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