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A Secret Language: Ilisa Katz Rissman on April
Ways of Holding On Blog Series
For years, Ilisa Katz Rissman kept a large-format film camera in the corner of a Cape Cod summer rental, a dark cloth draped over it. “It was my way of seeing them,” she says of her children. Working with the slow, demanding camera required her to be present. Only later did she realize she’d been trying to hold on to them as they were. “Which, of course, we know is impossible.”
Those photographs became April, a book made from years of looking at her children. After her son Gabe died in 2021, preparing the book became a way to spend time with him—to look closely, to notice what she had missed, and to grieve. “I couldn’t turn away,” she says. “They were there in front of me.”
In Gabe’s memory, Ilisa and her family created the Gabriel Rissman Love Fund at Love in the Trenches.
I sat down with Ilisa to talk about Gabe, about April, and about what creative expression can offer those of us living with loss.
In her words
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
What would you like our readers to know about Gabe?
Thank you for asking about him. It’s always my joy to talk about him. Gabe was a beautiful and complicated person. He was a talented and tenacious tennis player—always a great sport. Gabe was funny and sometimes mischievous. Perhaps what says the most about him is how much he is loved, by family, friends, and even his tennis competitors. He was his two sisters' biggest supporter. When I think about his essence, his authentic self, I see an incredibly lovable, sweet person, very sensitive.
Is there a small, everyday memory of him you’d share?
This is a little more lighthearted, but he loved scratch-offs. There’s a little bodega near us, and whenever I could, I got him scratch-offs. It was our thing, a little bit of a secret language between us.
Gabe appears more than once in the book sitting on a couch, looking relaxed. What do those photographs say about the two of you?
Two of the photographs show the same couch, taken about eight years apart. Our relationship was often one of not talking. Gabe just wanted me to be his mom. He didn’t want to have to explain things. We could simply be together. The camera was always my way of seeing the world, and he knew it, so it just felt like an extension of us. I always wanted him to know I loved him unconditionally. I hope these photographs were a reminder of that for him, because they were for me.
What did making April allow you to do?
I realized it was a way I could keep my family intact and keep Gabe safe. After I lost Gabe, time went haywire. This book gave me a time capsule. There’s a poem in the back sleeve about a boy who is not quite a boy and not yet a man, whose life is still uncomplicated. I could keep him there, with a future and possibility. I’m not delusional. But that is part of what the book offers.
You’ve said our stories are scripts we make up. Did April change the story you’d told yourself about your family?
Absolutely. I discovered I was trying to keep my children in a safe, protected space and telling myself I could. But we can’t protect them. We create our own stories. That doesn’t mean they’re true or that they will last. The book holds the stark difference between a created world of safety and beauty and the reality of what we thought our lives would be.
The writing in the book came late. Why add words?
The writing isn’t there to explain. It’s there to ask more questions, to have a conversation with the photographs. It’s about childhood, about disappointment, about what it feels like to see someone for the last time.
The dates in the book move back and forth. What drew you to that structure?
I wanted time to feel the way it feels through loss: nonlinear, fragmented. The chapters are set off by dates, almost like diary entries, but I jumbled them. I wanted you to be aware of time passing without it feeling like linear time.
What comes next?
About six months after Gabe died, I dreamed he was sitting in a cocoon, watching his life play backward on a screen. Thank God, I wrote it down. My next book grows from that. It doesn’t have one image of Gabe, but the writing has everything to do with him. April is about keeping him safe. The next one is: reality hits us. Now what?
What would you tell someone who is grieving but doesn’t think of themselves as an artist?
Look for signs. They can come from anywhere. Our children are there, waiting for us to come to them. Use anything you have: cooking, gardening, a scrapbook. You don’t need to be an artist. Art is how you live. Being aware and open is being an artist. I believe our children continue to give us gifts, and the gift is how to be present and be there for others. Tapping into that is honoring them.
A secret language
Near the end of our conversation, I shared something I’d noticed with Ilisa. One of the short texts in April recalls a drive home from a drawing class in the city. A woman tenderly holds a girl’s hand, and the two communicate through rhythm—a secret language. It reminded me of the scratch-off tickets Ilisa and Gabe shared, and of the quiet understanding between Ilisa and her children on either side of the camera.
“That’s exactly what I had hoped for,” she said. “I wanted the text to echo or converse with the photographs.”
A corner-store ritual. A familiar couch. The quiet on either side of a camera. In April, those private languages remain.
An invitation to remember
Describe a secret language you shared with your child or sibling: a ritual, a joke, a place that was just yours.
Choose a photograph of them. Spend a little time with it. What do you notice today?
If you’ve had a dream about them that you want to remember, write down what stays with you.
You might write, make something, or simply sit with what comes.
Join us live
I’ll continue this conversation with Ilisa in a live Zoom Q&A on Sunday, November 22 at 3 PM ET. Bring your questions about April, creative expression in grief, or the ways we stay connected to our children and siblings.
About the book
April by Ilisa Katz Rissman was published in 2026 by Red Hook Editions, Brooklyn, with design by Alexander Paterson-Jones. https://www.redhookeditions.com/books-1/april
Ilisa Katz Rissman is a Brooklyn-based photographer who works on long-term projects with large-format film cameras. In memory of her son, she created the Gabriel Rissman Love Fund at Love in the Trenches.Instagram: @ilisakatzrissman
Kristin Seeberger is a writer working on an essay collection, The Understory: Essays on Grief and Kinship. She is a Love in the Trenches Grief Group Leader and a certified Peer Grief Counselor who helps parents and siblings navigate their grief.https://www.instagram.com/kseeberger
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