I happened upon a small Catholic church
in the Italian village of Panzano.
I was taken with its design immediately.
A series of rounded arches appeared both left and right,
receding into the near distance.
I returned to the large front door
to see if there was a sign prohibiting photography.
There was none.
So I proceeded to photograph those arches,
slowly, carefully, all alone in the silence.
An hour or so later,
feeling I had exposed all the images I knew to expose,
I sat in one of the wooden pews,
my camera nestled beside me.
I took in whatever was there
as I sat with my eyes closed.
The front door opened and closed.
I heard footsteps to my left.
A man walked, then stopped, then stood still.
When I looked up, he was staring at me.
I looked away, and he moved on.
Ten minutes later, as I departed,
this same man was waiting outside.
He was the priest of this church,
and he was not happy.
“Why did you photograph inside my church?”
I’m sure he was saying,
but I knew no Italian, and he, no English.
He spoke loudly;
his face reddened;
he waved his arms dramatically.
I tried to explain that I was sorry,
that I saw no sign prohibiting photography,
but I could tell he didn’t understand.
I stood there wondering what I should do.
I considered removing the roll of film from my camera
and placing it in one of his fast-moving hands.
But I just couldn’t do that.
I kept remembering this image that was stored there,
this image that said so much to me,
this image that captured no sacred artwork,
no holy treasures, no precious antiquities.
It was just a series of arches.
I stood there in the afternoon sun
and gave him a weak smile,
shrugged my American shoulders,
offered my meek English apology,
and shuffled down the steps.
When I looked back, he was still watching me.
I’ve since made my peace with having kept the film.
I cannot speak for the priest.
