The Semiotics and Dialogue of Refrigerator Art

I have never enjoyed reading about literary theory. In college I avoided reading Derrida and Foucault as much as possible and have managed to dodge most reading on the subject since. Recently, however, I have been forced to trudge through a book for an upcoming seminar that digs deep into some aspects of literary theory. One of the most intriguing concepts covered in the book is the concept of semiotics. Semiotics is the study of how signs—words, symbols, pictures, etc.—convey meaning. Once these signs are recorded they become texts and hold their message for all who look upon them.

Another topic surveyed in the book was the relationship between the author of a text and the reader of a text. Many scholars have pointed out that the way the text is understood by a reader involves a dialogue between the reader and the author. What the author means when he or she writes the text must be interpreted by the reader when they encounter the text. These literary concepts are every bit as exciting to study as you think. In case you loose my original meaning in the dialogue between reader and writer, the previous sentence should be read with all imaginable sarcastic force.

Though I find some of the concepts of literary theory remarkably boring, I was confronted with a beautiful truth about meaning this evening as I pondered the concepts of semiotics and author/audience dialog. While I was washing dishes with my daughter I turned to put away a container and saw a picture she colored for me on our refrigerator. It is a watercolor on construction paper, a beautiful minimalistic work of terse brushstrokes—green, purple and red. Here was a sign in its glory, pinned to our Frigidare with magnetic letter “k” a testament to the creativity of the not-quite two year old who painted it.

This was a sign packed with meaning by its author. I could see my daughter painting it, laughing as the colors slid off her brush onto the paper. Bright eyed, sitting beside her mother, both of them artists who have some innate understanding of beauty lost on those who, like myself, lack the ability to create any art that possesses visual appeal. She crammed her inherent joy into those brushstrokes and I stood in my kitchen basking in the manifest wonder of her work.

Then I read the words Kayla wrote for her at the top of the paper, “I love you Daddy! –Zoey.” I was immediately reminded of something I had just read by Mikhail Bahktin, who said that texts are “half someone else’s.” And so I was reminded that the painting on the refrigerator was also mine. I looked at it and owned it for a moment. I held Zoey and thought of how wonderful it was to have a piece of her artwork on our refrigerator and how each time I really saw it made me think of my daughter and her mother and the fact that when I am gone to work for hours a day they sit and paint me a picture so that I will have a sign that says in a million ways, “I love you Daddy!”

I have not changed my mind on literary theory. I have finished the reading for the seminar. I will discuss it in our meeting in a few weeks and work to incorporate some of the more valuable points into my research, but I will continue to dodge the literary theorists in the future. However, literary theory has opened up a bright window for me tonight. God has allowed his creatures to communicate in such a powerful way that brushstrokes can mean so much. And this wonder leads to broader wonders still because the weighty theories lead to lofty joys; my daughter loves me and I love her. Trust me, there is a painting on my refrigerator.