Weird bronze animals and a 'hybrid love seat' are part of a fascinating inner-city project involving Dublin teenagers, writes Carl O'Brien.

Like many young people in Dublin's south inner city, 16-year-old Dearbhaile Butler knows all about the boredom, frustration and trouble that comes with being a teenager.

"You go out, meet your friends on the street, and the guards kick you off the street corner because you're loitering," says Butler, who lives with her sister and mother in a local authority flat off St James's Street.

"Young people have a bad reputation. Some do bad things, but for most of us it's annoying if you're just talking or having a laugh. The problem is there's nothing to do after school. We're too old for the youth centre. You can only go into town, but only if you have money to go shopping or have a meal."

The signs of distrust of young people are plain to see in the south inner city, amid the gaze of closed circuit TV cameras, notices threatening fines for vandalism and the regular Garda foot patrols. So when authorities set about planning a large wall between the newly built St James's Luas stop and a local authority flats complex, it looked to be the latest in a series of authoritarian steps to combat anti-social behaviour.

Instead, with the assistance of Louise Walsh, a sculptor and lecturer in the National College of Art and Design, a 40-metre boundary has been transformed in a curving "love seat", topped with unique bronze sculptures designed by local teenagers.

The students spent almost a year in workshops outside of school hours to design the sculptures which draw their inspiration from sources such as architectural features on older buildings in the locality, such as the Iveagh Markets on Francis Street. The result is a collection of weird and whimsical animals, including horses with boxing gloves, elephants with snakes for arms and peacocks with mice's heads.

The "hybrid love seat", as the work is known, was officially unveiled at a ceremony last week and attended by hundreds of people including gardaí, hospital management, politicians and city council officials.

For many of the teenagers, it was the first public acknowledgement of the positive role that they can play in the community.

"It's the only thing here that's given any of us a chance," says Dearbhaile Butler. "Everyone's been coming up to me today saying, 'it's brilliant'. Lots of people think that just because we're from here, we can't do anything."

"At the beginning it was just a project to pass the time," says Erta Kalemi (17), originally from Kosovo and now living in Rialto. "But it is something we and the rest of the community can be proud of." For others, their pride is tempered by a fear that even their own sculptures won't escape the attention of vandals.

"I just hope it won't get covered in graffiti," says Edel Sallinger (16). "We've put a lot of work into it. Maybe because it's done by people from here, it won't be damaged." "It would be a pity," adds Graham Ray (16). "It's nice walking past this and thinking, this could probably be here for the rest of my life."

For Louise Walsh, a sculptor originally from Crosshaven in Co Cork and now living locally, the project is a wider example of how public art can be used to connect with communities. Instead of creating a boundary to divide a flats complex from the hospital, she wanted to use the dividing line as a more positive space where people could sit in comfort. The resulting "love seat" features a curving wall, with room to sit on either side.

'I guess it allows people to transgress the boundary with their bums!" jokes Walsh. "Originally people were concerned over fears it would attract involvement with drink and drugs . . . But once we discussed the plans and involved young people in it, it began to get great support.

"On a wider level, we're used to seeing statues in public places commemorating wars or politicians. But, for me, public spaces should be about the people who occupy it, the local people. It can be hard, which is why we're always trying props which allow for another kind of engagement with the public."

The project had its own ups and downs. There were the practical barriers, such as getting public liability insurance for the workshops where the teenagers designed their sculptures, child protection training for volunteers, and getting funds to cover the rising cost of the project. But there was also the challenge of maintaining the interest of teenagers in a long-term project. While many dropped out of the project, others stayed on as their creations came to life. The effect on the young people was dramatic, says Walsh. What started out as a group of sceptical and nervous young people turned into lively group meetings over art, sculpture and the local community.

A turning point came when one mother came down to collect her daughter with a freshly baked cake and strong words of encouragement.

"She spoke from the heart, saying that at last someone was doing something positive for the children, rather than just talking about it. She said the kids were getting confidence from the experience and growing as young people. That meant a lot to all of us," recalls Walsh.

The goodwill surrounding the project has helped it come this far. But it now faces an even bigger test: can an imaginative arts project convince authorities in the long run that it is a better solution to anti-social behaviour than a high boundary wall? Time will tell. Just to be on the safe side, volunteers kept a night-time vigil on the sculptures in the days leading up to last week's launch to ensure they weren't damaged.

Teenagers such as Dearbhaile Butler are confident it will survive as a monument to what young people can do for their neighbourhood, if given a chance.

"It's deadly, walking past it every day. They could have brought in a proper artist or experts to do this, but they didn't. The chose us. I think people will realise in time that it's something special."