THE TURNER PRIZE IS BRITIAN'S MOST FAMOUS (OR INFAMOUS) art award. Every year, a jury draws up a short-list of four artists (they have to be below the age of 50 and living in the UK to qualify). The names on the short-list are announced (to much media frenzy) in autumn, and the pronouncement is followed by an exhibition at Tate Britain, where artists display the work they were selected for. At Christmas-time, the British press is given a present: the winner is declared. Now, concerned gallery-goers have the opportunity to mutter to themselves about the jury’s decision (and post rude things on their blogs) – until the show is taken down in January.

2007, though, saw some changes seep into the ritual. For the first time in its 23-year old history, the Turner Prize Exhibition was held at Tate Liverpool instead of at Tate Britain (from 19th of October 2007 to the 13th of January 2008). Also unusual was the way all the participants – winner, Mark Wallinger, and runners-up, Zarina Bhimji, Mike Nelson, and Nathan Coley – were unanimously concerned with exploring the significance of architecture. (Admittedly, a purely coincidental departure from the norm, since Turner Prize exhibits aren’t picked thematically.)

London-based Bhimji is an Indian who was born in Uganda, which her family was forced to flee under the dictatorship of Idi Amin. Bhimji has travelled extensively in India, East Africa, and Zanzibar in order to uncover their fraught colonial pasts. But, there was nothing overtly political about her photographs and video at Tate Liverpool. It was left to the architecture of broken-down places to carry tales of the lives of their erstwhile occupiers. The photos showed mutilated windows, portions of yellowing wall (some times scribbled over with graffiti, at others cracked), and a series of jet-black guns, lined-up like soldiers and resting against a decaying partition. Through these tiny traces of human habitation Bhimji meant to evoke the universal nature of loss, pain, and beauty.

Glasgow-born Coley’s political statements, however, did not aim for visual subtlety. “There will be no miracles here,” declared a blinking sign, made up of the crude plastic light-bulbs used on fairgrounds. (Was he cocking a snook at the Turner Prize’s love of catchy spectacles?). Coley’s installation was inspired by a 17th century decree passed by a furious French monarch in a village in Huate-Savoie, which had a reputation for magical occurrences. In an attempt to wrest power away from the hands of the Divine Being, the King demanded that his fiefdom stay ‘miracle free’. With this sparkling construction, Coley mischievously remarked upon the contradictions inherent in the notion of ownership: a statement meant to usurp God’s ‘space’, ironically acted as a validification for belief. By declaring that “there will be no miracles here”, wasn’t the King acknowledging his faith in miracles in the same breath that he professed his right to stop them happening on his land?

Coley’s “threshold sculptures” – Untitled stumbling blocks of wood, which we fell over every time we entered his section of the gallery – presented the same message in a literal form: it is necessary to recognize the instability of territorial boundaries to avoid being tripped up by faulty logic.

Nelson’s architectural installation exchanged preaching for adventure. Amnesiac Train consisted of four identical white cube structures, nestled within a maze of corridors. The end of the labyrinth resembled its beginning, generating further confusion. Peeking through holes made in fake walls, we glimpsed another world: a mysterious land of small dunes of sand lit-up with green fairy lights, resembled desert landscapes. This sci-fi-meets-computer-game terrain made us feel we were part of a Borgesian quest. Unlike Coley’s and Bhimji’s faintly worthy contributions, Nelson’s section left lots to our imaginations: the maze could be a fun escapade or a serious game about political intrigue (depending on whether or not we were in the mood for conspiracy theories).

Unfortunately, Sleeper (2004-5) by winner Wallinger – State Britain, for which he was selected, could not be transported – was the weakest link. The video of the artist in a bear suit was shot in Berlin’s Neue Nationalgalerie, a Modernist building made of glass. Here, Wallinger hung about looking out of see-through walls, physically (but not visually) separated from the people peering in: a comment on the way the Iron Curtian divided the city. British-born Wallinger disguised as a furry mammal – Berlin’s icon – recalled the clever espionage techniques of “sleepers” in the Cold War. However, Wallinger’s wooly rumination on the precarious nature of national identity seemed terribly tame. Wallinger-as-bear wouldn’t win a competition against the Russian artist Oleg Kulig’s animal impersonations (think snapping dogs), which investigate similar themes.

It wasn’t part of anyone’s grand plan that Wallinger, Bhimji, Coley, and Nelson should simultaneously speak about the fraught relationship between power and architecture. But, the theme was ironically appropriate: Liverpool is quite frenziedly re-building itself to live up to its new status as the European City of Culture 2008. That the art event, which was meant to kick-start its culture-packed year, put on display a range of problems inherent in socio-economic refashioning, seemed like as especially wee-timed joke.