For one of her student projects, a young woman went to The Lemon Fair in her father’s hometown of Sewanee to shoot a short documentary film about glassblowing. She captured the gaffers and their molten glass in all their subdued glory. The timescale was real time. The voiceover was the voice of a child. The soundtrack amounted to a few notes played on a piano. Watching the final cut from his hospital bed, in and out of consciousness, her father realized how rarely he’d sought out stories with no narrative arc, no dramatic tension, and no discernible characters. It was like a meditation.