Robert Therrien
Until October 31; Inverleith House, Royal Botanic Garden

There’s something obsessive about Robert Therrien. It’s there in the little red devils, screenprinted into corners of otherwise blank sheets of paper. It’s there in the scrubbing brushes, patiently hand-made and lovingly photographed. It’s there in the motifs that recur year after year in wood, steel, paper, bleach and bronze. Sometimes they’re as high as your hand, and sometimes as high as your house.

Your first encounter in this rare Therrien exhibition is with a giant table and chairs, scaled up replicas of the artist’s own. The seats are about head-height, and though I’m told it all came in through the window of the newly refurbished Inverleith House, I can’t quite see how. This sets the scene for the rest of the show, preparing you for a range of domestic subject-matter put under the magnifying glass – and through the looking glass.

Ordinary household objects, logos, cartoons and shapes seem to burrow their way into the Los Angeles artist’s brain and acquire monumental importance to him. Some, like the scrubbing brushes, are reproduced exactly. Others, like his grandfather’s Dutch doors, look wholly abstract when removed from their original context.

It’s hard to derive any meaning from Therrien’s eclectic range of work, but maybe it’s not there to be found. It’s the tension between pure form and cultural reference points which provides fodder for the critics, who, confounded by Therrien, resort to their favourite question: is it modern or postmodern? Some suggest that it’s post-postmodern.

It would be impossible to get to grips with the work of Therrien through one or two of his pieces. Even with a building full of the artist’s work it’s hard, but while his materials and approaches vary hugely, you start to feel at home with the recurrent motifs. Cartoon characters are clearly important, as are fables. A pair of Looney Toons feet are drawn on paper, while a set of plastic cartoon noses are displayed nearby. There’s a cart full of fake beards fit only for giants and pixies, and then there’s that Alice in Wonderland table and chairs.

It is a shame that two of Therrien’s most appealing works, the bulbous black metal cloud with water taps, and the huge spiralling train of white beds, could not be included. The old house might have crumbled under the weight.

Much of Therrien’s work has immediate, sensual impact: the huge, shiny steel oilcan is an object worthy of admiration with its clean lines and curvaceous reflections. The table makes you feel like a small child who is seen but not heard. The beard cart induces that special combination of repulsion and curiosity which is irresistible to the child within you.

Not all of the artist’s works have this direct appeal, but without it, the elusiveness of their meaning really becomes a thorny issue. Now in his 50s, Therrien deliberates for months over every artistic move he makes. While each drawing and sculpture might look straightforward, it is the product of great care and thought. The tragedy is that these thoughts are so successfully locked away inside each piece that trying to understand this exhibition is like trying to read a book which is still in its shrink-wrap.

Catrìona Black, Sunday Herald 22.08.04