E-mail to Andrea Selch. 2007.

Andrea, I trawl constantly for the subjects which will repay investigation, but the truth is that sometimes the hairs at the nape of the neck lift, and sometimes they don't. I know better than to pursue an idea which doesn't provoke this response in me. This is how it happened with Hervé.

I'd taken photographs of primitive statues of the saint in Brittany many years ago, although at the time I hadn't heard of him. But I remained intrigued by the images, and later undertook some research to discover the story of Hervé and his doomed dog. I made some drawings, and then started a single painting of him kneeling next to the enraged, blood-soaked wolf. After a day spent at the easel working on it, I was returning home from my studio in central Cardiff, accompanied by Jack, who was still a puppy.

It was dark by the time we started back, but we nevertheless took our regular route through the enormous park which follows the river Taff on its route through the city. The park gates are always locked after sunset, but that doesn't stop people, and as was our custom when walking home together, Jack wriggled through the railings while I climbed over them. It was pretty dark along the path we took, bordered on one side by woodland and on the other by sports fields. What little light there was came from the distant glow of street lamps outside the park.

Suddenly Jack froze in front of me, his legs splayed and hackles up. He did a good impression of a big, fierce dog, but his growl was not convincing! He stared hard into the wood, and as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, my hackles rose too. I sank slowly to my haunches, fingers curling around Jack's collar.

About thirty feet away and outlined against the dark undergrowth there was a huge, pale dog. Perhaps a huskie, certainly unmistakably wolf-like. A great triangular shield of a head, with erect ears and dark smudges for eyes. Unmoving and completely focussed on us. As we inched forward on the path, me hunched uncomfortably to keep a contact with Jack, the dog's head followed us. And behind it, in inky silhouette against the lighter tree trunks, the still, watchful figure of a man.

It was probably just some gay guy out cruising while walking his designer dog. The park certainly attracts that kind of business. It was a bitterly cold night, and while I saw no-one else about, that's not to say there wasn't a bit of activity in the woods. The incident left me with a strange feeling of being 'in the flow' of something. I carry it with me to this day when I paint Hervé, and it serves me well. A 'connection', like he appeared for me when I was thinking of him.

The same kind of coincidence many years ago made a derelict fall to his knees in a church when he saw me carrying a dove down the aisle (it had become trapped in the building and I was rescuing it) because he thought I was an angel!