The Theatre of Magick
In times of confusion, I usually turn to my roots to find solace and advice in that which molded what I am today, in the words and works that made me steer my path and inspired me to take up the disciplines which I felt were appropiate to express that very “I”. One of those roots is, without discussion, Chaos Magick. I’ve always found the writings of Austin Osman Spare, Phil Hine, Ray Sherwin, Robert Anton Wilson, Timothy Leary or Alan Moore tremendously lucid, providing a very useful insight on the reasons why we do things more than on the things themselves that we do. And that very method of approaching the subject is its own answer: the important thing is not what you do, but how you do it. A simple truth. More of a blueprint for action than a set of rules and regulations. In pure Chaos Magick, all the “do”s are there and it’s up to you to fill the “don’t”s.
Some days ago, flipping back through Ray Sherwin’s “The Theatre of Magick”, I found this (emphasis is mine):
“The magician believes nothing in the sense of having faith, he experiments practically to ascertain if there is any truth or value in the postulates he has made himself or which he has borrowed from elsewhere. It is true that he holds certain organic beliefs for the sake of convenience. For example, he believes that the chair in which he is sitting or in which he is about to sit in is real – most of the time. This however is not a mental process but an instinctive or organic one without which life would be impossible.
Intellectually there are many concepts which he uses in which he does not believe except within carefully chosen parameters. Angels and devils, for instance, as archetypes of knowledge, energy or personal power are useful vehicles by the invokation of which the magician can examine facets of himself which are not easily accessible. In order to make full use of this and similar devices he must be able to suspend his disbelief, and this he does in the Theatre of Magick.
Theatre is the most appropriate term here because the magician is stepping outside what he normally considers to be reality and creating a malleable universe of his own through his will, his intellect and his imagination. The more bizarre his Theatre the less likely he is to confuse his activities on this level with the more mundane aspects of his life.
The traditional Theatre of the magician is as good a starting model as any. It is unlikely, absurd, and perfectly equipped. The magician has a special room with particular decor and stylized instruments. In the non-magician this room inspires fear, awe or hilarity. In the magician it inspires a mood and it inspires change.“
This is, quite simply and better put than I ever could have done it, the reason why I can’t work in photography since about a year ago. I’ve always required a secluded environment in order to function correctly: a fixed, controllable, customizable and intimate space for shooting (some would call it a “studio”), a printing room, whatever. My magick doesn’t work outside such a space. I can get myself to do stuff outside of my self-imposed confinement, but it feels painful, inadequate, disconforting and awkward. Without a sancta sanctorum, I’m no good. Sure, I can “take photos”, but they have nothing to do with the obsessions which fuel my drive.
I suppose that’s why I’m not, and I’ll never really be, a photographer. I’ve always wanted to be an alchemist and that’s what I’ll always keep being. That’s why I’m going underground, because some works must be performed in the outmost obscurity and secrecy, like “Rebis” was. These works grow from a very particular type of spiritual/intellectual humus, and the seed must be protected from the light until it is nourished and manages to start finding its way up from the soil.
The seed is already there and Winter’s going. Now it’s only up to Time to tell us what will sprout forth from it.
