My cousin Lev was probably the most gentle person I have ever met. From before I really have full memories I can remember his open face and his shy smile. Quiet rather than reserved, and radiating warmth and kindness and even if he sometimes betrayed a bit awkwardness that was what made him so sweet. 
 
I had always known that he’d been ill, that there had been some major crisis. And it was clear that the crisis haunted him still, in some ways, but it certainly wasn’t what defined him. If anything it was the opposite: Lev was someone who overcame the crisis, someone who made a good life in spite of his problems, who had a family, who was deeply loved the people that new him, and who was charming and gentle and kind to everyone he met. 
 
He had a rich life with rich interests. In a family obsessed with art and creativity Lev was the best draughtsman, at least if the prints and paintings and drawings adorning the walls of Bentink Street and Macauly Road and Maida Vale are to be believed. He showed me his photos of his trip to New York a few years ago, and he was immersed in the friends he’d made and the things he’d seen. His passion for things may have gotten excessive at times, I don’t know, but it seemed to me he took a great joy in the things he was into. He loved nature, gardens, plants and trees. At our house in Scotland he planted a small forest of oaks that are now ten feet tall. Too many oaks, really, but they will be there for hundreds of years.
 
Which is all to say that his loss is all the more painful. I can’t see Lev as someone who was eventually ground down by a chronic mental illness. I don’t believe he gave in or gave up or anything like that. I see him as someone overwhelmed by a sudden and acute crisis, not that it makes it any easier to bear. 
 
I can’t believe I will never see his open, gentle face ever again. Except in photos, including the possibly-apocryphalphoto of him and my brother Nick hiding behind the sofa at Doctor Who in that overworn family anecdote. 
 
There is not a lot of comfort to be had now, but no matter how tragic the end, Lev did have a good life. He was—he is—loved. I will never forget him.