Philosophy

The name Stations repurposes an old and familiar structure: the Stations of the Cross, a series of images or markers found in many churches, often mounted along walls or in stained glass. Traditionally, they depict the final moments of Christ’s life, inviting those who move through them to stop at each station, witness the moment, and sit with it before moving to the next. It is a ritual of presence and preparation—of confronting suffering and loss without rushing toward resolution, and of readying oneself to receive God at the altar through communion.

At the heart of this practice is ego-decentering: the participant is called to step outside themselves, not to contemplate what the suffering means for them, but to witness it. Each station invites a relinquishment of self-concern in favor of attention: to Christ, to the weight of suffering, to the moment itself.

But the mind resists this.

Rather than fully inhabiting each station, the participant anticipates the larger narrative. Instead of seeing the moment, they reflect on its place in the complete story—the crucifixion, the resurrection, redemption. The act of witnessing becomes an act of projection. The ritual is not experienced; it is leveraged.

This is what I have come to call the 13th Station.

The 13th Station is not part of the traditional Stations of the Cross. It is not a place, but a state of being. It is the impulse to skip ahead, to complete the meaning, to resolve the experience rather than dwell in it. It is what happens when presence is lost in the pursuit of resolution.

The 13th Station functions the same way in life. Rather than encountering suffering, rather than sitting in presence, the participant projects forward into what must come next. The real moment is lost in the search for its conclusion.

For me, the real question this work presents to audiences is: Can you pay attention?
Can you be right here, right now, and know it?
Can you recognize the 13th Station as it arises, set it aside, and see what is directly in front of you?

In Stations, the art is already gone. The forest where these words were written has been erased. What remains are artifacts: photographs, transcriptions, footnotes, audio remnants. Each of these is another degree of separation from the original.

But the real separation is not spatial. It is cognitive. It is the compulsion to project meaning rather than witness reality.

Stations invites you to step outside this impulse.
To consider the twelve stations, rather than leap to the 13th.
To allow the images, poetry, sounds, and setting to have an effect without explaining them.
To let what is in front of you be itself, rather than what it means for you.

If you can, even for a moment, something else becomes possible.