Acts of Violet(38)
Since she brought it up first, I ask her if it’s challenging being openly bisexual, personally or professionally.
“Oh no, I love it when people assume I have no standards and will sleep with anybody because I like men and women.” Her throaty voice takes on a playful lilt, but there are needles beneath the surface. “Getting called a slut is always fun, especially by other women. Like at the one and only magic convention I went to, where I heard a group of Chatty Cathies going on about all the guys and girls I must’ve slept with to get where I am. And then there was the publicist who suggested I play up being bi to boost my sex appeal—let the paps get hot photos of me kissing other women—since so many men fantasize about threesomes.”
Violet takes a long swig from her flask, as if washing a bad taste out of her mouth. “You hear about the dark side of showbiz all the time, but I never expected it to be this gross.”
After such an unfiltered outburst, most would backtrack and ask it to be kept off the record, but Violet does not. Instead, her face brightens, all traces of disgust eradicated, as if someone pushed a button on a remote control (perhaps the same sadistic bastard controlling the speed on her hamster wheel). She tilts her head and tells me I have something in my hair, pointing above my ear. When I check, I find an addition to the bobby pins holding my bun in place: one of Violet’s butterfly clips. Momentarily speechless, I hold it out to return it to her, but she says to keep it. Then she begs me to ask her some questions that aren’t “boring or lame.” Her face is alert, expectant, silently assuring me that even though I’m conducting the interview, she’s the one controlling it. If we were playing poker, she’d be holding aces and I’d be trying to bluff with a pair of twos.
Suddenly, as if spying a card peeking from her sleeve, I see what she’s doing. She’s provoking me to go bolder with my queries. I sidestep the unspoken dare and instead ask what people would be surprised to know about her.
She blinks in confusion, like she was expecting a grenade and instead I threw a spitball. “I don’t know what people might find surprising or unsurprising. My favorite bands are the Beastie Boys and Siouxsie and the Banshees. I watch The Way We Were at least once a year and cry like a baby every time. I’m weirdly superstitious. I love hiking. Is any of that surprising? Who are these people we’re talking about? How am I supposed to know their expectations before I subvert them?”
It’s a good point. Most have come to expect the unexpected from her by now.
“But what does that even mean? If I’m expected to be outrageous and I pull wacky stunts, aren’t I giving people exactly what they expect? See, I think I’ve been assigned a very specific box and am expected to stay within its boundaries. I’m brought in to make things exciting in a safe way, so everyone can forget about their pointless lives for five minutes. And I’m okay with that. That’s the contract I’ve entered into.”
Whether or not it’s false modesty, it’s also reductive, seeing that Volk is regarded as an up-and-coming feminist role model.
“That’s not for me to say, is it? I think that comes up because I’m in a section of entertainment where women are typically props and background players. But I’m not on this career path to make some kind of social statement or pave the way for women in magic. It just so happens that there aren’t as many chicks obsessed with this shit as dudes.”
That may be a simplified way of looking at it, though, which she concedes. I ask her what it’s like being a woman in a male-dominated industry.
“You’re a journalist with tits, you tell me.”
When I tell her that it can be a challenge, she smirks and says, “That’s one way to put it. I’m not saying there’s rampant sexism, but … well, you know. We’ve all experienced something like that.”
Something like what?
“Okay, so when I first moved to New York, I was told about a weekly meetup for magicians at Dirty Lou’s, this dive bar in Hell’s Kitchen, open to anyone. So I went, hoping to make some connections, get some tips, learn some new techniques, you name it. The main focus was on card magic.”
As if reenacting those days, she pulls out a deck of cards, fans them out, and hands me one facedown, instructing me not to look at it.
“The first few times I went to Dirty Lou’s—with a fake ID, since I wasn’t twenty-one yet—the only women I saw there were bartenders and girlfriends of the magicians. As you might expect, I got hit on by the guys, and when I wouldn’t hook up with them, some tried to recruit me to be their assistant. Thanks, but no thanks. After I showed off a few sleights, they took me a little more seriously, but there was still a condescending vibe about the whole thing. What do you want it to be?” She nods at the card I’m holding.
I stammer out the first thing that comes to mind, the four of clubs, and Violet has me turn over the card. It’s the four of clubs. Ignoring my bafflement, she retrieves the card and shuffles the deck as she continues the story.
“Then there were the old-timers and wunderkinds. They’d take over this corner booth in the back of the bar and always had a crowd watching them hold court. You could show them a trick or ask them questions, but only from the sidelines. You had to be invited to sit with them. Fortunately, Ace [Morgan] was always welcome back there, and he got me in with those guys. After a few weeks, I became a regular. I learned a lot about card manip in that back booth.” Violet holds out the deck balanced on her palm and tells me to name a card.