I remember Samuel Beckett for his silences as much as his words I was four when this picture was taken, at the opening of one of my father, Avigdor Arikha's, exhibitions in Paris, where we lived. I'm with my mother and Samuel Beckett, who was my father's closest friend. This exhibition was an important one for my father. He had been an abstract painter until 1965, when he saw a Caravaggio painting and was suddenly inspired to be a figurative painter. His figurative work, which was on display at this exhibition, made him quite well known. My family had been friends with Sam since my father met him, in 1956. I was named after his poem Alba, and he was sort of my godfather (I'm Jewish so I wasn't baptised). When I was born he bought me the most elegant pram and the largest teddy bear in Paris, according to my mother. He also gave me a spoon that he had as a child, which my father painted - a lone spoon on a white napkin. Sam would often come for dinner at our house. He would arrive exactly on time, waiting at the door until it was time to ring the bell. He was very tall, with very blue eyes, and he would pick my sister and me up. My sister, who is three years younger than me, played chess with him, and I played the piano with him; he loved playing the piano. At dinner the conversation was mainly the adults quoting poetry - Sam would quote Keats and my mother would cry - or my father and Sam listening to music. We children were never allowed to talk. Sometimes Sam would just stop talking, which was odd. I remember his silences as much as his words. I thought this was normal as a child, but when I was a teenager I rebelled against the artistic, intellectual atmosphere. I never stopped being fond of Sam, but he was part of my parents" life, which I wanted to escape. I wanted to be normal in a slightly abnormal family. My father said, 'A man like Sam only comes around every 300 years," but I couldn't understand all the fuss. When I was 17 I finally read some of his work, and I loved it. Then when I was 20 we met up for coffee and discussed his work, and he told me about how he had been in the resistance during the war. I told him I wanted to be a writer. I would send him poetry and God knows what - it's embarrassing to think about now. If he liked it he would answer; if he didn't, he wouldn't. He became very ill and died quite suddenly in 1989. I visited him with my family just before. Luckily I had realised in time what was so special about him. A retrospective of works by Avigdor Arikha from 1966 to 2010 at Marlborough Fine Art, London W1. Soon, a narrative poem by Alba Arikha, is out now