The Confessional

Statement of Intent

Growing up in a Christian faith, going to confession was a huge thing in my young life. With the insistence of my mother, it was a weekly event, I remember being slightly cautious and apprehensive as my mum guided me by the hand, through the Church isles to this mysterious looking wooden box full of carvings curtains and emblems. Sometimes I would have the reassurance to see mum waiting in a nearby pew and then again sometimes not. I remember seeing the confession box as a mysterious looking object, from my perspective, they always had a commanding location in each church we visited. With a quick glance upwards to see the priests name i entered the dimly lit confession box checking out all the details that surrounded me, my chin almost reaching the elbow rest if I knelt and yet I felt dutybound not to stand, I waited for the shutter or sometimes a curtain to swish open, to reveal the outline of the priest, and then I would whisper all the sins a seven -year-old boy would have. In my mind I still see the images of wooden kneelers, the elbow rests that were made for adults! The barred-up hatch from behind where the priest, sitting on his soft chair would dutifully listen to my sins, the frayed curtains, the grimy doorknobs, or maybe the smell of freshly oiled shiny wood carvings. On holidays I would be ushered along to a different Church, but the confessionals always had the same similarity.