VOL—02.
YANGWOOK KANG
INTERCONNECTED TALES
PROLOGUE
*DMZ - Demilitarized Zone Established in 1953
TALES OF THE DMZ
When people hear the word DMZ, they often imagine the same things. Barbed wire. Soldiers. Separation. A place that has remained frozen for more than seventy years. But as I began researching the DMZ, I realised that this was only part of the story. Beneath the ground, across rivers, above the landscape, and within everyday life, connections have never disappeared. Water still flows. Birds still migrate. Light still reaches both sides of the border. Farmers continue to cultivate the land. This project is not about reconnecting North and South Korea. It is about revealing the connections that have quietly continued to exist despite separation.
PROLOGUE
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NORTH KOREA
Peace Villages (Human) Two villages facing one another across the border. Built as symbols of prosperity and ideology, yet today they remain separated despite their physical proximity. Kaesong Industrial Complex (Political / Economic) A joint economic zone intended to foster cooperation between North and South Korea. Closed in 2016 following renewed political tensions, demonstrating the fragility of architectural and economic collaboration.
Rivers Crossing the Border (Natural Systems) Water flows freely across the military boundary, ignoring political borders and connecting landscapes that people cannot cross.
Panmunjom (Dialogue) The only place where direct dialogue between North and South Korea still takes place.
N
Military Demarcation Line A buffer zone extends approximately 1–2 kilometres into both North and South Korea from the Military Demarcation Line.
Subterranean Connections Several infiltration tunnels secretly constructed beneath the border remain among the few physical links connecting the two Koreas.
Ecological Corridor (Nature) Decades of restricted human access have transformed the DMZ into one of East Asia’s most significant ecological corridors, providing habitat for endangered species.
Observation Posts (Surveillance) Hilltops along the DMZ were cleared to provide unobstructed views across the border. Many remain as symbols of constant observation and military presence.
SOUTH KOREA
This map is not a collection of facts. It is a collection of stories. Each one reveals a different relationship within the DMZ. There are stories of cooperation... Stories of negotiation... Stories of migration... Stories of rivers... Stories hidden beneath the ground... Together they reveal that the DMZ is far more interconnected than we usually imagine. These existing stories became the foundation of my own. Of course, I cannot build inside the DMZ. And that is precisely why this project became speculative1. Rather than proposing solutions or imagining reunification, I asked a different question. What if architecture could simply reveal these existing relationships? That led me to the idea of follies2. Follies are not bound by a fixed programme. They do not need to solve problems. They simply invite us to see a place differently. From this idea emerged three tales. One underground. One on water. One on a hill. Although they are different, all three explore one common theme. Time.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
The first tale begins underground. Hidden beneath the DMZ are several infiltration tunnels, originally excavated by North Korea during the Cold War. Today they remain as military infrastructure, sealed from the landscape above. What interested me wasn’t their military history. It was something much simpler. Nothing changes there. The tunnel remains dark. Dry. Isolated. It exists almost outside the rhythms of the seasons. I began wondering... What would happen if time could begin acting upon this space? I didn’t want to redesign the tunnel. Instead, I interrupted its linearity by creating a chamber at the border itself. More importantly, I opened this chamber to the landscape above. Suddenly... Light enters. Rain enters. Wind enters. Temperature begins to fluctuate. The tunnel is no longer isolated from the outside world. The intervention creates only the conditions.
PROLOGUE
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It is not a finished design. It is the beginning of a process. By allowing natural elements to enter, architecture no longer determines the space. Time begins to do that instead. But what interested me most was not the architecture itself. It was everything that followed. During the first years... Dust accumulates. Rainwater gathers. Moss begins to establish itself. A few years later... Ferns appear. Insects occupy the damp surfaces. Small animals begin using the new microhabitats.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
Eventually... The tunnel becomes something it was never intended to be. A living cross-section of the DMZ. I describe this intervention as The Passage, rather than The Tunnel. A tunnel is designed simply to move from one place to another. A passage suggests transformation. It is no longer only something people move through. It becomes a place where light, weather, ecology and time pass through as well. And this idea—that architecture can create the conditions for change rather than determining the outcome—became the foundation for the second tale. The first tale creates the conditions for change. But while I was designing the Passage, I realised something. Time had been absent there. Yet elsewhere in the DMZ... Time never stopped moving.
PROLOGUE
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The second tale begins on the Sacheon River. Unlike the tunnel, this landscape was never frozen. Every season the river rises and falls. Water continues to cross the border. Sediment moves downstream. Seeds travel. Birds migrate. Fish move freely between North and South. The river ignores the political boundary. I became interested in a simple question. What kind of architecture belongs to a landscape that never stands still? A house became the architectural type for the second tale. Not because people would live in it. But because the idea of a house exists on both sides of the border. It is something deeply familiar. Something ordinary. Something shared. It is also constructed using a traditional Korean timber frame. A building tradition that existed long before the peninsula was divided. In that sense, the House belongs culturally to both Koreas, even though it belongs politically to neither.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
Instead of placing the house on land, I chose to let the river determine its journey. The House is not anchored. It drifts with the natural flow of the water. Sometimes it moves quickly. Sometimes it becomes caught on shallow sandbars or fallen trees. Sometimes it remains in one place for an entire season before continuing downstream. In other words... The river becomes the architect. Designing the structure was not only about how to build it. It was also about how it would disappear. I wanted the house to decay in a deliberate sequence. The lightweight roof weathers first. The wall infill gradually opens. Decking loosens. Eventually only the primary timber frame remains. Finally, even that collapses and returns to the river. In other words, I wasn’t only designing a building. I was designing its entire lifespan.
PROLOGUE
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I chose to represent the house through the seasons rather than through conventional architectural perspectives. Spring... Summer... Autumn... Winter... Because this architecture is not defined by a single moment. It is defined by change. In spring, birds begin occupying the structure. During summer, vegetation slowly grows around it. By autumn, weathering becomes more visible. In winter, the river becomes quiet again. Each season reveals another stage in its life. But again... My interest wasn’t only the house. It was what happened after it arrived. Over time, the structure becomes habitat. Birds begin nesting beneath the roof. Fish shelter below the floating logs. Insects occupy the damp timber. Seeds become trapped within the structure. Eventually the distinction between architecture and ecology begins to disappear. The house doesn’t resist nature. It gradually becomes part of it.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
I refer to this intervention as The House. Because a house is not simply an object. It is an idea of belonging. Yet this house never truly belongs to one place. It belongs to the river. To the seasons. To the birds that occupy it. And perhaps, in a cultural sense... It still belongs to both Koreas. If the first tale asks how time can begin... The second tale asks what happens when architecture simply allows time to continue. Although we tend to focus on the house, the true protagonist of this tale is the river. The house simply reveals the movement that has always been there.
PROLOGUE
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The first tale begins where time had long been absent. The second follows a landscape where time never stopped moving. The third tale begins with something different. Not time... But perception. When I visited the area around Cheorwon, I noticed something that stayed with me. For people living here, the border has become ordinary. The fences are still there. The watchtowers remain. Yet after decades, such military structures became part of everyday life. The sight of them became as ordinary as the electricity poles that line the surrounding landscape. They are simply part of everyday life. People no longer look at them with the same curiosity they once did. That observation became the starting point of this tale. I wasn’t interested in designing another monument. I wasn’t interested in creating a landmark that constantly demanded attention. Instead, I wanted to imagine something quieter. Something that slowly became part of everyday life itself. The Instrument does not ask people to look at the border. It reminds them that everyday life continues beyond it.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
Choosing the site was extremely important. This hill once held a military observation tower. It was deliberately cleared to maximise visibility across the surrounding plains. At the same time, it sits between two Korean towns that can almost see one another. That immediately interested me. Rather than placing architecture in the valley... I could place it on the hill, allowing it to quietly become part of both horizons. The idea of a tower came with the intention to make the intervention as subtle as possible while allowing it to remain perceptible throughout the year. The lower fifteen metres consist only of a frame. As the woodland gradually regenerates, this lower structure becomes absorbed into the forest. The reflective surfaces only begin above the tree canopy. The upper layers are gently rotated. Not as a formal gesture. But to respond to the changing paths of sunlight and moonlight throughout the year.
PROLOGUE
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The triangular geometry was a deliberate decision. A circular tower would reflect light in every direction. A rectangular form would offer much less control. By using three subtly rotated faces, I could direct reflections primarily towards the north and south while avoiding unnecessary reflections towards the east and west. In other words, the geometry became an Instrument rather than a form. These drawings are not studies of sunlight alone. They are studies of atmosphere. During the day... During the night... During fog... The Instrument behaves differently. It doesn’t generate light. It simply responds to whatever the landscape offers. That’s why I eventually stopped thinking of it as a tower. And started calling it The Instrument. But just like the previous tales... My real interest wasn’t the object itself. It was everything that followed. Before the Instrument, this hill was maintained as an open military observation point. Trees were removed to preserve visibility. Once that need disappears... Woodland gradually returns.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
First, grasses and pioneer species appear. Shrubs begin occupying the clearing. Young trees establish themselves. Birds introduce new seeds. Wind carries pollen and insects. Eventually the hill becomes woodland once again. Interestingly... The Instrument changes very little. Yet the landscape around it changes completely. The architecture becomes the constant. Nature becomes the author. Unlike the Passage... Nothing dramatic happens. Unlike the House... Nothing disappears. Instead... The Instrument quietly waits. It becomes familiar. Children grow up with it. Farmers pass it every morning. It becomes another ordinary element of the landscape. Yet because it is always there... Even the smallest change suddenly becomes meaningful. A damaged reflection. An unexpected glimmer. A missing surface. They remind us... that another everyday life continues beyond the border.
PROLOGUE
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The Instrument does not change the landscape. It changes the way we look at it. As a South Korean, I cannot freely enter this landscape. In many ways, I had to imagine it through maps, stories and fragments. Perhaps that’s why this final folly isn’t about occupying the DMZ. It’s about quietly looking towards it—and remembering that life continues on both sides. Throughout this project, I never wanted to propose a solution for the DMZ. I don’t believe architecture can resolve seventy years of political conflict. Nor did I want to imagine reunification through architecture. Instead, I became interested in something much smaller. What has remained connected despite separation?
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
Each tale became a different way of exploring that question. In the tunnel, I introduced the conditions through which time could begin to act. Along the river, I allowed architecture to move with time rather than resist it. On the hill, I imagined an Instrument that quietly reminds us that another everyday life continues beyond the border. Although the three follies are very different, they all share one thing in common. None of them attempt to control what happens next. Instead, they hand that responsibility over to time. To weather. To ecology. And to the people who encounter them. We often think of architecture as complete the moment construction ends. This project imagines the opposite. Here, architecture is only the beginning. The real authors become time... Nature... And memory. The tales end here. The landscape continues the story.
PROLOGUE
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1
Speculation
I am designing follies within the border landscape between North and South Korea: a no-man’s-land shaped by thriving ecosystems and complex military systems. Because the DMZ remains an active border, information about its infrastructure and possible architectural interventions is heavily restricted. Satellite imagery is also less precise and less comprehensively mapped than it is in other parts of the two countries, largely for reasons of military security. This landscape is rarely discussed in detail. Most of the resources available to me come from South Korean and international media. I visited the border as part of a guided tour and encountered only fragments of the reality within it. Because we were closely monitored by soldiers, I could neither photograph nor document the landscape freely. I therefore began to draw from memory, reconstructing what I had seen and retelling stories I had heard during the visit. My research method became similar to the experience of the tour itself: collecting fragments, translating them into narratives and imagining how they might unfold within the border landscape. Much of this project is based on assumptions and imagined interpretations of conditions within the DMZ. Although I understand the South Korean perspective more clearly, I have attempted to avoid presenting either side as the project’s sole viewpoint. I cannot determine exactly how people on either side would perceive the follies. Instead, I have explored how they might be positioned so that they could become perceptible from both North and South Korea. Their visibility could still be restricted, particularly in the North, but the intention that they address both sides remains fundamental to the project.
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Folly
Folly, (from French folie, “foolishness”) is generally understood as a costly, largely non-functional structure constructed to enhance a landscape. Although some follies served as pavilions, they were usually designed primarily for visual effect. The term often carries a negative connotation. Follies may be understood as extravagant, gimmicky or decorative objects imposed upon a garden or landscape. Historically, this criticism was often justified. In this project, however, I interpret the folly differently. I understand it as an architectural intervention that establishes a two-way relationship with its surroundings. Rather than imposing itself upon nature, it responds to existing ecological and atmospheric conditions. A folly also offers an architectural language for situations in which architecture cannot provide an answer. It occupies an intermediate position: clearly architectural, yet open to imagination and wonder. I see these follies as structures that act as portals into memories and imagined worlds. They are experienced primarily from the outside. Although they are not conceived primarily as inhabitable buildings, they invite the observer to imagine the stories contained within them.
MAP OF DMZ
TALE 2
LOCATIONS OF THREE FOLLIES
NORTH KOREA
SOUTH KOREA
TALE 3
TALE 1
Setting Condition Character Role of time Transformation With nature Attitude
CHARACTERISTICS OF THREE FOLLIES
Tale 1
Tale 2
Tale 3
Existing underground tunnel
River
Hilltop (former watchtower)
Enclosed
In motion
Exposed
Soldier
Farmer and wildlife
Resident
Time is introduced
Time is embraced
Time is witnessed
Ecological succession
Drift, decay & assimilation
Gradual changes
Nature enters
Nature inhabits
Nature gathers around
Initiation
Adaptation
Observation
THE PASSAGE
TIME FLOWS AGAIN CHARACTER A
Soldier
Deep beneath the DMZ, a soldier watches over a tunnel where nothing seems to change, a relic of a divided past held in perpetual suspension. By allowing light, weather, and life to enter, the tunnel is reimagined as a place where time can flow again—a living cross-section in which nature slowly rewrites the architecture of separation.
SOLDIER :
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
A year has passed since I was stationed here. Four seasons came and went, and spring has returned. My assigned duty is simple — to monitor the tunnels connecting North and South Korea. These tunnels, once carved out with the deliberate purpose of infiltration, have grown so quiet that their original meaning has nearly faded. As time passed, the grief caused by the division of the nation and the separation of families has gradually faded, and the shared goal of reunification is no longer spoken of with the same clarity it once was. And yet, tension still lingers across the DMZ. With no official end to the war, no one can say with certainty what would happen if the balance were to collapse in an instant. The reason we continue to watch these tunnels is precisely to hold onto that thread of tension. At the same time, this place is one of the few remaining physical traces still connecting the two Koreas — no longer in use, but present. There is not much the two countries share anymore: the Korean language, the Hangul writing system, memories from before the division and, in material terms, a handful of underground tunnels. Having changed over long decades under entirely different systems and circumstances, the two nations have grown into landscapes and cultures increasingly their own, and nearly all shared physical ground has disappeared. And so these tunnels exist as more than military infrastructure — they are like a cross-section of the past, still holding the present in its grip.
THE PASSAGE
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This particular tunnel was built with a comparatively generous width and height. Its structure accounts not only for small-unit infiltration but for the movement of supplies as well. At the tunnel’s center, where the Military Demarcation Line runs, a thick concrete wall seals the passage. My primary tasks are to conduct one physical patrol each day and to monitor the other side of the wall through surveillance cameras. We, as soldiers, can walk only as far as the first barrier. That is the furthest we can reach — a dead end where a fist-sized pane of glass offers a glimpse of what lies behind the wall: just a tunnel, continuing on.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
There are only a few light bulbs illuminating the tunnel, and surveillance cameras are placed at intervals along the way. But the scenes playing across the small screen I watch are relentlessly dull. Above ground, trees grow. Colours shift with the seasons. Birds migrate. The angle of sunlight and the temperature of the wind change from moment to moment. Down here, in this underground space, there is no change. With light, wind, and the passage of time all sealed out, the space holds itself in the same condition it has kept for years. The purpose of surveillance is to detect even the smallest change. And yet, paradoxically, this is a space that allows no change at all. My two-hour watch shifts, in the end, amount to staring at a state of repetitive stillness. At the tunnel’s center, on both sides of the Military Demarcation Line, there exists a buffer zone where no one may enter — much like the DMZ above ground, a space designed to prevent accidental contact. It is wide and empty, but it is also a place from which time itself has been removed. The only living things are moss and small plants that have taken hold beneath the faint artificial light and accumulated moisture. One year is too short a time to feel even those subtle changes. I wonder how much change has quietly accumulated during the fifty years since this space was created.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
The landscape above is in constant motion. The tunnel below remains in the past. This place feels fixed within a particular moment — the moment the division occurred — and simultaneously like an enormous cross-section still preserving that moment, even now. Watching the same image repeat itself, I find myself asking: does this space have to be what it is right now? The tunnel as it stands functions under the mandate of surveillance and containment. Does it have to exist like this — static in place? What is needed first is light. Large and small openings to illuminate this vast space. These gaps, piercing the line of division, draw light down into the stillness — just as the many boreholes once drilled to detect the tunnels had let light fall through from above.
THE PASSAGE
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Light is not simply something that brightens a space. In this sealed underground world, light becomes the medium through which the passage of time is made visible. The seasons and weather of the surface, together with the shifting hours of the day, are cast into the interior through vertical fissures, pressing small distinctions into a space that had none. Morning shadows and afternoon shadows travel across the walls in different directions. The depth to which light reaches inside changes with the seasons. Humidity and temperature shift in small degrees, and plants grow wherever sunlight touches. Seeds carried down on the wind from above draw other forms of life into the space as well. A tunnel expanded into a dome allows more sunlight to reach deep into the interior. The dome creates a new biotope of its own. It invites and contains the new life at the same time. By removing one of the two original barrier walls, the dome grows wider and deeper. Along its perimeter, patrol routes are laid out together.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
People walk the circumference and look inward through long, narrow windows cut into the thick concrete walls, viewing the interior from many different angles. In contrast to the small, fist-sized openings of the past, these elongated windows reveal the full passage of time as the space changes. This, too, carries an entirely different meaning for those of us who had long been made to look upon nothing but a dead space kept under the name of containment and surveillance. The space has changed, but the purpose of watching remains. Only now, we are no longer watching a state of stillness — we are watching time as it moves. Inside the dome, cameras are installed at different points of view. One faces upward toward the opening in the sky. One looks down from the ceiling across the entire floor. And one looks out across the space from the height of human eyes. Cameras that once existed to monitor human movement will now see and record, far more than they ever did before. This is not mere staging. The space that was once the object of surveillance gradually becomes a subject of observation, and the tunnel that stood frozen begins its transformation into a place that records the flow of time. Through the openings, rain will occasionally seep in. On the spring breeze, seeds will drift down. The space will become a home for lives of many kinds. Surveillance and visitation serve different ends, but both begin, finally, in the act of looking at a space.
THE PASSAGE
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The soldier’s task shifts from monitoring a boundary to watching time itself—observing change as it unfolds. The scenes on the surveillance screen and the view that greets a visitor will no longer repeat themselves in the same unchanging state. Light will shift continuously with the hour and the season, plants will grow, and shadows and humidity will compose a new scene with every passing moment. A space that was once static changes slowly but unmistakably and lets time flow through it again.
What had been frozen all this time breathes once more.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
Geology The underground tunnels of the central DMZ were excavated primarily through Precambrian granite and granite gneiss, some of the oldest and hardest rocks on the Korean Peninsula. Their stability allowed long underground passages to remain structurally sound with minimal reinforcement.
1st barrier
2nd barrier
3rd barrier
PLAN OF THE TUNNEL, PRESENT
SECTION OF THE PASSAGE, SPECULATION
PLAN OF THE PASSAGE, SPECULATION
Excavation The dome is excavated by drilling into the rock and using controlled explosives to fracture the granite. The broken rock is removed manually, leaving drill marks, blasting scars and rough surfaces that remain visible today. Over time, moisture, mineral deposits and biological growth continue to transform these artificial voids.
AXONOMETRIC OF THE PASSAGE, SPECULATION
NARRATOR :
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
The tunnel would not simply become a “green space.” Instead, it would develop a series of microhabitats that exist neither on the surface nor within conventional caves. By introducing openings that admit sunlight, rain, wind, and seasonal fluctuations, the space establishes new environmental gradients—of light, humidity, temperature, airflow, and moisture—allowing different species to occupy distinct ecological niches throughout the tunnel. What makes this habitat truly unique is not only the architectural intervention, but also its context. The surrounding DMZ is one of the least disturbed landscapes on the Korean Peninsula, supporting an exceptionally rich and resilient ecology. Rather than introducing life from elsewhere, the intervention allows the existing ecological processes of the DMZ to gradually extend into an underground environment that has remained isolated for decades. The result is neither a cave nor a forest, but a hybrid ecosystem shaped by the interaction of surface and subterranean conditions. Over time, sunlight, rainfall, seeds, insects, fungi, and small animals begin to occupy different layers of the tunnel, each responding to its own microclimate. The space becomes a living cross-section of the DMZ itself, where ecological succession unfolds vertically as well as horizontally, and where the boundary between the world above and the world below gradually dissolves. The architecture does not dictate what will inhabit the tunnel; it simply creates the conditions from which an entirely new ecosystem can emerge.
THE PASSAGE
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ECOLOGICAL CONDITIONS
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
1. Light Wells (Direct Sunlight) The opening becomes a miniature forest clearing. Conditions • Direct sunlight • Rain enters freely • Wind carries seeds • Highest temperature fluctuation Key species Mosses Lichens Ferns Grasses Young trees (if enough soil accumulates) Butterflies Bees Dragonflies Ants
2. Rain Pools Every rainfall creates temporary pools. Unlike surface ponds, these remain shaded and cool. Conditions • Standing water • Stable humidity • Cool temperature • Organic matter accumulates Key species Mosquito larvae Midges Caddisflies Water beetles Springtails Water mites If pools persist:
These become the most productive ecological hotspots.
Frogs Salamanders Eventually birds may visit these pools to drink.
THE PASSAGE
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3. Dripping Walls Water slowly runs down concrete. The walls become living surfaces.
4. Dome Ceiling Warm air rises. The ceiling stays relatively dry compared to the floor.
Conditions • Constant moisture • Mineral deposits • Shade Key species Moss Liverworts Algae Slime moulds Fungi
Key species Bats Moths Cave crickets Swallows (seasonally)
These organisms create the first living skin on the tunnel.
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The upper volume becomes a sheltered zone for flying and roosting species.
INTERCONNECTED TALES
5. Floor Litter Leaves blow in. Branches fall through the openings. Dead insects accumulate. This becomes food.
6. Wind Corridors Warm air rises through the openings. Cool air is pulled in from the entrances. This creates constant ventilation. Wind transports:
Key species Earthworms Woodlice Millipedes Beetles Fungi
Seeds Spores Insects Pollen The tunnel becomes part of the surrounding forest’s dispersal system.
Slowly a soil layer develops.
THE PASSAGE
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ECOLOGICAL SUCCESSION
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE DOME DOES NOT BECOME A HABITAT ALL AT ONCE — IT EVOLVES OVER DECADES.
THE PASSAGE
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Year 1–2 • • •
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Dust accumulates. Algae and moss establish on damp rocks. Rain pools appear after storms.
INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE PASSAGE
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Year 3–5 • • •
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Ferns and grasses colonise the light wells. Fungi begin decomposing leaf litter. Insects become abundant.
INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE PASSAGE
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Year 5–15 • • •
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Birds bring seeds. Shrubs emerge where soil has built up. Frogs and small mammals begin using the space.
INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE PASSAGE
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Year 15–30 • • •
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A stable food web develops. Predators such as owls occasionally hunt inside. The tunnel becomes a seasonal refuge.
INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE PASSAGE
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THE HOUSE
IT COMES AND GOES
Prologue SCENE 1 SCENE 2 SCENE 3 SCENE 4
Placement Winter Spring Summer Autumn
CHARACTER CHARACTER
Sacheon River The House
Neither vessel nor building, the structure moves with the river’s changing rhythms. As water rises and falls, it appears, disappears, drifts, and settles—becoming a quiet witness to movements that continue across a landscape of division.
NARRATOR :
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
WESTERN DMZ, SACHEON RIVER
In the western part of the peninsula, the DMZ is crossed by the Sacheon River, which flows into the Imjin River and eventually reaches the Yellow Sea. Together, these bodies of water form both physical boundaries and ecological connections between the two Koreas. The border is not only a line drawn by the people; it is also experienced as a physical barrier formed by the water. In contrast, much of the landscape surrounding the DMZ is a heavily managed agricultural environment. The DMZ and the river serve as ecological corridors, allowing water, sediment, seeds and wildlife to move across the border. The Sacheon River is relatively small. Due to seasonal fluctuations, the river can appear as a shallow wetland with exposed sandbars in winter and transform into a fast-flowing watercourse during the summer monsoon season. This November, she is running low, carrying relatively little water as she settles into winter and the approaching cold.
THE HOUSE
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NARRATOR :
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
The two countries, once connected by a shared culture and architectural tradition, were divided by war more than seventy years ago. Their shared history is far longer than the period that has followed the division. Yet one of the few forms of common ground that remains is the narrow strip of land between them. The DMZ has become a world of its own—an uneasy coexistence of wilderness, military control, ecological freedom and political restriction. These radically different conditions occupy the same narrow territory. What fascinates me most is this simultaneous presence of connection and disconnection within a single physical landscape.
THE HOUSE
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NARRATOR :
THE HOUSE :
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
The House is a small timber structure made from Korean red pine and Korean willow. It resembles a traditional Korean house, although its scale is unusually small. It stands on a floating platform.
It is the architect’s proposition: built by people, but not intended to shelter them. Its method of construction suggests that it is not designed to remain in one place for long.
(In autumn, The House enters the landscape. It encounters the DMZ, comes into contact with the Sacheon River and joins the seasonal flow of the water.)
THE HOUSE
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THE HOUSE
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LATE AUTUMN
CHARACTER CHARACTER
Crane Farmer
CRANE :
Not long ago, my wife and I made the journey here from Siberia, escaping the coming winter. There are not many places left for us to go. Places untouched by human hands, close enough to Siberia, quiet, rich in wetlands and food—such places have become increasingly difficult to find. This is one of the few that remain. We have been coming here every winter for more than twenty years. Generations before me found this place first, and by now it is as much a home to us as anywhere else. The journey is roughly a thousand kilometres, but for those of us who travel through the sky, distance means little. To us, this is simply where we spend the winter. The wide plains, the wetlands, the silence—it feels like paradise. For reasons we do not quite understand, human hands have barely touched this land, and humans themselves seem to keep their distance. There was one thing that had changed since our last visit.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
A human-made structure stood above the water. It was almost invisible from a distance, but once we descended to rest, it was suddenly there. We felt uncertain about it. It was clearly made by humans, yet there was no sign of them. No footsteps. No noise. No movement. It simply stood above the water in silence. Our curiosity did not last long. If it belonged there, then it belonged there. Some of the young ones were already exploring it. A few had settled beneath the roof and fallen asleep. I must admit—it looked rather comfortable.
THE HOUSE
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FARMER :
The cranes have returned. Winter must be arriving soon. It also means that my farming season is coming to an end. Cranes are valuable partners to farmers like me. During the late autumn, they hunt insects and mice that would otherwise damage the crops. In return, I leave some grain behind for them. At night I scatter seeds across the fields, and in the morning they come to feed. I have never been close to them. I do not want to disturb our relationship. Although I see them, and they know that I am around, we keep our distance. We benefit from each other without ever getting too close. Today I spotted a group of cranes standing on the frozen water not far from my farm. Through the dried reeds, I watched them wandering about. But what caught my eye was not the cranes. They come every year. It was a small structure. A shed, perhaps.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
Or maybe a cabin. It seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. It reminded me of my grandparents’ house. There was something old-fashioned about it. Yet it had no walls—only its timber frame. I could see straight through it. As far as I know, nobody is allowed to enter the DMZ. So who is it for?
THE HOUSE
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CRANE :
We drifted a little farther and found the rice fields. We always visit them when we are here. Grain is scattered across the fields, waiting for us. After eating, we wandered through the farmland. There are always small treats to be found there—insects, mice, and other creatures hidden among the crops. We never go beyond the farms. That is where the humans live. It is not that we dislike them. We simply do not enjoy the noise they make. The sun is beginning to set. Time to return to the water. Perhaps I will take another look at that strange structure the young ones have become so fond of.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE HOUSE
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SPRING
CHARACTER CHARACTER
Swallow Farmer
SWALLOW :
It has been a month since my family and I arrived. When we first came here, there were only two of us. Now we are six. We built our nest beneath the roof of a strange house. In general, we enjoy living near humans. Their buildings keep out the rain, provide shelter, and are usually high enough to keep us safe from predators. This place is a little different. We found a human-built house, but there are no humans living in it. Even better. So we invited more friends to join us. The structure stands above the water, surrounded by reeds. From here I can see almost everything. If something moves nearby, I notice it long before it arrives. The water provides us with plenty of insects, and the nearby fields provide an abundance of insects. Until autumn arrives, this will be our home.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
FARMER :
The birds seem to like the cabin. I have seen several nests tucked beneath its roof. I cannot quite make out the eggs or chicks, but I often see their parents flying back and forth. To be honest, when I first saw the cabin, I thought whoever built it had made a mistake. I could not imagine anyone using it. But it has become clear that it was never intended for people. The cabin found its own inhabitants. I have grown rather fond of watching it. As spring turned to summer and the reeds grew taller, the cabin slowly disappeared from view. Now I can only see it from my house—from the balcony, through a pair of binoculars. Perhaps that is better for everyone. The birds are not disturbed. And I can observe them from a distance.
THE HOUSE
91
SUMMER
CHARACTER
Leopard cat
LEOPARD CAT :
The reeds are tall now. Taller than me. Taller than the water. They hide everything and everyone. That is why I like them. The sun is still high when I wake. During the day I stay hidden among the grasses and shrubs. The wetlands are busy at this time of year. Birds call constantly. Their nests are full, and their young are learning to fly. Insects hover above the water. Frogs sing from every direction. I know the strange structure. The birds found it first. I often see them resting beneath its roof or gathering along its beams. Sometimes feathers drift down from above and settle on the water. I use it differently. When the heat becomes too much, I rest in its shade. The air is cooler there. At night I climb onto its wooden frame.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
From above the reeds, I can see everything. The fields. The water. The narrow paths between them.
THE HOUSE
95
LEOPARD CAT :
Mice move through the grass. Frogs gather near the edge of the pond. The birds do not seem to mind me. They keep their distance, and I keep mine. The structure smells old now. Not like humans. It smells of reeds, mud, feathers, and rain. Perhaps that is why I trust it.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE HOUSE
97
FARMER B :
A strange structure drifting among the wetlands. I did not believe my eyes at first. Then one summer it appeared behind my farm. The reeds had grown so tall that the water was barely visible. The structure disappeared among them. Sometimes, when the wind blew, part of it would emerge from the reeds. A corner of the roof. A timber post. A few birds flying in and out. Most days it was impossible to tell whether it was still there at all. It was hard to make sense out of it. It seemed like someone’s shed had been washed away. Even though that should be impossible!
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
The timber was dark from age. Plants climbed along its frame. Parts of it had begun to weather and fall apart. It no longer looked new. It looked as though it had always belonged there. A few nights ago, I saw something sitting on top of it. At first I thought it was a bird. Then it moved. A leopard cat. It sat there for a long time, watching the wetlands as though they belonged to it. Maybe they do.
THE HOUSE
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3 YEARS LATER
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE HOUSE
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DAESEONG-DONG KIJONG-DONG NORTH KOREA
KAE-
DONGNE-RI
DEOKSAN-RI
JEONGDONG-RI
AEPO-RI
LIMHAN-RI
MANU-RI
DAEDONG-RI
SOUTH KOREA
DEMILITARIZED ZONE (DMZ) BODIES OF WATER
LIMJIN RIVER
SACHEON RIVER
NORTH KOREA
LIMJIN RIVER
TOWARDS YELLOW SEA
SOUTH KOREA
THE WATER FLOW DIRECTION BODIES OF WATER DEMILITARIZED ZONE (DMZ)
SACHEON RIVER
THE HOUSE
KOREAN RED PINE Features KOREAN RED PINE
- Covers many hills surrounding the DMZ. - Historically used in traditional Korean architecture. Relevant properties - Straight trunks - Good structural strength - Easy to obtain in long lengths - Requires protection from moisture
KOREAN RED PINE
KOREAN WILLOW
* Density: ~450–550 kg/m³ Wood density less than water (~1000 kg/m³) floats * Buoyancy: Excellent
KOREAN WILLOW Features - One of the most common riverbank trees - Frequently found along streams and wetlands Advantages
KOREAN RED PINE
- Poor durability - Decays quickly in wet conditions
THE HOUSE
105
Red-crowned crane Overwintering
Preparing to migrate
Migrate to North
Scops owl Arrives in DMZ
Egg laying
Arrives in DMZ
Egg laying
Chick rearing
Swallow
Common kestrel Winter foraging
Pair formation
Territory established
Egg laying
Chick rearing
Winter survival
Low activity
Increased movement
Preparing for birth
Fawning season
Water deer
Jan
THE FURTHER CHARACTERS
Feb
March
April
May
F
June
to SouthArrivesArrives MigrateMigrate to South in DMZin DMZ
ing
Chick rearing Chick rearing
aring
Chicks Chicks grow grow
Fledging Fledging
aring
Chicks Chicks grow grow
Fledging Fledging
Overwintering Overwintering
Preparing to migrate MigrateMigrate to South Chicks Chicks grow grow Preparing to migrate to South
to South Preparing Preparing to migrate to migrate MigrateMigrate to South
Foraging Foraging increases increases Active foraging Active foraging
Winter Winter foraging foraging
easonFawn-rearing Fawn-rearing period period Fawns Fawns grow grow Active feeding Active feeding period period Reserves Reserves energy energy Breeding Breeding seasonseason
MatingMating period period
JuneJune
July July
Foraging Foraging
Aug Aug
Sep Sep
Oct Oct
Nov Nov
Dec Dec
DECEMBER 2026
NORTH KOREA
SOUTH KOREA
Site conditions •
average -8°C to 5°C
•
Shallow waters may partially freeze
River conditions •
Lowest water levels
•
Exposed sandbars and gravel beds
•
Slow current (0.1-0.3 m/s)
Key species •
White-naped Crane Arrives from Siberia Feeds in wetlands and fields Often gathers in family groups
•
Red-crowned Crane One of the rarest cranes in the world Uses shallow wetlands and open pleins
•
Eurasian Otter Active throughout winter Hunts fish beneath ice-free sections
FARMLANDS
RIVER
RIVERBANK / SANDBAR
THE HOUSE
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE HOUSE
111
MARCH 2027
NORTH KOREA
SOUTH KOREA
Site conditions •
average 5°C to 22°C
River conditions •
Rising water levels from snowmelt and rainfall
•
Wetlands expand
•
Vegetation rapidly returns
•
Slow current (0.2-0.6 m/s)
Key species •
Barn Swallow Returns from Southeast Asia Nests around timber structures and eaves
•
Water Deer Frequently moves between wetlands and fields
•
Black-spotted Pont Frog Breeding season begins Occupies shallow wetlands areas
FARMLANDS
RIVER
RIVERBANK / SANDBAR
THE HOUSE
113
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE HOUSE
115
JULY 2027
NORTH KOREA
SOUTH KOREA
Site conditions •
average 22°C to 33°C
•
High humidity
•
Monsoon rains
River conditions •
Highest water levels
•
Strongest currents (1.5-3.0 m/s)
Key species •
Water Deer
•
Leopard Cat
Uses tall vegetation for cover Mostly nocturnal Hunts rodents and small birds •
Dragonflies, aquatic insects Peak activity period
FARMLANDS
RIVER
RIVERBANK / SANDBAR
THE HOUSE
117
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
NORTH KOREA
SOUTH KOREA
THE HOUSE
119
OCTOBER 2027
NORTH KOREA
SOUTH KOREA
Site conditions •
average 5°C to 25°C
River conditions •
Stable water levels
•
Extensive reed growth
•
Mild currents (0.2-0.7 m/s)
Key species •
Common Kestrel Hunts from elevated perches Often observed near fields
•
Barn Swallow Forms large flocks before migration to South
•
Water Deer Active throughout reed beds and fields
FARMLANDS
RIVER
RIVERBANK / SANDBAR
THE HOUSE
121
122
INTERCONNECTED TALES
NORTH KOREA
SOUTH KOREA
THE HOUSE
123
THE INSTRUMENT
STILL HERE
SCENE 1 SCENE 2 SCENE 3
The Fence The Appearance Two Moons
CHARACTER A
Farmer’s Son
A farmer’s son living beside the DMZ gradually comes to see a reflective tower beyond the fence not as a symbol of division, but as a shared landmark that quietly connects two worlds. Through its reflections of sunlight and moonlight, the tower becomes a reminder that despite separation, people on both sides may live parallel lives beneath the same sky.
‘A PLACE THAT WATCHES’
NARRATOR :
In Cheorwon, the mountains briefly give way to open plains. Two villages stand within sight of one another, divided by a line neither can cross. Here, visibility becomes part of the landscape itself. A single vertical gesture on the hill enters the horizon of both places simultaneously. The tower is placed not because the hill is high, but because this is one of the few places where one object can quietly belong to two distant views at once.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
Over time, the border has become ordinary. The fences remain, yet they have settled into the landscape like trees and electricity poles. People living nearby no longer look at them with the same curiosity they once did. Separation has become part of everyday life. The tower does not seek to change this reality. Instead, it is used as an Instrument which quietly introduces another point of reference. Rising above the plains, it catches the same sunlight, moonlight, fog, and snow seen from both sides of the border. In time, it too becomes familiar. Children grow up with it. Farmers pass it every morning. It becomes part of the landscape. Yet because it is always there, even the slightest change becomes meaningful. Its absence, a damaged surface, or an unexpected reflection all suggest that something within the landscape has shifted. The Instrument does not ask people to look at it every day. It simply waits for the day when looking again becomes necessary.
THE INSTRUMENT
129
THE FENCE
FARMER’S SON :
I grew up in a small town. My grandparents were farmers, and so were my parents. I have always known this place — the wide open fields, the way each season arrives with its own distinct face, and the quiet that city children never seem to understand. My parents tell me it used to be very different here. There was a train station once, and people came and went, stopping on their way north or south. I try to imagine it — the noise, the crowds — but it is hard to picture. The town I know is still and unhurried. At the edge of everything, there is a fence. It has always been there, at the corner of my eye, part of the landscape the way the hills and the fields are. I grew up not quite seeing it, the way you stop seeing things that are always present. But I always knew what it meant. Even as a child I understood, in the wordless way children understand things, that on the other side of it lay a different world — one that was kept at a distance for a reason.
THE INSTRUMENT
131
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE INSTRUMENT
133
THE APPEARANCE
FARMER’S SON :
Then, one year, a tower appeared. At first I assumed it belonged to the military. It stood strangely, not on either side of the fence but somewhere between them. Its form was unfamiliar, and every morning it caught the first light before anything else around it. On summer mornings, it shines long before the fields wake. Sometimes it reflects the blue of the sky so perfectly that it almost disappears into it. Other mornings it flashes so brightly that you instinctively turn your head away. It took all of us some time to grow used to it. Eventually, as with the fence, it simply became another part of the landscape.
THE INSTRUMENT
135
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE INSTRUMENT
137
TWO MOONS
FARMER’S SON :
It is sometimes so bright that it is impossible to ignore it. It stands there, shining as though it were announcing: I am here. But on other days it can be a bit more modest. This tower is an ode to the light. On the early summer mornings and late evenings it is shines in pink and orange hues - it makes the sky ripple in beautiful tones. During a hot summer’s day - it shines bright as a beacon. During foggy autumn mornings and late evenings - it disappears into the thin air, as if it was never there. In winter it gives the sense of joy when the sun reflects in full blast when you miss it the most on a crisp winter day. During the winter storms, you can see the tower dancing with the snow gusts. The play of the light grows on you. Even though it becomes part of the dull everyday - on some moments, you miss the magical shows it can provide. Once, I was cycling home from my friends late at night. It happened to be full moon. It was something that didn’t come to my mind earlier, but this tower is capable of reflecting moonlight too.
THE INSTRUMENT
139
It was an almost eerie experience - two moons in the sky - like two brothers that can never meet. Over the years, I began to find comfort in the tower. Just like the wall it gives me comfort, that my world is safe. But even more than that it reminds me that life on the other side of the fence may not be so different from mine. They also see this same tower every day. It is part of their daily routine to be blinded or amazed by it. Because its form is unfamiliar, I wonder whether they understand it differently. Do they see the same things we do? Do they also wonder what I see? I am not exactly sure what the world on the other side of the fence looks like. For a long time, I was not particularly curious about it. But I think our worlds can coexist, like the two moons I saw sharing the same sky the other night.
THE INSTRUMENT
141
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE INSTRUMENT
143
THE HILL
38°19’58.28”
N
127°15′16.77″ E
THE INSTRUMENT
145
THE Instrument
Above the canopy, each reflective layer is carefully rotated according to the seasonal paths of the sun and the changing positions of the moon, directing light primarily towards the north and south.
The triangular geometry provides greater control over the direction of reflected light, allowing reflections to be concentrated towards the north and south while minimising unnecessary reflections towards the east and west.
The lower 15 metres consist of a nonreflective steel frame, allowing the surrounding woodland to gradually recover and envelop the base of the structure.
THE INSTRUMENT
147
Heights of the trees in DMZ Willow and riparian woodland Secondary deciduous forest Korean red pine forest Mature oak forest Mature Korean pine / nut pine
5–15 m 10–20 m 15–30m 15–25 m 20–30+ m
Solar noon at 38°N latitude Summer (high sun) 75° Spring/Autumn (equinox) 52° Winter (low sun) 29° *equinox: the moment when the Sun is directly above the Earth’s equator, causing day and night to be nearly equal in length
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
THE INSTRUMENT
149
IN MARCH (EQUINOX) 20 March 2026 Altitude:
19.68°
Azimuth
106.74°
Dawn
06:08:58
Sunrise
06:35:00
Sunset
18:42:49
Daylight duration
12h7m49s
THE SUN AND SHADOW STUDY
March 20, 07:30
March 20, 12:40
March 20, 17:40
THE INSTRUMENT
151
IN JUNE 21 June 2026 Altitude:
35.06°
Azimuth
86.28°
Dawn
04:35:52
Sunrise
05:07:13
Sunset
19:58:21
Daylight duration
14h51m8s
THE SUN AND SHADOW STUDY
June 21, 06:00
June 21, 12:30
June 21, 19:00
THE INSTRUMENT
153
IN DECEMBER 21 December 2026 Altitude:
5.41°
Azimuth
125.59°
Dawn
07:14:23
Sunrise
07:43:45
Sunset
17:14:06
Daylight duration
09h30m21s
THE SUN AND SHADOW STUDY
December 21, 08:45
December 21, 12:30
December 21, 16:15
THE INSTRUMENT
155
THE MOONLIGHT
March 20
June 21
December 21
THE INSTRUMENT
157
THE FOG AND THE MIST
THE INSTRUMENT
159
THE UNWRITTEN ECOLOGY
NARRATOR :
At first, the tower was only an object. People noticed its reflections long before anything else. It caught the first light of the morning, the last light of the evening, and on certain nights even the moon. It announced its presence from many kilometres away, becoming a new landmark within a landscape that had remained visually unchanged for decades. But landscapes rarely respond only to what people see. The first visitors were birds. Migratory species began using the tower as a place to rest before continuing their journeys across the peninsula. Raptors found a new vantage point from which to scan the surrounding fields, while smaller birds gathered along its ledges before dispersing once again into the landscape. Where birds gather, they bring more than themselves.
THE INSTRUMENT
163
Seeds caught in feathers, spores and pollen carried by the wind, and insects and nutrients brought by animals gradually accumulated around the tower. Plants that had never occupied the immediate surroundings began to appear. Small patches of vegetation differed from those elsewhere on the hillside, not because they had been planted, but because they had arrived through countless seasonal migrations. The Instrument also altered the movement of light. Throughout the year its mirrored surfaces redirected sunlight onto the surrounding ground. Some places received warmth for only a few minutes each day, while others remained untouched. In winter these illuminated patches shed their snow earlier than the landscape around them. Bare soil emerged first, followed by insects seeking warmth, then birds arriving to feed. Spring no longer arrived everywhere at once. Around the Instrument, it arrived in fragments. The tower reshaped the wind as well. Air accelerated around its edges and slowed behind it. Seeds, leaves and dust settled in places where they previously would have passed unnoticed. Over time these quiet accumulations formed richer soils. Mosses, grasses and flowering plants established themselves, creating small islands of biodiversity within an otherwise uniform field.
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INTERCONNECTED TALES
Morning fog often lingered around the hill. As moisture condensed upon the cool mirrored surfaces, droplets slowly travelled downward before soaking into the ground below. The difference was slight, almost impossible to notice from one season to the next. Yet over many years the vegetation surrounding the base remained greener for longer, providing refuge for insects during the driest weeks of summer. None of these changes were designed. The Instrument was conceived as an architectural marker visible from both sides of the border. Yet its greatest influence was not the light it reflected but the relationships it quietly reorganised. Birds altered their routes. Seeds found new places to settle. Predators changed where they hunted. Plants responded to subtle differences in warmth and moisture. The landscape began to compose itself differently. Like many ecological processes, these transformations happened too slowly to witness in a single season. Only after years did the pattern become visible. The tower remained fixed in one place. Everything else slowly rearranged itself around it.
THE INSTRUMENT
165
01 — Existing condition The hilltop was once occupied by a military observation post. Trees were continuously removed to maintain clear sightlines across the border, leaving an exposed landscape defined by surveillance rather than ecological succession.
ECOLOGICAL SUCCESSION
02 — Colonisation Birds gradually begin using the frame as a temporary perch and observation point. Wind carries seeds, pollen and insects through the structure, while leaves and organic matter occasionally accumulate around its base. Small differences in light, shade and moisture begin creating opportunities for new vegetation. Potential species Birds Common kestrel Eurasian magpie Oriental turtle dove Great tit
Flora
THE INSTRUMENT
Bush clover Silver grass
167
03 — Succession Repeated seasonal cycles gradually reshape the immediate surroundings. Bird droppings enrich the soil, pioneer plants establish themselves, and insects become more abundant. The Instrument remains unchanged, while the landscape slowly adapts around it through natural ecological processes. Potential species Insects Asian honeybee Swallowtail butterflies Dragonflies Cicadas
ECOLOGICAL SUCCESSION
Trees
Korean birch Korean aspen Japanese alder
04 — Assimilation The Instrument has become part of the landscape. Wildlife incorporates it into existing migration and foraging routines. Rather than dominating the hill, the Instrument quietly participates in the ongoing cycles of the surrounding ecosystem, revealing subtle changes through time. Potential species Trees Korean red pine Mongolian oak Korean maple
Vines
THE INSTRUMENT
Five-flavour vine Oriental bittersweet Boston ivy
169
EPILOGUE
NARRATOR :
These follies do not bridge the distance between North and South Korea. They do not resolve conflict, erase borders, or promise reunion. Instead, they introduce small disturbances into a landscape that has long existed in suspension. The tunnel admits light into a place where time had been sealed away. The floating cabin surrenders itself to the river, allowing currents, decay, and migration to shape its future. The tower catches the changing sky, becoming a shared point of reference for both sides of the border. Together, they do not impose a new landscape; they invite the existing one to continue its own work. At first they appear as solitary objects. But architecture is never experienced in isolation. Rain enters where concrete has been opened. Seeds arrive with the wind and with migrating birds. Water lingers, insects gather, plants emerge, and animals begin to occupy spaces that did not exist before. Reflected light alters
the rhythm of snowmelt and spring growth. Timber becomes shelter before becoming soil. Steel becomes a perch before becoming part of the landscape’s memory. Over time, each folly begins to exceed its own physical form. The tunnel becomes more than a tunnel. It becomes a subterranean habitat where light, moisture, and succession reveal the passage of time. The cabin becomes more than a structure. It becomes a drifting fragment of the landscape, carrying life downstream as it slowly disappears into the river. The tower becomes more than a landmark. It becomes a fixed point around which birds, wind, light, weather, and people gradually reorganise their relationships with the landscape. None of these changes are immediate. Like the ecology of the DMZ itself, they unfold through seasons rather than moments, through decades rather than days. The architecture does not dictate these transformations; it merely establishes the conditions from which they may emerge. The true authors are time, climate, water, plants, animals, and the countless interactions between them. The DMZ has long been understood as a line of division. Yet beneath the political boundary, ecological systems have continued to cross it without hesitation. Rivers flow across it. Birds migrate across it. Wind carries seeds across it. Light falls equally on both sides.
The follies do not seek to overcome the border. Instead, they reveal the quieter landscapes that have always existed beyond it—landscapes where time continues to flow, where nature continues to adapt, and where memory is carried not only by people, but by the living world itself. In a place defined by separation, these follies offer something modest yet enduring: not monuments to the past, but beginnings for futures that architecture alone can never fully design.
The tales end here. The landscape keeps continuing on.
Theoretical and Literary References
Benjamin, Walter. The Arcades Project. Translated by Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1999. Bennett, Jane. Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010. Clément, Gilles. Manifesto of the Third Landscape. 2004. Foucault, Michel. “Of Other Spaces.” Translated by Jay Miskowiec. Diacritics 16, no. 1 (1986): 22–27. Kim, Suk-Young. DMZ Crossing: Performing Emotional Citizenship along the Korean Border. New York: Columbia University Press, 2014. Schama, Simon. Landscape and Memory. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1995. Tsing, Anna Lowenhaupt. The Mushroom at the End of the World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2015. van Gennep, Arnold. The Rites of Passage. Translated by Monika B. Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960.
Yangwook Kang INTERCONNECTED TALES Written by: Yangwook Kang Design: Yangwook Kang Supervision: Jeroen van Mechelen Vibeke Gieskes Machiel Spaan Proofreading: Kornelija Trocko-Kang Ellen Vos
Email: yangwook.kang@gmail.com T +31 (0)6 11745470
1
THE PASSAGE
27
THE HOUSE
67
THE INSTRUMENT
123
EPILOGUE
169
INTERCONNECTED TALES
PROLOGUE