Story Frame 37 – Tiny Bubbles & Time-Lapses

A time-lapse is a film technique in which a cameraperson takes a sequence of frames at certain intervals in order to track how an image changes over time. When time is collapsed and the frames are shown at a normal speed, the action is sped up and you can see movement and change. It’s just like the actual filming process, but with all the boring frames in between the interesting ones compressed or removed.

That fall, the marble carvers in Italy finished their work on the enormous sculpture. Thought to be one of the largest relief sculptures in the world, it had to be cut up into sixteen pieces to in order to be shipped to the U.S. Some of the individual pieces weighed as much as 9,000 pounds and once in Washington, DC, it took a large crane to lift the pieces into the Basilica.

That was just the beginning of the logistical complications. Transporting the blocks of sculpture required the invention of a special 300-foot-long rail system that allowed the pieces to be pushed manually across the Basilica’s marble floor.

Inside, an enormous scaffolding had been erected to facilitate the process of attaching the bas relief to the back wall of the Basilica. Using a system of cables, handles, and chains to guide the indoor crane, the engineers in charge oversaw the manual securing of each unwieldy block of marble into place. It took nearly two weeks for the installation to be completed.

Because of the length of time involved, Martin decided to do a time lapse of its installation – a clever idea to get us over the humps of that tedious process and whip our potential viewers through those two weeks of laborious engineering details in a matter of mere minutes.

While waiting for this to happen, we also captured some aerial footage of the Basilica. A local helicopter company helped us facilitate the special permissions needed to fly and film over Washington, DC. and once again, cinematographer Richard Chisolm came along to film it. Luckily, the weather gods were with us and our only day to shoot was a beautiful day. That time spent hovering over DC in a helicopter would come back five years later and impact my life in a way I couldn’t have imagined – but, of course, I didn’t yet know that.

Richard also filmed the art installation and my interview with one of the installers who had come over from Italy to help oversee the process – a handsome guy I had nicknamed “Italian eye candy” in my thoughts.

Throughout the five years it had taken to get to this point, Martin and I were asked to present our progress on American Byzantine at the annual meetings of Basilica’s Board of Directors.

The first time this happened, Martin and I arrived in suitable business attire and waited in the ante room for our turn to be called in to speak to the assembled members and Catholic dignitaries in the conference room.

We’d each prepared comments, covering the different aspects of film’s production. When the door opened, we rose to go in. Martin went first but as I attempted to step through the door, the Director of Communications extended his arm, blocking my entry. Puzzled, I looked at him.

“Just Martin,” he said. “Not you.”

Martin turned around to see what the problem was.

“But she’s the co-producer of the film,” he protested.

“That may be,” the Director of Communications replied. He gestured to the assembled bishops, priests and other male Catholic figures sitting at the tables inside. “But they’re not used to listening to women.”

I gasped in shock. His words slapped me with every bit as much sting as if he’d actually slapped me across the face with his hand. Not used to listening to women?! How on earth could this still be happening on the cusp of the twenty-first century?

Nothing either of us said could dissuade him, however, and I was left to cool my temper and burning cheeks in the sitting area.

Hearing what had happened some time later, Dr. Braddock intervened on my behalf the following year and I was permitted to speak.

Following these meetings, we were usually invited to attend a formal dinner afterwards at Washington DC’s Omni Shoreham Hotel – a very comfortable, sumptuous setting.

Not having been raised Catholic, I observed these gatherings like a journalist instead of one of the faithful. I noticed in surprise how much alcohol the assembled bishops and cardinals consumed. I made a comment to the Director of Communications about it.

“Yes!” he laughed in agreement. “And no beer or wine for them – they like the hard stuff!”

The last year I attended, an announcement was made after the dinner that there would be a special toast in celebration of the 90th birthday of one of the Cardinals. Flutes of champagne appeared on trays passed by waiters, as if by magic. Once served, we were asked to raise our glasses in a birthday toast.

We were then told the birthday Cardinal would like to mark the occasion with a song that he would actually sing himself for us, even though he was in a wheelchair and quite doddery at this point. Expecting to sing along to “Happy Birthday” or perhaps “Ave Maria,” I (and, I suspect, everyone in the entire ballroom) was astonished when he launched into a quavering version of “Tiny Bubbles.” A Cardinal, singing a song about champagne? There seemed no end to the surprises.

The last dinner I attended, I happened to be seated next to the Archbishop of Baltimore, William Henry Keeler. Archbishop Keeler had studied in Rome and was a leading figure in the restoration of the Basilica. He was a kindly and gentle man, and during the course of our conversation, I found myself telling him about my sister, Karen. Archbishop Keeler listened quietly as I spoke. When I came to the end of my words, he gazed at me intently and asked if it would be okay if he gave me a blessing. I told him I was not Catholic, but he assured me that didn’t matter.

“Well, yes, of course, then,” I said quite honestly. “I’d love to have a blessing.”

He asked me to bow towards him. Then he placed his warm, comforting hands on either side of the top of my head and very quietly intoned some words, none of which I can recall, unfortunately.

What I do remember is feeling, for those precious moments, strangely at peace.

[Above photo of Kristin and Richard at the Basilica during the art installation.]

Kristin Fellows is a published writer, world traveler, and a well-seasoned documentary film consultant. When not writing, Kristin can often be found listening to someone’s story or behind the lens of one of her cameras.

More about Kristin @ kristinfellowswriter.com