I work with lights, in a city whose name I do not need to know, for a company whose leaders I never see. Three days a week, I travel to a stage or a studio and work behind the scenes. The other two days, I am at the offices of Stagefright to sit in a meeting. People rarely mention me because I do my job well.
Stagefright is preparing for a gala. It's a big event. People who matter will be there and people like me will not. I get to watch it from a screen. Everything is planned out ahead of time — now — and executed digitally. I keep watch in case something goes wrong. It never does.
Lighting is an art form. Temperature, spread, direction, intensity and countless other variables combine in complex and irregular ways to create a sensation unrivaled in detail. This part of my work is entirely intuitive. I continuously make nearly imperceptible adjustments until everything is just right. I spend most of my time with the more technical parts of the job.
The event will be a recitation. Stagefright have, as is the frustrating norm, given me very little to go on. I know the performer is someone high profile with an ambiguous or unknown background. I know the act is short. The lighting must be vivid but static, alive but silent, emphasizing but not distracting.
With casters that are wide enough, and reflectors and diffusers positioned and angled precisely, it is possible to make a person on stage emanate a glow. Placing the performer between a concave mirror and a light source, their shadow can be manipulated to turn any slight movement of theirs into a faint flicker. A green tint on a few of the lights pushes the audience to a part of this world few will ever see. I have to assume the performer is just as mysterious to everyone else.
I set up the tracking device. Those on stage rarely have any agency in where to go, what to say, or how to say it, but for events like this one, where the attendees are largely beyond any punishment of significance, there is always some disobedience. I know to expect it and prepare for it, and I know never to speak about it.
There are four weeks left. What remains is largely redundancy and fine tuning. It is mundane, not quite repetitive, and makes me appreciate the technology as its own expression of life. It speaks to me, guides me, humbles me. These machines understand, but in a way I do not. A machine views the world so unlike me. It makes them a great source of inspiration.