DAPHNE WRIGHT'S last Dublin appearance, at the Kerlin Gallery's group show of younger artists, was not a particularly auspicious one. The work shown then, Lot's Wife II, had previously been seen at the Tate Gallery in Liverpool, where it apparently had far more impact than when seen here.
That earlier piece, a forest of gangly foil, didn't seem to offer much more than an obstacle across the gallery floor. At the Temple Bar Gallery, Wright's latest work, They've Taken To Their Beds, comes closer to exploiting one of the artist's obvious strengths: her ability to let her work resonate through its location, playing highly-rarefied games with space.
Within the gallery, Wright has installed a small filigreed chamber of crimson mesh. The structure, which is clearly: related to Wright's earlier Domestic Shrubbery, is hollow, its ragged walls made up of wire interwoven with various objects such as tiny gaunt plucked birds, roses and rosebuds, but - perhaps significantly - devoid of leaves.
These items have been made in foil and then painted red, offering a suggestion of warmth which is quickly dispelled, and the entire installation takes on an eerie appearance of something between an immense tumour, a grotto and a side-show attraction. Whether the visitor is an observer or the object of attention is left delicately vague, as Wright musses the distinctions between the inside and outside of the structure.
There is a strong sense that place of sanctuary is being recognised as a prison - a bloody cage, even - and at the same time allowed to retain its gentle, reassuring virtues. In highlighting this territory, Wright appears to be interested in strange flowers, such as history and genetics, which continue to thrive long after their thorny, even pernicious aspects are revealed. Total escape, from the past and from its mental habits, it seems, is never possible, nor even unequivocally desirable.
