Recycle

RecyclingCP

#narration, #récit, #sublime, #anew

I write down some ideas and ask my sister what she thinks. Without hesitation she suggests giving it a try. I want to be as transparent with him as I can, so I continue to sharpen my thoughts after speaking to my sister. Quickly, I call him to make an appointment and we agree on a date. Monday at ten o’clock.

I walk to the meeting feeling both nervous and excited at the same time. I ring the bell, a very loud old bell, and the sound of slow aged steps approaching follows. The door opens and he takes me to an office, with windows to the garden of the parish. It is a room with old, dark brown furniture, and a wall full of books behind the rustic desk that is placed at the center of the space. I sit down and I start explaining my ideas. A few sentences later, amidst all excitement, the priest takes out a magazine from one of the drawers. He mentions there is an article in a recent religious publication that touches upon similar ideas. A fortunate coincidence that brings up an open hearted conversation and the agreement to shoot the film in a couple of weeks.

In the following days, I make sure to order the wooden structure at the local carpenter and explain how each piece needs to move. I pick up the coloured paint, the smoke bomb, and the flares, and I finish working on the monologue. Lastly, I find the right light bulb and instruct my sister in what will be her operating role during the filming.

On the day of the shoot everything fits gracefully into the car. We park as close by

as possible, and as the loud bell stops ringing the door opens. The priest finishes his cigarette and walks us to the church where we unload the tripod, camera, the structure, and appliances in the main hall. We didn’t forget the lighter.

We place the wooden structure on the altar, next to the microphone into which the priest will read the monologue. For the sake of a clear composition, we turn on all the lights and move the flower pot to the side. While we’re discussing the scene, the priest himself suggests wearing the official ceremonial clothes for the performance. That sparks a fire inside of me. It grows bigger as the action continues. It is a fire that doesn’t burn; a catalyser. I hesitate to break the existential trance, but after a few moments of silence, I stop the recording and shout ‘Perfect!’. To our surprise the priest releases an intense coughing. He has tried to keep it in for as long as the smoke has been spreading throughout the big hall. And, from behind the wooden structure, amidst the smell of gunpowder, I see my sister reappear, with sparking witty eyes.

We go over the scene a couple of times and once everyone feels comfortable we move into our positions. I am standing, behind my tripod, next to the fourth row of benches in the middle of the aisle. The aisle that normally functions as the architectural choreographed experience of grandeur. But this time, as I look around from where I’m standing, things start to mutate: the altar, the tunic, the ritual, the architecture, the symbolism, the history. Suddenly everything is transformed into a play. There is silence, and there is fire. I press record.

When the first word reaches the microphone, the reverberation in the space fills the bodily cavities bravely. All my membranes start resonating with the same frequency. And as it goes on and on, each word enhances my senses. The range of vision alters, and the lungs breath at the rhythm of each movement of the scene. The words speak of what can not be categorised, while the particles of things seem to accelerate as their weight becomes lighter. For an extended moment in time, it all belongs to an array of possibilities. It makes power moldable and deference playful. Amidst the lightness, its seriousness can be felt in an exhilarating manner. And, by the time the last flare spits the final gleam, the opulent purple smoke is gravitating in space.