas. Having your materials constantly at hand also changes how you handle frustration. When you inevitably hit a wall with a routine, a sleight or a script, the best thing to do is put the “toy” away. Kleon notes that if you put an old toy away for a while and bring it back later, it becomes a new toy. If you are stuck, shelve the trick. Leave the props in the drawer. When you pull that forgotten effect out months later, the time away will have worked its own kind of magic. The mechanics haven’t changed, but your perspective has, and suddenly the old trick feels new again.

Permission to Be Bad! ๐Ÿ‘Ž

This chapter is about dismantling the stifling need for perfection and “good behaviour” that paralyses so many creators. The author divides this into two main liberating ideas:

  • Do something you shouldn’t.
  • Make a big pile of imperfect things.

As a recovering perfectionist, I found the topic of imperfection particularly compelling. Perfectionism is an impossible, imaginary standard that prevents you from working. (In fact, I’d go so far as to say we should categorise it as a damaging mental health condition.) To defeat it, you should embrace “imperfectionism”, or the Japanese art of “wabi-sabi”, by focusing on the quantity of your work rather than its quality. By churning out a massive pile of flawed, messy work, you actively learn from your mistakes through trial and error. Furthermore, you must stop hoarding your art supplies for “important” projects and learn to be completely comfortable with wasting your materials. If you focus on making a massive pile of imperfect things, you will eventually find something in that pile worth saving.

Nowhere is this more evident in the craft of magic than in devising new theatrical presentations. It is all too easy to sit down to write a script, only to be paralysed by the blank page and the blinking cursor. We agonise over crafting the perfect opening monologue or finding the words that make the magical moment more memorable. Applying wabi-sabi to scriptwriting means letting go of that pressure and churning out draft after terrible draft. You have to be willing to write many bad scripts to find the one thematic angle or piece of dialogue that is actually worth keeping in the final draft.

Believe in Magic ๐Ÿช„

This chapter explores how entering the creative spirit requires you to move from the real world into an imaginative space. The author breaks this idea down into two approaches:

  • Dress-up and silly rituals. ๐Ÿคก
  • Messages from the universe. ๐ŸŒŒ

In Don’t Call It Art, Kleon references the Dutch historian Johan Huizinga’s concept of the “magic circle”—a temporary, virtual playground of time and space where the rules of ordinary life do not apply.3 Kleon applies this to the artist entering the studio: you must cross a magic threshold to leave the real world behind and enter the “creative spirit”.

This section of the book reminded me of Don Alan’s Circle of Fun, the performative manifestation of Huizinga’s magic circle.4 Kleon writes that entering the creative spirit involves crossing a razor-thin veil between the real and the imaginary. Don Alan’s table functioned as a physical and psychological magic circle, much like the door to the artist’s studio. However, he didn’t enter it alone—he invited his guests to sit down and cross that threshold with him. When Alan performed, his primary goal wasn’t to fool people; it was to draw them into a shared state of play.

Kleon goes on to discuss using specific objects, costumes, or silly rituals to draw the magic circle and create a portal that transports you into this playful state. For Don Alan, the ritual was laying down his close-up pad. The pad acted as the literal, physical boundary of the playground. The moment the pad was on the table, it signalled to both him and his audience that they were stepping into his magical world where anything was possible.

Don Alan performing in his Circle of Fun on the Canadian TV show The Magic Palace. Video Credit: Magicana via YouTube.

His magical mayhem bypassed their critical, puzzle-solving adult brains, creating an intimate space where they could let their inner child run free. Within Don Alan’s circle, the usual social rules were suspended, allowing him to act as a benevolent king of wonder and whimsy. Kleon notes that children find magic everywhere simply because they believe in it. By framing his performance as a shared game, Don Alan cultivated the same openness among his adult audiences.

In the chapter, Kleon also notes that wearing a mask or adopting an alter ego allows you to become someone you can’t be in everyday life (a concept familiar to performing magicians). Don Alan’s bombastic, fast-talking, charmingly mischievous persona was his mask. Stepping into that character gave him psychological permission to tease spectators, invade their personal space and engage in playful banter that might be considered rude in the “real world”. This brash behaviour was not only tolerated but celebrated within his Circle of Fun.

By defining the space, donning his mask, and inviting his audience into a temporary world of play, Don Alan embodied Kleon’s advice to fully inhabit the creative spirit rather than merely possess it.

Think Outside Your Head ๐Ÿคฏ

This chapter challenges the traditional notion that thinking and learning are “brainbound” activities—a term coined by science writer Annie Murphy Paul—meaning they occur only in our heads. ๐Ÿง  The chapter is split into two main concepts:

  • Listen to your body.
  • Work with your feelings.

One idea I really enjoyed in this chapter is that an artist should work with their feelings, using them as motivation to create. Kids naturally feel “big feelings”, and artists have the unique advantage of channelling those feelings directly into their art. You don’t need to be perfectly well-adjusted or constantly happy to create. Negative emotions—such as anger (which burns like a hot, dirty fuel), disgust, fear, doubt and even jealousy—are incredibly valuable signals and sources of energy. Instead of fighting or suppressing these feelings, you should carefully examine them and use them as “compost” for your creative output.

I also liked the idea of listening to and being guided by your body as an artist. I think many of the world’s best conjurers learn to think with their hands. While I’m not suggesting I’m in that category, this is how I develop card tricks: I learn a new trick, concept, or principle and start fiddling with it until my fingers accidentally discover a new, more efficient handling (or at least one that suits me better).

Problems of Output Are Problems of Input ๐Ÿ“ค๐Ÿ“ฅ

This chapter argues that when you’re struggling to produce creative work (your output), the solution is almost always to focus on replenishing or refreshing what you’re consuming (your input). The author breaks this process down into five key practices:

  • No input, no output.
  • Know what you like.
  • Copying is how we learn.
  • Embrace your obsessions.
  • Go to the library.

Just as children need continuous intellectual nourishment, artists must actively manage what they feed their minds. When you burn out, increase the time you spend reading, watching films, looking at art and listening to music to maintain a healthy input-to-output ratio. What you consume doesn’t, and probably shouldn’t, always be magic-related. Sometimes the inspiration for your next trick will come from the strangest place. For example, I often find inspiration for magical presentations in poetry or fiction, or in cosy crime dramas I like to watch on television.

There is a taboo in magic against copying other artists, yet mimicking the masters is how we learn the craft’s physical mechanics. We all start by trying to perfectly replicate Dai Vernon’s handling of a card trick or the dense technical nuances of Edward Marlo’s magic. Kleon notes that this progression is natural: you begin by straight-up copying, then evolve into parody, and finally develop a style that is entirely your own. You might start by directly lifting a card routine from a classic text, but by fumbling through it and adding your own ideas, it slowly morphs into your own original work. For this reason, I think we should spend less time admonishing beginners (and ourselves) for performing a trick using the author’s suggested presentation, and instead see this imitation as a pathway to discovering our own authentic voices.

Borrow a Kid! ๐Ÿšธ

Please understand that Austin Kleon is not suggesting you kidnap someone’s child! This chapter explores how spending time with children—or deliberately tapping into the world of childhood—can instantly break you out of a creative block and refresh your perspective. The author breaks this down into four actionable concepts:

  • A 4-year-old will get you unstuck.
  • Take lessons in looking.
  • Visit the children’s section.
  • Be a Curious Elder.

Adults have been trained to judge and dismiss what they see, but children view the world as if seeing it for the first time. When you let a child lead you through an art museum or even a supermarket (that’s what we call a grocery store in the UK, for my American readers), they ignore the “expert” labels and find magic in everyday, unassuming things. Engaging with a child forces you to clarify your own thoughts without rushing to judgment, helping you see your surroundings with fresh, awakened eyes.

My favourite concept from this chapter is the “Curious Elder”, someone who retains their curiosity as they age and actively seeks to learn from younger generations rather than judging them. They remain open to being completely bewildered by what young people are doing, recognising that feeling mystified is a sign of a healthy, evolving future. For magicians in particular, who are prone to judging young people who might prefer Cartistry over magic, being a Curious Elder is the best way to stay current and explore both the old and the new in the magic world.

It is all too easy to look at the younger generation on social media and grumble about the craft’s hyper-commercialisation, or roll our eyes at their seemingly incomprehensible vocabulary. Instead of dismissing modern internet culture, the Curious Elder observes it. You don’t have to compromise the craft’s deep history; analysing why certain trends and memes capture attention today can help you translate classic methods for a modern audience.

This is exactly why I’ve been deliberately leaning into the bewildering world of modern internet slang. Rather than fighting the absurdity, I’ve been experimenting with it as a surprisingly effective theatrical hook—first when I began exploring the idea of magical “brain rot”, and more recently when I developed my routine, the “Number of the Brain-Rotten Beast” (read all my blog posts about memes). It turns out that embracing the nonsense is sometimes the best way to keep magic fresh and inventive! Long live 6-7!

Nothing Is Wasted ♻️

This chapter addresses the anxiety many creators feel about “wasting” time when a project doesn’t turn out as planned. Kleon argues that waste is a necessary and highly valuable part of the artistic process, breaking the concept down into four main ideas:

  • Creativity is the residue of time wasted.
  • Boredom is a pit stop.
  • It’s okay to quit.
  • Don’t throw yourself out the window.

I really appreciated his message that it’s okay to quit. Quitting is often framed as a failure, especially in a craft that demands rigorous, repetitive practice and flawless execution. We are quietly conditioned to believe that we must slog through every dense, technical treatise (such as The Expert at the Card Table) or master every version of the pass or obscure card control, just to be considered competent. But in Chapter 9, Kleon suggests that quitting is a superpower. It is perfectly okay to abandon a routine that feels out of character, to put down a book that isn’t helping you (even if it’s well-respected), or simply to step off the endless, exhausting treadmill of new tricks.

Quitting things that do not serve your specific personal goals is an act of self-preservation. When you quit the obligation to consume the latest flashy gimmick or drill a move you despise, you suddenly reclaim a vast amount of time. And what should you do with that newly reclaimed time?

You should waste it. Kleon argues that creativity is the literal “residue of time wasted”. In the context of devising a new theatrical presentation, this means giving yourself permission to dive deep into seemingly unproductive rabbit holes (this blog is evidence that I have no guilt about “riding the rabbit hole” regularly). ๐Ÿ‡๐Ÿ•ณ

Instead of doomscrolling through viral visual tricks on social media, you can spend an entire afternoon tracing the historical evolution of Whist, interrogating the printing history of Duty Aces, or tracing the folkloric roots of Voodoo Dolls and European poppets. To the outside observer, or the “move monkeys”, spending three hours reading about 18th-century social history can seem like a complete waste of time. But that particular brand of “idleness” is exactly where your richest, most engaging theatrical hooks lie. By letting go of the things you are “supposed” to care about, you clear the deck for the weird, winding and wonderful research that ultimately transforms a sterile puzzle into a piece of meaningful magic.

While Kleon focuses heavily on time in this chapter, this ethos applies equally to our physical resources. As he notes earlier in the book, there is no such thing as truly “wasted” materials when it comes to learning and creating. Just as an archer learning to shoot does not consider missed arrows “wasted”, artists must recognise that making a mess, abandoning ideas and using up magic supplies are simply the cost of continued practice and personal progress.

In magic, there is often a lingering sense of preciousness about our props and consumables, especially given the high cost of some gimmicks, gaffs and tricks. But if you are trying to master a difficult sleight-of-hand sequence or a trick such as the Mercury Card Fold, you will inevitably destroy dozens of decks before you become proficient.

Applying Kleon’s mindset means recognising that butchering several cards to get a gimmick right, burning through a whole pad of flash paper to perfect the timing of a fire-based vanish, or snapping a dozen expensive elastic loops is not a waste of time or resources. It is the necessary residue of practice. You cannot let the fear of ruining your props stop you from making the mess required to learn. The bent and crumpled cards, the burnt flash paper and the snapped threads are simply the spent arrows of your practice sessions. True creative work is, in fact, the residue of time and materials that were ostensibly “wasted” along the way. You have to create magic without fear of wasting paper, paint or those premium-quality playing cards!

You Don’t Need a Vision ๐Ÿ”ฎ

This final chapter dismantles the intimidating myth that artists must have a grand, fully formed “master plan” before they begin creating. The author argues that waiting for a perfect vision is often just another form of procrastination, breaking the concept down into three main ideas:

  • Put the future behind you.
  • Work with what’s in front of you.
  • Get beyond your imagination.

This idea applies directly to writing theatrical scripts. You do not need the entire narrative arc mapped out. You just need a single, compelling starting point, such as a hook or opening line. You might stumble across a fascinating historical detail—like the taxation history of “Duty Aces”—or a strange bit of early internet meme culture. You don’t need to know how it connects to a card trick. Not yet. You just write down the one fact or idea that interests you. Then you pick up a deck, and the routine builds itself incrementally through writing and shuffling, rather than springing fully formed from a sudden lightning bolt moment of genius. ⚡

“Years ago, I read about the Aymara, a tribe of Indigenous people in South America who have a way of thinking about time that’s the complete reverse of our own. They refer to the future as “back” or “behind” time, and the past as “front” time. When they speak about the past, they gesture ahead of them, and when they speak about the future, they gesture behind them.”

— Austin Kleon

If there is one overarching lesson to take away from Don’t Call It Art, it is that the pressure to constantly innovate, seek the newest methods, and have a grand “vision” for your future in magic is creatively paralysing. In the final chapter, Kleon advises us to “put the future behind you”. To illustrate this, he shares a concept from the Aymara, an Indigenous tribe in South America, who view time in reverse to our Western perspective: they gesture ahead of themselves when speaking of the past, because the past is known and can be seen. The future, however, is unseen and unknown, so it sits behind them.

An illustration from Don’t Call It Art. Image Credit: Austin Kleon.

When I read this, I immediately smiled. This South American concept perfectly mirrors the traditional Mฤori proverb I wrote about recently in my Ruseletter, see Back to the Future: “Kia whakatลmuri te haere whakamua” (“I walk backwards into the future with my eyes fixed on my past”). For the amateur magician, this is the ultimate creative liberation. You do not need a grand vision for your magic. You do not need to constantly seek out the latest release from your favourite magic dealer. Progress doesn’t come from endlessly reaching into the unknown. It comes from walking backwards into what you already know.

When you sit at your close-up pad, put the future squarely behind you. Focus on what is in front of you—the classic texts, the craft’s historical lineage and the old routines you think you’ve already mastered. Tinkering with the past is the only way to genuinely discover your future. Walk backwards, fellow conjurer. The future is waiting!

Final Thoughts

Hopefully, the breakdown of each chapter has given you a clear idea of the book’s contents. Throughout the book, Austin has included a carefully curated selection of photographs, hand-lettered quotes and his signature blackout poems (see below for an example). This makes the book a visual treat. Even though it isn’t your typical art book, it wouldn’t look out of place on a coffee table. It would sit best on a bookshelf alongside his other books in the Steal Like an Artist trilogy, which, I guess, is now a tetralogy!

There is one place where I'd urge caution, though. Magic is one of the few arts where Kleon's advice can backfire. "Throw out the instructions" and "permission to be bad" are pure liberation for a painter — a ruined canvas costs nothing but a fresh sheet. For us, the stakes are different. The magician who throws out the instructions can expose the method, and the one who performs half-baked sleights in public can burn the secret and the wonder for good. A flashed palm doesn't just spoil one trick; it spends the astonishment you're there to create. So Kleon's gospel needs a magician's asterisk: be bad at the kitchen table, make your big pile of imperfect things in private, and throw out the instructions only once you understand why they were written. The freedom to fail is essential — but your audience should only ever meet the version that has already earned its polish.

An example of Austin Kleon’s blackout poetry from the book. Image Credit: Austin Kleon.

I read Don’t Call It Art on my Chromebook, but the Google Play app on Android mangled the page layout so badly that it was almost unreadable. If you’re experiencing the same difficulty, I found a simple way to fix it. It seems the Android app doesn’t always play nicely with ChromeOS. Instead of using the app, just open the book in your web browser.

Go to https://play.google.com/, click your profile icon in the top-right, select “Library & devices”, then click the “Books” tab. Once you open your book there, it will load in the web reader, which should display the pages exactly as the author intended.

If the book still opens in the app, you need to change the app’s default settings. In your ChromeOS settings, go to Apps > Manage your apps. If you have the Play Books Android app installed and it is set to automatically open all e-book files, you may want to uninstall it or disable the feature. By removing the app, your Chromebook will default to opening your library and books directly in the Chrome browser, providing a consistent and stable reading experience.

Given this less-than-ideal reading experience, I’d strongly suggest you pick up the hardback edition of the book. Because the pages are such a feast for the eyes, this is probably the best way to experience it anyway.

My only other negative comment is that some chapters felt a little short compared with others. I’m sure Austin spent a long time designing the length and flow of each section, but I did find the book a little unbalanced. However, maybe this is an unfair criticism, and each chapter is precisely as long as it needed to be. Another way to look at it is that there is no bloat or padding in Don’t Call It Art.

Does the book merit my recommendation? In the words of Derek Sivers, “HELL YEAH!” Even though I've just finished reading it, I'm already looking forward to re-reading it whenever I need a little inspiration.

Just Make Magic!

To finish off the review, I thought it would be fun to try adapting Austin's list of ten tips for conjurers like me who aspire to be great artists. (Don’t worry, Austin wants us to steal his stuff. That's why he wrote a book called Steal Like an Artist.)

  1. Throw out. Ignore the instructions. Embrace your authentic self by ignoring the official instructions. Don’t read the ones that come with the trick; try to work out the method yourself. Shun the overly prescriptive—and often excessively long—modern magic video tutorials. Watch the recording, then write your own instructions so you never need to watch it again. Better yet, read about a trick’s core mechanics in a classic magic book or an old magic periodical, then close the book or magazine. Figure out a handling and a script that suits your own hands and voice. As William Goldman astutely wrote, “Nobody knows anything”, so just do your own thing. If it works, great. If it doesn’t, well, just try something else.
  2. Don’t take things too seriously. Not every routine needs a heavy, pretentious narrative to be entertaining and worthwhile. Inject a bit of absurd humour, lean into a terrible pun, and remember that performing should always be fun. Magic is, essentially, an excuse for adults and children alike to engage in imaginative play. So, for goodness sake, be playful with your magic!
  3. Give yourself time, space, and materials. Carve out a quiet sanctuary away from the “engagement evils” of the attention economy (social media apps, email, websites). Just you, a deck of cards, a good magic book, and perhaps a notebook and pen to capture your ideas. Oh, and maybe make yourself a strong cup of tea or coffee (or whatever beverage floats your boat). Let the practice unfold undisturbed, free from digital distractions.
  4. Permission to be bad! The first time you perform a new magic trick for someone, it will probably be bad (or even go completely wrong). Perform it anyway. You may well flash a palmed coin, split a double lift, and butcher your carefully rehearsed patter. Let a routine be clunky and messy at first. But permission to be bad doesn’t mean you shouldn’t practise and rehearse your tricks before performing them.
  5. Believe in magic. Don’t let FOMO marketing and the endless conveyor belt of the modern magic marketplace leave you cynical. Reconnect with the sheer astonishment that first drew you to conjuring, and focus on creating that same feeling for your audience. In short, if you want to perform magic, you must believe in it first!
  6. Think outside your head. A mentalism or card routine isn’t finished if it only exists as a concept in your mind. Write the script down. Film your rehearsal sessions. Speak the patter out loud while performing the moves to see how the words feel when you say them. Perform your magic trick for an invisible audience to work on your blocking, timing and pacing.
  7. Problems of output are problems of input. If your tricks and routines are feeling uninspired and stale, look at your creative diet. Stop watching magic on YouTube, Instagram and Facebook, and dig back into the history of conjuring, classic literature, or subjects completely outside of magic to reinvigorate your magical presentations.
  8. Borrow a kid! Children are the most brutally honest test audiences. Try a new effect out on the youngest critics in your house. A tough crowd of kids will instantly spot when you flash a move or point out a logical gap in your presentation that an adult would completely miss or politely ignore.
  9. Nothing is wasted. That obscure move or sleight you spent weeks perfecting, only to cut it from your latest routine? It’s not lost time. It’s foundational muscle memory that will inevitably surface when you need it for a different effect.
  10. You don’t need a vision. Don’t let the pressure of being seen as an “artist” or even a “magician” paralyse you. Just pick up the props, learn the mechanics, and put in the work. The overarching theme or presentation will reveal itself through the doing.

Footnotes

  1. Eugene Burger and Robert E. Neale, Magic and Meaning (Seattle: Hermetic Press, 1995), 103.

  2. Kathryn Shattuck, “Lucy Liu Thinks It’s Important to Make a Mess Sometimes,” New York Times, November 23, 2024, https://www.nytimes.com/2024/11/23/movies/lucy-liu-red-one.html.

  3. It should be noted that although the concept of the “Magic Circle” is rightly credited to Johan Huizinga, it was significantly expanded by the game designers Eric Zimmerman, Frank Lantz and Katie Salen.

  4. Jon Racherbaumer, In a Class by Himself: The Legacy of Don Alan (Tahoma, CA: L&L Publishing, 2000), xxix.

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