Ever heard of a guy who could've been the next Aubrey Beardsley but decided he'd rather draw spirits in a South London basement? That was Austin Osman Spare. Honestly, if you dig into the history of modern magic or weird art, his name pops up like a recurring ghost. He wasn't just some eccentric with a pencil; he was a legitimate child prodigy who basically told the high-art world to shove it so he could talk to his own subconscious.
He was the youngest artist ever to exhibit at the Royal Academy. 17 years old. People called him the enfant terrible of Mayfair. But Spare didn't want the champagne and the galas. He ended up living in poverty, surrounded by cats and occult grimoires, sketching the "cockney" faces of his neighbors in Walworth.
The Artist Who Said No to Hitler
There’s this legendary story that's actually true: Adolf Hitler supposedly wanted Spare to paint his portrait. This was in the 1930s. A member of the German Embassy apparently reached out. Spare, being a true Londoner with zero time for fascists, allegedly sent back a copy of his work with a refusal that wasn't exactly polite. He didn't care about fame or money.
He cared about sigils.
If you've ever seen those weird, tangled symbols people use in "Chaos Magic" today, you're looking at Spare's legacy. He developed a system called sigilization. Basically, you write down a desire, strip away the repeating letters, and mash the remaining ones into a single, abstract doodle. The goal? To bypass your logic and plant that "seed" directly into your deep mind.
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He called this the Zos Kia Cultus.
Kia is the absolute, the "primary skin," and Zos is the body, the human instrument. It sounds heavy because it is. Spare wasn't interested in the "smells and bells" of ceremonial magic. He hated the fancy robes and the chanting. He wanted results.
Crowley vs. Spare: The Ultimate Occult Beef
You can't talk about Austin Osman Spare without mentioning Aleister Crowley. They met around 1907. Crowley, being Crowley, announced himself as the "Vice-regent of God." Spare’s response? He told him he looked like an "unemployed Italian ponce."
Classic.
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They were friends for a minute—Spare even joined Crowley's order, the A∴A∴—but it didn't last. Crowley was all about hierarchy and elaborate rituals. Spare was a loner. He thought Crowley’s theater was silly. Crowley, in turn, eventually dismissed Spare as a "Black Brother" who didn't follow the rules.
The Blitz and the Tavern Years
Life wasn't kind to Spare in the long run. During the Blitz in 1941, his studio on Walworth Road took a direct hit. He lost everything. His health took a dive, and he spent months living like a nomad.
But here's the thing: he didn't stop.
In the late 40s and early 50s, Spare had a bizarre, wonderful late-career surge. He started exhibiting his work in local pubs like The Mansion House and The White Bear. Imagine walking into a smoky London tavern in 1952 and seeing high-level occult art hanging next to the dartboard. He sold his drawings for a few pounds or the price of a beer. He didn't want the elite galleries; he wanted the "Hoi Polloi."
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Why His Art Looks So Weird
Spare used something he called automatic drawing. He’d go into a trance—sometimes in total darkness—and let his hand move. The results are these fluid, haunting figures that look like they're melting. Critics today call him the "Father of Surrealism," even though he was doing it way before Dalí became a household name.
- Draughtsmanship: His line work was objectively incredible. Even his haters couldn't deny he had the technical skill of a Renaissance master.
- Anamorphosis: He played with "sidereal" perspective, stretching faces and bodies so they only look "right" from a certain angle.
- Satyrism: He loved drawing people as mythological creatures. Your local butcher might end up as a satyr in a Spare drawing.
Where to Find Him Now
If you want to see his stuff in person, it's not always easy, but it's worth the hunt. The Viktor Wynd Museum (The Last Tuesday Society) in London has a dedicated "Spare Room." You can also find pieces at the Victoria and Albert Museum or the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.
His books, like The Book of Pleasure and The Focus of Life, are still in print through specialty publishers like Fulgur Press. They aren't easy reads. The prose is dense, chaotic, and intentionally "masked."
Actionable Insights for the Curious
If you're inspired by Spare’s uncompromising life, there are a few ways to bring that energy into your own world:
- Try Automatic Drawing: Don't think. Just put a pen to paper and let it go for ten minutes. See what shapes emerge from your "Kia."
- Experiment with Sigils: It's the most practical part of his legacy. If you have a goal, try the "word method" of sigilization. It’s a fascinating psychological exercise in focus.
- Visit Southwark: If you're ever in London, walk the Walworth Road. The pubs might be gone or renovated, but the atmosphere of the "London he knew" is still in the bricks.
Spare died in 1956, relatively obscure and very poor. But today? He's a titan. He proved that you don't need a stage or a massive bank account to create a universe. You just need a pencil and the guts to look into the dark.
For those wanting to dive deeper into the history, check out Phil Baker's biography, Austin Osman Spare: The Life and Legend of London’s Lost Artist. It’s basically the gold standard for understanding the man behind the sigils. You might also look into the work of Kenneth Grant, who was Spare’s friend and the guy responsible for making sure the world didn't forget him after he passed.