Something shifted the day I met and photographed Nani—Zubeida Dossal. Even at 100 years old, she radiated a quiet strength that was impossible to ignore. I don’t know what it was exactly, but there was something about being in her presence that felt… significant. She had lived through so much, witnessed so many changes, yet still carried herself with such grace. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
During our two-day photo session, I only saw her smile twice. The first time was when my friend showed her old photographs on the phone—pictures from moments long past. And I could see something in her eyes light up, like she was momentarily reaching back through the labyrinth of time, connecting with those fragments of her life. It was a reminder of how powerful photographs can be, these little windows into a world that no longer exists but still holds meaning. In that brief moment, she wasn’t just looking at photos; she was remembering who she was, who she had loved, and what she had lived through. That smile held a lifetime.
The second time was when she saw my 3-year-old daughter. And I couldn’t help but feel that the same joy sparked within her—perhaps a recognition of the future, the continuation of stories. After all, she had spent her life as a teacher, championing education for little girls. Both smiles were filled with something deeply personal, as though the past and future were speaking to each other right there in front of us.
That experience left me thinking for days. It made me realize how much we need to hold onto our stories—the little moments we create but too often let slip away. People live extraordinary lives of love, resilience, and strength, and we all have so much to learn from them. Photographs, memories, stories… they’re not just records of the past. They’re anchors that remind us of who we are. It made me want to do more, to explore these moments further, and to capture the stories that might otherwise fade away.
That’s when I knew I needed to reach out to the Alzheimer’s Society of Toronto. I had this sudden, overwhelming desire to document the journeys of those who might not always have their memories intact. The people who, despite the challenges of dementia, still have so much to give, to share. I wanted to be part of something that helps preserve those fleeting moments before they disappear.
Kirstin and Tracey run a workshop series called “Timeless Flow.” It’s 1.5 hours once a week for six weeks, and it’s open to people living with mild to moderate dementia, along with their care partners. Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. They mentioned that no art experience was required, which felt reassuring. The first session started with watercolors, and for some reason, that felt… JUST right.
There’s something about watercolor that feels delicate, almost fragile, like life itself. Unlike thicker paints that stay put, watercolors flow and bleed into one another. There’s no certainty where the colors will settle. It reminded me of how memories work—blurring, fading, blending together, but never fully disappearing.
We painted flowers that day. Bright, beautiful flowers that would soon wither, but somehow, it didn’t feel sad. It was like everyone understood the flowers weren’t meant to last forever. The beauty was in their existence right then, in that moment. And isn’t that what life is, really? Just a series of fleeting moments we’re lucky enough to witness and be a part of.
Some people jumped right in, painting with bold strokes like they’d been waiting for this chance forever. Others hesitated, unsure of where to start, almost like they were waiting for permission. But there was no pressure—no one was grading them. It was just about being present, letting their hands move, and seeing where the brush took them.
I watched as their personalities emerged through their art. Even for those whose dementia had progressed beyond the borders of normalcy, it was there—their essence. Like Albert (not his real name), who used to be an engineer. His painting had this meticulous precision, even though his hands trembled slightly. You could see the years of detail-oriented thinking in every stroke. It was beautiful, not because it was perfect, but because it was him.
`That’s what struck me the most—this wasn’t about creating perfect replicas of reality. It was about expressing something deeper, something words might not be able to say anymore.
As the afternoon went on, the room became quieter. You could feel this gentle, almost meditative energy settle over everyone. The paintings dried slowly, and there was this sense that even though the flowers in front of us would fade, something had been captured—something real and lasting.
In those final moments, I realized how much had been preserved, not just on the paper, but in the room itself. Even as the flowers began to curl inward, losing their color, the impressions left behind were proof that something beautiful had existed. It felt like a reminder that even as things change, fade, or disappear, they still leave traces. A color, a line, a feeling—it all lingers, just a little longer than you’d expect.
And maybe, in the end, that’s what matters the most. Not the permanence of the moment, but the fact that we were there to witness it at all.
I want to take a moment to thank the Alzheimer’s Society of Toronto (www.alz.to)for the incredible work they are doing. Their commitment to supporting those living with dementia and their families is extraordinary. Through workshops like “Timeless Flow,” and many others which can be found on the website, they are not only offering a space for creativity and connection, but they are also preserving the dignity and stories of those who might otherwise feel lost. It’s an honor to document this journey with them, and their support has been invaluable in bringing these important moments to life.
An insight into the Active Living module can be found at https://fb.watch/uFm5hJGsWA/
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