J.P. Davenne

The OILS of J.P. Davenne have all the impasto enthusiasm of a Jack Yeats and a John Bratby who have just met in a play station arcade. His colours run to acids and his subjects, bar one or two, are derived from the computer graphics of the Yakusa videodrome, or a similarly inspired graffiti-strewn tattoist's alley, where the fav'rit (sic) icon ranges from pneumatic nude to devil's curse.

There are pirates, galleons, skulls and cross-bones, motorheads and Hells Angels, cowboys and greasy green monsters appropriated from today's comic cuts.

This is an art aping mass amusements, art with gusto, art with fazed attitude, yet somewhere among it all Al Jolson cries Mammy, a Mr Chips figure earns the title Remember Remember, and Belfast's own funnel to fastfood purgatory, an eponymous Shaftesbury Square, dripping with a Blade Runner's bloodred rain, awaits some Space Invader's nemesis. All of which reveals Davenne as older than his assumed persona.

Until April 25th.