Adriano Bartoloni

One day, at exactly 3.30pm, he appeared between the crenellations of a wall hundreds of years old, holding his prayer book, wearing a heavy black cape. He was walking slowly. The Pope was absorbed in his prayers, and walked across my line of sight a number of times. I was taking photos like crazy. And while I was frantically clicking the shutter, I was struck by an idea which soon became an obsession. I was so close, so why not seize the moment and show him I was there? I called out: “Holy Father! Please give me a sign.” The Pope looked up and saw me there with my zoom lens; he smiled broadly, blessed me then waved to me with his right hand. I immediately felt a sense of release. I had always felt awkward about taking stealthy photos of the Pope. His blessing and wave, and in particular the smile which I shall never forget, reassured me. It was as if he had given approval for me to follow him around with my camera. And I made the most of it. For this exhibition I gathered together all the shots I had of him. By the 1990s, he had a shuffling gait and was physically heavier, burdened down by the effects of the assassination attempt on May 13, 1981. But he kept up almost the same level of activity and traveled even more, while speculation went on about his fatigue and disease, and rumors of a possible abdication spread. Since becoming pope, the Holy Father had changed profoundly, was tortured by pain, and the change was striking. Yet he forgave Ali Agca. It was a lesson in forgiveness which he carried to all corners of the world. I was witness to his suffering, viewed through the camera lens, and he convinced me too. Over the many long years I spent near Karol Wojtyla, Pope John-Paul II, he taught me forgiveness. When I look at the last pictures, I see him diminished by suffering, shuffling and trembling, yet finding strength in his own torment. Behind the face racked with pain, I can still see the intrepid, energetic man I first spotted when lurking on my little perch in Paradise.