My father, Abe Shenitzer, was the only member of his family to survive the Holocaust. When speaking about his experiences, he would always emphasize the exceptional people who did what they could for him and other prisoners. “You have to see the individuals, not the group,” he would say. Dementia slowly erased my father’s sharpness and intensity, but left his sense of humour and kindness intact.  Sitting with him, drawing him, I found that the time had a different quality. I was not trying to accomplish anything, not trying to entertain him, or exercise his brain or his body. I was not trying to animate him. I was with him.