OWEN O’NEILL: RED NOISE

THE ASSEMBLY ROOMS (VENUE 20)

A COMMON criticism of contemporary art is that if the piece is unable to function without a bit of text pinned to the gallery wall, explaining what it’s supposed to mean, then it has failed as an attempt at visual communication. The same charge could be levelled at Owen O’Neill’s poems, in that he often introduces them with long, rambling contextualisations.

After one particularly lengthy digression about his schooldays in Ireland, during which he was forced to paint a picture of the severed head of John the Baptist over and over again by a teacher with a very particular vocal tic, he tells us: “You had to have that explained cos you’d not know what I was on about otherwise.”

The thing is, though, O’Neill is a better storyteller than he is a poet, and so these supposed footnotes turn out to be the highlights of the show. It’s not that his crucifixion poem is bad; it’s just that his crucifixion preamble is better.

In addition to the poems, mostly reflecting on his childhood in rural Co Tyrone, O’Neill also reads a couple of vividly imagined short stories. One in particular, in which two transvestite farmers take bloody revenge on a gang of thugs who have come to attack them in the night, suggests that this form is perhaps his most natural habitat.

Until 24 August. Today 3:45pm.