Big bang theory

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WAYNE GLOWACKI / WINNIPEG FREE PRESS Leiah Beck of Archangel Fireworks Inc. shows the equipment she uses as a senior pyrotechnician. The idea is to create lasting memories by lighting up the sky with fireworks.

Sometimes Leiah Beck takes a bow she knows her audience will never see.

Her canvas, the night sky, ensures that. It swallows her, as it ultimately does her art.

Beck, 30, is a senior pyrotechnician for Archangel Fireworks Inc. of Winnipeg, the company that will shoot tonight's fireworks at The Forks, as well as the city's Canada Day and New Year's Eve shows.

"We go out and try and tell a story with our shows," says Beck. "Fireworks are a lot more than pretty colourful explosions in the sky. You're creating memories and feelings for people. One way you can do this is by using all single-colour shells to paint an entire area in a glow of colour, which is really beautiful and makes people feel a certain way.

"Additionally, by using music, a medium that works well with fireworks, you can emphasize the feeling you're trying to create as well as help build the story you're trying to tell."

In waxing about the esthetics of explosives and fire, Beck knows she's running against many popular conceptions of her craft. Certainly, she's aware this isn't the typical chatter you'd hear on Discovery Channel Canada's new reality show Pyros. The eight-part series, which began last month, follows a Quebec-based fireworks company, GFA. The reality show tends to focus on the more juvenile and macho culture of pyrotechnics: big boys, big guns, big bangs and big dangers.

"(Pyros) does give its viewers a behind-the-scenes look into the industry. That's great," says Beck, who's been lighting the darkness since age 19. "A lot of people don't realize that there are people behind those fireworks displays. Those who come to see a show don't realize how much work, how many hours and hours, go into making, setting up and taking down a shoot. They just see the 15 minutes of excitement. So maybe Pyros will help audiences better appreciate what it takes to put on a show."

But pyrotechnicians are generally "behind-the-scenes" folk, she says. While such public recognition is nice, it's not usually craved. What's far more important is the public's and the client's trust in the safety and professionalism surrounding all the pretty bombs.

"This is a serious business," Beck says, pointing out at this time that the three-legged cat in the shop, Terry, did not lose its leg in a pyrotechnic mishap. "We work within regulations and have never had an accident or incident. Simply put, when it comes to this job, you need to trust the people you're working with.

"This was one of the main concerns about Pyros. Are they going to be doing things by the book? Are they going to be doing things safely? And even if they do, are they going to portray it that way? Or is it going to look like a wild west show? And how might that impact the overall credibility of our business?"

Last Sunday in Ste. Anne, Beck and Archangel's other five full-time staff ran a pre-season fireworks clinic/refresher for apprentices, seasonal employees and sub-contractors. Starting in the early afternoon, 30-plus pyros meticulously affixed 500 kilograms of fireworks to electronic matches in a windswept field behind the arena. These e-matches, whose sparks ignite the fuses, were plugged into nine computer-controlled power boxes or modules. A main cable bundled the modules and slithered to a firing box some 30 metres away.

Computer software helped choreograph the show and generate a setup list, which precisely mapped the position of each firework. It's this map the pyros followed as they linked the assorted-sized shells, monster roman candlesticks, and fuse-delayed effects called "cakes" to the modules.

More than 90 minutes before the show -- a 15-minute shoot that cost approximately $1,000 per minute -- the firing box momentarily came to life. Dustin Payjack, 23, Archangel's warehouse manager, ran a continuity test, verifying the proper connection of all e-matches. While he ran the test before an anxious crew, Beck, a display supervisor, seized the opportunity to hammer home federal safety regulations and contrasted them to some of the practices she's seen on Pyros.

"In Canada, you have to have a firing system that has a two-step interlock system. One step has to be a key," she says. "You might have noticed that on Pyros, on the very first show, they were firing test shots using a fork on a nail board. In another show they used a nine-volt battery. Absolutely illegal."

"Hopefully the ERD (explosive regulatory division of Natural Resources Canada) wasn't watching," says someone on cue.

"Oh, they sure were," says Beck to laughter.

Carl Stewart, 21, a display assistant at the Ste. Anne's pre-season clinic, waited impatiently for the explosions to begin. It was his first time assembling a big show. As the wind gradually unwound with the sinking sun, Stewart got increasingly wound up. Recalling the loading of mortars earlier in the day, the young farmer from the Marquette area admitted that outside of this supervised environment he wouldn't have had access to such firepower. "The first thing I did when I pulled out one of those big shells was think, 'That looks like fun,' " he says flashing a big grin. "There's a lot of power behind those and that's one of the thrills about it. There's the bang, the explosion, the lights. Hand-firing that, you can just imagine feeling the concussion. Man, that's the stuff."

Of course, Stewart acknowledged such explosives must be handled with care. And undoubtedly during the day he heard many dark tales, ranging from the imprudent pyro losing fingers and hands to the demise of the overly curious enthusiast, who unwisely looked into mortars with unspent charges.

"Sure, you're not going to see me or anyone else here with a plunger like Wile E. Coyote trying to blow up the Road Runner," Stewart says. " And I know some talk about the art of it all and stuff like that, but at the bottom of this is fun. "I mean, come on, who doesn't like blowing stuff up?"

Beck understands the thrill, the rush that comes from "blowing stuff up." She feels it too. It's what gives fireworks its edge. It's the "little bit of crazy" that's an inherent part of the job and reflects the inescapable tension between control and danger at its fiery centre. Both Stewart and Beck agree that for a 12-year-old boy being a pyro is "the best job in the world." Where they probably differ a bit is in how that boy grows up -- whether he's out looking for bigger bangs or taking bows in the dark.

gdicresce@yahoo.com

Republished from the Winnipeg Free Press print edition May 20, 2012 A7