I went to the Tate Gallery sometime in the 1980s when I was in London with Blue Rodeo. I don’t remember exactly what year it was. Touring has a way of flattening time. Whole cities risk becoming backstage areas attached to venues. But I remember the Tate. I wandered through the galleries with the attention one brings to museums. Interesting things everywhere. Paintings Paintings history already certified as important. Then, across a long hallway, I noticed something entirely different. It was as though a small electrical disturbance had appeared at the far end of the room. Two colours predominated and seemed to vibrate against one another. The painting wasn’t merely hanging there waiting to be inspected. It was reaching out. I felt curiosity mixed with confusion. What was that? Why did it seem more alive than everything else around it?

I walked toward it. The closer I got, the more powerful the sensation became. I discovered it was a painting by David Hockney. It was the first time I had encountered his work. Stood there stunned. It wasn’t simply technical accomplishment. Audacity. Joy. Intelligence. Whatever combination of instinct and discipline allows an artist to produce something unmistakably theirs. I couldn’t say what I ate that day or what hotel we stayed in. But I remember the experience of seeing that Hockney painting across the room and being drawn toward it like metal and a magnet. One of those artists who expands one’s understanding, even if you work in an entirely different medium. You leave reminded that the real task is not merely to competence, but to discover how to make something with unmistakable voltage.