From Pope Francis to Pope Leo XIV

Documenting the Commemoration of Pope Francis’s Death

Documenting the death of a Pope is perhaps one of the most solemn and momentous events of our time — a moment when the sacred and the profane clasp hands before the eyes of the world. A collective pause for reflection. Approximately 400,000 people filled the streets of Rome. More than fifty heads of state, a silent army of cardinals, bishops, and deacons. The funeral of a man who preached poverty and mercy toward the most vulnerable, who spoke out openly against war and the ongoing massacre in Gaza. A Pope who united and divided — because not everyone likes standing with the last and the least. A Pope devoted to the cause of the planet, beginning with Laudato Si’, his encyclical that addressed urgent themes such as environmental protection, climate change, and social justice.

As often happens in the life of a freelance journalist, any semblance of a plan — if one ever existed — is quickly swept away by the tide of events. I was in Pineto, my hometown on the Abruzzo coast, my feet in the sand and my mind far away. Back home to breathe some quiet with my family and let time pass without expectation.

Then, on April 21, the news broke: the Pope had died.

There is never enough time to process. Die Zeit, the German weekly I had previously worked with in Ukraine and Israel, called: “Can you document the death of the Pope for us?” I accepted. In moments like these, family life seems to fade, giving way to a relentless race against time. Yet it’s precisely because of my family — especially Francesca, who understands and supports the meaning of this work — that I’m able to take on such assignments.

I was on holiday, with minimal equipment. Enough to work, but too little for the distances an event like this imposes, with the very real risk of losing parts of the story. Even on assignment, a freelancer must handle the logistics — from transport to accommodation — to ensure they can actually reach the pictures. Distance and exhaustion must be managed carefully; energy will be needed, and time will always be short. I quickly booked an apartment in Rome near Castel Sant’Angelo and called Canon. As an Ambassador, I’m fortunate to count on their support: within two days, a new R3 body and a 100–500mm lens arrived. I was ready to work again, as usual, with two cameras and the flexibility to switch between fixed lenses and telephoto lenses when needed.

The first real hurdle was accreditation. For an event of such magnitude, with thousands of journalists, crews, and photographers from all over the world, simply gaining access is a feat in itself. I already had the assignment letter from Die Zeit, and I can say I was relatively lucky — I had my press pass around my neck in under three hours. Others waited five or six, lost in the confusion.

Meanwhile, Rome was transforming: barricades, checkpoints, uniforms, processions — both secular and spiritual — and a steady flow of faithful pilgrims. Some in silence, others in prayer, others simply curious. An endless human river flowing toward St. Peter’s Square, each person carrying their own reason, their own memory, their own wound or gratitude.

There was a risk — hence the 100–500mm — that I would have to work from afar. Restricted pools, limited access, contested positions. And so it was, at least at first. But distance, if accepted, can become a resource. It forces you to look elsewhere, to move differently, to observe more deeply. So I began there — among the faithful, walking with them, standing in line, listening to their stories. I tried to approach the story without demanding it, letting myself be carried along. Once again, I worked mostly with the 35mm — a lens that forces you to be inside, not above. Among clasped hands, quiet tears, and upward glances, I found the images I was looking for — not the grandeur of power, but the fragility of waiting.

Even in events of this magnitude, I seek a kind of photography that goes beyond the chronicle. Delivering the assignment is essential, but it’s the chosen language that gives meaning to the work. And then you ask yourself: how to tell the earthly end of a man who, for millions, embodied the divine? Perhaps through suspended images — pictures that don’t offer answers but open questions. A detail, a light, a gesture containing within itself a fragment of mystery. More than the facts, I’m drawn to what moves through them: meaning, silence, the unspoken. That’s where I tried to shoot — to evoke that subtle, profound emotion that passes through those who watch, who pray, who are simply present.

Working for a publication like Die Zeit involves a constant dialogue with editorial needs — images that must be direct, explanatory, and contextual. Balancing these demands is not always easy. Yet it’s in that tension that the kind of photography I seek is born: images that exist on a thin red line between documenting reality and whispering the invisible. A practice where every frame becomes both a record and a question — a way of remembering and, at the same time, challenging oneself to keep searching for new paths and new forms of expression.

Inside the Conclave: The Election of Pope Leo XIV

I am back in the Vatican.
After a week documenting the mourning and ceremonies for Pope Francis, and following the novendiali, I find myself again in St. Peter’s Square — this time to cover the Conclave, the election of the new Pope. One of the most documented events on Earth, perhaps the most followed of the century. Thousands of accredited journalists, trucks full of broadcast gear, cameras perched like vultures, microphones pointed at the void in anticipation of white smoke. A true media circus.

It’s natural to wonder: how many photographers have been assigned to document the election of the new Pope? How many sent by Italian newspapers? How many commissioned to produce authorial work — not just for publication, but to archive, to preserve, to remember? The answer is simple, and brutal: a handful of international ones, and none from Italy. Apart from my collaboration with Il Fatto Quotidiano, not a single Italian daily had commissioned a photographer to cover the election of the new pontiff. No national newspaper invested — not ten thousand, not even a thousand euros — to have original photographs of this historic event.

I’ll admit this: I was contacted by editors and the director of one of these papers, who praised my work for Die Zeit. But when it came to actually commissioning something — even at a standard rate (500 €/day plus expenses) — he had to decline, saying: “Fabio, I’m sorry, we just can’t.”

And yet those same newspapers filled page after page with commentary and analysis. Thousands of photos flooded social media and online editions — all identical. How was it possible? Thanks to wire agencies, covering the event with their staff photographers, equipped with long lenses and tripods, working for increasingly lower pay and with fewer rights. They produce what one colleague, with bitter irony, calls “holy cards for newspapers” — the same image, the same frame, the same moment, and above all, no research, no risk.

Agencies deliver what they believe editors want — and perhaps they’re right. Editors, in turn, publish what they believe the audience wants — and here they are profoundly mistaken. Readers don’t want filler or explanatory photos; they want to be engaged, moved, challenged to think. They want truth, not visual routine.

The malaise of journalism echoes in photography, but it does not destroy it. In Rome, I also met many colleagues — independent photojournalists capable of building a narrative through images. Those who still believe in the craft and refuse to submit to imposed visual formulas. Without assignments, but with the faith that they might sell a few frames later. For that, and much more, I thank them — for reminding me once again what passion for photography truly means.

During the days of the Conclave, even the sky seemed uncertain, suspended — as if time itself were holding its breath. The first day passed with fleeting sunlight and sudden downpours; then, as night fell, the first smoke: black. The faithful would have to wait a little longer. On the second day, something shifted. The sky opened, as if the universe itself were ready for the moment. On Thursday afternoon, at 6:07 p.m., the long-awaited smoke appeared — this time white — and with it, tension dissolved into tears and cries of joy. On the fourth ballot, the cardinals had chosen the 267th Pope of the Catholic Church.

The new pontiff is Robert Francis Prevost, an American, who chose the name Leo XIV — an homage to his predecessor Leo XIII, author of the historic Rerum Novarum, which addressed the sweeping economic and social transformations of his time. If the Industrial Revolution was redefining the world then, today it is artificial intelligence that redraws its boundaries.

As he appeared on the loggia, a roar rose from the packed square — a primal, unified chant: “Leo! Leo!”
It was as if the identity of the man no longer mattered, only the fact that he was the new successor of Peter. In just a few days, much has already been said — perhaps too much. Is he truly the right man to lead the Church in this age? How will he navigate the great powers of the world? But the times of religion move differently; we’ll have to wait for meaningful answers.

For now, as he stood on the balcony of St. Peter’s, his first word was “Peace.”
In his first public address, he called for an end to wars, with particular attention to the conflicts in Ukraine and the suffering Gaza Strip.