Alfonso Monreal

Forget Yoko Ono's delusions and David Byrne's colour supplement snaps. Apart from Bill Viola's mesmeric Nantes Triptych, the exhibition of the Belfast Festival is Poncho Monreal's visionary diary of a now 10-year-old expedition into the lands of suppressed Indians near his home province of Zacetecas. Rich in the luminous oranges, reds and yellows of Mexico, each painting is a complex construction on aluminium of, first, a photo-derived screen print, then further screen printings of colour blocks, then figurative oil painting, then encaustic.

The first print may be - as in The Return - of hooded colonialist Catholic celebrants holding palms, the second of a petal's pink, a stamen's yellow, earth's orange, blood's red, cactus's green. The figures, in oils, capture the plumed and corn-stalk head-dresses and wide cheek-boned faces of peasant and shaman, their positioning harking back to Monreal's devotion to European classicism whilst at the same time their ritual roles chime - as in How Dreams Come True - with an otherworldliness best described in a shorthand encoding Jack B. Yeats's later work.

The aluminium harks to painted metal church retablos, the encaustic making resonant patterns. While the splendid Grace Note, with its animist self-portrait, records saddened pleasure, other moments from a journey made in secrecy under duress and in compassion stand clear. Manos Arriba, Butch Cassidy's cry, runs one title. Now and Then another, the painter sipping from the 20th-century's Dos Equis beer-can, while the hunter's survival rabbits dry under the hot sun. And Pretty Horse? A Cormac McCarthy moment, out of time remembered.

Runs until tomorrow