The Devil is a Dandy

Soho denizen Sebastian Horsley is some one who has to call himself an artist because even full-time scoundrels need job titles these days. It's a rather quaint idea that art is a great big umbrella that allows you to get away with everything from public sexual deviancy to an advanced drug habit - but it's the only option. It can all be blamed on your "creative temperament".

You may remember Horsley from those headlines in 2000 when he crucified himself in the Philippines, in order to prepare himself for a series of paintings on the topic, tentatively titled "Is there a God or am I too fat?". His friends, family and the general public were all appalled, though the event was not considered important enough to make the cut in The Art Newspaper's recent list of milestones in Philippine art. But this is not the point with Horsley. His art is merely a way of drawing attention to the real show: his life.

He lives in a tiny flat on Meard St, W1. A loaded gun is kept by the bed "for effect - everything I do is for effect" and the walls draped with red velvet. Back in his twenties, Horsley's wardrobe boasted over one hundred hand-made suits. Then he was introduced to crack cocaine, heroin and prostitutes, and one by one the suits were sold off to sustain his addictions.

Odd jobs have cropped up here and there: after a short but successful run as a stockbroker in the 80s, Horsley had a disastrous spell as the Observer's sex columnist (though he was well-qualified given his boast of sleeping with over 1,000 prostitutes and former work as an escort) and diarist for the Erotic Review. Unable to commit himself to anything productive for long, Horsley yo-yos between rehab and brothels.

There's a big stink about him at the moment because he has just published his autobiography, Dandy in the Underworld, heavily ghost-written by his very beautiful ex-girlfriend, Rachel Campbell-Johnston (now chief art and poetry critic at The Times). Horsley is a blustering fool, but can be an entertaining bastard who comes out with the occasional witticism. "I could count all the people I've slept with on one hand! If I was holding a calculator". He also understands how people loathe his work: "I've suffered for my art - now it's your turn". He even goes as far as describing Will Self's face as resembling "a bag of genitals". He is refreshingly frank about the effect drugs have on one's creativity: "I mean the whole point about being an artist is that he's supposed to be more aware. The point of taking heroin is to make you forget your leg's just been cut off. But I'm actually a drug addict with a painting problem if you must know".

In conjunction with the publication of his autobiography, Spectrum gallery are hosting a "retrospective"of his work, accompanied by a series of interview clips on YouTube. Regular readers will remember that Spectrum put on a show for the Stuckists last year. Clearly the gallery director isn't in this for commercial reasons. But as I said, art is not the point with Horsley.

Reviews of his book have been mixed, mainly because so many critics absolutely detest everything Horsley stands for. Others haven't let this get in the way of their opinion: "If you can stand it, it is likely to be one of the most compelling reads of the year" (New Statesman). The stories really are deliciously shocking - Hugo Guinness can't be too pleased to see their escapades involving cucumbers, lavatories and whips in print for starters (nor Guinness' wife Elliot Puckette, I imagine) - but Times critic Christopher Hart sums it up perfectly when he remarks that a world without Horsleys would almost be as dull as Horsley already finds it.

"Hookers, Dealers, Tailors" Sebastian Horsley: A Retrospective. 7th Sept-1st Oct 2007, Spectrum Gallery, W1.

Dandy in tthe Underworld: The Unauthorised Autobiography of Sebastian Horsley, £12.99 Hodder & Stoughton