This morning I had a sudden clear memory of a man I knew when I was a kid. Don’t panic; it’s a good memory! He was the father of friends of mine. I’d been talking with (or possibly talking to) my husband about poetry and art. (I know. It sounds a tad pretentious, especially when I was making my breakfast at the time. The Old Boy has learned to just go with the flow.)

During the conversation about the difference between true art and simply copying something, even if done really well, I had a sudden memory flash that took me back to my childhood. My friends’ dad was an artist; a good one. I was visiting my friends at the time. For some reason or other I went outside the house and there, in their garage, my friends’ dad was working on a painting. He was using oils (I think).

I remember standing in their driveway, staring at an enormous canvas covered in vivid colour. For the life of me I couldn’t see what it was. I could see the swirls and the movement and the colour but I couldn’t tell what the subject was. Then, he did something magical. He sprayed it with water. I think he used the hose and it was probably on a ‘pressure’ setting. (As we’re talking about something that happened over 50 years ago, the details are a bit fuzzy, so forgive me if I’ve got that bit wrong.) Suddenly, out of the chaos of colour, I could see something emerge. It was a landscape. I was utterly mesmerised. How the hell did he do that?!!! I’ve never forgotten it.

It probably influenced my life far more than I’ve ever given it credit. I think it helped to shape my approach to the arts. I’ve always thought that real art, true art – whether paintings, sculpture, music, dance or literature – to be the real deal, it must have a magical quality to it. It must transport us to a new revelation about this world, or to the possibility of another world. It has to lift us out of ourselves, even if only for a moment. It has to tweak something in the heart. And, because our hearts are different, what affects one person will leave another cold. (I can’t warm to rap. Sorry.) True art speaks to the human condition.

When I learned that my friends’ dad survived a Japanese prisoner of war camp in World War II, and that he did many, many paintings while there – many of them with a delightful sense of humour – somehow I wasn’t surprised it was art that helped him stay sane. (His son has posted many of his prison works on the internet: changipowart.com)

So, this is about 50 years too late but, thank you Mr. Bettany. You were an inspiration in more ways than you probably ever realised.