He was never the subject of a feature, but his name appeared countless times in magic magazines. Dai Vernon wrote of him dozens of times in his column in Genii. Its editors, from William Larsen, Jr. to Richard Kaufman (as well as yours truly), cited him many times. There is one word that ties it all together: generosity.
Bill Bowers was born in Pennsylvania in December 1926. He enlisted in the U.S. Army mere months before the end of World War II, working with a film crew in post-war Germany. Following his service, he relocated to Southern California and went to work in Hollywood as the assistant to MGM producer Joel Freeman.
Exactly when his love for magic took hold is unknown—Bill never spoke about himself unless it was in tandem with one of his many friends, focusing on their accomplishments and talents, not his own. He was an early member of The Magic Castle. In the 1970s, he operated Vogue Records with stores in Westwood, Hollywood, and Glendale. He would bring new records to the Larsen girls before they were supposed to be released. But Bill’s claim to fame started when a certain professor moved into a hilltop house in Hollywood.
When Bill Larsen, Jr. convinced Dai Vernon to stay in California, it was Bill Bowers who looked after a man everyone thought might live another 10 or 15 years. Bill remained at Vernon’s side for the better part of three decades.
When the Larsens traveled, Vernon would accompany them, and virtually every reference to those excursions written by Larsen started, “Irene and I, along with Dai Vernon and Bill Bowers….” And Vernon’s comments were similar: “Bill and Irene Larsen, Bill Bowers, and myself….”
Years of national and international trips with Vernon supplied Bill with a lifetime of stories to tell. Among his favorites was how often customs agents would misread Vernon’s passport, believing that his occupation was musician instead of magician. They would invariably ask, “What instrument do you play?” Bill would immediately answer, “He’s the conductor.”
Bill became famous among his countless friends for the lavish birthday parties he held for the Professor. There was the surprise party (his 87th) where Vernon was expecting a quiet evening of billiards at Bill’s home. After the game, when they entered the living room, there were dozens of people as well as a giant banner wishing him many happy returns. Vernon said it was one of the few times he was ever fooled.
None of these soirees, though, matched up to Vernon’s 88th celebration in 1982. People received their invitations on the back of a full-color photo—taken by Bill—of Vernon’s props and books (it was later used as the dustjacket image for the Chronicles series of books).
Over 300 people attended the event, and each one of them received a gift box with four decks of cards: red- and blue-backed decks with Vernon’s silhouette, and blue- and red-backed decks with the famous Hal Phyfe image of Vernon looking down at his hand holding a pack with the Ace of Clubs on its face. This was all arranged and paid for by Bill Bowers.
Generosity. It was Bill Bowers’ middle name (spelled with a J). There are countless acts in the literature and oral history about Bill’s selflessness. Vernon once wrote, “Bill Bowers truly astounds me… Bill is always doing nice things like this just out of the goodness of his heart.”
Indeed. And the loss of Bill Bowers leaves holes in countless hearts across magic.