Active since the late 1970s, first as a ‘zine writer and punk musician, and later as an art theorist, novelist, filmmaker and editor of experimental fiction, Stuart Home has operated – for shits and giggles as much as for aesthetics and activism – as a conceptual indigent, quasi-occultist, propagandist for psychic warfare. Rich in japester juxtapositions, his prolific output often splices together the knuckles-and-raunch pulp fictions of early ‘70s hacks such as Richard Allen and Sven Hassel with Situationist critique and Hegelian theory, and puts the comic, caustic brutalism that ensues to keenly-observed satiric effect.
Frieze on the Stuart Home retrospective, hither.
From Jenny Turner's article in the LRB:
Most of the following will be present in each of these volumes, in differing proportions: political theory, borrowed from an out of copyright source and spliced into the middle of something completely different; pornography, of varying degrees of unpleasantness, also appropriated and pasted in; references to underground post-surrealist art movements; quotations from undistinguished punk-rock artistes; citations from texts that appear to be real, but aren’t; occult conspiracies; pseudonymity; unprovoked attacks on writers Home happens to have taken a dislike to, such as Will Self... I am biased I know, but I really don’t think anyone who is at all interested in the study of literature has any business not knowing the work of Stewart Home. No one and nothing, least of all the work itself, is saying you have to like it: if Home wanted his work to be likeable, he could just set about copying Nick Hornby, same as everybody else. But Home is using writing for a different purpose. Writing is power, ideology, an instrument of domination; it’s a huge, filthy, stinking machine.
Defiant Pose (1991); the onto-symbolism of fascist underwear: