Steve Martin: Disneyland, Diane Arbus, and Me
When I was 17, I worked at Fantasyland’s magic shop as a magician demonstrating Svengali decks, cups and balls, and the Incredible (their word) Shrinking Die. I loved working to exhaustion, and I was proud to become the shop’s youngest night manager. When Disneyland’s summer hours were extended to 9 p.m. on weekdays and midnight on weekends, I was in heaven. I could watch date night unfold, allowing me to observe and absorb teen romantic norms. One night, however, a chance encounter with a renowned artist was to grip me more than 60 years later, setting my nostalgia for Disneyland in dramatic black and white. Explore the July 2026 Issue Check out more from this issue and find your next story to read. View More A summer evening in 1962: The fireworks were over, the crowds dwindled, and the store emptied. I counted out the registers, turned out the lights, and locked the hand-carved sorcerers’ doors behind me. My usual route out was through Sleeping Beauty’s castle, over the moat via a working drawbridge. But …
