- by Owen Morton
Okay, I’m rather hoping the readers of this article will know what a magic painting book is, because frankly they’re rather difficult to explain. However, just for the sake of making this website accessible to all, I suppose I’d better try to do so.
A magic painting book is the sort of thing you are liable to be given for Christmas if you work at institutions such as Nottingham Library, on the second floor, like I do. Having received a batch of three of them (as well as a paintbrush) from the staff of the Business Library last Christmas, I took them back to York with me and proceeded to experiment. I had been informed that to add colour to the black and white pictures which adorned the pages of these books, I would have to use my paintbrush. So far, so good. What I didn’t quite understand was why I would have to paint the pages of the book with water, rather than a more traditional material for painting (i.e. paint).
And this is where the magical aspect of these books comes in. You will recall that they are described as ‘magic painting books’, not just ‘painting books’, which is what they would have been if I’d just put paint in them. You see, when you put water in these books, you don’t get the usual result of putting water in books (the book being ruined) – you instead discover that the paintings get done! If there’s a picture of a cat, for example, and you put water on said cat, the cat magically becomes coloured!
The major problem with this system is that it eliminates free will. If you were painting a picture and you wanted the cat to be green with red stripes, and perhaps a tattoo of Elvis on the left side of its face, you could do it. Chances are that if you tried the same thing with a magic painting book by just putting water on the picture of the cat, you’d be sorely disappointed.
On the other hand, I can’t for the life of me see how these books work. For all I know, it genuinely is magic. It’s like when I was little, I went to the British Geological Survey Childrens’ Christmas Party (because my dad used to work there, not because I was gatecrashing). Every year, BGS hired a magician called Mr. Ted to perform tricks for the entertainment of the children. Mr. Ted was actually quite good, despite my recollections of him now make him look quite similar to Frank Spencer of Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em fame, a negative association if ever there was one. You also pretty much knew what you were getting with him. He would promise a Punch and Judy show was coming, for example, and perform tricks until it did so. Finally, he would get fed up waiting and go off to look for the Punch and Judy show. Predictably, while he was off, the show would start, and – oddly enough – it finished just before he came back, at which point he would say, “Was that the Punch and Judy show? Did I miss it? I really wanted to see it.”
Anyway, to the point of this story. One year, while Mr. Ted was performing tricks before the Punch and Judy show began, he asked for some audience participation, whereby the volunteer would come out on stage and do what he was told. Despite my having recently done a similar thing in Liverpool and having been well and truly splattered in the face with a custard pie and having a lettuce and bag of carrots taken away from me on the grounds that I “won’t want them anymore, will you, son?” (but that’s another story, one that will never be told here, or anywhere else, in fact), I went up to the stage and did as Mr. Ted told me.
It was nothing so traumatic as my experience in Liverpool. I put this down to the cruel sense of humour Liverpudlians have, as opposed to the kind and gentle benevolence of Mr. Ted. Basically, I did what Mr. Ted said (can’t remember what he wanted me to do, but I’m sure it wasn’t unpleasant, or I would remember) and as a reward was given – a painting book!
Aha, you say. Finally, we’re getting to the point of this story. You are entirely correct. Mr. Ted gave me the book, and said, “Of course, if you tap the book with a wand …” Thanks to the things he’d told me to do already, I was still holding a wand, and immediately I tapped the book. Mr. Ted cried, “No!” in horror, and then the room blew up. I got out of hospital three weeks later, and after extensive questioning by MI5, I was released into society again after a full two years.
Actually, that’s a lie. Mr. Ted did indeed cry, “No!” but only because he was worried I’d ruined my painting book. Which I had. You see, tapping the book with the wand had made all the pictures magically colour themselves in! This is even more magic than just adding water. How the hell did he do it? I have nothing but admiration for Mr. Ted, but the idea that he was a genuine magician is pushing it a little. But there it is: I tapped the book with the wand, and every single picture in it gained colour. It wasn’t sleight of hand, him substituting a used book for the original without me noticing, because I was holding the book the whole time. I can’t think of any way he could have done it. And it didn’t stop there. Oh no. Because, despite the magical trick I’d been shown, I no longer had a painting book, Mr. Ted went to great pains, at the expense of much magical energy, to reverse the effects which I had so stupidly caused. And at the end of a lengthy ritual (in which, again, the book did not leave my hands), the book reverted to its previous, non-coloured-in, state!
I am genuinely bemused. I can think of absolutely no explanation for Mr. Ted’s behaviour. And I think it’s time to stop talking about magical painting books before I burst my brain.