It started with Elvis, morphed into Madness and ended with Japan. Fanaticism is best suited to teenagers and their musical heroes, but is it possible to become obsessed by a work of art. Oh, yes, says Stewart Who?

Fanaticism works best when you’re young- bristling with energy, experiencing brain growth and the consequent surges of hormones and dumb, blind love. My first idol was Elvis, an inherited madness gleaned from my mother on the day the King died in ’77.

Watching Presley double bills for an entire summer while my mum wept in a marabou trimmed nightie…well, not only did that cement Elvis as my first crush, but quite possibly sealed my sexuality too. Being dead and heterosexual, Presley was the ultimate in unavailability, so when Madness emerged in the late ‘70s, I became a Nutty Boy. My BHS denim jacket was festooned with Madness pin-badges and patches, I snapped up limited edition picture discs and wore Sta-Prest strides, white socks and DMs. Fast forward 30 years and Graham Pearson (Suggs) can be seen sipping coffee outside Bar Italia, where he’s a regular. We’re on nodding terms, which is odd, unlikely and jolly pleasant considering he dominated my bedroom wall for much of the ‘80s. Madness are still brilliant live, if you get the chance, go see ‘em.

In the mid-‘80s, due a pretentious adoration of David Sylvian’s oeuvre, I attended a Japan convention. This was basically a roomful of people with floor length fringes, yards of blusher and dripping lip gloss buying overpriced rare editions of vinyl from wobbly stalls at the 100 Club on a Sunday afternoon. That sad gathering proved a turning point. Surrounded by awkward New Romantics with pixie boots and hair that defied humanity, I vowed to move on. That level of fanaticism felt juvenile, unfashionable and quite boring. Japan were soon given the elbow, acid house got under my skin, Es went down my neck and for the next ten years, I was completely off my face. That showed ‘em.

You see, fanaticism requires an enthusiasm and unquestioning devotion which dwindles with old age. It’s the effort required which loses its appeal. I don’t mind paying for entertainment, but don’t ask me to queue. Or stand. Or travel to a part of the city/country/planet from where I can’t hail a cab. I’d rather give £150 to a ticket tout than spend a morning online trying to get tickets for a gig at cost price. I fly BA to Ibiza to avoid the displeasure of budget airlines, even though it costs four times more. And festivals? Forget it. I really don’t mind the muck, portaloos, al fresco idiots or even the trials of sleeping on a lilo- it’s the getting there and leaving which makes it unbearable. People might sneer, but I’m with Kate Moss on minimising travel struggle. The only way to get in and out of Glastonbury is by helicopter. No chopper, no Who?

So, considering my elderly indifference to almost everything, it’s odd to have found myself as an excitable art groupie. Uniquely, I’ve become obsessed with one particular work of art which I’ve now viewed three times, in as many different venues in the space of six months. While nothing will quite match the first exposure to The Heretic’s Gate by Doug Foster, it still provokes a visceral response that’s a match for Presley’s lips, The Prince by Madness or Japan’s Life in Tokyo. The Heretic’s Gate is currently installed at St Michael’s in Camden…and once again, the magnetic, malevolent and reflective nature of the piece dazzled this weary urbanite. Foster’s installation is a twenty foot high arched screen, onto which is projected a kaleidoscopic film of demonic flames, mirrored in a thirty foot long reflecting pool. It’s situated where the altar should be, slap-bang at the heart of St. Michael’s gothic architecture.

The private view started at 6pm, but as groupies, we remained in the church ‘til the light dwindled, just so we could really appreciate the darkness of the reflective pool and the full impact of the flickering flames. The fact that the drinks were still flowing helped keep us there too.

I’m joined in this artwork obsession by my friend Denise the Lady, who’s currently pondering writing a thesis on The Heretic’s Gate and making it her life’s work. ‘I could analyse each frame of the film and how they vary in meaning according to the setting,’ she said quite seriously, sipping on whiskey and staring at the projection. ‘I’m seeing a lot of chickens today.’

We hunted down Doug Foster, questioned him and quipped that we’re his biggest fans. However, it’s not a joke, it’s true. We’re jovially aware that we’ll keep following this artwork until we die, Doug gets a restraining order or we both go blind- and even then, as we like the soundtrack by UNKLE, we’d still get thrills from the installation. We were also charmed to meet the trendy Father Philip North who caught us off guard with his dry humour and enthusiasm for the demonic installation. He’s a big fan of the piece and intends to deliver a sermon in front of the artwork this Sunday, accompanied by a jazz band. So in what way does the piece benefit the church?

‘Christians today have a rather woolly concept of Hell,’ Father North said, tongue firmly in cheek, his face lit by Foster’s terrifying inferno. He once told the Camden New Journal, “The Christian faith should never be boring and churches should be happy places – Camden has a great reputation for partying and that will continue.”

Rock on, Father North….and be careful when you dance with the devil, his hooves are quicker than you think.

Daydreaming with…St Michael’s- featuring Doug Foster & Jonathan Glazer with music by UNKLE and Simon Fisher- Turner, curated by James Lavelle is at St Michael’s Church, Camden Rd, NW1. 27TH April- 5th May 2011. Midday-6PM.