There is a hallway in a conference center in Salzburg that I have walked down more times than I can count. It is about fifteen meters long, industrial carpet, fluorescent lighting, the faint hum of an air conditioning unit that probably has not been serviced in years. On one end, the green room. On the other end, the stage.
Fifteen meters. Twenty seconds of walking. And in those twenty seconds, the most important transition of any performance takes place.
Not the transition from backstage to onstage. The transition from one version of myself to another.
The first time I walked that hallway to perform — a corporate keynote where I was integrating magic into a talk about innovation — I was Felix the consultant. Nervous Felix. The Felix who was running through his opening line for the fortieth time, who was checking his pocket for the prop he already knew was there, who was wondering whether the sound system would actually work the way the technician had promised.
I walked onto that stage carrying every doubt, every hesitation, every piece of imposter syndrome I had accumulated since the day I bought a deck of cards in a hotel room and started watching tutorials on my laptop. The audience saw a man who was visibly working to hold it together. Not falling apart — I had prepared too well for that. But the effort was showing. The seams were visible.
The performance was fine. The feedback was positive. But I knew, even as I packed up my props afterward, that “fine” was not what I was after. And the problem was not my material. The problem was who I was when I performed it.
The Version Problem
Here is something I have never heard discussed explicitly in the magic community, but that I think about constantly: every performer has multiple versions of themselves. There is the practice version — the one who sits alone in a hotel room, working through a routine with infinite patience, no audience, and no pressure. There is the everyday version — the one who shows up at meetings, has coffee, walks the dog, argues about parking. And there is the performance version — the one who walks out in front of a room full of people and tries to create something extraordinary.
The practice version is usually calm, precise, and analytical. The everyday version is unremarkable by design. But the performance version — that is where things get interesting. Because most of us, when we walk onto a stage, do not become a better version of ourselves. We become a worse one. The anxiety kicks in, the self-consciousness amplifies, the internal monologue shifts from “here is what I am going to do” to “please do not let me mess this up.”
We walk on stage as the anxious version. The cautious version. The please-like-me version. And the audience, who are extraordinarily good at reading human beings even when they do not know they are doing it, picks up on that immediately. Not the specifics. They do not think, “Oh, this person is nervous about their third trick.” They just feel something is slightly off. The energy is defensive rather than expansive. The performer is managing rather than commanding.
What I Learned from Reading About Conviction
The concept that rewired my thinking came from Joshua Jay’s writing on what he calls conviction — the idea that a performer must believe in what they are doing to such a degree that nothing feels like something. The conviction is not about lying to yourself. It is about making a deliberate choice about who you are going to be when you step in front of people.
Jay described this as the zone — a state of complete presence where the performer genuinely inhabits the role they are playing. Not acting. Not pretending. Actually being the best version of themselves in that moment.
And what struck me was the word choice. He did not say “the perfect version.” He said the version that fully believes. There is a difference. Perfection is a standard you fail to meet. Belief is a choice you make.
I started calling this the Superman mindset, because of a parallel that resonated with me. Clark Kent and Superman are the same person with the same abilities. The difference is not in what they can do. The difference is in who they choose to be. Clark Kent is the cautious version. Superman is the version that shows up fully, holds nothing back, and moves through the world with the complete conviction that he belongs exactly where he is.
The magic does not change. The skills do not change. The material does not change. What changes is the version of the performer who delivers it.
The Hallway Protocol
After that Salzburg experience, I developed what I privately call the hallway protocol. It is not dramatic. There is no ritual involving crystals or affirmations shouted into a mirror. It is simply a mental shift that I make in the transition space between the green room and the stage.
In the green room, I am Felix. All the usual anxieties are there. Is the prop in the right pocket? Did the technician get the music cue right? Will the audience be engaged or hostile? I let all of that exist. I do not fight it or suppress it. That would be futile anyway — the anxieties have their own schedule.
But somewhere in the walk from green room to stage — in those fifteen meters of industrial carpet — I make a conscious decision. I am not going out there as the nervous version. I am going out there as the version who has done this a hundred times, who knows the material cold, who trusts the preparation, and who is genuinely excited to share something extraordinary with a room full of people.
The key word there is “decision.” It is not a feeling I wait for. It is a choice I make. The nervous version does not vanish. He is still there, somewhere in the background, cataloguing potential disasters. But he is not the one who walks through the door. The version who walks through the door is the one I have chosen to be.
Why Preparation Enables the Shift
The Superman mindset does not work if you are underprepared. This is critical. You cannot choose to be confident if you have not done the work. Confidence without preparation is delusion, and audiences can smell delusion from fifty meters.
The shift works precisely because the preparation is real. When I stand backstage and make the decision to walk out as my best version, the foundation that decision stands on is hundreds of hours of practice. Thousands of repetitions. Dozens of rehearsals. A script I have rewritten, tested, recorded, listened to, revised, and polished until every word earns its place.
The nervous version worries about all of that. The Superman version knows it is already done.
Think of it this way. If you have studied for an exam obsessively — read every textbook, done every practice problem, understood the material deeply — you might still feel nervous walking into the exam room. But underneath the nerves, there is a layer of quiet certainty. You know the material. The nerves are just the surface. The preparation is the foundation.
The performance mindset works the same way. The nerves are real. The preparation is also real. And the choice is about which one you let drive.
What Changes in the Performance
The difference between performing as the anxious version and performing as the best version is not subtle. It affects everything.
Timing changes. When you are anxious, you rush. You want to get through the material before something goes wrong. When you are in the Superman mindset, you slow down. You take the pauses. You let the audience absorb what just happened before you move to the next beat. You trust the silence.
Physicality changes. The anxious version makes himself small. Shoulders slightly forward, gestures close to the body, eyes that dart rather than hold. The best version takes up space. Stands fully upright. Uses the stage. Makes eye contact that lingers for a beat longer than feels comfortable — which is exactly as long as it should be.
Voice changes. Anxiety tightens the throat and flattens the range. The best version speaks from the chest, uses the full spectrum of volume and pacing, drops to a whisper when the moment calls for it, builds to a crescendo when the effect demands it.
And the relationship with the audience changes. This is the biggest shift. The anxious version performs at the audience — trying to get through the material, hoping for approval, working from a position of mild desperation. The best version performs with the audience — sharing an experience, creating a moment together, operating from a position of generous authority.
The audience does not know any of this is happening consciously. They just know that one performer makes them lean forward and another makes them check their phone. The difference is not talent. It is mindset.
The Identity Question
There is a deeper philosophical question here that I have wrestled with for years: is the Superman version real, or is it a character?
My answer has evolved. At first, I thought of it as a character. A role I was playing. Felix the Performer, as distinct from Felix the Person. That framing worked for a while, but it always felt slightly dishonest. Like I was putting on a mask rather than revealing a face.
What I believe now is that the Superman version is not a different person. It is the same person with the filters removed. In everyday life, I filter myself constantly. I hold back opinions, moderate my enthusiasm, calibrate my energy to match the social context. Everyone does this. It is how we navigate the world.
The stage is the one place where those filters can come off. Not in the sense of being unhinged or unprofessional. In the sense of being fully, completely present. Not monitoring myself from the outside. Not managing impressions. Not trying to be anything other than someone who has something amazing to show you and is genuinely thrilled to be here.
That person is real. He is just the version of me that rarely gets out in everyday life because everyday life does not require him. The stage does.
The Practical Application
I want to be specific about how this works in practice, because vague advice about “being confident” is useless.
Step one: prepare until the preparation is boring. You should know your material so well that it requires zero conscious effort to execute. This is not about being overprepared. It is about freeing your conscious mind from the mechanics so it can focus on the experience.
Step two: acknowledge the nerves. Do not fight them. Do not try to eliminate them. Nerves are energy. They are your body telling you that something important is about to happen. The Superman version does not lack nerves. He channels them.
Step three: make the decision before you walk out. Not during the first trick. Not after the audience responds positively. Before. In the hallway, in the wings, in whatever transition space exists between your private self and your public self. Decide who is walking through that door.
Step four: commit completely. Once you are out there, there is no halfway. You are not “trying to be confident.” You are confident. You are not “hoping this goes well.” You know it will because you prepared for it to. The commitment is total, even if the feeling is not yet there. The feeling follows the choice, not the other way around.
What I Wish Someone Had Told Me
Looking back at that first walk down the hallway in Salzburg, I wish someone had told me this: the audience does not need you to be perfect. They need you to be present. They need you to be the person who is fully in the room, fully engaged with what is happening, and fully committed to giving them an experience worth having.
That person is already inside you. He has been there since the first time you practiced a routine and felt the little spark of “this is going to be amazing when I show it to someone.” He is the version of you that exists when self-doubt is quiet and the material is singing.
The Superman mindset is not about becoming someone you are not. It is about giving yourself permission to be who you already are when the conditions are right — and learning to create those conditions deliberately, every single time you walk from the green room to the stage.
Fifteen meters. Twenty seconds. One decision. Be the best version. Not perfect. Not invulnerable. Just the one who shows up fully, holds nothing back, and trusts the work that brought him here.
That is the version the audience came to see. That is the version who creates extraordinary moments. And that is the version who deserves to walk through the door.