In ‘Here After’, filmed in a soon-to-be-demolished inner-city tower block on the north side of Dublin, objects disintegrate before our eyes, as though being eaten by some strange virus or invisible entity. The contents of a room disappear as the carpet beneath them is sucked into a void below. Wind haunts the empty spaces, stirring the curtains on an open window, or the wallpaper which barely clings to the damp wall. This movement is contrasted by the stillness of an undressed bed, a rectangle of light from outside creeping over its surface, pausing as if resting one last time before moving off again. The barrier between the interior and exterior is no longer intact, and nature encroaches – water dripping down walls, advancing slowly over floors, spilling dangerously from light-fittings. Light spills in too, but rather than hopeful illumination, its presence is menacing, evoking a sense of time passing too quickly, bringing premature decay.