The secret language of things: How to forge your own visual symbolism
Imagine a studio bathed in golden light, where the walls are covered in enigmatic sketches. A woman in a Tehuana dress, her thick eyebrows like raven’s wings, stares at her reflection in a mirror. Around her, monkeys with bright eyes climb unfinished frames, while a stag with broken antlers lies on
By Artedusa
••14 min read
The secret language of things: how to forge your own visual symbolism
Imagine a studio bathed in golden light, where the walls are covered in enigmatic sketches. A woman in a Tehuana dress, her thick eyebrows like raven’s wings, stares at her reflection in a mirror. Around her, monkeys with bright eyes climb unfinished frames, while a stag with broken antlers lies on a still-wet canvas. Frida Kahlo isn’t painting pictures—she’s writing her diary in symbols. Every stroke, every color, every animal is a letter in an alphabet only she fully understands. What if you, too, could create such a language?
Personal symbolism isn’t mere decoration. It’s an alchemy that turns the intimate into the universal, the particular into mythology. From Egyptian hieroglyphs to Hilma af Klint’s abstract canvases, from Basquiat’s cryptic graffiti to the works in between, artists have always used signs to express the ineffable. But how do you move from inspiration to crafting a visual system that truly reflects you? How do you ensure your work isn’t just beautiful, but whispers stories no one else could tell?
When walls speak: the invisible legacy of the symbolists
Paris, 1886. In a smoky Montmartre café, a group of artists debates passionately. Jean Moréas has just published his manifesto in Le Figaro, proclaiming the death of naturalism and the birth of symbolism. "Art must suggest, not describe," he declares, crushing his cigarette. Around the table, Gustave Moreau sketches chimeras on a paper napkin, while Odilon Redon speaks of his dreams filled with floating eyes and monstrous flowers.
What unfolds that evening goes far beyond an aesthetic quarrel. The symbolists don’t want to represent the world—they want to create a new one, parallel, where every shape, every color, every object becomes a charged sign. Their legacy is everywhere around us, though we no longer see it. Redon’s roses aren’t just flowers: they symbolize the fragility of beauty and the decay that lurks. Moreau’s peacocks aren’t birds, but allegories of vanity. Even Gauguin’s Tahitian landscapes are metaphysical puzzles, where every fruit, every statue, every color tells a sacred story.
Why this need for symbols? Because the 19th century is an era of upheaval. Industrialization transforms cities into stone and steel monsters, science challenges religious certainties, and the West discovers Eastern spiritualities with fascination. Faced with this disenchanted world, artists seek to re-enchant reality. They draw from alchemy, theosophy, ancient myths, but also their own obsessions. Symbolism thus becomes a secret language, a way to communicate with those who know how to read between the lines.
Take Arnold Böcklin’s Isle of the Dead. At first glance, it’s a simple scene of an island cemetery. But look closer: the boat carrying the coffin is steered by a veiled figure, perhaps Death itself. The black cypresses aren’t trees, but fingers pointing to the sky. And that twilight glow? It doesn’t illuminate—it reveals the beyond. Böcklin isn’t painting a landscape. He’s creating a universal symbol of the transition between life and death, a bridge between the visible and the invisible.
The workshop of enigmas: three masters of personal language
Frida Kahlo: the body as symbolic territory
The Casa Azul in Coyoacán is a sanctuary of vivid colors and strange objects. In her studio, Frida Kahlo transforms her pain into art with surgical precision. Each painting is open-heart surgery, where she exposes her physical and emotional wounds. But beware: her symbols aren’t ready-made metaphors. They’re deeply personal, forged in the experience of suffering and resilience.
Take The Broken Column. At the center of the canvas, an Ionic column replaces her spine, shattered in several places. Her body is pierced with nails, like a martyred saint. Yet her face remains impassive, almost serene. This isn’t a lament, but a declaration: pain is part of her, she wears it like armor. The tears streaming down her cheeks aren’t signs of weakness, but of strength—they prove she’s still alive, still capable of feeling.
Kahlo doesn’t just borrow symbols from tradition. She reinvents them. In The Two Fridas, the exposed hearts don’t represent romantic love, but the duality of her identity: one is the European Frida, the other the Mexican Frida. The blood flowing from their arteries isn’t just a reference to suffering, but to life persisting despite everything. And those clasped hands? They don’t symbolize union, but solitude—even surrounded, Kahlo always feels alone in her pain.
Her genius lies in this ability to turn autobiography into mythology. Her monkeys aren’t just pets, but protectors, doubles of herself. The roots bursting from the earth in Roots don’t just symbolize grounding, but suffocation. Every element in her paintings is both literal and allegorical, intimate and universal.
Hilma af Klint: when abstraction becomes spiritual language
In a small Stockholm studio, a woman in a black dress draws geometric shapes under the dictation of "spiritual guides." Hilma af Klint, an artist unknown in her lifetime, creates abstract works long before Kandinsky or Mondrian. But her paintings aren’t stylistic exercises—they’re coded messages, meant for a temple that was never built.
Her Ten Largest, a series of ten monumental canvases, is a masterpiece of personal symbolism. Each painting represents a stage of spiritual evolution, from childhood to adulthood. The spirals, circles, and bright colors aren’t chosen at random: blue represents the spiritual, yellow the masculine, pink the feminine. The swans clashing in The Swan don’t just symbolize duality, but the union of opposites—a central idea in theosophy, the spiritual movement that deeply influenced af Klint.
What strikes you in her work is this conviction that art can be a tool for knowledge. Her paintings aren’t made to be contemplated, but deciphered. She uses alchemical symbols, sacred geometric forms, and even Greek letters to create a visual language that transcends words. In Group IV, The Swan, No. 17, the two black and white swans clash within a golden circle, like cosmic forces in balance. The painting isn’t an illustration, but a visual equation.
Af Klint didn’t seek to please. She painted for a future she wouldn’t see, convinced her works would one day be understood. And she was right: rediscovered in the 1980s, her canvases are now considered the first abstract works in art history. But beyond their historical importance, they remain a fascinating example of what a personal visual language can be—both deeply intimate and universal.
What makes his language so powerful is its immediacy. Basquiat doesn’t construct complex allegories like the 19th-century symbolists. He uses shocking images, scribbled words, and garish colors to create a visual language that speaks directly to New York’s streets. His symbols are weapons: the crown for resistance, the skull for mortality, the copyright for cultural dispossession. In Boy and Dog in a Johnnypump, a Black child plays with a dog under a water jet. At first glance, it’s an innocent scene. But the "Johnnypump" (a term for fire hydrants opened in summer) is a symbol of resistance—Black kids in Brooklyn would open them to cool off, defying the rules of the white city.
Basquiat shows that a symbolic language doesn’t need to be esoteric to be profound. Sometimes, it’s enough to take the images of the street and give them new meaning.
The grammar of signs: how to build your own visual alphabet
Creating a personal symbolic language is like learning a new language. First, you listen, then you imitate, and finally, you invent. Here’s how to begin.
Listen to your obsessions
The best symbols are born from what haunts you. For Kahlo, it was physical pain. For af Klint, spirituality. For Basquiat, racial injustice. What obsesses you? A childhood memory? A recurring fear? An unanswered question?
Take a notebook and write down:
Objects that irresistibly attract you (an old watch, a particular plant, a worn-out garment).
Colors that soothe or unsettle you.
Dreams that keep coming back.
Words or phrases you repeat often.
These elements are the building blocks of your language. For example, if you’re fascinated by clocks, they could symbolize the passage of time, but also your fear of aging, or your desire to control the flow of hours.
Study existing symbols… then subvert them
Traditional symbols are like words from an ancient language. You can use them as is, or twist them to give them new meaning.
Take the snake:
In Christian tradition, it symbolizes evil and temptation.
In ancient Egypt, it represents protection (the uraeus on pharaohs’ foreheads).
For Kahlo, it becomes a symbol of rebirth and healing (Tree of Hope, 1946).
Similarly, the apple can represent:
Temptation (Adam and Eve).
Knowledge (Newton).
Health (an apple a day…).
Or, for you, the memory of a childhood orchard.
The important thing isn’t to respect traditional meanings, but to choose those that resonate with your story.
Play with associations
A good symbol is like a metaphor: it creates unexpected links between ideas. To find these associations, ask yourself:
If your fear were an animal, what would it be?
If your dearest dream were a color, what would it be?
If your personality were a landscape, what would it look like?
For example, if you associate freedom with the ocean, you could use:
Waves to symbolize emotions.
Shells to represent memories.
Boats to evoke inner journeys.
Test your symbols
A visual language only lives if it’s understood. Show your works to friends and ask what they see. Their interpretations might surprise you—and that’s normal. A personal symbol is like an inside joke: the more intimate it is, the more powerful it is.
But be careful: if no one understands your symbols, they risk remaining dead letters. The balance is subtle. As Basquiat said: "I don’t think about art when I’m working. I think about life." Your symbols must speak of life, not just of you.
Create a visual dictionary
Once you’ve identified your symbols, write them down in a notebook with their meanings. For example:
A broken wing = hindered freedom.
A rusty key = a forgotten secret.
A shattered mirror = a fragmented identity.
This dictionary will evolve over time. Some symbols will disappear, others will take on new meanings. That’s a sign your language is alive and breathing.
When symbols become mythology: the art of telling without words
A symbolic language isn’t just for decoration—it’s for storytelling. The best artists don’t create images, but visual narratives where every detail matters.
Take Picasso’s Guernica. At first glance, it’s a scene of chaos: a screaming horse, a mother weeping over her child, a dismembered soldier. But every element is a symbol:
The bull represents brutality.
The lamp shaped like an eye symbolizes the truth illuminating war’s horrors.
The flower in the dead soldier’s hand evokes hope despite everything.
Picasso isn’t describing war—he’s condensing it into a series of universal signs.
Similarly, in Dalí’s The Persistence of Memory, the melting watches aren’t just a surrealist whim. They symbolize:
Time stretching and contracting (a reference to Einstein’s theory of relativity).
Memory distorting over time.
Mortality (the watches rot like fruit).
Dalí turns an abstract idea (time) into a concrete, memorable image.
To create your own symbolic narratives, ask yourself:
What story do you want to tell? An emotion? A memory? A social critique?
What objects or shapes could represent that story?
How can you arrange these symbols to create a coherent composition?
For example, if you want to talk about loneliness, you could:
Use an empty chair in a desert landscape.
Paint a shadow detaching from its owner.
Create a series of closed doors, each with a different lock.
The key is to strike a balance between clarity and mystery. As Redon said: "Art must suggest, not explain."
The power of details: when the invisible becomes visible
The most powerful symbols are often those you don’t notice right away. They’re the details that turn a work into an enigma, an invitation to look longer.
In Velázquez’s Las Meninas, the mirror in the background reflects the Spanish monarchs—a detail that changes the entire meaning of the painting. In Van Gogh’s Starry Night, the cypresses aren’t just trees: they symbolize the connection between earth and sky, between life and death.
To integrate symbolic details into your works:
Play with scale: a small object in the foreground can carry more weight than a large element in the background.
Use reflections: a mirror, a puddle, a window can reveal another reality.
Hide words or numbers: like Basquiat with his scribbled phrases, or af Klint with her Greek letters.
Vary textures: a smooth surface can symbolize calm, a rough one tension.
Take Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring. The blue turban isn’t just a fashion accessory—it symbolizes exoticism and mystery. The pearl itself isn’t just jewelry, but a symbol of purity and light. And that sidelong glance? It invites the viewer into the painting, to become an accomplice to this girl.
Details are like hidden doors. They offer a second reading, an additional layer of meaning. As Kahlo said: "I paint self-portraits because I am often alone, because I am the person I know best." But her self-portraits are far more than images of herself—they’re labyrinths of symbols where every detail matters.
The invisible legacy: why your visual language will endure
A personal symbolic language isn’t ephemeral. It outlives its creator, like Egyptian hieroglyphs or medieval frescoes. Kahlo’s symbols—her monkeys, her exposed hearts, her roots—are now recognized worldwide. Basquiat’s—his crowns, his skulls, his scribbled words—have become pop culture icons. And af Klint’s, long forgotten, are now redefining our understanding of abstract art.
Why do these languages endure? Because they don’t just speak of their creators. They speak of all of us. They turn the intimate into the universal, the particular into mythology.
Your visual language has that same power. Maybe it won’t revolutionize art history. Maybe only a few people will understand it. But it will have an invaluable worth: that of saying what words cannot express.
So, where to begin? Pick up a pencil. Draw what obsesses you. Play with symbols. Subvert meanings. And above all, listen to what your images whisper to you. Because a visual language isn’t something you create—it’s something that creates you.
As Basquiat said: "Art is like a prayer to me." Perhaps your symbols, too, are a form of prayer. A way to make sense of the world, one image at a time.
The secret language of things: How to forge your own visual symbolism | Creativity
