Statements of intent

Reviewed: In The Time Of Shaking, Irish Museum of Modern Art, Dublin, until May 23rd (01-6129900). Locus Suspectus . . . Where The Hidden Comes To Light, Ormeau Baths Gallery, Belfast, until May 22nd (048-90321402).

Although In The Time Of Shaking marshals the work of "Irish artists for Amnesty International", it is difficult to imagine any Irish artists being in any sense against the organisation.

What we have is a selection of work by Irish artists who have been invited to exhibit and sell their work for the benefit of Amnesty. In other words it is neither a comprehensive survey of work by Irish artists who support Amnesty nor, particularly, a thematic exhibition related to Amnesty's human-rights concerns.

Which is not to say there is no great work in the show. There is. But, perhaps oddly, the moments when it falters most are generally those when the artists have taken it on themselves to deal with the issues, to make statements. T. P. Flanagan once made an elegiac work that referred to events in Northern Ireland, but it was only partly successful. The vein of subdued lyricism he employed seemed removed from the texture of the events it addressed. He is not that kind of artist, and on this occasion he wisely does what he does best: a fine landscape.

In this he perfectly illustrates Seamus Heaney's point in lines that are quoted in the book accompanying the show, by Bill Shipsey: "Art does not issue from a sense of duty. It is one of the rewards of inner and outer freedom." What does come across, very strongly, from much of the work is that art can be, substantially, a privileged but vital space, a space for reflection and manoeuvre.

That is perhaps why, though it may seem odd to say it, some of the best pieces relate to space in one sense or another. They include outstanding paintings by Charles Tyrrell and Patrick Graham. Although the human, emotional content of the latter's work is obvious, Tyrrell is clearly an abstract painter. Yet his work is every bit as human in its concerns, relating to our shared experience.

Having said which, some pieces do work particularly well, and subtly, in the context, such as Alice Maher's Lacrymatory, Abigail O'Brien's Rag Tree, Hughie O'Donoghue's meditative Monument In Rouen, Paul Nugent's spectral Intercession No 2, Robert Armstrong's Cruel And Unusual and Amanda Coogan's Reading Beethoven, together with photographic pieces by Nigel Rolfe and Amelia Stein.

As it happens, In The Time Of Shaking opened in the midst of the controversy about the abuse of Iraqi prisoners. The controversy is testament to the power of the image. The abuse is unlikely to have become such a significant issue without graphic visual evidence. The German composer Karlheinz Stockhausen was widely condemned for describing the attack on the Twin Towers as the greatest artwork. It's quite likely that he was misunderstood, that he was in no way endorsing the attack but pointing out that artists, as image makers, could not compete with the spectacle of reality at such extremes.

Many contemporary iconic images are accidental icons. Think of the way closed-circuit television snatched grainy images of Jamie Bulger being abducted by his killers. The black-clad perpetrators of the Columbine High School massacre were captured by a camera monitoring the college canteen. The huge number of images showing abuse of Iraqi prisoners, from which a few chillingly definitive photographs have already emerged, came about because of the combined sophistication and ease of digital technology.

David Bailey remarked that the general effect of technological advances in photography is to make the mediocre look good. Anyone can take a photograph. And, with myriad channels of reproduction and transmission via the Internet, visual information cannot really be contained. Of course this also means that the technology can and has been used for propaganda. It highlights questions facing visual artists in the 21st century and partly explains why so many artists are concerned less with making images than with dealing critically with the nature of representation itself.

Locus Suspectus . . . Where The Hidden Comes To Light is an exhibition of Canadian and Irish video works curated by Pauline Cummins and Sandra Vida. The title refers to the Freudian concept of the uncanny, something repressed by the individual that emerges in an altered form. These works, the curators suggest, could be viewed as providing an arena in which these hidden and distorted concerns are aired.

In her outstanding Midwatch, Moira McIver explores the phenomenon of 19th-century women disguising themselves as men in order to go to sea. She has beautifully re-created formal photographic portraits of three such women, Hannah Snell, Anne Jane Thornton and Isabelle Gunn, with synopses of their stories. The portraits are shown with a video of a sleeping figure whose gender is unknown to the viewer, effectively introducing a note of doubt and ambiguity.

Monique Moumblow's Joan And Stephen is almost brilliant. At any rate it's based on a terrific idea: a young woman's video camera functions as her diary but gradually becomes an imaginary confidante and lover. Moumblow deals simply and inventively with the ideas of how we construct a self to be seen by the other and how the sense of an other can become oppressive, but despite showing real promise the piece loses concentration and wanders off the point. It's worth reworking.

Karen Earl sets out to tackle the subject of an abusive relationship in Rancour but, despite a likeably dreamy, informal tone, never really gets to grips with the issue. Rather better is Augustine O'Donoghue's Untitled, in which a young woman broods on inner hurt while a voice off-screen urges her to spill the beans. It's humorous and touching.

In her two-screen video Nadine McDonogh starkly contrasts the experiences of mother and baby. While one inhabits for the moment a simple world of desire and satisfaction the other is at the end of her tether, enumerating the whys and wherefores. It's a direct, honest piece that stays with you.

Ciara Moore's Venus Fly Trap uses elements of the language of music videos with subversive intent; the curators' own work aims to disrupt the distinction between the gaze and the object of the gaze, opening up a reflective maze in which we're no longer sure which is which.