Thursday evening. To the Spectrum Gallery in Great Titchfield Street, for Sebastian Horsley’s book launch and art show. The place is fairly small, and the art on display is effectively his greatest hits. The video of his crucifixion in the Philippines. A shark painting, from his close-up encounters with the beasts. A copy of the ‘This Is Not A Brothel’ sign from his front door. One of his beautiful suits.
Horsley bridges the Emin & Warhol world – art as advert for the artist – and the Soho Hooligan world of Bacon, Hambling, Melly, Bernard, Hamilton, and Quentin Crisp. He is possibly the only person to quote Quentin Crisp even more than me. Though he actually did actually meet Quentin, and suggests some of Crisp’s later quotes were his in the first place.
When Jarvis Cocker first appeared on TV, he was introduced as ‘a cross between Scott Walker and Quentin Crisp.’ Which wasn’t (and isn’t) entirely him. But it was a good start. A departure point. People need a way in; a handrail with which to approach the new.
Crisp was Firbank meets Saki meets Wilde. And Wilde was Ruskin meets Huysmans meets anyone else in the room at the time:
Wilde: I wish I had said that.
Whistler: You will, Oscar, you will.
All innovators begin life as a one-man tribute band. As long as it’s on the way to becoming a tribute to themselves.
And so it is with Sebastian Horsley. Not the first man to be crucified, of course. Not even the first man to be crucified in recent years, given it goes on in the Philippines every Easter. But he is the first Westerner, and remains the only one. Dominik Diamond tried it for a TV show called Crucify Me, but his nerve left him right before the nails were driven in, and he called it off.
Flicking through his book, Dandy In The Underworld, I spot a Quentin-esque line immediately. It’s on the importance of living in small flats and bedsits. ‘I never know what people do with the rooms they are not in.’ But then Sebastian adds, ‘I’ve been in bigger women.’
Dandy In The Underworld is a terrific read: a litany of hedonistic, decadent acts. Some of which are the usual suspects: drugs, sex, degradation. But Horsely puts a personal, darkly funny spin on them all. He’s a gifted writer, cutting to the chase, one step ahead of his own critics. ‘I’ve suffered for my art,’ he says. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
The event at the gallery is packed, with people spilling out into the street. For someone who describes himself as untalented and unsuccessful, Horsley is impressively popular. Maybe because he doesn’t take himself too seriously. Make people smile, if you must make them do anything. Absinthe is served, and I’m afraid I help myself to a glass. Just the one, mind.
Names. I say hello to Sebastian, Sebastian’s family, Victoria Clarke, Miss Hattie, Sophie Parkin, Viktor Wynd, another man called Dickon (no one is terribly impressed by two Dickons meeting: the universe fails to implode), a young couple, fresh in London and hitting the top parties already – the boy is called Alexei. An AIDS charity worker turned teacher. Lots of girlish young men who look down their elegant noses at you (or at least, me). I eventually gravitate to Lady Billy from the Club Kitten scene, and Bleach Blonde Sarah, current landlady of Miss Shanthi. Billy and Sarah are in a band together called Wet Dog. Mark Keds says hello to them: I remember him from the band the Senseless Things. I bought their single, ‘Too Much Kissing’, when it came out, with its Jamie Hewlett sleeve. This was 1989. They all repair to Electrogogo, but I opt for bed.
Frequently asked boring question:
‘How do you know Sebastian?’
Answer: ‘Osmosis.’
‘Nice meeting you’, I say to one man who’s passing through.
‘You’re lying, aren’t you.’
‘Yes.’
‘It suits you.’
Actually I was lying that I was lying, but wanted to play his game. Sebastian’s approach rubs off on you.
Maybe I should try being deliberately rude, as opposed to being inadvertently rude. It’s so tiring having to apologise.
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been deliberately rude in my life. Evasive, yes. Stand-offish, certainly. But not actually telling people to get knotted. Maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong all this time.
Ahem. (clears throat)
You can all get knotted, frankly. You and the boat you rode in on.
Buy Sebastian H’s decadent feast of a book here.
