Koreana Winter 2013 (English) by The Korea Foundation

w i nt er 2013

Korean Culture & Arts

the Ins and Outs of Soju

vo l. 27 n o . 4

Special Feature w i n ter 2013

The Ins and Outs of Soju Drinking Culture of Koreans A Poet’s Reverie on Soju; World’s Best Selling Distilled Liquor; Stealing Memory and Creating Memories

www.koreana.or.kr

v o l. 27 n o. 4

ISSN 1016-0744

Yu Hyun-seok

PUBLISHER

EDITORIAL DIRECTOR Zeon Nam-jin EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Lee Kyong-hee

EDITORIAL BOARD

Bae Bien-u

Elisabeth Chabanol

Han Kyung-koo

Kim Hwa-young

Kim Moon-hwan

Kim Young-na

Koh Mi-seok

Song Hye-jin

Song Young-man

Werner Sasse

COPY EDITOR

Dean Jiro Aoki

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Lim Sun-kun

ASSISTANT EDITORS Teresita M. Reed Cho Yoon-jung

CREATIVE DIRECTOR ART DIRECTOR DESIGNERS LAYOUT & DESIGN

Kim Sam Lee Duk-lim Lee Young-bok, Kim Ji-hyun Kim’s Communication Associates 384-13 Seogyo-dong, Mapo-gu Seoul 121-839, Korea www.gegd.co.kr Tel: 82-2-335-4741 Fax: 82-2-335-4743

TRANSLATORS

Charles La Shure Chung Myung-je Hwang Sun-ae Kim Young-kyu Min Eun-young

Subscription Price for annual subscription: Korea 18,000, Asia by air US$33, elsewhere by air US$37 Price per issue in Korea 4,500

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© The Korea Foundation 2013 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without the prior permission of the Korea Foundation. The opinions expressed by the authors do not necessarily represent those of the editors of Koreana or the Korea Foundation.

Koreana , registered as a quarterly magazine with the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism (Registration No. Ba-1033, August 8, 1987), is also published in Arabic, Chinese, French, German, Indonesian, Japanese, Russian and Spanish.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS Winter 2013

http://www.koreana.or.kr

Published quarterly by The Korea Foundation 2558 Nambusunhwan-ro, Seocho-gu Seoul 137-863, Korea

“Viewing Apricot Blossoms from a Boat” by Kim Hong-do (1745-circa 1806) of the Joseon Dynasty, ink and light color on paper, 164 x 76 cm, late 18th century-early 19th century.

Editor's Letter

Soju, Andong and Abstinence

On a midsummer day in 1992, at Cho Ok-hwa’s house in Andong, North

Andong in April 1999 on her 73rd birthday.

Gyeongsang Province, there was a long line of people from the front yard

Andong, a small inland city famed for its respect of Confucian traditions, is

that spilled out into the roadway. In the sweltering heat, these people

known to have become familiar with distilled spirits under the influence of

were waiting for a chance to purchase the soju fresh from Cho’s legend-

the invading Mongol troops who had set up a base camp there in the 13th

ary traditional ceramic distiller.

century. The Mongols are said to have been introduced to high-alcohol dis-

Two decades later, in October 2013, when I again visited Cho, along with

tilled liquors during their forays to the Middle East.

the Special Feature team of Koreana, I found that her small home distill-

It is an intriguing irony that the Arabic-language version of this edition

ery had turned into a thriving business run by her son and daughter-in-law.

of Koreana cannot carry the Special Feature, “The Ins and Outs of Soju,”

Cho, now in her early nineties, has since grown quite frail; however, she

due to a concern that this theme might be contrary to the Islamic doctrine

still exudes the aura of a distillery matriarch who has long been engaged in

which expects followers to abstain from the consumption of alcohol. But

feminist and social causes in her hometown.

with alcohol consumption being an integral aspect of Korean culture, its

A government-designated “living human treasure,” Cho continues to keep

coverage is in line with the purpose of Koreana to introduce our readers to

a watchful eye on the production of her prized liquor brand so as to main-

the culture and arts of Korea. As such, we look forward to the global com-

tain its time-tested quality and reputation. The company also operates a

munity’s greater understanding and tolerance of different cultures and

fine museum that displays a variety of traditional Korean liquors and cui-

lifestyles, if not different political ideologies.

sines. One eye-catching exhibit is a recreation of the lavish birthday celebration table prepared by Cho for Britain’s Queen Elizabeth II, who visited

Lee Kyong-hee Editor-in-Chief

Special Feature the ins and Outs of Soju

04 08 14 18 22

Special Feature 1

A Poet’s Reverie on Soju

Lee Chang-guy

Special Feature 2

World’s Best Selling Distilled Liquor

Ye Jong-suk

Special Feature 3

Stealing Memory and Creating Memories

Ben Jackson

Special Feature 4

Why Do Koreans Drink and How Much?

Cho Surng-gie

Special Feature 5

Savory Foods that Accompany Soju

Ye Jong-suk

8 38

26 34 40

art review

Silla: Korea’s Golden Kingdom

Soyoung Lee

Guardian of Heritage

Lee Sang-ryul, Master Performer of Mask Dance Drama

Choi Hae-ree

interview

Lee Young-hye: ‘If art is the question, design is the answer.’

Chung Jae-suk

46 50 54

modern landmarks

French Embassy in Seoul: East Meets West in Elegant Rooflines

Kim Chung-dong

In Love with Korea

A Bridge to a Multicultural World: Dr. Rajesh Chandra Joshi

Park Hyun-sook

on the road

DMZ Art Show: Memories of Land and War Cheorwon: A Symbol of Unresolved Conflict

Kim Yoo-kyung Kim Dang

Books & More Charles La Shure

‘My Korea: 40 Years without a Horsehair Hat’ A Lifetime Spent with Korean Literature

‘29 Second Film Festival’ Year-round Film Fest for Participation, Openness and Sharing

‘The Growth of a Shadow’ 58 70

K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

Trivial Details for Meditation on Deeper and Broader Truths

64 68 72 76

Entertainment

Bong Joon-ho Makes Hollywood Debut with ‘Snowpiercer’

Kim Young-jin

Gourmet’s Delight

Hwangtae : High-Protein Delicacy Created by Snow, Wind, and Sun

Ye Jong-suk

Lifestyle

Sharing Economy, a New Concept of Ownership

Lee Jin-joo

journeys in Korean literature

One Way to Remember the Unknowable and Irrelevant Life Rosewood Cabinet Lee Hyun-su

Kang Ji-hee

Special Feature 1 the Ins and Outs of Soju

A Poet’s Reverie on Soju As far as alcohol goes, there seems to be little difference between the classes in Korea today: soju brings the nation together. Behind this popular liquor is the optimism of city laborers during the industrialization era, and this “soju spirit” developed into a distinctive after-work dinner culture in recent years.

Lee Chang-guy Poet and Literary Critic

n 1976, when the hot summer sun was softening into the gentle rays of autumn, I lay stretched out on the floor, reading a serialized novel in the newspaper. Suddenly, the thought passed through my mind that people might be living in this world without any clear idea of what they were doing. I had always believed that adults lived with an understanding of what life was about and how it should best be lived, but this sudden realization brought me an endless thirst and torpor amid an unbearable turmoil. I was a second-year student in high school. Yet this weighty existential angst soon offered a remedial ecstasy as well. Not long thereafter I attended my literary composition class. That day, my composition teacher wrote on the blackboard a poem that was not in our textbooks: “Young poet, let us cough / Let us cough onto the snow; / With the snow as our witness / Let us be at ease, be at ease / and cough.” This poem by Kim Su-yeong, entitled “Snow,” was the first message to move my soul in that dark era, which seemed to offer little else to guide me. And a poem that flowed out from the radio on a sleepless night awoke in me memories of a raw romanticism that I had momentarily forgotten. It was Park In-hwan’s “The Hobbyhorse and the Lady,” which begins with “I drink a glass of

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liquor,” and continues with “From the bottle falls a star. / The heartbroken star lightly shatters in my heart.” I did not hesitate to make drinking and poetry my means of escape as I set out on the path of the poet.

My Soju My drinking was the overwhelming sound of a drum announcing the appearance of a new warrior who would stand up against this worn-out old world, an open declaration of war on everything humanity fears but has been unable to defy, and the struggles of an innocent young boy who dreamed of being free from all these things. The “altar wine” used in this ritual was fifty-proof soju in a green bottle with a toad on its label. Soju seeped into my soul with its sensual, spiritual, novel, fantastic, impractical, anti-social, and revolutionary face. One day, I defiantly downed a 360 ml bottle of soju in one shot — so that I could live like a human being. As I mimicked the speech of a poet and spoke in a dialect that was vaguely understood, I began to gain followers, one after another. Our ritual began with the setting of the sun and continued in the deepening of the darkness. As we continued to meet, the number of participants grew as well. The organizers called this gathering “Plato’s Symposium.” But the heathens did not wait long to strike back. We were suspended from school en masse on the disgraceful charge of drinking on school grounds, and on top of that we had to endure torture in the name of “tough love.” But in the winter of the following year, we pooled all our funds and held a large exhibition of illustrated poems at a public hall in the city, boldly declaring our resolve to all the world. When the exhibition ended, I declared my intent to renounce this world, and then I ran away, leaving my beloved girlfriend in her mittens at the bus terminal. On October 26, 1979, when President Park Chung-hee was assassinated, I found myself in my friend’s shabby room, my body and mind in shambles. In the winter of that year, I barely managed to crawl to military service, and with this my falling star disappeared from the face of the earth.

The alluring lights of street food vendors attract passersby.

My Father’s Soju My father, born in Hwanghae Province in what is now North Korea, was a refugee who left his family behind during the Korean War when he fled to the South. Even at the age of 89 he still loves his drink, so much so that he looks for soju at mealtimes whenever he’s up to it. Perhaps he never had any of the virtue of patience or waiting when it came to drinking, for he always emptied his glass in one gulp with a slurping sound. I sometimes drank with him during holidays, and I was always vexed by this habit of his. If I were to empty only half my glass and put it down, he would immediately yell at me. A soju glass is not even a mouthful, why can’t you finish it, he would admonish me. Though my father was a drinker and a refugee, if you imagined that he found solace in the bottle when he thought of the family he left behind in the North you would be mistaken. Though I can’t say this was never the case, it wasn’t until the ‘70s that he began to enjoy soju. My father ran an auto shop with a few mechanics working for him, and when his business began to struggle his reliance on soju surged drastically. To this day, my father still believes his business failed because of bad luck, but the way I see it, when automobiles came to the fore as a new growth industry, what was needed were expert mechanics who had systematically studied each area. Gone were the days of the stubborn, inventor-type engineer; this was the era of the expert engineer with up-to-date knowledge. My father also picked up the habit of calling the family together when he was well lubricated to give long-winded speeches about the future of the nation or the proper way for people to live. Soldiers of Industry and their Soju Korea’s industrialization, which allowed the nation to transform itself from one of the world’s poorest countries in the wake of the Korean War to the eighth-largest trading power today, began in earnest in the 1970s. The leading roles were assumed by the young elite, who had overcome the economic difficulties of the post-war period and graduated from university thanks to their passion for education, but the driving force came from the ordinary young people who abandoned their hometowns and flocked to the cities in search of work. Their productive (but low cost) labor was the single most competitive factor that brought

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about Korea’s successful industrialization. The glass of liquor they had on the way home from work soothed the tired bodies and homesick hearts of these laborers. Just as the workers of the Industrial Revolution in England enjoyed strong brandy instead of wine or beer, soju surpassed makgeolli in popularity as it stimulated the appetite and could bring on a state of intoxication after three glasses or so. Bitter, yet with a sweet aftertaste that lingered in the mouth, it was enough to ease the weariness of life and offer comfort, allowing the drinker to enjoy intoxicated bliss for a bargain price. In a word, soju was perfectly suited to the demands of the times.

A Liquor of Optimism and Solidarity People in a drunken state are not all that different no matter what the era or the country, but if I were to describe the characteristics of Korean drinking, I would have to say that we tend to err on the side of inebriation rather than restraint. We drink “to the finish” rather than “in moderation.” Strangely enough, the sentiment at the root of this embrace of inebriation is not escapism or defeatism, but a dignified sense of optimism. The Korean saying, “Even a rat’s hole sees the sun sometimes,” or the song lyrics, “Some day in life the sun will come out,” were the impetus behind Koreans who sought out bars. Though they might have been pushed to the brink of despair, they did not accept defeat. Defeat is only temporary, so they waited, dreaming of the day when they would once again be back in the center. Soju was the comfort liquor that allowed those the world might believe to be losers to pat each other on the back. Drinking alone is quite a rare sight in Korea. Drinking customs here are very passionate, as if to prove the notion that alcohol can strengthen the collective spirit and solidarity. This is how the distinctive Korean custom of after-work get-togethers got started. Skipping out on such occasions (although it would probably be more appropriate to call them “group drinking sessions”) tends to be perceived as a rejection of solidarity. Though, of course, all is forgotten the next day when the fuss has subsided. This seemingly unproductive and wasteful drinking culture, which sees people heading off to a second and third drinking spot at whatever hour, served to solidify the kind of corporate culture that was needed to boost productivity during the industrialization era. Different Workforce, Different Soju References to “the transformation of soju” began to appear in the media sometime after Korea’s GDP per capita reached $10,000 in 1995. The focus of this change was the alcohol content. In 1998, the alcohol by volume (ABV) of soju had decreased to 23 percent, and it continued to fall to 22 percent (2001) and 21 percent (2004), with the majority of soju standing at 19.5 percent ABV today. As its alcohol content declined, the distinctive exhalations of soju drinkers vanished. The change to “mild soju” is often attributed to the healthconscious attitudes today, or an effort to appeal to the tastes of younger drinkers and women. The introduction of a growing variety of soju cocktails with different fruit flavors is a testament to this trend. I, however, believe that the fundamental reason for this change lies in the change in the quality and type of labor. The physical labor of the industrial period, which generally strove toward a given goal through diligence and faithfulness, reached its peak when the GDP per capita hit $10,000. Work in the next era, the so-called information age, began to be perceived as a means of self-realization, not backbreaking labor in exchange for monthly wages. It came to be believed that people could select jobs based on their aptitudes, that social standing could be decided by ability, and that thereby people could enjoy happiness. Of course, you had to prove your ability by surviving endless competition, and anyone who failed would immediately be replaced. Naturally, aimless enjoyment or the freedom to do nothing were no longer options, and any time

Drinking alone is quite a rare sight in Korea. Drinking customs here are very passionate, as if to prove the notion that alcohol can strengthen the collective spirit and solidarity. This is how the distinctive Korean custom of after-work get-togethers got started. 6

Ko re a n Cu l tu re & A rts

People make a toast, shouting good wishes. But isn’t a toast really mutual encouragement to get even more drunk?

not occupied by work was not free time but time to prepare for self-innovation. It was here that soju began to become a symbol. It gradually moved away from the essence of alcohol, a means of inebriation, and instead began to become a synecdoche for drinks that improved relationships by promoting conversation, or drinks that stimulate the appetite. This is similar to how cars moved away from their essence of speed and are now seen in terms of safety and status symbols. The formality of clinking glasses in a toast does not necessarily require a beverage with high alcohol content. Heavy drinking is merely an obstacle in the competition for tomorrow. This is the argument of the generation that cries out, “If you can’t avoid it, you might as well enjoy it!” In that respect, soju in little boxes, for me, is not an aggressive product created to be drunk on the move but a kind of souvenir that brings back colorful memories of soju. In “The Dawn of Labor,” the radical liberal poet Park No-hae sang of a spirit that “When the night shift like combat ends … pours cold soju on our stinging chests at dawn / For our love, our fury / our hope, and our solidarity that breathes and grows / within our rugged blood, sweat, and tears.” “The party is over. / The liquor is gone, and one by one people take out their wallets, until at last he too is gone. / But when the bill has been paid and all are putting on their shoes / I have a dim realization. / That someone will remain here, alone until the end, / clear the table on behalf of the host, / and shed hot tears while remembering everything.” — Choe Yeong-mi, “Thirty, The Party is Over.” So passed my golden days, when I poured soju on my endless thirst and aching heart, and vented the passion of youth. The newly-set stage rings with the braying of the strange slogan of globalization. Someday they too will miss the days when, in their own way, they worked, loved, dreamed, and cozily tilted their soju glasses. K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

3 1-3 Kim Yeun-bak, who has learned the art of making soju from his mother and government-designated practitioner of the art of making Andong Soju, Cho Ok-hwa, and his wife Bae Kyung-hwa, who is set to inherit her title, prepare the malt, or nuruk , used to ferment traditional liquors. Water is added to dried and crushed wheat, and the ingredients are mixed by hand (1). A round malt frame is lined with a ramie cloth and the mixture is pressed into the frame (2). The cloth is folded over the mixture in two layers, and then the mixture is compacted by stepping on it in stocking feet (3). 4 Rice cooked in a steamer is spread out to cool on a sheet in the shade; this rice is mixed with crushed malt and water and fermented in an earthenware jug to produce the â&#x20AC;&#x153;mashâ&#x20AC;? that will later be distilled (below). 5 The fermented mash is poured into a cauldron, which leads into a still and then a cooler, and when the mash is boiled the distilled soju flows down the tube (right).

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Special Feature 2 the Ins and Outs of Soju

World’s Best Selling Distilled Liquor The liquor that appears at meals, picnics, and practically any other gathering, and even in travel bags — that liquor in little green bottles Koreans love so much. Just what is soju all about? Ye Jong-suk Food Columnist; Professor of Marketing, Hanyang University | Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

ast year Koreans drank a full 3.4 billion bottles (360 ml) of soju. This comes to an annual average of 88.4 bottles per adult, or 7.4 bottles per month. Considering that these figures include non-drinkers and occasional imbibers, it is clear that Koreans consume an incredible amount of soju. According to a recent survey, 65 percent of the respondents thought of soju first when alcohol was mentioned. This being the case, it is certainly no exaggeration to call soju the national alcohol of Korea.

History of Soju Soju’s history is colorful as well as tumultuous. It is not indigenous to Korea, but was introduced to the country by invaders. In the early 13th century, when the Goryeo Dynasty ruled the peninsula, the Mongol invaders brought their soju with them. The Mongol troops drank a strong distilled liquor, the likes of which Koreans had never encountered, which became Korea’s soju. At that time, Koreans enjoyed such fermented alcoholic beverages as cheongju (refined rice wine), beopju (refined rice wine for ritual uses made with an exacting brewing process), and makgeolli (unrefined rice wine). Soju was known in Mongol as “araki,” derived from the Arabic term “araq,” which refers to distilled liquor. Thus soju was originally developed in Arabia and passed through Mongolia and Manchuria before arriving in Korea. According to one account, Genghis Khan introduced the Arabian araq to Mongolia after his invasion of the Khwarezmian Empire, which his grandson Kublai Khan, the first emperor of the Yuan Dynasty, then brought to Korea on his way to invading Japan. So it could be said that soju was spread through war. The fact that the sites of former Mongol base camps, such as Kaesong [Gaeseong], Andong, and Jeju Island, are now famous soju-producing regions seems to confirm this history. After the Mongols left, their liquor gained wide popularity among the upper crust of Goryeo society. Soju was made from grain, then a precious commodity, which limited its availability to the privileged classes. It came to be consumed in such excess that “The History of Goryeo” (Goryeosa) records an edict issued by King U in 1375: “The people know nothing of austerity, but squander their fortunes on soju and silk and dishes of gold and jade, so henceforth these things shall be strictly forbidden.” This royal decree certainly had little effect, though, as “Essentials of Goryeo History” (Goryeosa jeoryo) says: “General Kim Jin debauched himself with soju and failed to carry out his duties, gathering courtesans and K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

the commanders beneath him to drink soju, night and day, so the soldiers were known as the ‘soju band.’” Such excessive indulgence in soju obviously continued into the Joseon period. “The Annals of King Seongjong” (r. 1469-1494) noted that Censor-General Jo Hyo-dong advised the king: “During the reign of King Sejong, the noble households rarely consumed soju, but now all consume it even at ordinary parties, causing tremendous waste. So let it please Your Majesty to forbid all such consumption.” On the other hand, soju was used for medicinal purposes as well, as “The Annals of King Danjong” (r. 1452-1455) reveals that the sickly young king was administered soju as a medicine. “Topical Discourses of Yi Su-gwang” (Jibong yuseol), published in the early 17th century, reads, “Soju is used as a medicine, so people did not drink a lot of it but drank from small glasses, thus leading to the custom of calling small glasses ‘soju glasses.’”

Trials of Traditional Soju By the Joseon era, many families made alcohol at home for their own use, and various texts recorded the methods for producing distilled soju. Each region had its own special methods, leading to many popular soju varieties, such as stoneweed-flavored gamhongno, roasted-bamboo-flavored jungnyeokgo, pear-and-ginger-flavored iganggo, and glutinousrice-based samhaesoju. When the first liquor tax law was passed in 1909, Korea had practically become a protectorate of Japan, and in 1916, the Japanese Government-General of Korea promulgated the even stricter Liquor Tax Act, which served to erode not only home distilling but also commercial liquor production, which was based primarily on Korean capital. As the Japanese used various institutions to exploit their colony, regional production of traditional liquors collapsed and the Korean liquor industry was reorganized around Japanese capital. There were over 28,000 soju producers in 1916, but by 1933 that number had plummeted to 430. In 1934, the licensing system for home brewing and distilling was abolished, causing homemade liquors to disappear. As a result, the Government-General’s liquor tax revenue increased sharply; in 1918, the colonial government collected 12 times the amount of liquor taxes as that in 1909, and by 1933, liquor taxes accounted for 33 percent of all taxes collected in Korea. Along the way, soju brewed with traditional malt and distilled with Korean-style stills was gradually replaced by soju made with Japanese-style steamers and black yeast. Traditional distilled soju managed to stay alive despite various hardships, but in 1965 it faced its greatest trial ever. In order to boost the food supply, the Korean government enacted the Grain Management Law that prohibited the use of grains for the manufacture of alcohol. Traditional distilled soju made from rice thus became a thing of the past. In its place, a new type of soju emerged, which was mass produced by diluting stronger alcohol distilled from sweet potatoes, molasses, tapioca, and other foodstuffs, to quench the thirst of Korean drinkers. Manufacturers of diluted soju sprang up one after another in the 1960s, such that the government enacted a restriction in 1973 that allowed only one soju maker per province, leaving 10 companies in operation today. This regulation was the decisive factor behind the

Traditional distilled soju made from rice became a thing of the past after its tumultuous history. Diluted soju did not have a high-quality image, but it was inexpensive and had a unique flavor of its own. So it quickly captured the hearts of consumers. 10

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1 1 The product inspection line at the Jinro factory in Icheon, Gyeonggi Province; this factory alone produces 4.5 million bottles of soju a day, about 60 percent of the companyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s total production. 2 In the display room of the Jinro distilling factory in Icheon, all of the varieties of soju produced by Jinro over the last 80 years are exhibited. The brown bottle in the front on the wooden pedestal is the first variety, produced in 1924. 2

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1-5 Leegangju is produced by steeping pears, ginger, cinnamon, and tumeric in spirits distilled in the traditional fashion; the mixture is matured for three months and then strained through a basket lined with traditional mulberry paper. The man working here is Cho Jeonghyeong, the governmentdesignated practitioner of the art of making Leegangju, originating from Jeonju, North Jeolla Province.

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creation of representative brands from each region. Diluted soju did not have a high-quality image, but it was inexpensive and had a unique flavor of its own. So it quickly captured the hearts of consumers.

World’s Most Sold Spirit The history of diluted soju came to be characterized by reduction of its alcohol content. In the 1960s, when diluted soju first became popular, it was 30 percent alcohol by volume (ABV). In 1973, though, the ABV was reduced to 25 percent, and remained at that level for a quarter century. Then, in the late 1990s, reflecting the worldwide trend favoring lowerABV beverages and an increasingly health-conscious society, 23 percent ABV soju made its debut, leading local manufacturers to introduce new products with even lower alcohol content. The ABV declined to 22 percent and then 21 percent, and in 2006, finally dipping below the previously sacrosanct 20 percent mark, soju with 15.5 percent ABV appeared on store shelves. It had become such a “weak drink” that traditional soju would have been ashamed to recognize it as even a distant cousin. Thereafter, soju with slightly higher ABV has been introduced to the market to appease drinkers who prefer higher alcohol content, but the trend for weaker soju is likely to continue. With its alcohol content lowered, soju has gained more ground among women drinkers and stylish brand names have emerged as well. Korea’s soju brands originally had difficult and rather antiquated names consisting of Chinese characters, such as Jinro (“True Dew”), Gyeongwol (“Bright Moon”), and Muhak (“Dancing Crane”). But in 1998, Jinro changed the name of its signature brand to the easier, native Korean version, “Chamisul.” When this move proved highly successful, competitors came out with new brand names of their own like Cheoeum Cheoreom (“Like the first time”) and Joeunday (“It’s a good day!”). As soju became entrenched as the national drink of Korea, controversy raged over the harmfulness of additives. Those who love soju often describe its taste as “sweet,” and in fact diluted soju contains artificial sweeteners. Concern has been raised about the harmful side effects of artificial sweeteners, such as saccharine, aspartame, and stevioside, but distillers have responded that these substances are not harmful and used in many other products. However, the controversy over artificial sweeteners is a matter that warrants the food industry’s careful attention. After an eventful journey, diluted soju has found a home in Korean society. Soju can now be made from rice again, and legendary traditional liquors are now being revived, but this has not been enough to sway the tastes of the consumers who have come to love the cheap and flavorful diluted soju. According to 2011 market data published in the industry magazine “Drinks International,” Chamisul was first worldwide in the category of spirits, while Cheoeum Cheoreom ranked third. Soju is now not only integral to Korean culture, it has joined the ranks of globally renowned liquors.

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Special Feature 3 the Ins and Outs of Soju

Stealing Memory and Creating Memories Just as I can’t remember being born or taking my first breath, I can’t remember my first glass of soju — who I was with, where we were, whether I knocked it back in one or took a tentative first sip, what we talked about, or what we ate. Or how I got home. The same applies to many subsequent glasses.

Ben Jackson Freelance Writer | Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

y first taste of soju probably came in the course of a backpacking trip, at a time when everything about Korea was unfamiliar and exciting. It would have been poured as samgyeopsal, the everpopular pork belly, sizzled on a hot iron plate in the middle of the table. It didn’t taste or smell of much. It was colorless. At around 19 percent proof, it was slightly more alcoholic than Western grape wine but nowhere near as strong as whiskey or Chinese baijiu. It didn’t burn my throat, but slipped its way smoothly out of the small glass and down into my empty and unsuspecting stomach.

First Encounters Later on, I came back to soju again and again. Sometimes it was in temporarily fashionable guises such as fruit soju, mixed with pear or grape juice, sometimes in more sinister combinations with other highly incompatible beverages, designed for impact rather than taste. The emerald green bottles and small glasses of neat soju, though, have been a permanent presence rather than a passing fad — perhaps one of the only things to be enjoyed and consumed in large quantities by Koreans young and old, female and male. A liquid national institution. Like any foreigner, I soon latched on to the basics of Korean drinking etiquette: never fill your own glass, always refill the empty glasses of fellow drinkers, receive or pour a drink from or for a senior person with both hands. Body language is important: theoretically, a drinker should turn his or her upper body away from a senior while taking a sip or knocking back a cupful, but when a foreigner does this most Koreans express surprise and amusement and declare the practice unnecessary, so I’ve learned to tone that one down a bit. The Rules Some finer points of soju etiquette eluded me for years; these include touching a freshly poured glass to your lips before putting it down on the table even if there is no intention of drinking it immediately, and slightly lowering the glass when someone older pours your drink (contrary to the common notion that raising it is the more polite gesture). These things eluded me because most people no longer consider them important enough to point out. They might score a few points when observed but probably won’t result in offense if overlooked. The sight, sound, taste, and feel of the soju bottle and glass became more and more familiar over the years. And I got used to the particular sense of nausea brought on by an excess of soju, when lying on the ground feels like being strapped to the rotor blades of a helicopter. I familiarized myself with the way a day at work following a soju binge passes by in a state of partial disengagement and with a feeling of floating a few inches off the ground.

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Those who crave a stronger flavor than the popular green-bottle soju might try Hwayo, available in white (25 ABV) and black (41 ABV) bottles.

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Meltdown and Oblivion One of the primary functions of soju — and few will deny that it is a functional drink, not one to be enjoyed slowly for the benefit of the taste buds — is to loosen and, sometimes, fully unravel the tightly woven net of social restrictions, checks and balances that bind Koreans during their sober hours and have helped make the country so successful on a collective scale. It’s no coincidence that the organizations with the most systematic and heavy soju drinking practices — Korea’s famous chaebol — are also those with the most rigid hierarchical structures and tightest discipline outside the armed forces. Having never worked in a work-hard-play-hard conglomerate environment, I can’t claim to have experienced the legendary, full-blown corporate binge. I have often abused soju as a way of demolishing my inhibitions and letting off steam, however. It wasn’t just a one-way thing: soju abused me too. Time and time again, soju and I have embarked on a cycle of gradual relaxation, loud exhilaration, illjudgment, unauthorized sleep, and memory loss. A gathering is generally most fun when everyone has had two or three glasses of soju. Superficial inhibitions and seriousness have been shed; everyone tells funnier jokes and laughs harder at those of others. After a few more glasses, faces become redder. On a winter’s evening, the warmth of a gathering like this is unbeatable. In the smothering humidity of summer, each sip of soju brings the promise of

a sweatier, more dehydrated hangover the next morning. Several glasses later, the table starts to fill with green bottles. People begin to adopt more relaxed postures, leaning back against walls or propping up one leg (most Korean gatherings of this kind take place around low tables, with people sitting on the floor). As the soju continues to take effect, people start to say stupid things. A few more glasses have people sending outrageous text messages that prompt tidal waves of embarrassment and regret the next morning – soju was not made for the era of the smartphone. I’ve had to plead and explain my way out of some very awkward situations because of this. I would like to tell some personal soju horror stories at this point, but here’s the problem: when I drink enough to behave scandalously, I also lose my memory. As a consequence, the horror is mostly mine. It comes in the form of panic at being confronted with gaps such as “1 a.m. to 6 a.m.” or “11 p.m. to 8 a.m.” Various forensic techniques exist for piecing together vague outlines — phone records, location at which consciousness is regained — but these gaps remain largely empty. And that’s probably a good thing. This common pattern describes most of my personal relationships with soju. Drinking soju is a specifically Korean cultural experience on the surface, but getting drunk on it is similar to getting drunk on any other alcohol in any other country. The pleasures and risks entailed are the same. Then there are the exaggerated or entirely false urban legends about soju itself: that the govern-

Soju is an inexpensive alcohol, but it is welcome wherever people get together for a drink.

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Drinking soju is a specifically Korean cultural experience on the surface, but getting drunk on it is similar to getting drunk on any other alcohol in any other country. The pleasures and risks entailed are the same. ment deliberately kept the price low during the years of military dictatorship; that it was manufactured from discarded potato peelings in the days when rice was so scarce that using it to brew alcohol was illegal; that it has grown progressively weaker over the years and that this has been partly motivated by a desire on the part of its makers to attract more female drinkers. Some of these notions are distorted versions of the truth; others appear to have been plucked out of thin air.

Premium Varieties The soju that has given me most of the experiences described above is common or garden variety soju, of which millions of bottles are produced and consumed every day. Of strength in the 19-20 percent proof range, this soju comes in a number of regional varieties, each with a subtle difference in taste and sweetness but sold in an identical green bottle behind the label. Seoul’s most common variety is “Chamisul,” meaning “true dew,” brewed by the alcohol giant Jinro. On a recent short tour of soju factories and distilleries in Korea, I had a chance to visit the Jinro plant in Icheon, which turns out 4.5 million bottles a day. It was a slick operation, a highly mechanized and choreographed performance of steel tanks, sealed pipes, and rivers of green bottles. I had a hangover at the time, so it wasn’t a happy experience. But the tour also included encounters with three generally much stronger varieties: Hwayo, a premium brand sold in 17 percent, 25 percent, and 41 percent versions, matured for three to six months in traditional giant brown-glazed pots; 45 percent proof Andong Soju, brewed and distilled by Cho Ok-hwa, the officially registered title holder of an age-old traditional process in the southeastern city of the same name; and Leegangju, a traditional soju flavored with pear, ginger, turmeric, cinnamon, and honey, made by Cho Jeonghyeong, famous for reviving lost traditional distilled liquors. Most of the liquids that flowed in these places were much stronger than Chamisul, throat burners in elegant packaging that make fancy gifts rather than being one of the nation’s most basic everyday consumables. It was fascinating to meet a handful of the several dozen traditional soju brewers and distillers dotted around the country today who have fought against improbable odds, spending years in search of elusive links to past alcoholic glories. They have rediscovered, reinterpreted, reinvented, and recreated, filling large historical gaps with their own intuition and inspiration. Some of them are now looking to conquer overseas markets, riding the recent global “wave” of Korean culture that has pre-intoxicated many countries with pop music, TV dramas, and other genres. Watching the traditional process of brewing Andong Soju was a reminder of the lengths that people will go to in order to secure sources of intoxication. The rice and wheat used at the brewing stage are themselves the results of months of time and labor, as well as being valuable sources of food. The processes of brewing and distilling, too, require copious amounts of time, concentration, effort, and expertise in order to produce a few cups of alcohol. Today’s mechanization and mass-production of cheaper soju such as Chamisul means this is no longer a consideration, but it felt good to know that the Koreans and the English, past and present, share a love of and unswerving dedication to drink. Friend or Enemy…? For Koreans and foreigners alike, soju provides experiences of all kinds. As some Koreans say: “You drink it when you’re happy, when you’re sad, and when you’re bored.” In my partially melted mind, it has left a green but colorless wake of partially intact memories, sometimes disappearing for months on end before returning for an unapologetic reunion. It is a lubricant and a solvent, a stimulant and a sedative. In all of these forms, it constitutes an indispensable element of contemporary Korean culture, and an unbroken link to the past. K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

Special Feature 4 the Ins and Outs of Soju

This pictogram depicts a drinkerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s profile, created with a stylized rendering of the Hangeul (Korean script) word for liquor, sul

Why Do Koreans Drink and How Much? We consume alcohol on all sorts of occasions â&#x20AC;&#x201D; in times of joy, sadness, happiness, and stress. Starting off with one glass, often we end up drinking till we are drunk. The following looks at what the statistics say about the Korean drinking culture. Cho Surng-gie Researcher of Drinking Culture; President, Boosting Alcohol Consciousness Concerning the Health of University Students in Korea (BACCHUS Korea)

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he drinking culture in Korea has much to do with the free and lively temperament of its people. Koreans have intense feelings and high spirits, and love to enjoy themselves. The Korean tradition of generous hospitality and the time-honored custom of sharing a drink to deepen relationships can lead to drunkenness in various social settings. For example, following the traditional family rites to honor their ancestors, senior relatives will invariably pass a glass of the liquor used in the rites to their underage nephews. Also, it is not unusual to see amateur athletes meet up for a morning training session in their neighborhood and follow this with breakfast accompanied by a drink of some kind. Foreigners unfamiliar with Korean culture might wonder about such behavior. But in Korea, drinking together helps form and cement ties between family members and friends alike. In the United States, liquor licensing regulations in the states of California (1999) and New York (2002) have recognized soju as an aspect of traditional Korean cuisine by allowing it to be sold even in restaurants that are not licensed to sell distilled spirits. The U.S. regulations reflect an acknowledgement of the Korean custom of drinking soju with such dishes as bulgogi (grilled marinated beef) and samgyeopsal (pork belly), among others.

Alcohol Consumption — How Much and Why? According to a 2013 survey that I conducted in collaboration with the Korea Alcohol and Liquor Industry Association, a large majority of Korean people (71.8 percent) regard drinking as a necessary element of social life in Korea, particularly significant for men (65.8 percent). Quite surprisingly, 32.5 percent of middle and high school teachers surveyed showed a lenient attitude toward mild alcohol consumption by teenagers, and some 81.5 of all respondents said they believed all people have the right to drink alcohol of their own free will. Until as recently as 50 years ago, makgeolli (unrefined rice wine) was the most common drink in Korea’s agriculture-based society. It was often served to farmers in the field as its mild alcohol content of around 6 percent was thought to boost productivity. The belief that alcohol can improve labor productivity persisted in the era of industrialization when soju became the drink of choice. In 2012 alone, the per capita (over 15 years of age) soju consumption reached 31 liters in Korea, equivalent to a whopping 88 bottles per person. If 80 percent of drinkers are considered moderate social drinkers, the volume consumed by the remaining 20 percent would be significantly larger. Soju is regarded as a means to improve communication between people and reduce stress. According to the 2011 National Health Survey by the Ministry of Health and Welfare, 77.4 percent of male and 44.2 percent of female respondents said they had consumed more than one glass of alcohol during the previous month. The survey also showed that male alcohol consumption was noticeably decreasing in contrast to a rise in female consumption. K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

When asked about their reasons for drinking, most Koreans cited socialization and alleviation of stress. Only 3 percent of respondents said they drink simply to get intoxicated. Alcohol-dependent respondents made up 2.2 percent of the total, a decrease from 4.3 percent a decade earlier. However, the broader category of people with “alcohol use disorders,” which include drinkers involved in accidents as a result of intoxication in addition to alcoholics, amounted to 4.4 percent of those surveyed.

Soju Cocktails and ‘D-100 Drink’ Regular soju, which is sold in a green 360-ml bottle, has an alcohol content of 19 percent. The colorless transparent liquor is conventionally served in a small 50-ml glass. A full glass of soju is often consumed in a single shot, especially the first glass. A recent soju drinking trend is to make somaek, which is soju mixed with beer, or maekju , a kind of so-called “bomb drink.” A foreigner traveling in Korea and socializing with the locals is likely to be bombarded with such cocktails, which have long been a hallmark of the Korean drinking culture. Before somaek, the most common drink of this kind was a mixture of whiskey and beer, which of course has a much higher alcohol content. But despite its relative mildness, a few somaek drinks, one after another, can easily knock out an unseasoned drinker. Statistics indicate that one out of every four drinkers in Korea indulges in excessive alcohol consumption at least once a week, while those who drink heavily on a daily basis account for 5 percent of the drinking population. Binge drinking is defined as having six to seven drinks on one occasion for men, and three to four drinks for women. Regardless of type of alcoholic beverage, the amount of alcohol contained in each standard serving is about 8 grams. More precisely, in terms of blood alcohol content, a reading of 0.08 or higher is usually considered the threshold. Generally, researchers find that the culture of binge drinking is closely associated with the elevated stress levels of today’s highly industrialized and urbanized lifestyle. Of course, the past few decades of rapid economic transformation in Korea have significantly raised stress levels, but documentary evidence suggests that heavy drinking has a much longer history in this country. Records going back as far as the third century B.C. state that days of drinking and merry marking regularly followed communal rites. Drinking alcohol may have been regarded as a medium to commune with the gods and an opportunity for the common people to enjoy themselves. It is likely these seasonal festivities involved heavy drinking and intoxication to some extent. These days, having a drink also constitutes a part of the Korean high school student’s experience. It is said that students should drink alcohol one hundred days prior to the college entrance exam in order to avoid misfortune on the day of the critical test. This compulsive drinking rite, or “D-100 drink” (baegilju), among students in their final year of high school, is a unique practice in Korea, but it is

rarely associated with binge drinking. Once in college, students often encounter yet another drinking rite at orientation when they are pressured by older students to drink a large bowl of soju in a single gulp. These incidents sometimes lead to alcohol-related deaths and other risks, as reported by the media.

Coercive Drinking or Group Camaraderie? In a 2007 survey of 2,000 Koreans between 15 and 64 years of age living in different cities and towns across the country, carried out by the Korean Drinking Culture Research Center (utilizing the stratified sampling method), it was found that 57 percent of the respondents had experienced peer pressure to drink alcohol during company dinners. Managers regularly organize after-work dinners in order to boost workplace morale, enhance teamwork and loyalty, and encourage communication among colleagues, so as to improve productivity overall. Typically, soju is readily available on

these occasions. During company get-togethers, another conventional practice is to pass oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s glass to another person. Normally, if you receive a glass full of liquor from a colleague, you are expected to drink it down and return a full glass to the person. To do otherwise may cause offense. In this fashion, drinks continue to be passed around, and back and forth, until everyone gets drunk. A notable 75 percent of the survey respondents, and 61.4 percent of females, said they are used to this practice of passing around glasses. Whether meeting for work or social purposes, more than half of economically active Koreans say they have experienced multiple rounds of drinking on a single night. Some 55 percent of men and 35 percent of women said they have been part of drinking parties involving more than two rounds on a single evening, which suggests a general tendency for excessive drinking. Moreover, 77 percent said they had drunk beyond their limits at least once.

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During the past decade, drinking has declined somewhat among Korean men but risen among women. A recent survey on teenage drinking sent a shock wave through Korean society as the percentage of drinkers among female high school students was higher than that of male students. The number of adult female drinkers has jumped 10 percent over the past decade, with 30 percent of them leaning toward heavy drinking. One tenth of Korean female drinkers belong to the “high risk” category (drinking more than twice a week, with more than seven glasses each time for men and five glasses for women). Fortunately, the rate of drinking among pregnant women is on the decline; however, one in five adult women lacks knowledge of fetal alcohol syndrome or the health risks related to alcohol consumption during pregnancy. While certain distillers adhere to the traditional brewing recipe of using only Korean grains, most soju makers utilize base ingredients imported from Latin America or Southeast Asia. In this sense,

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it is not wrong to say that mass-produced commercial Korean soju brands are “hybrid soju” that combine foreign grains with Korean brewing techniques.

Hybrid Soju Drunkenness at times results in quarrels and even fighting. But the next morning, Koreans readily apologize for their misbehavior and are just as readily forgiven. Acceptance of alcohol-related misbehavior is a longstanding tradition in Korea, which the neighboring Chinese, according to old historical documents, found “incomprehensible.” For those who are not familiar with the Korean lifestyle, it may be difficult to understand the collective drinking culture, not to mention the leniency shown by superiors to employees who are absent or late for work due to a hangover. These customary practices will probably continue as long as soju remains Korea’s national drink.

“On the Way Home” by Lee Sang-kwon, mixed media on canvas, 116.5 x 45 cm, 2011.

Special Feature 5 the Ins and Outs of Soju

oreans rarely drink alcohol without food. Even in the Joseon Dynasty, when people dropped by the local tavern for a quick drink they would usually be offered some free snacks. Hard liquor such as soju, in particular, called for generous servings of food as an accompaniment. In the saying, “Hard liquor without anju will cause stomach problems,” hard liquor refers specifically to soju. There’s also the proverb that goes, “Drinking without anju means an unfortunate son-in-law.” These are basically words of caution against drinking without food, which brings on a state of drunkenness much faster. Like wine, which is often served with meals in the West, soju can also be consumed along with a meal, but Koreans tend to have soju with side dishes first and then proceed onto the main meal.

Foods that Stimulate the Drinker’s Appetite The Korean notion of anju may have no exact equivalent in the West, where people do not always seek out food to have with their drinks. While “munchies,” “snacks” and “side dishes” are general English equivalents for anju, the nuances are different. Anju is not meant to be a full meal but it doesn’t necessarily refer to light snacks. It could be said that anju is meant to enhance the flavor of alcohol rather than to satisfy an empty stomach. At the same time, many people will have their fill of anju along with drinks so they won’t need a proper meal afterward. In Chinese, there are similar terms, such as jiucai and jiuyao, and in Japanese sakana, which all refer to the food eaten as an accompaniment to alcohol. So it may be that this kind of anju concept is found only in East Asian food and drinking cultures. As the old saying goes, “The sight of anju makes you think of a drink,” anju can stimulate the desire for alcohol. Dry Anju, Wet Anju Soju matches well with any kind of Korean food. This compatibility with Korean cuisine can help to explain why soju is the nation’s favorite alcoholic drink, despite its relatively brief history, as compared to various traditional liquors. Typical dry anju dishes include a wide range of dried fish and seafood, such as squid, filefish, and pollack, as well as various nuts. There is also a long list of wet anju choices, including jjigae (stew), jjim (steamed dishes), jeongol (stew cooked at the table), and tofu dishes. Some drinkers prefer dry anju, but most Koreans favor wet dishes. Suyuk (boiled beef or pork) is one of the favorite wet dishes that are enjoyed with soju. Boiled meat is typically served to guests at special festive occasions or funerals, but it is also a popular side dish

Savory Foods that Accompany Soju Unlike beer, soju is seldom consumed without side dishes, called anju. In fact, the sight of tasty food on the table can stimulate the desire for soju. For instance, when certain fish dishes are in season, this provides a perfect excuse for people to get together for a drink after work. The variety of side dishes that go well with soju is endless indeed. Ye Jong-suk Food Columnist; Professor of Marketing, Hanyang University | Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

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Tofu and kimchi, cheap and filling, is one of the most common dishes that accompany soju drinking in Korea.

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According to a survey of young Korean employees, for company gatherings after work, the most popular food eaten with soju is samgyeopsal , or grilled pork belly. Its popularity has remained intact since the late 1970s when people found that the fatty taste of pork belly went so well with the strong distilled liquor.

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for various alcoholic beverages. Just as popular is another meat dish, bulgogi (thinly sliced, marinated and grilled beef), which has a history going as far back as the Goguryeo Kingdom. Bindaetteok (mung bean pancake with various vegetables) dipped in soy sauce is also often served with soju. Once nicknamed binjaddeok (literally “poor man’s cake”), it is a food closely associated with the ordinary people. Ddeoksanjeok, skewers of rice cake slices, marinated beef, mushrooms, and other vegetables, which is invariably found on the table whenever the family gathers for major holidays, is another longtime favorite food enjoyed with soju. The most popular wet anju, however, might well be sulguk (literally “alcohol soup”). This is a generic term for soups containing a larger serving of meat slices than usual. Also known as “the friend of soju,” this type of soup inspires soju drinkers to polish off a few bottles with ease.

Seasonal Foods The availability of dishes prepared with fresh seasonal ingredients is more than ample reason for friends and colleagues to get together for drinks. Since a basic principle of Korean cuisine emphasizes the use of seasonal ingredients, this also applies to the preparation of food to accompany soju. For instance, particular fish dishes are highly sought after when in season, as evident in the adage “flounder for spring, gizzard shad for autumn.” Regions and towns renowned for their seasonal delicacies organize annual food fairs, which attract visitors from around the country to savor the local specialties. Soju lovers who cannot make it to fishing areas or the countryside seek out the restaurants in their vicinity that serve the regional specialties. In winter, they have soju with fresh pollack stew, and in spring they gather at restaurants that offer fresh flounder or webfoot octopus. In summer, croaker is the fish favored by soju drinkers, who will eat it raw, in a spicy broth, or covered in flour and egg and pan-fried. Korean gourmets say that croaker skin and air bladder have a texture and flavor that are a fantastic complement to soju. Raw sea bass and grilled sea eel are prized summer delicacies, which are widely believed to improve stamina to fight the summer heat.

Samgyeopsal , the Nation’s Favorite Anju

Samgyeopsal (grilled pork belly) and a medley of accompanying vegetables. Soju is the favorite drink of young Korean employees, and samgyeopsal their favorite anju dish. K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

According to a recent survey of young Korean employees, for company gatherings after work, the most frequent drink choice is soju, and the most popular anju is samgyeopsal, or grilled pork belly. The unrivalled popularity of samgyeopsal as an accompaniment to soju is a very recent development. During the Goryeo Dynasty, when Buddhism was the state religion, meat consumption was prohibited for religious reasons. Even after the ban was lifted in the Confucian-oriented Joseon Dynasty, with meat in short supply overall, Koreans traditionally preferred beef over pork. Pork became a popular meat choice in the 1970s when the government promoted large-scale pig farming and encouraged pork production. The rapid increase in the pork supply fueled a steady rise in its consumption and by the late 1970s grilled pork belly was all the rage. At a time when the country was striving to achieve industrialization, the cheaper pork meat was a source of nutrition and an ideal accompaniment for hard liquor. The survey revealed that other popular anju choices are fried chicken, sliced raw fish, grilled beef, grilled marinated pork ribs, jokbal (pork hocks), pork bone stew with potatoes, vegetable and other varieties of pancakes, and grilled beef intestines. Of course, this is far from being an exhaustive list of the dishes enjoyed with soju. Seasoned raw beef, jokpyeon (beef gelatin), dried fish roe, green onion pancakes, grilled chicken giblets, budaejjigae (“military stew”), duruchigi (spicy stir-fried vegetables and meat), shellfish soup, steamed octopus, egg rolls, acorn jelly salad, buckwheat jelly salad, and various pan-fried foods (jeon) — these are also popular dishes frequently accompanying soju. Sampling various anju dishes is a good way to immerse oneself in the Korean drinking culture. Anyone planning a visit to Seoul should not miss the food alley (meokja golmok) at Gwangjang Market, near the East Gate (Dongdaemun), where visitors can try the food that ordinary people seek out when having a drink.

art review

Gilt-bronze Pensive Bodhisattva (National Treasure No. 83). Height: 93.5cm. National Museum of Korea. Ko re a n Cu l tu re & A rts

Silla

Korea’s Golden Kingdom The first-ever exhibition in the West to highlight exclusively the art of the ancient Korean kingdom of Silla (57 B.C.-A.D. 935) opened to great fanfare at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, on November 4, 2013. The culmination of five years of cooperation among the Met, the National Museum of Korea, and the Gyeongju National Museum — the sole two lenders — the exhibition will continue until February 23, 2014. Soyoung Lee Curator, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City

he dazzling treasures on display at this momentous exhibition — over 130 pieces, all on loan from Korea — range from sumptuous gold regalia and jewelry to imported goods and exquisite Buddhist icons. They are eloquent testimonies to the cultural splendor achieved by ancient Koreans through active exchanges with other nations near and far. Many are designated National Treasures or Treasures.

How It All Began The initial idea for the exhibition took seed in 2008. Denise Patry Leidy, exhibition co-curator and a specialist of Chinese Buddhist art and ceramics at the Met, was visiting the Gyeongju National Museum when one of their curators asked: “How about if the Met does an exhibition on Silla?” Who would have thought this casually pitched suggestion would ultimately lead to the staging of a landmark exhibition in New York in autumn 2013? After Denise returned from that trip, she and I discussed the merits of a show centered on Silla and decided to pursue the project. Over the years it morphed from a small exhibition focusing on the gold artifacts from 5th- and 6th-century Silla tombs to a more conceptually complex one that encompasses a broad array of objects from regalia to Buddhist icons, spanning four centuries from about A.D. 400 to 800 (covering the periods traditionally known as “Old Silla” and “Unified Silla”), the peak of cultural flowering in this ancient Korean kingdom. It tells the story of Silla’s rise to distnction, becoming a cosmopolitan state of commanding presence and influence within and beyond the peninsula. The Met’s partnership also shifted between the Gyeongju National Museum and the National Museum of Korea (Seoul), finally settling on a three-way collaboration. K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

Once the concept and scale of the show broadened, we lobbied internally within the Metropolitan Museum to stage the exhibition not in the Arts of Korea Gallery but also in the Special Exhibition Galleries on the first floor, for a larger space with greater attendance. Their location adjacent to the galleries for Greek and Roman art was a plus since part of the story we hoped to tell was the Silla kingdom’s connections to the broader network of cultures in Eurasia, whose sources could in part be traced to the Roman Empire

The Exhibition, in Three Parts In the very first room of the exhibition, the visitor is greeted by a floor-to-ceiling, curved-wall projection showing the Great Tomb of Hwangnam, the largest and most significant 5th-century Silla tomb. Visible from the Greek and Roman galleries, this arresting video is meant to pull the visitor into the world of Silla. The “real live” projection — capturing cars moving in the distance, a bird flying across the screen, and the branches and leaves of trees swaying and fluttering — is meant to transport the visitor to Gyeongju, once the capital city known as Seorabeol, to provide a sense of what it is like to walk alongside such a tomb. From the time of their construction, the large, mounded tombs of the royals and elites (comprising a ground-level wood chamber containing the coffin, covered with impenetrable layers of stones and earth) have stood as symbols of political authority and cultural grandeur. The first of three parts of the exhibition features treasures from important 5th- and 6th-century burials, anchored by the sumptuous gold crown and belt and other dazzling objects excavated from the Great Tomb of Hwangnam. Spanning 120 meters in total length, north-to-south, and 80 meters in diameter east-to-west, this double burial of a king and his queen yielded an extraordinary horde of treasures in both quantity and quality. The artifacts from Silla tombs displayed in the first section range from glittering gold or glass bead jewelry and clay or precious metal vessels, often possessing perforated pedestals, to decorative swords and horse trappings and fittings. The stories that these objects tell both individually and in groups are multifaceted

1 A banner announces the Silla exhibition at the entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. 2 Gold earrings from Bomun Double Burial Tomb (National Treasure No. 90). Length: 8.6cm, Weight: 57.1g (left); Length: 8.8cm, Weight: 58.7g (right). National Museum of Korea. 3 Gold belt from the northern mound of the Great Tomb of Hwangnam (National Treasure No. 192). Length: 120cm, Length of pendants: 22.577.5cm. Gyeongju National Museum.

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and intriguing. Their presence evidences a deep belief in providing elaborately for an afterlife. Stylistically, these burial goods hint at connections to the nomadic cultures along the Eurasian steppes beyond the Silla kingdom. The second part of the exhibition highlights the international character of Silla culture, through imported exotica and imagery of foreign origins. Coveted objects of prestige, made in locations between China and the Mediterranean, have been preserved in Silla tombs. Among them are Roman-style glass vessels, a beautiful gold dagger and sheath inlaid with glass and garnet, and a miniature silver repoussĂŠ bowl with unusual figures and animals. Other examples include richly glazed sancai (three-colored) ceramics and porcelain from Tang Dynasty China. Exactly how such pieces made their way to the Korean peninsula remains the subject of an ongoing debate among scholars. What is clear is that Silla was integrated into the vast trade route of the Silk Road, in addition to the northern steppes. Sillaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s contacts with West Asia, for example, are visible in tomb statues depicting foreign individuals with large eyes and noses and abundant facial hair. The third and final section focuses on the art of Buddhism, originally a South Asian religion that was sanctioned in Silla around 527. With its adoption, post-mortem practices changed: cremation and small stone chambers became the norm. Moreover, gold, once the material of choice for personal adornments as shown in the first section of the exhibition, came to be used for icons and reliquaries. The small seated Buddha fashioned from this precious material is a prime example. The Buddhist art objects selected for this exhibition, created from the 6th through 9th centuries and embodying pan-Asian sources, demonstrate the range in styles, ico-

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2 1 Gold crown from the northern mound of the Great Tomb of Hwangnam (National Treasure No. 191). Height: 27.3cm, Length of pendants: 13-30.3cm. Gyeongju National Museum. 2 Visitors to the exhibition view a 3-D animation of the construnction of Seokguram Grotto in Gyeongju (National Treasure No. 24). 3 A digital presentation of the Great Tomb of Hwangnam at the entrance to the exhibition draws visitors into the ancient world of Silla.

The stories that these objects tell both individually and in groups are multifaceted and intriguing. Their presence evidences a deep belief in providing elaborately for an afterlife. Stylistically, these burial goods hint at connections to the nomadic cultures along the Eurasian steppes beyond the Silla kingdom.

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nography, and doctrines that were in vogue in Silla during this period, such as the guardian figures on clay plaques from the Temple of the Four Guardians. The highlight of the Buddhist section is the famous gilt-bronze Bodhisattva in pensive pose, or National Treasure No. 83, a captivating statue of elegant simplicity. An impressive cast-iron Buddha — a stylistic descendant of the renowned Buddha at the Seokguram grotto — delivers the grand finale.

Making the Objects Come Alive As part of the overall vision to make this exhibition as accessible and compelling as possible, we decided to integrate digital media into the presentation of the artworks to provide greater contextualization. This effort dovetailed nicely with Samsung being the exhibition's lead sponsor. The digital presentations include a video showing 3-D animation of the construction of the impressive Great Tomb of Hwangnam and clips from footage of its excavation in the 1970s; an interactive display showcasing the spectacular pair of earrings from Bomun Double Burial Tomb as well as video demonstrations of gold-making techniques like granulation; a digital map marking possible places of manufacture of the imported goods on display; and toward the end of the exhibition, a 3-D animation of the construction of Seokguram, one of the most important extant Buddhist monuments in East Asia and a World Heritage site. Visitors to the exhibition have consistently remarked that all of the digital media seamlessly contribute to their understanding and appreciation of the art. No amount of supporting material can bring the objects to life without the right installation. Our talented exhibition designer, Michael Lapthorn, helped plan the layout of the artworks and offered aesthetic and practical advice during the installation process. We were shooting for drama and elegance, intimate viewings alongside grand presentations, and some unexpected yet illuminating surprises. Here are some examples of how specific objects were brought to life. The visitors first see the magnificent crown and belt excavated from the Great Tomb of Hwangnam behind a semi-translucent scrim; once they turn the corner, this dazzling set of regalia is fully revealed. Floor tiles from Wolji (Moon Pond) are displayed in a shallow vitrine set into the ground, allowing the visitors to walk around them and peer down, recreating their original appearance. The pensive bodhisattva sits in an intimate niche-like space that reveals itself only when one reaches the end of the path leading to the Buddhist art room.

1 Gold Seated Buddha from Hwangbok Temple, Gyeongju (National Treasure No. 79). Height: 12.2cm. National Museum of Korea. 2 Gold dagger and sheath from Gyerim-ro Tomb No. 14, Gyeongju (Treasure No. 635). Gyeongju National Museum. 3 Gold stem cup from the northern mound of the Great Tomb of Hwangnam. Height: 9.1cm. Gyeongju National Museum.

When Silla Met the Met A year ago I stood outside Seokguram in Gyeongju under a full moon, alongside the Metropolitan’s director and associate director for exhibitions and colleagues from the Gyeongju National Museum, feeling secure that the Silla exhibition would come to fruition as we had envisioned it. Between then and the opening, there was unanticipated drama surrounding the loans, in particular the gilt-bronze pensive bodhisattva. Fortunately, this star piece was ultimately permitted to travel to New York. When all of the artworks arrived safely at the Met, and again when the last object was installed in its vitrine, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief. As with any exhibition, “Silla: Korea’s Golden Kingdom” has involved the collaboration and dedication of countless people, both in Korea and in the United States. We are immensely grateful to the two national museums and to the Korean government for enabling the splendors of Silla to be shared with visitors from around the world at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

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Guardian of Heritage

“A

fter the drooping branches of a willow tree have been stirred by a sudden rush of wind, each one of them sags back down, taking different shapes, each one faster or more slowly than the other. Similarly, this dance should be performed as if each of your limbs is moving separately and independently.” Lee Sang-ryul took these words of his teacher to heart when he learned to perform the dance of Malddugi as a college student. The teacher was Tae Myeong-jun (1904-1979), who played a crucial role in having the “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong” designated as an Important Intangible Cultural Property and was later officially recognized as its title holder. In this mask dance drama, the central character Malddugi, a servant with incredible strength, performs the traditional dance called deotbaegi, which has been performed by men of the Yeongnam region in southeastern Korea. What makes deotbaegi (meaning “repeated downward strikes”) a truly original dance is the way it incorporates two movements to a single beat. Traditional Korean dance typically has one movement for every beat, but this dance combines two quick movements to a single beat, shifting from one to the other by means of a quick inhalation or a twitching motion inserted in between. This shifting should be made delicately, employing a series of breathing patterns that calls for inhaling, retaining breath, another inhaling, and then quick exhaling. The dance, however, has no formalized rules for such movements, so the dancer is free to improvise to the rhythm of gutgeori, one of the basic rhythmic patterns of traditional Korean music and dance. For example, the dancer will raise his arms over his head and, while inhaling, reach farther up, and then quickly droop his shoulders, letting out a deep breath and gently lowering his arms. Performing these movements with

a graceful subtlety is the essence of this dance. Recalling the days when he learned this dance, Lee Sang-ryul said, “It’s amazing that a man who only had an elementary school education was able to formulate such a wonderful description of the dance.” To perform a perfect deotbaegi dance, he added, it is important to “let yourself go and allow the moment to seize you.”

Deep-rooted Regionalism “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong” is a type of entertainment on the fields (deul noreum) that originated in Suyeong, a historic district and naval headquarters of old in what is now the metropolitan city of Busan. Most traditional Asian mask dance dramas are derived from village rites to pray for the welfare of the community or to soothe the misfortunes of fellow villagers. The native dance drama of Suyeong also began as an entertainment activity, consisting of farmers’ band music and drama performance, staged before and after a village rite. Held around the third or fourth of the first lunar month, an off-season for farmers, the village rite was aimed at praying for a plentiful harvest and the community’s wellbeing during the year. Of course, then as now, the performers were mainly people born and raised in Suyeong. Lee Sang-ryul hails from another part of Busan, and is thus considered an “outsider” by his fellow performers. Because of this he has little chance of being designated as a title holder, the highest honor for performing artists under the Intangible Cultural Properties system. The designation is bestowed upon a peer by title-holding elders, but Lee has not yet acquired even the position of a qualified instructor, one step below a title holder in the hierarchy. This indicates that Suyeong more specifically emphasizes regional authenticity than the mask dance dra-

Lee Sang-ryul Master Performer of Mask Dance Drama Lee Sang-ryul is one of the few performers who are proficient in both dancing and acting, seamlessly switching between the male role of Malddugi, a wily servant, and the female role of Halmi, an elderly woman, in the “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong” (Suyeong yaryu ), designated as Important Intangible Cultural Property No. 43. For over 40 years since he was introduced to Korea’s mask dance tradition, Lee has been at the forefront of efforts to hand down the folk performing arts of the Busan region to succeeding generations.

Choi Hae-ree Dance Ethnologist | Ahn Hong-beom Photographer Ko re a n Cu l tu re & A rts

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Lee Sang-ryul plays Halmi, the old woman, in the “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong.” He learned to play the part in the 1970s from the village elders who spearheaded the restoration of the traditional mask dance drama. He also contributed to recording its full script.

While the first part of the drama is highlighted by the comical antics of the servant character Malddugi, the central character in the latter part is undoubtedly Halmi, who rattles the stage in a ridiculous costume that bares her chest and midriff, and exaggerated twitching of her hips. Lee Sang-ryul plays this farcical character with unabashed wit and playfulness.

mas of most other regions. Like many other mask dance dramas that have been handed down in Asia, the Suyeong version is a multifaceted performing art that combines narrative, music, dancing, and acting. Since the performers are required to be proficient in singing, dancing, and acting, it is typical for each performer to specialize in a single character. Lee Sang-ryul, however, is able to play all the characters of the mask dance drama since he comprehensively learned the genre from village elders during the time when it was being restored to its original form. “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong” boasts over 300 years of tradition, but its transmission was interrupted in the early 20th century when Korea fell under Japanese colonial rule. In the late 1960s, community leaders joined hands to restore traditional culture, taking strength from the Intangible Cultural Properties system implemented by the government. Since 1962, when the government enacted the Cultural Properties Protection Act, intangible cultural assets that are worthy of state-level protection and support for their preservation have been designated as Important Intangible Cultural Properties. Under this system, many forms of mask dance dramas and farmers’ band music with diverse regional origins have been recognized with official designations. In the late 1960s, in pursuit of such recognition, residents of Suyeong worked for the restoration of their native version of folk mask dance drama. The project to revive its music, dancing, and acting elements was spearheaded by community leaders and elders, with folklorists from Busan contributing their expertise for the documentation of its scripts. In 1971, their efforts were rewarded when the “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong” was listed as Important Intangible Cultural Property No. 43.

Destined to Encounter Mask Dance Drama It was a combination of coincidence and destiny that attracted Lee Sang-ryul to mask dance drama. In 1969, when the genre’s restoration was underway, he entered Pusan National University, where he majored in philosophy. He barely got admitted because he “did not do well in high

school,” he said, and since his choice of major was not well considered, he soon felt that the study of philosophy was extremely boring. Then, he came upon a breakthrough that energized his college life; he joined a club. At the time, Pusan National University was keen to encourage its students to participate in extracurricular activities. Lee joined the Traditional Arts Club on the recommendation of his uncle who was a professor at the school. Lee’s uncle, worried about his nephew’s lack of interest in his study, introduced him to Seo Guk-yeong, a professor of English literature who organized the club, which studied and performed traditional performing arts. Professor Seo was a specialist in Shakespeare’s plays, and also a theater director who was quite well-known in Busan. In a research project conducted in 1968 as part of a grant program offered by the Ministry of Culture and Public Information (now the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism), Seo made a proposal on how the “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong” could be organized into a formal stage performance. Since its launch in 1969, the Traditional Arts Club received full support from the president of the university, Sin Gi-seok, who was well-versed in folk arts. The university’s purpose of encouraging students’ extracurricular activities was, in fact, an effort to deter them from engaging in protests against the authoritarian government of Park Chunghee. But, as it turned out, the initiative that was intended to distract students’ attention from politics actually produced the opposite result. It gave students an opportunity to use their knowledge of cultural genres, especially folk performing arts, for their pro-democracy movement. They used the humorous satire of the mask dance drama to make a roundabout criticism of dictatorship, and their street marches were accompanied by the boisterous clanging of farmers’ band music. Thus, it was surprising in a sense that the Traditional Arts Club, which was at the vanguard of the cultural movements of college students, did not commit itself to pro-democracy protests.

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1 Halmi mimics the act of applying make-up in the “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong.” 2 Lee Sang-ryul takes off his Halmi mask. Other performers who play Halmi emulate Lee’s style of making gestures and speaking lines, which is his original interpretation of the character based on the teachings of the local village elders from whom he learned to play the part.

Traditional Arts Club Shortly after its formation, some 60 members of the club performed farmers’ band music at an event to celebrate the university’s foundation anniversary. At the time, it was such a novel idea for college students to play traditional folk music at this kind of event that it created a sensation among universities nationwide. As the club’s innovative performance helped to publicize the university, this served to further boost the president’s interest and support. Under his sponsorship, the club members were able to learn a variety of folk performing arts from a diverse group of professional artists, who were invited on campus to teach them and even gave performances for students. They included famous musicians who were active in Busan, such as Sin Kwae-dong (geomungo, six-string zither), Won Ok-hwa (gayageum , twelve-string zither), Kang Baek-cheon (daegeum , transverse bamboo flute) and Song Sun-seop (pansori , narrative song). These musicians worked for a private institute that taught the traditional performing arts to female entertainers associated with a famous courtesan’s house located near the university. In spite of some students’ complaints about allowing “courtesans” into their campus, the president continued to encourage meetings between the artists and students. One of Lee Sang-ryul’s responsibilities as the club’s leader was to escort the artists, bringing them into the campus and handling their fees. From these contacts, Lee became close to the musicians and visited them at their studios to learn more about their arts. In September 1970, the National Arts Festival for Universities was held in Seoul. It featured nationwide contests in all major fields of the arts, such as choral singing, dancing, music, theater, fine arts, and folk arts, with substantial prize money at stake. On the recommendation of Professor Seo, the Traditional Arts Club participated in the festival with a performance of the “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong.” Jo Jae-jun, Yun Su-man and Tae Myeong-jun, professional stage artists who were working to restore the genre, were invited to teach and direct the students’ performance. Lee took the role of Malddugi out of a sense of responsibility as the club’s leader: when all the masks of the characters were laid out for the members to choose a role, no one picked up the mask of Malddugi. The students might well have been unwilling to take it because the mask weighed a good 2.2 kilograms. When he tried the mask on, it was not only heavy but also made it hard to breathe. It K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

was a time before wireless microphones, so it was almost impossible for his lines to be heard clearly because his mouth was constricted by the mask. A solution to this problem came from Tae Myeong-jun, one of the instructors, and Professor Seo: They urged him to drink alcohol before going on stage in order to shed his inhibitions and utter his lines at the top of his voice. He followed the advice and had some drinks before the performance. Rather tipsy, he shouted out his lines and got lost in the dancing. His club captured the Grand Prize. The Traditional Arts Club had 70 to 80 members at its peak, with 20 or so forming a core of loyal members. Several members, including Lee, continued their dedication to the traditional arts even after graduation, “screwing up our lives for good,” said Lee Sang-ryul, laughing out loud. His father was taken aback when he saw his son, a college student, beating a hand gong or drum, the likes of which were only seen in the hands of street vendors or shamans. Every time he saw his son playing traditional musical instruments or dancing, the father scolded the son, shouting, “Here comes the leader of a vagabond troupe!” or “My good-for-nothing boy is idling away his precious college years.” There were many days when Lee could not

dance dramas of other regions. Lee go home at night, either because he plays this farcical character with felt sorry or there was too little time unabashed wit and playfulness. to learn everything that he wished to Since there are no other perlearn. Frequently, he took shelter in formers who can bring Halmi’s Professor Seo’s house. character to life as skillfully as Lee, For a while, Lee worked as a it is said that such an original renresearch assistant for Professor dition of Halmi will be lost forever Seo, gathering information for his when he ends his stage career. It research projects for the Cultural is no exaggeration to say that Lee, Heritage Committee. While accomin the role of Halmi, has created panying the professor on his trips, his own way of dancing and acting Lee gained extensive knowledge 1 thanks to the elder dancers from on the traditional folk dances of 1 Members of the Society for the Preservation of the Mask Dance Drama whom he learned the art’s finer the Yeongnam region. In 1971, he of Suyeong perform at Seoul Nori Madang, an outdoor theater for traditional performing arts. The Malddugi, or the servant, part is played points. recorded the script of the “Mask by one of Lee’s students (second from left). 2 Lee Sang-ryul performs As the number of performers Dance Drama of Suyeong” with Deotbaegi Dance, the dance of a slave named Malddugi, the central has steadily dwindled, the Society Professor Seo, and transcribed the character in the “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong.” for the Preservation of the Mask choreography of the “Crane Dance Dance Drama of Suyeong has sought women performers for the of Dongnae” and the “Crane Dance of Yangsan Temple,” in the profemale roles. However, few women have been willing to play the cess of conducting research on these two folk dances between part of Halmi. The resistance among women to take on this role 1973 and 1976. The knowledge from this intensive research is not probably about the costume that reveals most of the torso, enabled him to perform deotbaegi dance in an ingenious way, which can be camouflaged with a skin-colored leotard, but one highlighting the unique sensibility of his home region. particular scene. Toward the end of the drama, the Halmi character abruptly dies in a fit of anger and her husband mounts her and Essence of Deotbaegi Dance gropes all over her body, checking for any sign of breathing. Few Lee Sang-ryul came to be known for his brilliant rendition of female performers are willing to endure this act. the role of Malddugi. The servant who goes around brandishing a horsewhip all through the play represents the alienated and persecuted lower social classes. Although a mere servant, he misses no Solo Performance chance to poke fun at the nobility, and even humiliates a nobleman It is the destiny of mask dancers to hide their faces and perform by seducing his wife. His unrestrained behavior and ruthless critinamelessly. Lee Sang-ryul had also been referred to only as “the cism of the greedy and corrupt elite class enliven the drama with Malddugi who dances very well” or “the shamelessly funny Halmi” pungent humor. The dance of Malddugi is characterized by virility before he presented a solo performance in 2011 for the first time with its expansive and dynamic movements. Moreover, Lee Sangin his life. Dance critic Chae Hui-wan, who has been Lee’s artistic ryul’s dance is simple and unadorned. He believes that meticulouscomrade throughout his career, produced the show “Hidden Artly controlled, simple movements are the essence of Korean dance. ists” for him and other performers. After some initial reluctance, A common feature of traditional Asian mask dance dramas is Lee appeared as the 12th “hidden artist.” Lee presented his dance that they are the art of male performers. And this tendency is even at its finest in the performance titled “Lee Sang-ryul’s Life as Deotstronger in performances of a ritual nature. This is also true for baegi Dancer,” a name given by Chae Hui-wan as a compliment to the “Mask Dance Drama of Suyeong,” which originated from vilhis friend’s whole-hearted dedication to dancing. lage rites. For this reason, the roles of Halmi, an old woman, and In May 2013, he was again invited to present his dance of Maldher husband’s mistress, are played by men. The dance drama is a dugi in a performance entitled “Dancing Men.” Oblivious of his age genre of traditional performing arts that entertains the audience at 64, he danced passionately, at the cost of straining his back. This with effusive humor and biting satire. While the first part of the injury resulted in a ruptured disk in his lower back. Ever since, perdrama is highlighted by the comical antics of Malddugi, the central forming a dance with jumping movements can leave him in concharacter in the latter part is undoubtedly Halmi, who rattles the siderable pain. Now he cannot dare to do the “swallow and wind” stage in a ridiculous costume that bares her chest and midriff, and motion which calls for agile and swift movements resembling a exaggerated twitching of her hips. The dance movements, which “swallow flying nimbly as if cutting wind.” Anyone who has seen mimic a woman applying make-up, picking lice, and even squatting him dance before can only hope that he will recover from his back to urinate, are unique elements that are seldom found in the mask injury so that he can dance as Malddugi with such perfection.

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interview

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Lee Young-hye ‘If art is the question, design is the answer.’ “To achieve two things at once, both marketability and aesthetics” was the goal of Lee Young-hye, general director of the 2013 Gwangju Design Biennale. Although she claimed to advocate “practical industrialization rather than discourse of design,” she has earned praise for calling attention to design’s role in the public interest.

Chung Jae-suk Senior Journalist, The JoongAng Ilbo | Ahn Hong-beom, Sung Jong-yun Photographers

he Metropolitan City of Gwangju, the capital of South Jeolla Province, morphs into a city of art every September, befitting its nickname, Yehyang, or “Hometown of Art.” The Gwangju Design Biennale, now almost 20 years old since its launch in 1995, has reached a stage of adulthood. Hosting in alternating years the Art Biennale and the Design Biennale, Gwangju has become one of the world’s premier hubs in the international contemporary arts biennale circuit. This was the year for the 2013 Gwangju Design Biennale, the fifth edition since its inaugural in 2004. It opened on September 6 at the Biennale Hall in Buk-gu, Gwangju, and other venues, including the Uijae Museum, and closed on November 3. Over those 59 days, 304 design artists from 20 countries and 24 enterprises displayed their works under a variety of themes, such as the Thematic Exhibition, International Exhibition, and Gwangju Exhibition. Lee Young-hye, the CEO of Design House, was the general director of the 2013 biennale. She is the publisher of 10 magazines, including “Monthly Design,” “House of Happiness,” and “Luxury,” which deal with the necessities of life and everyday human affairs through design. She has been addressing such questions as “What is design?” and “What should design do?” for many years through the print media. During the past 20 years, she has organized a number of design events, such as Seoul Living Design Fair and Seoul Design Festival, for which she has come to be known as a practical-minded doer in the Korean design community. That explains why this year’s design biennale emphasized practicality more than the discourse of design. It clearly shows the efforts for connecting the producer with the consumer, while also revealing the current design trends in Korea. The Design House building located in Dongho-ro, Jung-gu, in central Seoul, is a renovated high school building, demonstrating Lee’s design philosophy of favoring utility over elaboration. Her office, decorated with modern Korean art, is filled with the energy of a female CEO who leads an extremely busy daily life. From a pencil case filled with well-sharpened pencils, she picked up one and started to talk about design, her life’s passion, doodling on recycled paper from old draft proposals for magazines.

Lee Young-hye, general director of the 2013 Gwangju Design Biennale, advocates design utility over aesthetics. She emphasized this year’s edition as a “place where everybody becomes a designer.” K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

Everybody Is a Designer Chung Jae-suk: You emphasized your approach to this biennale by noting, “If art is the question, design is the answer.” Lee Young-hye: Art is done when an artist finishes the work. But for design, there is a cold-hearted and realistic evaluator, namely, the consumer who uses the product. There is an answer: it sells well or it doesn’t. That is not always the correct answer, but an answer that is scary. This answer can bankrupt an enterprise or make the national economy decline. One example is the cell phone, which has such power in the 21st century. Therefore, design is of great significance. I made it my goal to make consumers desire better products and to offer better answers at the Gwangju Design Biennale.

Chung: Fundamentally, what is design? Lee: Life itself is design. From waking up in the morning to going to bed at night, living your daily life is about design. Designers do work on a part of the whole, within their expertise, for us. Enterprises make products according to consumer demand for a design. That’s the only difference; everyone is a designer, striving to make better use of their lives.

Anything and Something Chung: The theme of the 2013 Gwangju Design Biennale is exquisite — the expressions geosigi (anything) and meosigi (something). Lee: When Koreans use the words geosigi and meosigi in sentences like, “Give me geosigi” or “That’s meosigi,” they understand each other. The words come from local dialects and have implicit meanings that are understandable in the conversational context. They don’t indicate concrete things but are understood from heart to heart. This is the core of marketing. To find out the need of the moment. I wanted to achieve two things at once, both marketability and aesthetics. Chung: That sounds fun as well as meaningful. Lee: If you look into this further, geosigi has something to do with geot-i-gi (to be anything). Anything can be mass-produced through the possibility of standardization and mechanization, making it cheap and popular. Meosigi, on the other hand, has something to do with meot-i-gi (to be something). Something produced in limited quantities through manual craftsmanship is unique and valuable. Today’s preferences continue to be divided into either of the two realms, anything and something. As Korean society ages and one-person households increase, the shift from anything to something seems to become more prevalent. But a designer has to consider both areas. I can proudly say that this year’s Gwangju Design Biennale is a place for connecting producers and consumers. Chung: It catches the eye that locality was given special attention. Lee: It’s time for provinces to move to the center. It’s time to look at provinces anew. The title “Geosigi, Meosigi” (Anything, Something) was selected in this spirit of thinking about locality. Design is a broad concept, but we divided it into smaller areas, such as locality, children, food, housekeeping, and others, so as to attract people’s attention with aspects that would pique their interest with these exhibition themes. Chung: I remember seeing design exhibits crafted by light, drawing upon Gwangju’s old name, “Town of Light,” and other exhibits unique to Gwangju. Lee: When the biennale is being hosted by their city, wouldn’t Gwangju citizens be disappointed if there was no exhibit extolling the local brand to make them proud? The proposed Gwangju taxi driver’s uniform is a

1 “Garden Design — Design the Field,” a collaboration by the architect Choi Si-young and the garden designer Oh Gyeong-a, is displayed in front of the main exhibit hall. 2 The courtyard garden of “Space Design with Motif of Eastern Art” by the interior designer Chang Eung-bok. 1

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suggestion to upgrade the quality of services in Gwangju. In every city, from airport, train station, and bus terminal, it’s the taxi drivers who take foreigners arriving in town to their destinations. How nice and impressive would it be if the drivers were dressed nicely and smartly? We also made trash bag designs for the five districts of Gwangju in similar regard. Walking along the streets, you can often see stacks of unsightly black or dark-colored plastic trash bags. Even though the trash is for disposal, wouldn’t it be fun for everyone who throws out, looks at, and removes the trash, to see a big elephant drawn on the bag’s surface? It’s as if the trash bags became a kind of molded sculpture. That’s how the power of design can make differences in our daily life. Chung: The proposed design for the packaging of nine varieties of the high-quality rice grown in South Jeolla Province was well received for immediate use, I was told. Lee: We eat rice every day, don’t we? Even though we buy rice regularly, we don’t care much about what the bags look like. In the best case, images of rice panicles with the name of the producing region and the milling date are printed on the outside. Rice consumption is decreasing these days. But rice is one basic element of the Korean identity, and we shouldn’t ignore it. What, then, should designers do? They should think how to present rice in a way that encourages its consumption. For single customers who are reluctant to buy rice in large volumes, designers K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

“How can this country make a living for itself? Ultimately, isn’t this the leading role of design trends? Simply put, a country that can say, ‘Today, this is in,’ a country that gets talked about, such as, ‘In Korea, you can learn about design …’ this is what I am hoping for.”

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1 Part of the “40 Small Works” exhibition featuring budding designers selected through a design contest. 2 Trash bags with an elephant print for the five districts of Gwangju Metropolitan City, submitted by the Universal Package Design Center, a design students’ group of Chosun University.

should design neat, attractive packages for small quantities of rice. How about a milling café where the desired amount of rice can be milled on the spot? Design is also what creates a place where people can come to drink sikhye (sweet rice beverage), instead of coffee, chatting and watching how the rice is milled for their order. Design means creating a new culture, opening a waterway for culture. It opens the eyes, opens the heart.

‘Let’s Tie Asia Together!’ Chung: Having no display stands or dividing walls this time, unlike the typical exhibition venues, was a refreshing twist. Lee: I asked myself a lot about what we can do to reduce pollution. Whenever I organized a design fair, all kinds of leftover materials needed to be discarded. I felt bad whenever we had to dispose of these resources. We therefore introduced an “eco system” at this biennale. We tried to reduce the amount of waste material through the use of recycled cardboard and textiles, which are pliable and reduce dust. We worried whether the materials could remain intact for the 59 days, but there was no problem. I’m going to use the same materials in future exhibitions. Chung: As a city where both art and design biennales are held, Istanbul in Turkey is probably the only example known worldwide. I hope Gwangju will emerge as another one. Lee: Working as director of the biennale, I came to think more about the role of Korea in Asia. And I dared to think: Let’s tie Asia together through design. How can this country make a living for itself? Ultimately, isn’t this the leading role of design trends? Simply put, a country that can say, “Today, this is in,” a country that gets talked about, such as, “In Korea, you can learn about design …” this is what I am hoping for. Chung: Do you mean a “creative economy,” which is often talked about these days? Lee: Creative economy, or creative industry, that’s all fine. But the reality is that we only talk about it without budgeting for the “creative” part of this initiative. We have to change the framework. If the budget is 1,000 won, we have to agree on spending 800 or 900 won for the invisible creativity that is needed to achieve a creative economy. Another thing is the balance of cooperation. Simply put, “people of wit” can be more successful today, but without “people of practice,” the wit, or the idea, is useless. But the tendency is for the ideas to be generously rewarded, whereas the physical labor of practice ends up being treated with disregard. I think that design can contribute to balancing the disparity that widens the gap between the rich and the poor. Chung: Do you think that the concept of “ancient futures,” which might help to resolve today’s disharmony, can be applied to design? Lee: The artifacts in the museums are, roughly speaking, all so-called industrial products from the past. Because they were produced in such large numbers, some remnants have survived. In other words, the industrial products that we consume most today signify our culture and will remain in museums of the future as past tradition. It’s not wrong to say, “We are now using the tradition of the future.” That’s why design is important. Design creates the human culture of the present and future, both the goods as products for consumption and relics at the same time. Chung: In the 1970s, when the concept of design was still rather unfamiliar, you worked as a reporter for the editorial department of “Design,” a specialized magazine. Then in the 1980s, you took over the magazine. It was quite a risky decision then, I think. Ever since that time, you have lived a life of publishing magazines centered on design. Have you ever regretted that? Lee: Next year, our company will observe its 37th anniversary. We made a profit for the first time last year. I turned 60 after organizing the Living Design Fair for 20 years and the Design Festival for 11 years. That was actually more than what you might expect for a small company. It was like a drop in the ocean, but I have no regrets. Looking back, I’m proud of having done the work to create more discriminating consumers. It was my dream to place design everywhere. At the end, life reverts to “body design,” doesn’t it? The mind is just within the body. These days, I’m busy talking about design only, and everything else is left out. I concentrate on expanding my frame of thought, enlarging my storehouse of ideas. I can probably also say that I’m pruning myself of anything extraneous. I think my responsibility is to connect the talents of designers, organize, and make them more creative. My final job will be as a “design coordinator.” 2

modern landmarks

French Embassy in Seoul East Meets West in Elegant Rooflines Architect Kim Joong-up explored ways to express motifs drawn from traditional Korean culture while adopting the functionality of early modern Western architecture and its advanced technology. The French Embassy buildings in Seoul are an impressive outcome of this quest. Kim Chung-dong Architectural Historian; Director, Institute of Early Modern Korean Architecture | Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

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A The residence of the French Ambassador to Korea. The architect made a round opening in the roof so that it would create the illusion of the sky spilling down through the hole. After renovation of the roof, however, the skylight effect can no longer be enjoyed from the inside.

sk any audience at an introductory lecture on modern architecture to name a Korean architect who is most familiar to them, and most will mention Kim Swoo-geun (1931-1986) or Kim Joong-up (1922-1988). The Space Group building and the French Embassy in Seoul are the foremost iconic works of these two famous architects, both located in the old city center north of the Han River. Unlike the Space Group building, which is highly visible at its location close to a busy road with heavy traffic in Wonseo-dong, Jongno-gu, the French Embassy is relatively isolated, tucked sedately in a neighborhood of medium-rise buildings in Hap-dong, Seodaemun-gu, and usually not accessible to people other than the embassy staff or official visitors. The embassy’s architectural fame is not all that surprising, though, given the frequency with which its significance is cited by many architectural historians. These two well-loved structures are undisputed masterpieces of Korea’s early modern architecture.

Influence of Le Corbusier When Kim Joong-up attended UNESCO’s first International Conference of Artists, held in 1952 in Venice, Italy, he had been serving as a professor at the Department of Architecture of Seoul National University since 1947. At the conference, he met Le Corbusier (1887-1965), and for four years thereafter, he honed his architectural and urban planning abilities under the influential Swiss architect in Paris. After returning to Korea in February 1956, he taught at the Department of Architecture and Art of Hongik University. He also opened his own firm, Kim Joong-up and Associates, which designed the library of Konkuk University in 1956, the College of Liberal Arts at Pusan National University and the main building of Sogang University in 1958, and the Drama Center (later transformed into Seoul Institute of the Arts) and the production facility of Yuyu Pharma, Inc. in Anyang in 1959. These projects are in large part regarded as Kim’s endeavors to apply Le Corbusier’s concept of the Modular to local architecture. The construction of the French Embassy in Korea was initiated by Charles de Gaulle, the president of France at the time; André Malraux, the minister of culture; and Roger Chambard, the French ambassador to Korea. As one of the architects invited to participate in the design competition for the new embassy, Kim Joong-up’s design was selected for its construction. Kim later recalled: “In spring [of 1959], I was given a wonderful opportunity. The French government asked me to submit my design for the construction of the French Embassy that it intended to build in Seoul. I was to compete with seven distinguished French architects, and it was a valuable opportunity for me. Ambassador Chambard earnestly encouraged me to try and create a great design although he thought my chance of winning was less than 1 percent. He also informed me that Master Le Corbusier in Paris had recommended me for the contest. … I set out to make a sketch while staying at the Madison Hotel near Broadway in New York City, and after returning to Korea, I worked day and night to complete the design. As if receiving a Christmas gift, I was notified that my design was finally selected. … I strived to imbue the spirit of Korean culture into my design while expressing French elegance as well, and my painstaking efforts were rewarded with the great opportunity to work on the project. … This marked a milestone in my career as an architect, helping me create a solid ground for my later works.” Distinctively Styled Rooflines At the time of construction, the French Embassy consisted of two buildings — the two-story chancery and the single-story ambassador’s residence — built on land of 1,600 square meters in area. The buildings are reinforced concrete Rahmen structures; the concrete exterior finish gives no clue as to how many stories there are inside. In fact, hardly any other materials for building cladding were available at the time in Korea. Exposed aggregate concrete cladding was made popular by Le Corbusier and the Japanese architect Kenzo Tange (1913-2005). This architectural trend attracted adherents from both the West and the East, with Kim Joong-up being no exception. K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

The architectural motifs that Kim used in his design included boldly flowing lines juxtaposed with a small circle to form a harmonious whole, and corners with acute angles. In his poem written in 1984, the late poet Kim Yeong-tae described the chancery building as “a structure with a blanket descending upon it.” This poetic imagery reveals the architect’s stylistic intentions expressed in the roof suspended atop a set of columns, which was an innovative attempt given the level of construction technology of the time. The curvy, upturned roof mimics the dynamics of an object in motion. The small opening on the roof created an illusion of the sky spilling down through the hole. [But the hole was closed in a later renovation.] Construction of the French Embassy began in the spring of 1960 and was completed about one year later. The embassy buildings are among Kim’s most acclaimed works, along with the main building of Jeju National University, built in 1965 near the Dragon Head Rock (Yongduam) on Jeju Island and demolished in 1996. For these two projects, Kim was awarded the Chevalier de l’Ordre National du Mérite (Knight of the National Order of Merit) by the French government in 1965.

The chancery building has an elegant upturned roof supported by columns, showing the architect’s originality.

Memorial Museum in Anyang In 1971, Kim ended up being expelled to France due to his continuous clashes with the military regime of Korea over urban development projects. Later, he stayed in the United States for a while before he was allowed to return home in 1978. Ten years later, in May 1988, he died of diabetes-related complications at the age of 66. He left a valuable legacy of works in which he sought to integrate Western architectural idioms and techniques with Korean traditions despite the barren cultural climate of Korea in the wake of its liberation from colonial rule. Just like Kim Swoo-geun, another giant of modern Korean architecture, he came into indirect contact with Western architecture in Japan, but Kim Joong-up was able to study in France and the United States and used this knowledge and experience to contribute to the modernization of Korean architecture. In 2007, the city of Anyang announced its plans to establish the Kim Joong-up Museum of Architecture by utilizing four of the 19 buildings of the Anyang Factory of Yuyu Pharma, Inc., which he designed in 1959 just before working on the French Embassy. This idea arose after the factory operations were relocated to Jecheon in North Chungcheong Province in 2006, leaving the buildings vacant. During the initial stage of its transformation into a museum, however, workers on the site stumbled upon the remains of Anyangsa, an ancient Buddhist temple believed to date back to the late Unified Silla (676-935) to the early Goryeo (918-1392) period. The museum project has been delayed amidst a debate over whether it would be appropriate to develop a memorial museum for a modern architect on an ancient temple site. According to relevant officials of the city government, the museum, when completed, would showcase some 120 items of Kim’s memorabilia, including his drawings, which have been donated by his family. It has been over 50 years since the French Embassy was built. Throughout this period, the embassy compound has never been open to the public, and has been accessible only to the embassy staff and visitors on official business. But, in light of the architectural significance of the buildings, it would be meaningful to allow public tours around the embassy compound under restrictions assuring no disruption to embassy operations. In Europe, there is an annual event when the public is allowed to visit cultural heritage sites. In France, European Heritage Days (Les Journées Européennes du Patrimoine) are observed on the third weekend in September, when people can enter diverse heritage sites that are not ordinarily open to the public, including historic buildings and certain private ateliers. Even temporary visitors to the country are allowed to take a tour around, say, the presidential palace. It is suggested that the French Embassy in Korea emulate this public outreach event of its homeland and open its embassy compound, even for one day a year, to those who would like to view this storied legacy of modern Korean architecture.

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In his poem written in 1984, the late poet Kim Yeong-tae described the chancery building as “a structure with a blanket descending upon it.” This poetic imagery reveals the architect’s stylistic intentions expressed in the roof suspended atop a set of columns, which was an innovative attempt given the level of construction technology of the time.

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In Love with Korea

Dr. Rajesh Chandra Joshi was inspired by the enthusiasm of Korean doctors volunteering in Nepal to come to Korea to become a doctor himself. Photo taken with his parents on a visit to Korea, and his wife and mother-in-law.

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t’s Wednesday, two o’clock in the afternoon. Bauer Hall at Keimyung University’s Daegu campus is bustling with students. The building, which contains a variety of community amenities, such as a cafeteria, stationery store, travel agency, commercial bank, post office, and supermarket, is alive with the laughter of students who have just finished lunch or are running errands before the next class. Yet, there is a cozy and quiet place behind one door in this building: the healthcare clinic. The clinic’s ordinary-looking wooden door is rather old but it is like a soundproof barrier that blocks off the noise outside. This is all due to the soothing effect of Dr. Joshi’s calm demeanor. His warm and friendly voice has the unique power of making people focus on him and making the surroundings seem even quieter.

Prescriptions from a Warm Heart From two to four in the afternoon, twice a week, Dr. Joshi, a third-year resident at the Department of Family Medicine, offers

or with somebody? Oh, alone! Why did you drink alone? That’s why your stomach is upset.” Clearly, his approach made him different from other doctors. When a student from China said, “I’ve had a kimchi for a few days now,” Dr. Joshi said, “Ah, you mean kichim [a cough]. It’s kichim, not kimchi. But don’t forget kimchi. Eating kimchi helps when you’ve got a cold!” The student, probably struggling with his studies in a foreign country, visibly relaxed. Though he had entered the clinic looking somewhat tense and out of sorts, he left with a smile. I could see relief on his face. While prescribing medicine for him, Dr. Joshi added the warmth of his heart to the prescription, saying that he had also been a foreign student in Korea for a long time, and that while studying is important, actively joining student clubs and making friends is a good way to stay healthy. Dr. Joshi looked pleased when I said he seemed more like a caring mother than a doctor with his soothing voice and consoling look. “I try to make my patients feel warm and comfortable,” he said. “I think a doctor should take care of patients’ hearts before anything else. I always try to remember how much impact a doctor’s words can have on sick patients.”

A Bridge to a Multicultural World

Service in Five Languages Dr. Joshi’s Korean sounds perfectly natural, and his Daegu dialect is even amusing and friendly. This comes from his 21 years of living in Korea, but he also says he picks up new languages quite easily. Not to mention his native language Nepalese, he is fluent in Hindi, Pakistani, English, and Korean. Quite a numDr. Rajesh Chandra Joshi works as a family medicine doctor at Keimyung University ber of foreigners come to see him Dongsan Medical Center in Daegu. The first Nepalese doctor who is certified to pracfor this reason. In particular, for tice medicine in Korea, he qualified after studying three times longer than others. Preindustrial trainees and those who came to Korea for marriage and viously, he had thought he would head back home as soon as he earned his medical education, he serves as a guardlicense, but currently he works in Korea, serving as a bridge between Korea and Nepal. ian on top of providing healthcare Park Hyun-sook Freelance writer | Ahn Hong-beom Photographer services. Therefore, he sometimes gets a call in the middle of the night. “I know they call me at that hour because they have to work durvolunteer medical services for students and university faculty. On ing the daytime, so I try to be as helpful as I can,” Dr. Joshi said. the day I visited the clinic to interview him, there was a constant “For example, I tell them to go to the emergency room of a cerflow of patients seeking out “Dr. Rajesh.” I talked with one student tain hospital, find Dr. So-and-So, then let me talk with that doctor. who said this was her second visit. “I don’t know how to explain this Sometimes, I tell them to go to the District Office, apply for consulproperly, but Dr. Rajesh is definitely different from other doctors! tation, and give me the contact information so that I can talk directYou’ll see what I mean once you talk with him,” she said before ly with the person in charge. The other day, I was talking with this hurrying away. young man. At the end of our call, he said, ‘I feel cured just by talkWith my curiosity piqued, I observed him as he treated several ing with you.’ My heart was full hearing that.” patients. For a young student with a stomachache, he asked her the Dr. Joshi says that the gratification he feels after helping peousual questions about the symptoms. However, when she said she ple in trouble in a foreign country definitely compensates for his had been drinking the night before, he asked, “Did you drink alone

Dr. Rajesh Chandra Joshi

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fatigue from lack of sleep. Moreover, he now feels a greater sense el official at the Ministry of Economy in Nepal. He enjoyed music, of responsibility after receiving a plaque of appreciation from the painting, and movies, and always had lots of friends, thanks to his Nepalese Students Association in Korea, which has more than 500 good sense of humor. But when he came to Korea he experienced, members, and after being appointed honorary ambassador of mulfor the first time, just how tough life could be. ticultural families in North Gyeongsang Province in March this year. “Korean students study so hard! Of them, only those with the In addition, he is an active member of Love Nepal, an association best grades go on to medical school, so it seemed I was on the path of Nepalese nationals in Korea, and Namaste in Daegu City, which to hell. Still struggling with everyday Korean, I had a really hard helps poor children in Nepal. People around him worry about his time trying to learn all those medical terms. In Nepal, we only have busy schedule, but as a medical doctor who has chosen to help subjective tests, but here in Korea I was lost taking multiple-choice people this seems to be the natural course of life. tests,” he recalled. For the past 10 years, Dr. Joshi has been making trips to Nepal with a group of Korean doctors to provide volunteer medical services during his one or two “The other day, I was talking with this young man. At the weeks of annual leave every year. Some 20 years ago, end of our call, he said ‘I feel cured just by talking with you.’ back in his home country, these visiting doctors were an object of envy, but now he is one of them. My heart was full hearing that.” “I was really touched when I saw the passion of Korean doctors who visited Nepal for volunteer work. It was amazing that they spent their only annual vacation doing volStudying medicine in a foreign country was truly punishing. unteer services in a faraway country. I thought the noblest thing Since he could not fully understand the content of the lectures, he that one person can do for another is to be a doctor. I saw people was constantly stressed by poor exam results. There were many who had walked day and night for three days with a family memdays when he blamed himself, thinking, “I must be crazy! Why did ber on their backs, eating only a little barley bread on the way. I I rush into something so hard?” Taking a leave of absence from also met disabled people living in extreme poverty. It was so heartschool twice and after failing an examination, he thought about breaking. Seeing these suffering people, I made up my mind to changing his major to business management. “Maybe I can study become a doctor and decided to come to Korea,” Dr. Joshi said. management and become a businessman like my uncles. I can Due to Nepal’s education policy that requires its nationals to help poor people with the money I earn,” he thought. But he was complete at least 10 years of education at home before going severely scolded by a “Korean sister” whom he had met while helpabroad to study, Dr. Joshi finished his second year at Tribhuvan ing out industrial trainees from Nepal. University, where he majored in biology, before coming to Korea “She rebuked me harshly, saying how much I would disappoint in 1992. To study abroad, most Nepalese opt for India or Pakistan, my parents who were working so hard in Nepal and praying for my which have similar education systems, or the U.K. or the United future. I was nearly in tears. Then I suddenly came to my senses. States because English is their second language. But thanks to This woman is now my mother-in-law!” Dr. Joshi said. the unforgettable impression left by visiting Korean doctors and Since he was not able to properly understand the lectures, Dr. a sense of familiarity from his aunt and uncle who had studied at Joshi gave up on taking notes. He used a tape recorder instead Ewha Womans University and Seoul National University, respecand then listened to the lectures over and over again. Gradually, he tively, Dr. Joshi chose Korea. His decision was supported by Dr. came to understand his friends’ lecture notes, which he couldn’t Jung Seong-deok, then professor of neuropsychiatry at the Yeungeven read at first. Overcoming all sorts of obstacles, after nine nam University Medical Center and now retired, who knew Dr. years of study he finally graduated from medical school, which norJoshi’s uncle personally. Dr. Joshi thinks of Dr. Jung and Dr. Lee mally takes six years. In 2007, he took the national examination for Kyu-seok, a professor of dermatology at Keimyung University, as medical practitioners, just to get a feel for his chances of passing. his fathers. “These two professors, who are so passionate about Not surprisingly, he failed the exam. their volunteer medical services in Nepal, watched over my medical In 2008, while studying for his second attempt, he got married. studies, from start to finish. They sponsored me and encouraged His wife, Jeong Se-yeong, is the daughter of the “Korean sister” me to study hard and acquire varied medical experiences in Korea mentioned above, who has been a close acquaintance since his so I could become a great doctor in Nepal,” he said. first year in the premedical program. His marriage made him even more determined to pass the national exam. He would leave for the library at dawn and return home late at night. His wife got up early A Challenge as Steep as Mt. Everest to pack lunch for him and worked as a private tutor. Instead of tryDr. Joshi was born the eldest son with one younger sister in a ing to memorize the contents of extensive medical books, he spent rather affluent family. His father was a deputy undersecretary-lev-

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time with top-ranking students and studied by asking them questions. In this way, he was able to learn from their way of thinking and how they formulated their answers. However, the door to success still did not open easily. He had two more failures by the narrowest of margins, the third attempt falling just three points short. “If it had not been for the people around me, I could not have become a doctor. My wife, parents-in-law, parents in Nepal, professors, and friends… Knowing how much they cared for me, I just couldn’t give up. In the end, I even took a mock test with sample questions that my friends provided. With dogged perseverance, I finally passed on the fourth try,” he said. Passing the national medical license examination made him feel like he had conquered Mt. Everest. All the while, he had suffered from enormous stress, at times taking as many as seven painkillers a day to relieve his headaches and bouts of insomnia from the never-ending tension.

Dr. Joshi always asks many questions, believing the best prescription can be written only when the doctor and the patient open their hearts to each other.

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Another Dream Because it took him three times longer than others to pass the national exam, Dr. Joshi, born in 1971, is now serving his residency with those who were born in 1985 or 1986. Those who entered university with him are already professors, but he is not impatient. Rather, he considers his past experience as a valuable asset. When he failed the exam for the third time, his mother-in-law said to him, “I heard about a doctor who took 10 years to pass the exam. Everybody has their own pace. Some are fast and some are slow! I think stories about slower people are more interesting.” Dr. Joshi says he feels greatly energized whenever he recalls her words. “At first, I wanted to become a doctor as quickly as possible and go back to Nepal. But there are many more doctors in Nepal today. Many Nepalese are coming to Korea nowadays, and I felt the absolute need for somebody here to serve as a bridge between them and Koreans. In addition to Nepalese, I would like to also help foreign workers and women married to Koreans, who have limited access to medical assistance. This doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned my dream to improve the medical environment in Nepal. It’s like I’ve added another dream to my original dream,” he said. While studying in Daegu, Dr. Joshi said he always envied the advanced medical system of the university hospital. The latest medical equipment can be bought with money, but an efficient medical system requires comprehensive development of many relevant areas, including education, technology, workforce, and organization. He is especially keen to introduce Korea’s medical insurance system and healthcare centers and clinics to Nepal. Perhaps it is due to his history of needing four attempts to conquer his “Mt. Everest,” but Dr. Joshi says with a big smile, “I’m no longer interested in things that take no trouble!” There is a saying that a greater success takes longer. Dr. Joshi, who loves people and is not afraid of facing challenges, appears to be well on track to becoming a “great doctor.”

on the road

DMZ Art Show Memories of Land and War The Demilitarized Zone remains the most visible legacy of the Korean War, imposing its influence in ways both large and small on local residents and communities, and all of Korea. Cheorwon, located just south of the heavily-fortified border separating the two Koreas, keeps memories of the war vividly alive. Amidst this haunted environment, the town has recently served as the setting for an art exhibition titled â&#x20AC;&#x153;Real DMZ Project.â&#x20AC;?

Kim Yoo-kyung Journalist | Ahn Hong-beom Photographer Ko re a n Cu l tu re & A rts

n art exhibition in the DMZ? Sixty years after the guns were laid down to end the fighting, a corner of a military town has become a tourist attraction and even a setting for an art exhibition. Cheorwon has hosted the “Real DMZ Project” for the past two years. It was quite an impressive experience to view some 20 photographic works, paintings, video presentations, and installation art pieces at this year’s “Real DMZ Project 2013: Borderline” (July 27-September 22), along with visiting the security-themed tourist destinations in this military town. Visitors were expected to come to their own understanding about the heavilyarmed border area as they toured the various sites and perused the artworks — contemporary reinterpretations of the meaning of the DMZ by 12 artists from 11 countries. Kim Sun-jung, chief curator of the Artsonje Center in Seoul, noted that this project was aimed at “finding solutions to various issues, which the DMZ has caused in our daily lives and culture, from the perspectives of the humanities and arts.”

“Blow Up” by Back Seung-wooh is on display at “From the North,” a special show at the Artsonje Center in Seoul, which complements “Real DMZ Project 2013,” underway in an area close to the DMZ in Cheorwon, Gangwon Province. It showcases blow-ups of “stumbled-upon scenes,” remnants of images that had been cut out by North Korean censors. The photographer stumbled upon these images when he visited North Korea in 2005. Photomontage of 40-piece digital pigment prints, 265 x 504 cm, 2005-2007.

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Migratory Birds, Flowers in a War-torn Land On my way to the exhibition site by bus from downtown Seoul, I had such a dim memory of the Korean War that I even failed to notice the bus stop named “Hill 104” at Yeonhuidong. However, as we got closer to Cheorwon, many more military and security facilities could be seen, conspicuous reminders that you were approaching a combat zone. One of the facilities looked rather odd: it was built to protect the migratory birds that stopped by this area in winter. The lonely façade of the old building showed just how much time had passed since the fighting ended. Indeed, my journey to Cheorwon was like traveling back in time, retrieving memories of the war. In a speech to welcome the participating artists, the governor of Cheorwon County remarked, “Thank you very much for paying attention to the cultural aspects of this area, instead of the military matters.” He said this probably because he felt the same way as I did. All the artists participating in this year’s DMZ art show are from the postwar generation. This means the war has not been forgotten. To me, the art show seemed like a flower that blossomed among the ruins of war. Tension still hangs heavy over Cheorwon, a small military town, where the fiercest of battles were frequently fought during the Korean War. But many of the local residents still carry on with their rice farming within the Civilian Control Line, while tourism has come to thrive amidst the war’s specter. Even the battered remains of the former North Korean Workers’ Party’s regional headquarters building has been designated a cultural property. Along the Hantan River recently built facilities are available for visitors to enjoy rafting or bungee jumping. There are several restaurants nearby that specialize in freshwater fish. Paek Su-hyeon, a local tour guide, said, “Residents here highly value the land, on which they’ve lived and are still living, the paddy and dry fields, in which crops are growing.” They are plowing up the ground that had once been minefields. Regardless of ideology, their deep love for the land is as evident and natural as their breathing. The artworks on display presented a variety of viewpoints about the border area. People who are not familiar with contemporary art might wonder about how to distinguish art from reality. But the process of making art is obviously steeped in history. Irish artist Jesse Jones gave a performance titled “Psychic Reunification Project” at the auditorium of the Iron Triangle Battlefield Tourism Center. Reading Tarot cards in a mystical atmosphere, with a gayageum melody in the background, the artist and the audience sought to find answers to questions about inter-Korean relations. In content and import, the interactive performance resembled a press briefing, the questions from the audience reflecting their urgent anxieties and concerns about the future of our divided nation. Will Korea be reunified? Will Kim Jong-un stay in power? Will there be an armed conflict? Is it possible for nuclear weapons to be used? When will the cross-border tours to Mount Kumgang resume?

Images of the rusted train, abandoned railway station, rocks, and solitude are assembled together, as if in an effort to explain the silence that has prevailed in this no man’s land for six decades.

Some cards were turned over and projected onto a large LED screen. The cards were read and interpreted to mean: “Reunification isn’t easy to come by. Existing issues already weigh us down heavily. Ultimately, the two sides will have to communicate with each other through dialogue. The tours to Mount Kumgang will resume, since the two sides have the same goal.” These remarks sounded as if they came from an expert of international relations. Nobody in the audience laughed; they were all intent on watching the card reading. Faced with the reality of the DMZ, everybody becomes serious.

Abandoned Train Station Korean artist Yun Su-yeon presented elaborate photographs of the residents engaged in farming within the Civilian Control Line or going about their everyday life in the military area. Recounting her visits to those areas, Yun said, “I was scared at first. But soon I was surprised at the serene and peaceful routines there and found myself wishing I could blend into this environment.” The framed photograph of a farmer taking a break after transplanting rice seedlings was set up like a bulletin board at a site looking over at Mount Osong in North Korea across the border. It was installed at a crossroads, juxtaposed against several signs pointing the way to different churches. A nearby field, where flocks of migratory birds had arrived, is close to an army guard post, where an old battle cry of the Cheongseong Division is painted on a wall. No residents can be seen at that hour. Will it be possible to see them on their way back home after finishing work for the day? The farmer in the picture was said to have pointed out to his neighbors, “That’s me,” even though the face of the man in the photo is obscured. But it seemed certain that more tourists than local residents would view this photograph. Displays at the DMZ Peace and Culture Hall included “Brotherhood of War — B Camera,” a photograph reminiscent of the film with the same title, by Jung Yeon-doo; “Tour,” an oil painting made with collage techniques that depicts the DMZ as an ideological phantom, by Hwang Se-jun; and “Let’s Try, We Can Do It! The Army Infantry School,” a scene of army personnel and facilities as a representation of military culture, by Oh Hein-kuhn. I almost smiled when I saw an army battle cry, “Make the Impossible Possible!” painted on a rock in the picture. But my face drooped when I realized the slogan was not a joke. “The Iron Horse Wants to Run,” declares a sign next to the remains of a train rusting away on the tracks at Woljeong-ri Station,

the northernmost station of the Gyeongwon (Seoul-Wonsan) Railway south of the DMZ. When I first saw this scene a long time ago, I was deeply impressed by the symbolic significance of the train. In this setting, the derelict train looked more artistic than any work of art. But now, the train is even more surreal, as its engine sits out of place, too far in front, with many of its parts shrouded with covers. The abandoned station resembled a film set. Canadian artist Paul Kajander gave a performance of body movement and voice, with the help of local primary and secondary schoolchildren, at an icehouse built during the Japanese colonial period. His photo was displayed at this deserted station, with his recorded voice playing in the background. Outsize images that seem to resonate with the silence of the DMZ were installed at the Peace and Culture Plaza in front of the station. Standing in a corner of the large plaza was Singaporean artist Heman Chong’s work, “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” a title borrowed from Gabriel Garcia Marquez, lettered in Hangeul in black vinyl tape on a white-painted plywood surface 7 meters high and 10 meters wide. Scores of basalt rocks from the fields around Cheorwon lay on the ground in an installation work titled “Consciousness Dilatation” by Korean artist Koo Jeong-a. Images of the rusted train, abandoned railway station, rocks, and solitude were all testaments to the DMZ’s 60 years of silence. Local residents were said to murmur among themselves, “Are all these things, rocks from our fields and some letters written on a signboard, really art?” But the energy exuded by these things showcased the beauty of an intensity that could be found just below the surface. Soldiers carrying rifles stood in a corner of the plaza. Although an everyday reality of this region, the scene stood in stark contrast to the artworks.

‘I’m a Fragment of Cheorwon’ I hopped on a monorail to the Cheorwon Peace Observatory, where I encountered a work of unique approach by a foreign artist. “The Emotion of Land, THE CUT by Post-Cosmetic Surgery” was a video by Turkish artist Fahrettin Orenli about the procedures of

1 “Red House” by Noh Sun-tag features “Arirang,” North Korea’s mass calisthenics. Archival pigment prints, 100 x 140 cm, 2005. 2 “Tour” by Hwang Se-jun, on display at the DMZ Peace and Culture Hall, depicts a hopeful journey towards peace from Cold War fears. Oil painting on canvas, 162 x 920 cm, 2012. 3 Woljeong-ri Station has long lost its function as a railway station. It is used for the exhibition of photos during the “Real DMZ Project 2013.” Ko re a n Cu l tu re & A rts

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double eyelid surgery. He saw Korea’s modernization, as well as relations between the two Koreas, as unnatural as this cosmetic surgery that is so popular in the South. Oil paintings, like “Rice Fields in Cheorwon,” which depicts people’s deep-rooted love of the land, were hung on one of the walls. Among the artists participating in this event, painter Kim Sunkyong was the only one who was born and still works in Cheorwon. He said, “I like this land so much that I came back after graduating from an art college.” He perceived the beautiful contours of the rice paddies and dry fields, and minefields, where live landmines still remain — the scenery seen from atop Mount Soi — as unique features of the DMZ. When young, he used to play around the old Workers’ Party building and ran about the nearby fields. Rusted metal fragments, the remains of military facilities, shell casings, and abandoned train tracks became the motifs of his paintings. Pointing at his own self-portrait painted against the evening glow, he said, “I consider myself a fragment of Cheorwon.” The building of the former Cheorwon Office of Agricultural Produce Inspection standing by the side of a birding trail and National Route 3, a key road during the war, was another exhibition venue. During the war when the area was under North Korean control, the

1 “My Saintly Shelter” (2012), an installation artwork by Kim Lyang, sits near the old Workers’ Party building. The white steel structure is made of recycled steel panels that were once used to carry rice seedlings from seed beds to paddies in the Cheorwon area. 2 In winter, Cheorwon becomes a habitat for cranes. 3 Moldering remains of a train lie at Woljeong-ri Station, the northernmost station in South Korea on the Gyeongwon (Seoul-Wonsan) Railway. The rusty skeleton of the train, destroyed in an air raid during the Korean War, has been kept there since.

building was notorious for its torture chambers where suspected anti-communists were detained for interrogation. The building is usually closed these days. But I was fortunate to get a look inside thanks to the exhibition. Korean artist Lee Joo-young had created “Miniature of Old Cheorwon’s No. 2 Financial Union Building” like a kind of monument. The original union building was pulverized by repeated bombardments, with the site left in ruins and now under preservation.

Network of Trails around Mt. Soi In fact, in regard to the arts, Cheorwon is a wasteland where there is neither a performing arts center nor an art gallery. Nevertheless, it does have an artistic background. In this town lying near the road leading to Mount Kumgang, Jeong Seon, a master landKo re a n Cu l tu re & A rts

scape painter of the Joseon Dynasty, had stayed over to paint. Kim Sunkyong said, “This exhibition will give local residents a shock, implicitly telling them that there can be various ways to view their place.” The pop group Seo Taiji and Boys, who took the country by storm in the early 1990s, shot a music video for their song “Dreaming of Balhae” at the old Workers’ Party building. They were probably the first performing artists to use this devastated building as a setting for pop culture. When world-renowned soprano Sumi Jo gave a performance there for a Sunday TV concert program, many local residents viewed the building, aglow with special illumination, in an all new way. During the war, soldiers fired indiscriminately at this building, where innumerable people were killed, to dispel their own fear of being attacked. Today, it stands along a marathon course that passes the battlefields in this area. The power of culture and art is thus meant to heal the souls wounded by war. The mountain range — from Sapseul Peak (near Dongsong Reservoir), where about 50,000 bombs were dropped in fierce battles to

capture the high ground during the war, to Mount Soi (near the former Workers’ Party building) and Halmi Peak (near Goseok Pavilion tourist area) — used to be part of a trail that led to Seoul during the Joseon period. Im Kkeok-jeong, a Korean Robin Hood figure of the Joseon era, was based in this area. The legend is remembered today in various ways, including the name of a local restaurant “Im Kkeokjeong Garden.” 2 Cheorwon is a lava-hewn land, some 200 meters above sea level, forming a vast plain. Local residents often see double rainbows after a shower. A new tourist trail, dubbed “Jiroekkot (Landmine Flower) Trail,” has recently been developed around Mount Soi. In spite of its scary name, it is actually a safe walking path for local farmers strewn with beautiful wild flowers. Tour guide Paek Su-hyeon said to me, “The field is just so gorgeous in late summer. Don’t you want to come again?” I said in reply, “I wonder if North Koreans know that an art exhibition is being held here?” “Perhaps, they know about it by now. Everything here is visible to surveillance and monitoring,” he responded.

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Cheorwon A Symbol of Unresolved Conflict Kim Dang Managing Editor, OhmyNews | Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

North Korea lies beyond the DMZ, as seen from the Cheorwon Peace Observatory.

eographically, Cheorwon is located at the center of the Korean Peninsula. Until Korea was divided in 1945, when Japanese colonial rule came to an end with the Allied victory in World War II, the town was a bustling transport hub through which the Gyeongwon (Seoul-Wonsan) Railway passed. When Allied troops from the United States and the Soviet Union occupied the peninsula to supervise Japan’s withdrawal and the country was divided along the 38th Parallel, Cheorwon was the capital of Gangwon Province, belonging to the northern half overseen by the Soviet occupation forces. Vestiges of the occupation can still be seen here, among them Russian-style structures, such as the former regional Workers’ Party headquarters building, whose remaining shell has now become a major tourist attraction.

A Divided County As the shift in global power changed the world around Korea, liberation from Japan was followed by mounting tension along the arbitrary border and a hardening of the divide on Korean soil. North Korean troops launched a surprise attack on the South on June 25, 1950, igniting the

three-year Korean War. Of the four attack routes, they used the Cheorwon-Uijeongbu-Seoul corridor as the primary route, with the Kaesong-Munsan-Seoul corridor as a secondary route. Just three days after breaching the 38th Parallel, the North Korean invaders captured Seoul. Some of the fiercest battles were fought between allied forces, which came to the defense of South Korea under the flag of the United Nations, and the communist forces in the area, leading to the heart of the central frontline that moved back and forth as a result of the U.N. forces’ counterattacks and Chinese troops’ involvement. This is why Cheorwon is forever associated with the “Iron Triangle of the Korean War.” Indeed, the bloodiest battlefields are found within a triangular area, formed by Pyonggang, north of the 38th Parallel, at the top of the triangle, and the base by Cheorwon and Gimhwa in the South. This area turned out to be especially difficult for the allied forces to attack, but easy for the enemy to defend. The fiercest of the numerous battles fought in the “Iron Triangle” was the Battle of White Horse. The battle raged on for 10 days on the 395-meter White Horse Hill, which overlooks

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the Cheorwon Plain. The fighting was so intense that the bodies of dead soldiers of both sides were piled up throughout the battlefield. Over the 10 days of fighting, White Horse Hill was repeatedly captured and lost by one side after the other as many as 24 times. Some 14,000 soldiers and more than 300,000 artillery shells fell on this hill. In the final stages of the war, the allied forces of South Korea, the United States, and the United Nations engaged in fierce combat against the communist troops from North Korea and China to capture as much territory as possible. As a result, the straight borderline along the 38th Parallel, which was drawn by U.S. and Soviet military officers with a ruler, was turned into a cease-fire line, with the western frontline moved southward and the eastern frontline northward. Kaesong, which was situated south of the 38th Parallel before the war, fell into North Korean hands, while Cheorwon, which sat north of the line, came under South Korea’s control. Thus Cheorwon became a divided area that straddles the two Koreas.

Soldiers Outnumber Residents

limits. According to county statistics, Cheorwon has a resident population of 47,588 (24,597 males and 22,991 females) as of late June this year. Of course, these figures do not include residents on the North Korean side. Like any other rural county, Cheorwon is facing a steady population decline. It is not possible to reveal accurate data on the number of servicemen based in Cheorwon due to security reasons. Like any typical frontline town, it is populated with more young soldiers than local residents. This area is replete with Army units, including the 3rd Infantry Division (“Skeleton”), 15th Infantry Division (“Victory”), 6th Infantry Division (“Cheongseong”), and 8th Mechanized Infantry Division (“Tumbler”), as well as several training camps. Recently, “Real Men,” a TV entertainment program that features celebrities who experience real barracks life for a week, has been gaining popularity. Most netizens have recommended the “Skeleton” Division as a desired shooting site for upcoming episodes. The “Skeleton” Division has a proud history that is celebrated on Armed Forces Day. This Army division crossed the 38th Parallel and marched northward on October 1, 1950, becoming the first South Korean military unit to enter the Northern territory. President Syngman Rhee designated October 1 as Armed Forces Day in 1956 to commemorate this noteworthy event. The division maintains a tradition of designating a “38th Parallel memorial regiment” which is endowed with the mission of marching across the Military Demarcation Line ahead of all other units in the event of war.

North Korea took over Kaesong, but lost Cheorwon. It is said that Kim Il-sung cried for three days after he lost the Cheorwon Plain. Cheorwon became the first communist-bloc area to be taken over by the United States since the end of World War II. An area of strategic importance, Cheorwon now bristles with military activity: the two Koreas have deployed their elite troops in the region even after signing the armistice that put an end to the fighting. The North deployed an army division, which had led the assault to capture Seoul in the initial days of the war. In response, the South’s 5th ‘Peace, Ecology, Life’ A gruesome skeletal figure set up near this division’s headquarters still flashes a terrifying warning for Army Corps, established on October 1, 1953, deployed its battlethe enemy. But since the Park Geun-hye administration anhardened 3rd and 6th Infantry Divisions, to man its first line of nounced plans to develop an international peace park within defense along the tripwire border. the DMZ, Cheorwon has emerged as a strong candidate site, In order to prevent a recurrence of hostility, both Koreas desalongside Paju, Gyeonggi Province. In fact, the county’s motto is ignated a 2-kilometer-wide strip of land on each side as a “demili“peace, ecology, and life in the centarized zone” along the Military ter of the country.” Especially, it is Demarcation Line (MDL), with MDL DMZ North Hwanghae Province striving to build the infrastructure an iron fence set up along the CCL Border line area for a “peace center,” creating peaceouter perimeter of both sides. NO.2 underground tunnel South Hwanghae Province Cheorwon themed content for cultural tourTo restrict civilian access to the Woljeong-ri Station ism. DMZ, the South delineated the “Real DMZ Project” was launched Civilian Control Line at 10 kiGyeonggi Province Gangwon Province in 2012 with the belief that “the arts lometers south of the Southern Seoul can tear down the border on the Limit Line (SLL). North Korea scene of national division where About one-third of the entire time has stopped.” The annual event area along the 155-mile-long Cheorwon serves as a reminder of how CheorDMZ lies within the county South Korea won symbolizes a conflict that has of Cheorwon. This means that yet to be resolved. much of the area remains off-

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Books & More A Lifetime Spent with Korean Literature

‘My Korea: 40 Years without a Horsehair Hat’ By Kevin O’Rouke, 314 pages, $36.00/20,000 won, Folkestone, U.K.: Renaissance Books (2013)

“My Korea” is a difficult book to classify. In the very first paragraph of the introduction, the author emphatically states that it is not an autobiography nor a novel, but a “miscellany.” It is also “a poet’s account, what the heart has taught, and it should be interpreted as literature not history, philosophy or sociology.” Indeed, the book is literary in nature, peppered with poems and short stories, both those translated by the author from Korean and those penned by the author himself. But the book also uses the mode of literature to delve into history, philosophy, and sociology: a history of a nation emerging from war and finding its way in the modern world, a philosophy gleaned from 40 years in a foreign land, and a sociology that sees things as they are, taking the good with the bad. The author, Kevin O’Rourke, came to Korea in 1964 as a member of the Missionary Society of St. Columban. The book thus opens with a look at Korea in the 1960s and a lively and moving tribute to the Columban missionaries of those early days. O’Rourke then begins talking about the efforts he made to adapt to his new home land, segueing into a guided tour of Korean culture that those new to Korea — or anyone with any interest in the country at all — will find both interesting and useful. But this is not a simple guide to surviving in Korea; the author digs deep into the philosophical and ideological underpinnings of the culture, allowing the reader to come to a much fuller understanding of the country. He spends some time discussing Confucianism, using the literature of the old Confucian scholars themselves to explode the myth that Confucianism has always been a stuffy and stifling ideology. This is balanced with another chapter dealing with “The Buddhist Ingredient,” which gave birth to much of the beauty found in Korean culture. The final chapter of what the author terms a “basic introduction to life in Korea” is perhaps one of the most fascinating, as it tackles what he calls the “exclusivity myths” of han, h ng (heung ), and m t (meot). These three terms do not have single, wordfor-word equivalents in English, and this has led many people to believe that they are uniquely Korean

emotions or concepts. But O’Rourke astutely notes that all this really proves is that “Korean is more sensitive in some matters than English,” while in fact the ideas and feelings themselves are universal. This concise and cogent discussion will be appreciated by Korean newcomers and old hands alike. But this is not the end of the journey. The author goes on to introduce the reader to the hometown of the great Korean poet S Ch ngju (Seo Jeong-ju) in “Chilmajae Songs” (“Jilmajae Songs”) and then introduces “Korea’s Greatest Asset,” its women. “Korean women are beautiful, fearless, and intensely loyal; without them it’s doubtful if Korea would have made it through the twentieth century,” he says, but he also warns: “Forget that docile, subservient stuff; it’s pure façade.” This chapter follows the now familiar pattern of mixing his own literary writing with Korean literature, in this case with poems written both about women and by women, to paint a fuller picture. Other chapters include discussions of immortals and those not-so-immortal, tales of cultural immersion and submersion, and a final, detailed essay on the difficulties of learning the Korean language. “My Korea” is a truly fascinating book; as soon as you think you have it pegged, it pulls out a refreshing surprise. The rich trove of poems and short stories that are scattered throughout the book is a testament to the author’s long labors in translating Korean literature into English, and the love he has for this literature can be felt in every page. The author’s own poems and stories happily blur the line between fact and fiction. One story, for example, purports to be an account of the antics of a “longtime resident” named “Gugin Way,” but “waygugin” (oegugin) is of course simply the Korean word for “foreigner.” Could the author be talking about himself, or is this pure fiction? The admonishment to read this as literature rings in our ears, and we realize that it doesn’t matter. Because truth is not always about facts, and 40 (now nearly 50) years in Korea without a horsehair hat cannot be summed up in a dry recitation of events. This literary journey is one that will reward all travelers, no matter how long you may have spent walking this peninsula. [Editor’s Note: For Romanized Korean words and names, this article respects the McCune-Reischauer system, as used by the author of the book, and includes the current official system in parentheses.] Ko re a n Cu l tu re & A rts

Charles La Shure Professor, Graduate School of Interpretation and Translation, Hankuk University of Foreign Studies

Year-round Film Fest for Participation, Openness and Sharing

‘29 Second Film Festival’ http://29sfilm.com/

The 29 Second Film Festival has, according to its website, two goals: to create striking films that people the world over can relate to, all in the space of 29 seconds, and to present a new film grammar suited to the digital age, while uncovering talented new filmmakers in the process. There are monthly and weekly festivals held year round, but the current festival, officially titled the “29 Second World Film Festival 2013,” is a yearly event held on a much larger scale. The preliminary judging period lasted over a month, from August 19 to September 23, the final judging period ran from September 27 to October 17, and the winners were announced on October 26. The festival is a popular affair in every sense of the word: not only can anyone enter, but “netizen” scores are factored into both the preliminary and final judging, along with scores given by expert reviewers. It is a testament to the open nature of the event and the stated goal of discovering new filmmakers that 191 of the 454 short films featured on the website belong to the “19 and under” classification. Which of these young directors will be the next darling of Korea’s silver screen? The theme for the final round of the contest was “My Korean Food,” sponsored by the Korean Food Foundation, which 205 of the submitted films attempted to capture in a mere 29 seconds. These include films that focus on the visual aspects of Korean food, people enjoying Korean food, and the connection between food and family. One film, titled “That Taste,” effectively conveys how a simple meal can arouse complex emotional reactions. Particularly creative and quirky entries include a film featuring an American actor that plays on horror film conventions, and another zombie film that defines Korean food as… Koreans themselves! Many of the films on the site, though, deal with various other topics. One very well made film portrays the inside of a coffee vending machine as a miniaturized coffee shop, complete with miniature workers. Other films touch on critical social issues in Korea, such as school bullying or excessive reliance on technology. As with all films, these K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

short works are a window into the worlds of the filmmakers. In that regard, the 29 Second Film Festival is a unique opportunity for aspiring filmmakers young and old to share their works, and for those interested in film as a medium to perhaps catch a glimpse of the next big thing in Korean cinema.

Trivial Details for Meditation on Deeper and Broader Truths

‘The Growth of a Shadow’ Written by Taejoon Moon, Translated by Won-Chung Kim and Christopher Merrill, 73 pages, $8.95, Iowa: Autumn Hill Books (2012)

The poet Taejoon Moon (Mun Tae-jun), born in 1970 in Gimcheon, North Gyeongsang Province, is one of Korea’s most noteworthy young poets. He has received numerous literary honors for his poetry, including the coveted Midang Literary Award in 2005. This volume of selected poems draws from Moon’s four anthologies of poetry, “Babbling Backyard” (2000), “Barefoot” (2004), “Flatfish” (2006), and “The Growth of a Shadow” (2008), and takes its title from the most recent volume. Moon’s poems are filled with seemingly trivial but carefully crafted details, which enable the poet and reader to meditate on the larger world. A persimmon tree that casts its shadow on the roof of a house, a butter clam cracking open and reaching out with its foot, a gossamer dragonfly landing before the poet, red camellias blooming in a temple yard — all these are symbols of deeper and broader truths. Moon’s study of literature from his university days and his practice of Buddhism give his free verse a lyricism that goes hand in hand with penetrating insight into life and the world around us. This selection of 65 poems is a good introduction to the work of Taejoon Moon and will give readers a taste of the deep and complex world of this fascinating poet. It is accompanied by a brief introduction that could have perhaps been a bit longer, touching on why these particular poems were selected, but this does not affect the enjoyment of the poems, which are certainly capable of speaking for themselves.

Entertainment

Bong Joon-ho Makes Hollywood Debut with

‘Snowpiercer’ What is the most effective strategy for a Korean film to earn global success? Some argue that maintaining “Koreanness” is essential while others contend that Hollywood-style universal appeal is indispensable. Which of these competing strategies did Korean filmmaker Bong Joon-ho adopt in his latest movie “Snowpiercer”? Or, did he strike a new balance between the two approaches? Critical debate is sweeping the Korean film industry. Kim Young-jin Film Critic; Associate Professor, Department of Film and Musicals, Myoungji University

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uring the past several years it has become increasingly difficult to contact the top-tier Korean movie directors who are fast building a global reputation and expanding their activities worldwide. When I call them on the phone, they reply by text message that they are working abroad — in Los Angeles, New York City, or Prague.

Aiming for the World Markets? At last, this year Korean directors’ English-language films, featuring American and European actors, were released in global premiers as well as at Korean movie theaters. Internationally acclaimed director Park Chan-wook came up with “Stoker” for Fox Searchlight Pictures, a subsidiary of the Fox Entertainment Group, that is keen on producing medium-budget art house movies aiming for the Academy Awards and also notorious for frequent box office failures. Park’s fellow director Kim Jee-woon also made his Hollywood debut with “The Last Stand” for Lionsgate Films, a mid-size studio with a history of notable commercial successes. Despite their ambitious engagement with the Hollywood film industry, audience reception for both films was disappointing, to put it kindly. “Stoker,” made with a $10-million budget, is not likely to recoup even half of its production costs. “The Last Stand,” a $20-million work, also came up short in terms of gaining popularity with audiences. American viewers, in particular, turned a cold shoulder to Arnold Schwarzenegger, cast in the movie’s lead role, with his star appeal diminished by personal scandals. Critical opinion, however, tends to be more forgiving than commercial performance. In the case of “The Last Stand,” subsequent releases in DVD and Blu-ray disc formats seemed to invite a fresh and more positive look at the cinematic virtues of the movie. Both Korean filmmakers are now preparing for new Hollywood projects. In the recent box office failures of Park and Kim, the most difficult thing for the two directors to swallow was the indifference shown by Korean movie fans. In attempting to cross over between local and Western cultures and tastes, it seems that they have run into a stone wall. “Stoker,” reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock films, could have been a huge sensation if it had featured Korean actors like Moon Geun-young and Lee Byung-hun. But with the story set in remote America, the psychological thriller was perceived by Korean audiences as an abstract allegory. As for Kim, who has demonstrated his directorial mastery by interpreting Hollywood western

A scene from “Snowpiercer,” director Bong Joon-ho’s latest release. Namgoong Minsu, an anarchic figure, played by Song Kang-ho, delivers the movie’s symbolic message to the audience. K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

movies in Korean style — for example, “The Good, The Bad, The Weird” (2008) — his modern adaptation of a Hollywood western movie fell short of garnering popular appeal abroad.

Sci-Fi Thriller While Park Chan-wook and Kim Jee-woon were directing Hollywood movies funded by Hollywood investors, Bong Joon-ho was shooting “Snowpiercer” in the Czech Republic with a significant $40-million budget, mainly financed by Korea’s CJ Entertainment. Even though the primary investment came from Korea, the movie’s cast and staff were predominantly foreigners. Adopting Hollywood’s production and filming systems, “Snowpiercer” featured a high-profile cast of Western actors and actresses, including Chris Evans, Tilda Swinton, Ed Harris, and John Hurt. The movie is almost entirely in English, except for dialogue between Song Kangho and Ko Ah-sung in the role of two Korean characters. The highly intriguing storyline is set 17 years after 2014, aboard an armored train named Snowpiercer that endlessly circles the earth’s frozen landscape, carrying human survivors of a cataclysmic disaster that triggered a second Ice Age. On this train, a desperate struggle for control is waged between the suppressed masses riding in the rear cars and the privileged passengers living in comfort at the front of the train. The complexity and ironic plot of the movie evoked a mixed sense of anticipation and reviews among journalists and movie critics. In particular, there were doubts about the movie’s commercial prospects in Korea due to a lack of clear Korean sentiments, which could have resulted in its failure to connect with Korean audiences. As it turned out, this critical assessment by the local media proved to be off the mark. Even though the audiences were clearly divided in their reactions, the controversy that the movie stirred up attracted curious moviegoers, who turned out in droves. Splashy marketing campaigns also yielded handsome commercial rewards. Thus far, the movie has shot well past the break-even point, generating some $60 million in Korea alone from sales of 9.3 million tickets at local theaters. It is scheduled to be released in France in October, as well as Taiwan in November, and Japan in February 2014. Even before the release schedule has been confirmed for U.S. theaters, the Weinstein Company secured the distribution rights. This U.S. film studio is founded by Harvey Weinstein, who led the production of high-profile Oscar-winning art house movies in the 1990s for Miramax Films. It is said that Weinstein asked Bong to shorten the Korean release version by about 20 minutes for its showing in America, which the Korean director accepted. Speculation is rife about the film’s commercial success in the global market. The Bong Joon-ho Stamp In a talk given at the 2013 Busan International Film Festival in October, Bong declared that he would never again make a big bud-

get film in the future, regardless of the eventual commercial outcome of “Snowpiercer.” He said that he found the enormous pressure of a large-scale project unbearable and painful while making the film. And he said he would rather work on movies of a modest scale, which enable him to fully explore his directorial acumen and narratives. His fellow movie director and producer for “Snowpiercer,” Park Chan-wook recalls the time he visited Bong on location in Prague in April 2012, when “he looked like a zombie.” According to Park, as the filming was about to wrap up, physical and psychological exhaustion had taken a heavy toll on Bong. But thanks to his perseverance, the movie’s narrative and message seem to create a unique balance between Korean uniqueness and universal appeal in line with the Hollywood-style cosmopolitan approach. Bong Joon-ho has demonstrated exceptional creativity in his adoption and re-contextualization of foreign genres to satisfy local Korean tastes. For example, his multi-award winning movie, “Memories of Murder” (2003), tells the story of detectives in a rural Korean town who fail to catch a serial killer. The movie’s final scene, lingering on the face of the lead detective’s expression of utter puzzlement and frustration, received enthusiastic responses from Korean viewers. This “unhappy” ending is a rejection of the typical storylines of Hollywood’s detective genre, reflecting the complicated Korean realities. In “The Host” (2006), Bong’s creative imagination transformed the mundane and familiar landscape of the Han River into a surreal world. In “Mother” (2009), veteran Korean actress Kim Hye-ja plays a middle-aged woman who searches for a killer, believing that her disabled son has been

wrongly accused of murder. But she comes to find that her son is the actual murderer and desperately attempts to conceal the truth. The film enjoyed great popularity in Korea, and the lead actress as well as the director received high critical acclaim.

A Study of Leadership “Snowpiercer” does not explicitly relate to Korean reality. But the movie has still proven popular among local viewers; its intellectual message has obviously struck a chord with them. The movie’s storyline is centered on social upheaval. While Curtis seeks to mobilize the impoverished and suppressed passengers riding in the back of the train, in an effort to wrest control, he must overcome Wilford, the heartless leader of the elites at the front of the train. Gilliam’s astute advice to halt the attack from advancing beyond the water supply unit and to accept that such a revolt is futile, ends up being ignored. Curtis pushes on with his rebellion. However, for some reason he falls into a moral dilemma as he approaches the front of the train. Tilda Swinton, whose performance as Mason impressed critics and audiences alike, summed up “Snowpiercer” as “an investigation of the nature of leadership.” She apparently pointed out an intriguing possibility that the movie is supportive of a novel form of leadership, like that of the anarchist Namgoong Minsu (acted by Song Kang-ho) rather than the rebellious Curtis, the wise Gilliam, or Wilford, the leader of a dog-eat-dog world. Namgoong Minsu is a drug addict, who couldn’t care less about the struggles on the train. Some bold critics even assert that the fantasy world of a halluci-

1 Actress Tilda Swinton, who plays the character Mason, interacts with fans at the 2013 Deauville American Film Festival in France, where “Snowpiercer” was screened as the closing film. 2 Director Bong Joon-ho on location for “Snowpiercer” in Prague, the Czech Republic. In his first international film project, Bong won critical acclaim by proving his capability to handle multinational casting and a big budget movie ($40 million).

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nating drug addict may be an alternative vision suggested by Bong Joon-ho, while the movie’s happy ending is in fact no more than an illusion. In his earlier films, Bong has shown an emotional attachment to confined spaces that can cause claustrophobia. The drainage culvert of a dike between rice paddies in “Memories of Murder,” a sewer in “The Host,” and a gloomy rural village in “Mother” were the central settings of his works. The spatiality of a train in perpetual motion, in Bong’s imagination, becomes a perfect theatrical device to visualize tragic realities with great effect. Bong successfully surmounts the usual boundaries of our imagination in the finale of “Snowpiercer.” His dystopian fairytale has evoked a powerful emotional resonance with the Korean public, exposed as they are and hypersensitive to the absurd reality of K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

ceaseless power struggles between self-interested political parties and politicians. Song Kang-ho is the actor who conveys a key message of the film. His character Namgoong Minsu is a hallucinating and absent-minded man who is indifferent to class struggles, making him the least likely person to be a leader. He dreams of escape while the pendulum of power shifts between the opposing groups but does not necessarily lead to any real change in the social order. In this sense, the finale of “Snowpiercer” is reminiscent of that of “The Host,” in which the lead character (also acted by Song Kangho) accepts a homeless boy as his son. Even as he worries constantly about the possibility of the monster’s reemergence, he continues to take care of the boy. “Snowpiercer” likewise surprises the audience by suggesting an alternative vision in the Bong Joon-ho style.

Gourmet’s Delight

Hwangtae

High-Protein Delicacy Created by Snow, Wind, and Sun Hwangtae is pollack that has repeatedly been frozen and thawed in the frigid winter winds, until thoroughly dried and yellowish. Although the drying process requires enormous labor, the end product is a convenient foodstuff easy to store and use for home cooking. A soup made with this high-protein delicacy is known as an effective remedy for hangovers. Ye Jong-suk Food Columnist; Professor of Marketing, Hanyang University | Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

ollack, purchased mostly in dried or frozen form, can be called the Korean people’s fish; it is No. 1 in terms of annual consumption of seafood, easily beating out squid, mackerel, and hairtail. Interestingly, no other particular fish has such varied names in the Korean language. Depending on where and how it is caught, and its processing method, pollack is known by different names. Fresh-caught pollack is called saengtae ; when partially dried, it is known as kodari ; if frozen, it’s dongtae ; dried, bugeo; and the yellowish dried pollack that has been repeatedly frozen and thawed in the winter wind is called hwangtae. The name bugeo is more often used further south in Korea, below Gyeonggi Province. As the late 18th-century glossary Jaemulbo explains, “It is called bugeo because it is caught in the northern sea (bukhae).” Bugeo holds important symbolism for the Korean people whose livelihoods and fortunes have long been bound to the sea. When a shop opens or a new company is launched, a shamanic ritual is held to pray for success with an offering of bugeo. When the ceremony is finished, the fish is sometimes placed above the door, serving a totemic purpose. When a house is built, bugeo is bound with twine and attached to a ridge pole after a roof-raising ceremony. In the coastal areas of Gangwon Province, bugeo is used in a launching ceremony for a boat’s maiden voyage; afterward, it is thrown into the sea, one fish for each crew member, to prevent misfortune and pray for a bountiful catch.

Natural Freeze-drying Hwangtae is at the top of the pollack hierarchy in the market due to its time-consuming drying process. Hwangtae and bugeo are both forms of dried pollack, but while bugeo is sun-dried mostly in coastal areas, in the case of hwangtae, the gutted pollack is transported to inland mountain areas in midwinter to undergo a laborious process of being repeatedly frozen and thawed in the cold air to produce the delicacy. From December to early April, for more than four months, the pollack freezes in the night air when temperatures can fall to minus 15 degrees Celsius and then thaws out somewhat in the sunlight, slowly turning into delectable hwangtae. Even when dried, the fish looks plump, as if soaked in water and has a luster on the surface, while the yellowish and downy meat is soft and savory. Pollack is dried into hwangtae on sturdy wooden racks called deokjang. The drying structures are made of round wooden poles and erected in areas where the air is frigid and snowy with big temperature differences between day and night. This freeze-drying method was developed during the early 20th century in Sinpo, South Hamgyeong Province, in today’s North Korea, then the country’s primary hwangtae-producing area. After the Korean War (1950-53), refugees from Hamgyeong Province set-

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1 The ingredients of hwangtae hangover soup: strips of fluffy dried pollack, one egg, green onion, tofu, and radish. 2 Place hwangtae strips with some sesame oil, crushed garlic, and thin sliced radish in a heated pan, add anchovy stock, and stir. 3 When the soup is boiling, stir in the egg. 4 The clear and refreshing hwangtae soup is one of the most popular Korean hangover remedies.

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Hwangtae contains almost twice as much protein as fresh pollack as a result of the lengthy freeze-drying process. Not only does it contain much more protein than milk or tofu, it also is a high-nutrient, low-cholesterol health food.

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tled in Sokcho further south along the eastern coast and other nearby places close to the ceasefire line. They set up deokjang in areas around Misi Pass and Daegwan Pass, which both had weather conditions similar to their northern home. These areas have since become the nation’s primary region for hwangtae production. The manufacturing process seems simple at first glance, but it is actually very hard work requiring a lot of hands-on care under harsh weather conditions through some 30 physically demanding steps before good-quality hwangtae is made available for the dining table.

Delectable Dishes The yellowish dried pollack can be served in a wide variety of dishes — as soup, or steamed, stewed, or grilled, the soup being especially popular as a remedy for hangovers. Grilled and spicy steamed hwangtae, savory and delectably chewy, are great as a side dish or an appetizer for drinkers. Hwangtae contains almost twice as much protein as fresh pollack as a result of the lengthy freeze-drying process. Not only does it contain much more protein than milk or tofu, it is a high-nutrient, low-cholesterol health food. Koreans who enjoy drinking are particularly fond of hwangtae haejangguk, the “hangover soup” which is often called bugeotguk even when the soup is made of hwangtae. A basic recipe for the popular hangover soup is as follows: Remove the skin and bones from the hwangtae, and tear the flesh into strips and soak in water for a few minutes. (Shredded hwangtae is also available at stores). In a heated pan, stir together the hwangtae strips with sesame oil, crushed garlic, and thinly sliced radish. Add some homemade soy sauce, pour in some water to cover the ingredients, and let boil for a while. While it boils, you can add soybean sprouts and green onion cut to finger-length strips, then cover, and let it boil some more to get a better flavor. Stir in an egg for added nutrition, or cubes of tofu. Add salt, black pepper, or red pepper powder to make the soup taste better. For a clear and savory soup, use only salt instead of soy sauce. The soup will have an even richer taste when cooked with stock prepared by soaking kelp in water, boiling it together with onion and dried anchovy, then removing these ingredients before use. Hwangtae is rich in amino acids, including methionine, which is believed to help the liver recover from heavy drinking. Hwangtae bopuragi is a traditional side dish. The dried pollack is pounded and the bones are removed before tearing the flesh, or scraping it with a spoon, into thin, feathery strips, which are then rubbed vigorously to further soften the meat, then mixing in soy sauce, sugar, roasted sesame seeds and salt, and sesame oil. For visual appeal, red pepper powder can be added to a portion of this, with another portion mixed with only salt and no soy sauce. These two portions are served together with the portion flavored with soy sauce, hence the name samsaek hwangtae bopuragi, or “three-colored fluffy hwangtae.” Winter Trip to Pollack-drying Areas The hwangtae drying areas, covering the hilly expanses of many mountain villages in Gangwon Province, are popular travel destinations where visitors can take in the unusual winter scenery within striking distance of nearby ski resorts. After being bowled over by the sight of hundreds of thousands of fish drying in the open air, you can enjoy the authentic taste of the dried fish at its source: nearby are many specialized eateries, most notably Yongbawi Restaurant in Yongdae-ri, Inje County, and Hwangtae Hoegwan at Daegwallyeong pass, in Hoenggye-ri. It is indeed unfortunate that pollack has practically disappeared from the coastal waters of Korea. Pollack available on the market these days is mostly from Russia. Due to global warming, the temperatures of Korea’s coastal waters have gone up considerably, thus driving the fish northward. In the early 1980s, some 150,000 tons of pollack were caught annually, but the catch in recent years has plummeted to less than one ton per year. With most of the pollack enjoyed by Koreans nowadays being caught in the Bering Sea, perhaps our ancestors had commendable prescience in calling the dried pollack bugeo, meaning “fish from the northern sea.” We can at least take comfort in having pollack, even from Russia, reborn as hwangtae after enduring the cold snowy winds on Korean soil. K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

A pollack drying area in the mountainous county of Pyeongchang, Gangwon Province (opposite).

Lifestyle

CR OW D

G IN D N U F

Sharing Economy, a New Concept of Ownership Crowdfunding, or good faith investing, which enables people to contribute to a social cause with a small amount of money, is enjoying a boom. Similarly, a campaign for various â&#x20AC;&#x153;sharing economyâ&#x20AC;? activities, which allow people to share their skills, knowledge, talent, and resources, is going viral on the Internet. Lee Jin-joo Freelance Writer

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im Hong-min, president of Booksphere, a small-scale genre literature publisher, conducted a successful “book funding” experiment last year. It was when his company was preparing to publish “Anju” (Monster in the Darkness) by Miyuki Miyabe (nicknamed “Mrs. Mimi” by her readers), a Japanese mystery fiction writer. Unlike large publishing houses, Booksphere was short on its marketing budget. Kim decided to appeal to his loyal customers for support. He promised investors a 10 percent return if he sold more than 15,000 copies of the book within a year. His so-called Wongiok (meaning “power energy ball”) project was a great success. He raised 50 million won (approximately $40,000) in just 11 days from 112 participants, with individual contributions ranging from 100,000 won to 2 million won. The name “Wongiok” came from “Dragon Ball,” a Japanese comic book series (serialized from 1984 to 1995). Its protagonist, Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, creates a large energy ball that gathers energy from the surrounding environment, little by little, until it is unleashed to knock out his enemy. In similar fashion, Kim envisioned the implementation of a major project with small investments from readers that he would gather, little by little.

Success in Book Funding Kim has long sought to connect with readers through innovative events. Even before the “Wongiok” project, he had regularly interacted with loyal readers. There are readers who volunteer to help him out, even competing to do menial jobs, such as packing newly printed books into boxes for delivery. These loyal readers are such ardent supporters of his company that they even send Christmas trees and Valentine chocolates to his office. Kim launched his second book funding project this past summer as a means to publish another of Mrs. Mimi’s books, “Stepping on the Shadow.” With a fundraising target of 70 million won, he set a sales goal of 30,000 copies. His office was swamped with phone calls from readers on the final day of the campaign, offering to make up any shortfall. He raised 17 million won on the final day alone, resulting in total support of 80 million won from 102 participants. Kim’s success encouraged other publishing houses to look into crowdfunding for their own marketing activities. “Book funding is not so much about raising money as building relationships,” Kim said. “It’ll be most successful if you can bring together your own proactive and stable group of readers.” Genre literature, referring to fictional works with fast-paced plots written for a specific literary niche, especially appeals to intellectual and like-minded readers, who typically have professional careers. Book funding events have confirmed this notion. Well-off individuals, who are often too busy to attend such events, can take part in fundraising projects by simply remitting funds via electronic transmission. But it’s necessary for small publishing firms that have not yet built trust with their readers to be prudent because their situation could

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go from bad to worse if they incur losses for their backers, Kim pointed out.

Crowdfunding for Culture and the Arts Crowdfunding is a means for cash-strapped individuals, venture enterprises, and cultural producers and artists to raise funds for their endeavors by publicizing their projects and asking ordinary people to make contributions. It is also known as “social funding” as it is mainly done through social media. In the field of culture and the arts, film projects lead the crowdfunding trend. This fundraising method is used primarily by the producers of low-budget films that deal with controversial themes, such as sensitive social and political issues. Good examples include “Jiseul,” a film about the massacre on Jeju Island in 1948, which received the World Cinema Grand Jury Prize at the 2013 Sundance Film Festival; “The Islets,” a documentary film about Dokdo, the object of a territorial dispute with Japan; and “Another Family,” which deals with the suffering of leukemia victims who believe their illness is related to their work at a semiconductor plant of Samsung Electronics. Producers of these films made the most of crowdfunding as a strategy to support publicity and marketing as well as production, because their projects were difficult to pitch to conventional investors. Organizers of events aimed at delivering social messages also rely on crowdfunding to raise money and conduct public relations. Examples include a “healing concert” by the four-fingered pianist Lee Heeah, and the publication of “Decoration Book” containing 20 gift-wrapping papers designed with the pressed-flower images made during psychotherapy sessions of former “comfort women,” who had been forced into sexual slavery for imperial Japanese troops during World War II. Heeum The Classic, a social venture firm, launched a crowdfunding event in March with the goal of raising 3 million won for the printing of “Decoration Book,” but made headlines by raising a whopping 10.83 million won in donations in just a few weeks. Proactive Consumer Input With a growing number of customers who are interested in acquiring limited-edition brand goods that suit their tastes rather than mass-produced products, producers and suppliers are making various efforts to allow potential buyers to have an advance look at product designs, to gauge consumer interest, and to solicit investment in desirable products. This kind of crowdfunding is akin to pre-harvest sales of field crops. This approach is particularly well-suited for films and industrial designs for which new ideas can be visualized. One example is crack-er.com, a fashion site that publicizes creations of popular fashion designers in advance, and then produces the clothing in limited quantities with investment from consumers. This serves as a test bed that enables designers to assess consumer response early on, so as to avoid unnecessary waste of their talent and time.

the target amount has been reached, in order to protect donors Platform Services from unintended consequences. Donations are received simultaneAlongside crowdfunding, “platform services” for connecting ously the moment the target is achieved. This system has boosted project planners with investors are drawing attention as well. Curcustomers’ trust in the site. rently, there are about 15 platform services sites in operation. A typical art platform is tumblebug.com, a site launched by Yeom Jae-seung, a student of the Department of Film at Korea NationSharing Talent and Experience al University of Arts. O Muel, the director of “Jiseul,” has been Knowledge, experience, and talent can be shared, too. A typiassisted by tumblebug.com. O was able to start shooting the film cal talent donation website is “Wisdome” launched by Han Sangwith 70 million won donated yeob, a first-generation sharing by culture-minded investors economy venture businessman and residents of Jeju Island, as in Korea. Anyone who wants well as a subsidy from the Jeju to share their knowledge or provincial government. But experience with others can the money ran out soon. He launch an online community then turned to tumblebug.com on “Wisdome,” where users for help and received 10 milcan access the information. “I lion won to complete the film’s started this business to give soundtrack. the 90 percent of the people in A would-be film director, society the opportunity to parYeom would always have diffitake of various kinds of inforculty raising funds for his films. mation, at a reasonable cost, So he launched his own platwhich thus far has been avail1 form services site in 2011. His able to only the 10 percent with platform has extended suphigh-paying jobs,” Han said. port to about 810 projects, as Messages on the site are realof September this year, with life stories of people like you a 75 percent success rate, he and me, your next-door neighsaid. The online platform presbors, not celebrity “role modents a variety of ideas for proels.” posed projects, including films, Who would pay user fees to games, performances, music a website whose credentials albums, comics, books, and are not verified to learn somecalendars. Netizens can access thing? Han presented data the site to read the details showing that some 40 percent about each project and then of site users are repeat cusdonate 1,000 won or more to a tomers who have signed up 2 project they like through elecfor additional services. About 1 “Heeum The Classic,” a social venture, presents “Decoration Book,” an artwork tronic fund transfer or online 10,000 customers have paid composed of patterns of pressed flowers made by former Korean victims of imperial Japan’s military sexual slavery in their psychotherapy sessions. Crowdfunding is also credit card payment. The name for the site’s services durused for “help-your-needy-neighbor” events aimed at spreading charitable mes“tumblebug” envisions raising ing a period of one year and sages. 2 The Booksphere booth at the Wow Book Festival, annually held in Seoul. A funds by carefully managing seven months, with only two small-scale publishing house, Booksphere has attracted attention among publishers by successfully linking reader-targeted book funding with marketing. donations in small amounts. demanding refunds. Man is The site doesn’t return the naturally good. Sharing is in money to donors or provide financial compensation. It only rewards our genes. Each life is precious. These beliefs underpin Han’s opercontributors with a symbolic gesture like distributing small souveation of “Wisdome,” which he says are the source of its effectivenirs or displaying their names in the film credits. ness. “This is a revival of the traditional custom of pre-industrial “This is because the entire process could turn into a money communal sharing of labor, based on a sense of community among game if we offer contributors any financial return,” Yeom said. The neighbors,” Han added. “tumblbug.com” platform does not begin accepting donations until For example, a large banner for a “coffee class” was posted on

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the site’s main page. It was a public notice saying that a coffee shop near Gangnam Subway Station would hold a class to teach participants the “genuine taste of coffee.” The participation fee was 20,000 won per two-hour session, which included the cost of coffee and refreshments, and other expenses. This amount of money can buy four to five Starbucks coffees. The class instructors included Jackie, a gold medal winner at the World Barista Championship; Jenny, who won the Korean Barista Championship; and Leo, a start-up

that has been modeled after Israel’s “fiverr.com,” is based in the southern port city of Masan, South Gyeongsang Province. There are many other websites based on innovative ideas. “People’s Library Bookshelf,” http://bookoob.co.kr/, allows its members to borrow books, which otherwise would just sit idle on a bookshelf, after paying delivery fees, just like a private lending library. “Open Closet,” http://theopencloset.net/, lends business suits and dressy attire to anyone who needs a stylish look for a job interview or graduation photos. The Seoul city government, led by Mayor Park Won-soon, a former civic activist, is now at the fore“I started this business to give the 90 percent of the people in front of experimental sharing programs. Since society the opportunity to partake of various kinds of informadeclaring Seoul a “sharing city” in September 2012, the metropolitan government has supported 20 projtion, at a reasonable cost, which thus far has been available ects for sharing parking lots, empty rooms, books, cars, clothing and so on. It even enacted an ordito only the 10 percent with high-paying jobs.” nance to authorize the provision of financial and administrative support to sharing groups and ventures. In April this year, the city government selected 27 model consultant who has visited about 1,500 coffee shops and cafés. The sharing groups and businesses, of which 12 were provided 200 number of participants was limited to 15, so that each “Wisdomer” million won each in financial assistance. It also launched a sharing (instructor) could give lessons to five “Wisdomis” (participants). website, “Sharehub” (http://sharehub.kr/). Kim Ji-young, a city offiA “human library” project launched by the Nowon District Office cial in charge of social innovation and the sharing economy, said: in Seoul is another example of how ordinary people can share their “People constitute the most important factor in the sharing econexperience and knowledge. Anybody can sign up for this library as omy. Its concept is different from that of the ‘Anabada’ sharing and a “human book,” which other library members can “borrow” for a recycling campaign of the past in that the sharing economy envifree, one-hour dialogue. Knowhow about everyday life, such as how sions building a new sharing ecosystem by linking people togethto prepare side dishes, practice auto maintenance, and use smarter.” phones, is offered through conversation. The district office provides a larger space for popular human books like Ahn Cheol-soo, the legislator from this district, so that he can present a special lecture Challenges Ahead to a large audience. More than 1,000 people have used the human Trust, a precondition of the sharing economy, can be an expenlibrary and over 2,000 people have attended such lectures. sive form of social capital. As such, a systematic infrastructure must be in place to build trust and public confidence by minimizing the involvement of dishonest or unscrupulous individuals. EventuSharing Rooms and Cars ally, it might be necessary to impose a program fee on those who Besides the sharing of funds and knowledge, physical sharing rent out their rooms and to develop a kind of insurance system to of resources is also spreading around the country. Various kinds of compensate those who incur damages to their property. sharing are facilitated by kozaza.com, a website for renting spare In the case of crowdfunding in which money is involved, it is rooms in private homes, and http://www.socar.kr/ that arranges essential to make a clear distinction between crowdfunding and short-term car rental by the half hour or by the hour. donation. In May this year, the administration pushed for legislation People today seem to be more open than before to the idea of on crowdfunding, as well as the creation of “a virtuous cycle for the lending their possessions to or borrowing things from strangers. venture capital and startup ecosystem.” But no law has yet been Indeed it’s fair to say that this kind of sharing economy/culture has enacted, considering that crowdfunding looks more like microbecome a kind of fad among trend-conscious Koreans. Of course, donation fundraising rather than regular financing. There are no the ongoing global recession has also played a role. Basically, anymeans to penalize breach of trust, even when the money raised one can offer or use a service in the sharing economy, regardless of through crowdfunding is not used as planned or if projects are not where they live, but Internet access is required, since the concept is implemented after the funds are raised. We thus need a system to based on SNS services, such as Facebook, Kakao Talk, and Twitter. protect investors and prevent them from falling victim to those who Korea’s cutting-edge smartphone culture forms a technological violate the public’s trust. foundation for this trend. “Kmong.com,” a talent exchange website

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Journeys in Korean Literature

Critique

One Way to Remember the Unknowable and Irrelevant Life Kang Ji-hee Literary Critic

ee Hyun-su, born in 1959, has a talent for creating mouthwatering prose. Quite literally, her vivid descriptions of various culinary dishes are enough to stimulate the salivary glands of readers. (It is said that her real-life culinary prowess is fabulous as well.) It is, perhaps, those metaphors unrelated to food, slipped in so subtly between the culinary descriptions, that may well leave the deepest impressions. For example, while explaining the mugwort stew with flounder (dodari ssukguk), a specialty of the southern provinces, Lee points out that mugwort is, in fact, an extremely valuable herb, but that Koreans, perhaps because they’ve grown so accustomed to its availability, tend to take it for granted. “Like those unfeeling husbands,” she writes, “who seem so determined to forget every effort made by their devoted wives.” Having once encountered a sentiment like this, there is no way for a reader to ever enjoy mugwort stew with flounder again without thinking of Lee Hyun-su. No introduction of the author Lee Hyun-su would be complete without a mention of her short story “Chupungnyeong” (The Chupung Pass). The main character of this story, forced to give up any hope of marriage in order to live as the head of a household full of several generations of widows, suffers the burden of an old mother who lives a transient life like a novice shaman. Every time she returns home, her mother makes a pot of potato stew for her family to eat. They feel that this stew, “while hot and spicy enough to actually numb the tongue, still had a slightly fishy, slippery aftertaste of sadness.” The main character, in turn, reflects on how while she eats the stew, at least momentarily, she is able, somehow, to put aside her own “sadness and rage, that senseless fury, that burning heat that lives inside” her. Indeed, it is through this potato stew that she is ultimately able to come to terms with her mother, a woman next to impossible to understand. Lee, in this way, reveals the ways in which taste, of all five senses, is situated deepest and closest to the human heart. The food in her stories, like the potato stew in this particular story, becomes a means for

those who do the cooking to convey long-buried “messages of the heart” that they are unable to express through speech, while also soothing the wounds of those who eat the food. If, in the story mentioned above, the potato stew serves as a device for the characters to examine and understand and, ultimately, forgive any wrongs of their pasts, then in “Rosewood Cabinet” this function is symbolized by the unwieldy desk ordered by the narrator’s father. A huge, sturdy piece of furniture, this brilliant creation of the father’s imagination is a desk on the outside but a rice bin on the inside; unfortunately, it is impractical to use as either a desk or a rice bin, and ends up being unloved and neglected, a nuisance shoved into a corner collecting dust. Described as being “like some relative who borrows money and refuses to pay it back” and “like some sick relative who is always in need and never actually kicks the bucket,” the desk’s final fate is a kind of cremation. It is, however, amidst the crackle of the flames which engulf this desk that it seems to reveal itself. “What had been the true identity of this object, this thing we had always called a desk, for the sake of convenience, even though it had functioned more often as a rice bin? Was it a desk? Was it a rice bin? Which use, back when he was alive, had made my father happier? If the answer was the desk, then was there even one moment when it had been a true desk, through and through? Or if the answer was a rice bin, then had there been even one moment when the thing was a true rice bin, through and through? No matter how much I thought about it, it was like any other father on this earth: an object ultimately unknowable, irrelevant.” In this story, the death of the family’s patriarch — a man who was never particularly good at anything, least of all providing financially for his wife and children — forces the narrator’s mother to step up and begin building her own successful business as if unfurling wings of her own. What the narrator discovers as the desk burns, however, is that this same mother who had so robustly Ko re a n Cu l tu re & A rts

Lee Hyun-su is known as a writer who has dedicated herself to harnessing the power of literature in an effort to preserve the traces of those aspects of life that are rapidly disappearing. She is also recognized for her formidable skill and ability to capture, with her cutting wit, the deep sadness and daunting challenges that women face in an intractable male-centric society.

Lee Hyun-su pursued a livelihood for her family, not to mention her two sisters with their own reckless but healthy lives and aspirations, had still been relying on the shadow of her father, a looming and seemingly useless but ever-constant presence as dependable as a sturdy piece of oversized furniture. Ever since Oedipus, the history of literature the world over has centered around the struggle against the father. That said, in Korea, with its uniquely complex and tortured history of colonization and dictatorship, the unique function of the father in literature has perhaps been felt most keenly in his absence from the family unit. Interestingly, the works of Lee Hyun-su assume a stance that neither resents nor sympathizes with the father; rather, the stories are based on a kind of acceptance. In a way, it is as if our lives invariably include some uncomfortable and burdensome element which refuses to sort itself out, not unlike a huge, useless desk. And if this is indeed the case, then Lee Hyun-su’s story seems to suggest that all that is left for us to do in the face of this helpless existence is to try to remember, moment by singular moment, the brief, ephemeral experiences of our lives. In truth, what makes this story even more appealing is the outer story that encompasses the internal narratives of reminiscing about this desk built by the narrator’s father. In these thoughts, the narrator herself, a character every bit as inflexible and every bit as clumsy with finances as her archaeologist husband, gets an idea about trying her hand at real estate and sets out to register for an allotment lottery of a new officetel project — only to suddenly lose interest while viewing the model unit. This account of an abortive attempt at real estate investment is ultimately a tale of the cracks of exhaustion that characterize the small, ordinary life, a tale about the coarse desires that leak out from between these cracks — appetites so unflinchingly honest that it is impossible not to laugh along with them. Lee Hyun-su does not set herself above these base desires, nor does she give in to them. With one foot firmly K o r e a n a ı W i n t e r 2 0 13

planted in the real world, she simply acknowledges, with a giggle, that we cannot separate ourselves from these impulses, only to then go on and avoid their inevitable pitfalls. Here, I would like to turn to a notable episode about the author. After the six full years it took to make her literary debut, Lee spent another five years without a single request from any publishing concern to look over her writing; hence, she began to submit her work directly to various magazines. In six months she received word from a publication that wanted to print one of her stories — but it needed Lee to revise her work within three days. Determined to get as much out of these three days, as if they were thirty, Lee left the city for the coast, ending up on the island of Wolmido. After searching all around the various motels along the island’s edges, she was finally able to install herself in a tiny corner room to work — only to find, almost immediately, that the motel had no soundproofing at all, and that she would be getting a surround-sound experience of a varied and colorful array of moans from three separate pairs of guests per day. After losing one full day to the distraction of these moans, she declared: “Fine, you guys do! I’m going to write!” And with that, she managed to maintain perfect concentration for the following two days, producing an almost entirely different final story, which was eventually published as “Toran” (Taro) in the 2002 Spring edition of the Quarterly Changbi [Creation and Criticism]. Consider, a moment, the kind of equanimity necessary for a writer to endure 11 years of anonymity — an equanimity that must be both firm and sexy, built as it was on a foundation of lusty moans. Reading her stories, you, too, are sure to fall in love with the effortful yet also effortless way Lee so warmly embraces every nook and cranny of both the world and the individual, knowing full well the flaws of each. And you will return to these stories, again and again — whenever you grow weary of the struggle between the world and this unknowable, irrelevant life we sometimes live — because in them, you will find strength.

IMAGE OF KOREA

eated high on his throne mantled in snow, the great king gazes down upon his people through 600 years of history. Seven years after the great architect Filippo Brunelleschi completed the dome of Florence’s Duomo cathedral, crowning glory of the Renaissance, in Tuscany, at the southern tip of the European continent, King Sejong, the fourth ruler of the Joseon Dynasty, created the writing system of Hangeul in his kingdom at the eastern end of the Asian continent. Ever since that year, 1443, Koreans have possessed their own unique and treasured writing system. So it is that today in the Republic of Korea, the broad avenue that runs south from the shining face of the capital city of Seoul, the royal palace, is called “Sejong Street” in tribute to the great king. Up on his throne, the king is blanketed by snow that accumulates like 600 years of history. The children must be worried for they look up at that venerable presence above them and ask, “Aren’t you cold?” The king says not a word. The snow falls in silence. It has been only a few years since King Sejong came out to grace the vibrant square at the heart of his capital city, now blanketed in snow. Before that he rested peacefully on the green 10,000 won notes in our wallets. Now the age of city squares has come to Korea. The ginkgo trees that had stood so handsomely along the avenue were pulled up and an open square was created. Then, the great king was brought out onto the square upon his throne. The snow falls slowly, as if to say, “All ... is ... well, all ... is ... well ....” Gwanghwamun, the great royal gate, lifts its eaves high to point at the palace and high mountains behind it, both hidden amidst the falling snow. The long winter will pass slowly beneath the snow that piles higher and higher. Will the king, the palace, and the high mountains rise from slumber only when spring comes and the snow melts?

King Sejong under a Blanket of Snow Kim Hwa-young Literary Critic; Member of the Korean National Academy of Arts

Hawoo Publishing Catalog of Korean Books

Hawoo Publishing

Address 131-230 1F Mangu-dong, Jungnang-gu, Seoul, Korea Tel 82-2-922-7090 Fax 82-2-922-7092 Homepage www.hawoo.co.kr e-mail hawoo@hawoo.co.kr

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