The word „Confession“ has many meanings: it often implies guilt. Or even fallibility. But sometimes it brings with it positive connotations. For example, when we profess our love for someone, or when we acknowledge that someone is important to us. Leaving aside any moral evaluation of the word, we are still confronted with another aspect, namely that a confession can be something very simple: the revealing of our own very personal history.
Confession Station is a place where you can preserve your own personal confession or acknowledgement. For example, in the form of a letter, an object, but also with a picture or sound-document. The object itself is handled confidentially, and sealed in a so-called “Confession Bagâ€.
That said, Confession Station is much more than a virtual vault for personal matters. Confession Station is also a gallery. That is to say, we will photograph your Confession Bag and publish it on our (initially virtual) gallery.
Confession Station is also meant to be a place of reflection. It is not only about preservation and presentation, but also about controversy regarding your own history. The contents of your Confession Bag belong to you, and as such are held in confidence. Naturally, you are free to talk about the contents of your Bag. In any case, we encourage you to say something about yourself, or about your motivations. In what detail you choose to go is something left to you. What counts is that you write something.




My aunt Kristina (Tinka for short) was murdered by her lover, in 1954, at the age of 35. Her image, one of my earliest memories, lingers crisp and amazingly accurate, after all these years. One winter day, her last winter, she was standing in our living room, warming her back against the tall, coal burning, ceramic tile stove. I remember her against the shiny, ornate tiles. She was wearing a short fox coat and an ankle length narrow skirt. She had seamed silk stockings and golden brown leather high heel shoes. Her hat was bright green, with a feather on one side. She was eating warm popcorn, picking each peace slowly with her long, perfectly manicured fingernails, polished in shiny red. (Mother is amazed, to this day, that I remember this image so clearly.) I was not even four.


A vote for him gave me confidence but