Koreana Summer 2018 (English)

SUMMER 2018

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS SPECIAL FEATURE

JEJU ISLAND

An Island of Stones Legends and Lore Historical Legacy of Jeju Stone Walls; A Trailblazer’s Dream Come True; Stone Houses: Another Face of the Island; Sentries of the Afterlife; Stones as Tools for Everyday Life; Pottery from Fire and Stones

Jeju

VOL. 32 NO. 2

ISSN 1016-0744

IMAGE OF KOREA

Hagwon

Education Combat Arenas Kim Hwa-young

Literary Critic; Member of the National Academy of Arts

M

y exams start tomorrow but since the early evening I have been so sleepy that I can’t concentrate. Intending to sleep just one hour and then resume studying, I ask my mother to wake me and lie down.

But when I wake up, it’s early morning! Everything before my eyes goes black.

Even these days, I sometimes have this dream of being a young student again and experiencing failure. When I awaken, I feel relieved that I am at an age where I no longer have exams and go back to sleep. But for Korean students today, there is neither relief nor time to sleep.

Occasionally, we hear about people in other countries who envy Koreans’ passion for learning. However, as Korean society came to place utmost importance on academic background and education became a vehicle for career advancement and social mobility, the pursuit of education has turned into a terrifying marathon to reach a top university. Students and their parents are forced into the race known as “entrance exam hell.” The endless competition starts with pre-kindergarten lessons and continues through a series of exams in middle and high school, designed to rank students from first to last. Even after university, the breathless race continues with further exams required to pass in order to study abroad, secure employment and gain other opportunities.

Under this merciless public education system, with its focus on ranking, an environment for private, after-school academies, called hagwon, developed. Their promise of guiding students to higher scores and thus higher rankings is hard to resist. Their fees are often exorbitant, but parents feel pressured to pay them, regarding the expenses as investment in their children’s future.

As a result, education is moving further away from satisfying a thirst for knowledge, and competition becomes increasingly compulsive. Private education costs for elementary and secondary school students reached a record high in 2017, with the annual total amounting to 18.6 trillion won (approx. 17.2 billion U.S. dollars), or a monthly average of 271,000 won (approx. 254 U.S. dollars) per student. The impact of these expenses goes beyond the statistics by the Ministry of Education. While the rising costs represent a huge burden for most families, children from low-income households are put at a particular disadvantage.

The Daechi-dong neighborhood in Gangnam in the southern part of Seoul is the hagwon mecca. At 10 p.m., when all the hagwon end their classes, the roads are jammed with parents arriving to pick up their children. Students pour out of the private cram schools and a 10-minute traffic war ensues. Then all is quiet again.

Confucius said, “They who know the truth are not equal to those who love it, and they who love it are not equal to those who delight in it.” Has his wisdom become an empty phrase now? © Heo Dong-wuk

Editor’s Letter

PUBLISHER

Lee Sihyung

The Faces of Jeju Island

EDITORIAL DIRECTOR

Kang Young-pil

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Lee Kyong-hee

Mt. Halla, a shield volcano, has gentle slopes that seem to lure everyone. It looks peaceful and tranquil under the subtropical sun. But they say only the lucky can view its summit upon landing on Jeju. The weather is unpredictable and it’s more likely that the mountain reveals only part of its divine contour.

Jeju is a windy island, and often it’s not just windy but stormy. The sea roars and the waves furiously lash against the breakwaters, giving rise to white foam splashing all over. If you happened to watch such a scene beyond the window of a cozy café on a rainy day, while enjoying good coffee and music, and pleasant companions, you may say you had a great day.

Stones are everywhere on Jeju. The exquisite scenery is adorned with black basalt achieving a delightful harmony and contrast with the blue sea, the green grass, or the yellow canola flowers. The ubiquitous basalt rocks narrate the origin of the island as the creation of volcanic activity, dating back two million years.

In 2007, when designating the Jeju Volcanic Island and Lava Tubes as a World Heritage site, the UNESCO World Heritage Committee said that, apart from its outstanding aesthetic beauty, the island bears testimony to the history of the planet, its formative processes and geological features. In 2011, Jeju was named a UNESCO Global Geopark, adding to its status as a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, earned in 2002. Thus the island became the world’s first winner of the UNESCO’s triple crown.

The title somehow brings to mind Jeju’s familiar nickname, Samdado, meaning an “island of three abundances”: stones, wind and women. The special feature of this issue offers a glimpse into Jeju’s stones — what they mean for the island and its people. The cover image comes from a painting by Kang Yo-bae (born 1952), who has painstakingly devoted himself to depicting the landscape of his native island and its tragic modern history for the past two and a half decades.

EDITORIAL BOARD

Han Kyung-koo

Benjamin Joinau

Jung Duk-hyun

Kim Hwa-young

Kim Young-na

Koh Mi-seok

Charles La Shure

Song Hye-jin

Song Young-man

Yoon Se-young

COPY EDITOR

Matthias Lehmann

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Ji Geun-hwa

ASSISTANT EDITORS

Cho Yoon-jung

Ted O. Chan

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Kim Sam

EDITORS

Park Do-geun, Noh Yoon-young

ART DIRECTOR

Kim Do-yoon

DESIGNERS

Kim Eun-hye, Kim Nam-hyung,

Yeob Lan-kyeong

LAYOUT & DESIGN

Kim’s Communication Associates

44 Yanghwa-ro 7-gil, Mapo-gu

Seoul 04035, Korea

www.gegd.co.kr

Tel: 82-2-335-4741

Fax: 82-2-335-4743

TRANSLATORS

Chung Myung-je

Hwang Sun-ae

Min Eun-young

Park Hyun-ah

Suh Jung-ah

SUBSCRIPTION/CIRCULATION Price per issue in Korea 6,000 won Elsewhere US$9

Lee Kyong-hee Editor-in-Chief

Please refer to page 104 of Koreana for specific subscription rates.

PRINTED IN SUMMER 2018 Samsung Moonwha Printing Co.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS Summer 2018

10 Achasan-ro 11-gil, Seongdong-gu, Seoul 04796, Korea Tel: 82-2-468-0361/5 © The Korea Foundation 2018 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without the prior permission of the

Published quarterly by THE KOREA FOUNDATION 2558 Nambusunhwan-ro, Seocho-gu Seoul 06750, Korea http://www.koreana.or.kr

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,

“Sea – Rock”

Kang Yo-bae 2012, Acrylic on canvas, 89.4 × 130 cm.

August 8, 1987), is also published in Arabic, Chinese, French, German, Indonesian, Japanese, Russian, and Spanish.

SPECIAL FEATURE

Jeju, An Island of Stones — Legends and Lore

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SPECIAL FEATURE 1

22

SPECIAL FEATURE 3

Historical Legacy of Jeju Stone Walls

Sentries of the Afterlife

Lee Chang-guy

Kim Yu-jeong

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28

SPECIAL FEATURE 2

A Trailblazer’s Dream Come True Heo Young-sun

34

FOCUS

Urban Renewal on Second Thought Yoon Hee-cheol

SPECIAL FEATURE 4

Pottery from Fire and Stones Jeon Eun-ja

62

ON THE ROAD

Jeong Yak-yong’s Hometown: Cradle of Eminence

80 ENTERTAINMENT Koreans Dazzled by Foreignized Korea Jung Duk-hyun

Lee Chang-guy

40

INTERVIEW

‘My Forte Lies in the Details’ Chung Jae-suk

46

GUARDIAN OF HERITAGE

Weaving Fine Bamboo Screens for Five Generations Kang Shin-jae

52

ART REVIEW

A Play about Food Offers Hunger and Abundance Kim Su-mi

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70

TALES OF TWO KOREAS

Human Rights, a New Perspective for Female Defectors

More Korean Than Most Koreans Choi Sung-jin

ESSENTIAL INGREDIENTS

Eggplants Glowing under the Summer Sun Jeong Jae-hoon

Kim Hak-soon

74

BOOKS & MORE

‘Nobody Checks the Time When They’re Happy’ Short Stories Explore Life against a Tapestry of Time

‘Premodern Korean Literary Prose: An Anthology’

86 LIFESTYLE Indoor Simulated Sports Boom Kim Dong-hwan

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JOURNEYS IN KOREAN LITERATURE

Doomed to a Cureless Disease

A Fuller Picture of Premodern Korean Prose Writing

Choi Jae-bong

‘Oegyujanggak Uigwe’

Incurable

Digital Archive of Joseon Ceremonial Records

IN LOVE WITH KOREA

82

Charles La Shure

76 AN ORDINARY DAY Realizing Greater Truths in a ‘School on the Road’ Kim Heung-sook

Kang Young-sook

SPECIAL FEATURE 1

Jeju, An Island of Stones — Legends and Lore

Historical Legacy of Jeju Stone Walls Jeju, the largest of some 3,300 islands in Korean territory, is a volcanic island, some 1.7 million years old. Mt. Halla, a now dormant volcano and South Korea’s tallest mountain, rises 1,950 meters above sea level at the center and gradually levels out into gently sloping land.

Traces of hardened lava are readily found throughout Jeju, at ground level and below.

The dark basalt, full of holes, defines the landscape of this scenic island.

Lee Chang-guy Poet and Literary Critic Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

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Stone enclosures called jatseong were built around state-run horse farms during the Joseon Dynasty, in order to allow horses to graze and keep them penned in. Very little remains of the walls at the base of mountains due to development and damage, whereas those in mid-mountainous areas remain relatively intact, testifying to the island’s traditional livestock farming.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 5

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tones stand the test of time. This is why stones are used to erect monuments commemorating heroic feats or stacked to build boundaries. Stones abound on Jeju, and the people who settled here have learned to make ingenious use of them for myriad purposes: blocking entry to prohibited areas, banking up water, diverting wind flow, and penning in horses. In this sense, the legendary magic of the stones of Jeju lies in their capacity to harness the volatility of nature and transience of time. But this could not be done without laborious efforts. Hence the myth of an old lady giant painstakingly digging up the earth and carrying it in her skirt to build Mt. Halla, thus creating the island.

The age-old stones of Jeju stand against the blue sea and sky, immersed in deep silence. Their surfaces are coarse, their color black. Their curves and haphazard holes convey their identity; piled up on top of one another, they form a wall, hugging and burying into each other’s shoulders. Stones with soft edges roll around on the ground; they wear tattoos of bronze-colored moss. Silver grass and yellow canola flowers encircle the walls, covering their naked black bottoms.

There is something untouchable about these stone walls that have existed over many centuries. All we can do is look through the few remaining historical sources or examine the traces left on the stones, whether they may be scars or marks of goodwill. Yet, we hope to feel the warmth lingering in them and learn their stories as blunt witnesses to the times.

Coastal Weirs Yielding an Abundant Catch The first stone walls to appear on the island would have been the coastal weirs, considering that fishing existed before the emergence of modern humans. Called wondam or gaetdam in Korean, they are low dams, around one meter high, built on the coast by loosely stacking stones, which function as large nets. The fish that come in with the rising tide would be trapped inside, unable to escape when the tide ebbs.

One of the characteristic features of the Jeju sea is that a rocky area, a lava field, lies between the coast and the ocean.

This distinctive topography was formed by lava from volcanic eruptions flowing into the sea. In some places, the lava flow extends as far as two kilometers. Local people call this strip of sea floor geolbadang. It is one of the reasons why the method of fishing using stone weirs emerged.

Stone weirs take different forms depending on the shore’s topographic condition. On a bay shaped like a bow curving toward the land, stone walls are built connecting the capes, whereas on shorelines with a boulder standing tall in the middle, the walls are built on either side. In sunken areas that are filled with water even at low tide, simply building a low stone enclosure makes a great fishing net. Around 10 to 20 weirs like

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Stone weirs for fishing, called wondam, make use of the natural topography of the shore and the ebb and flow of the tide. Hundreds of these “stone nets” used to be scattered around the coastal areas, but few retain their original condition.

these can be seen in each village.

The fish most favored by Jeju islanders are anchovies that measure 10 to 20 centimeters in length. They are called mel in Jeju dialect, and every August, when schools of anchovies venture inside the stone weirs, all the villagers come holding a scoop net or gourd to gather the fish. The catch is distributed evenly as the weir is the common property of the villagers who work together to build and repair it. The anchovies are seasoned and then cooked or fried. Anchovy soup (melguk) is a favorite dish among the Jeju people. Made with freshly caught anchovies, cabbage leaves, red pepper and assorted other ingredients, the light soup is simply superb. Leftover anchovies are dried or salted to be used as seasoning or served as a side dish.

Over the years, the stone weirs have been damaged due to the construction of coastal roads, and as most fishing boats these days handle and dry the fish on deck, stone-weir fishing

© i love jeju

is mostly left to the elderly. Nonetheless, the sight of the black stone walls revealing their shape amid the white waves at low tide evokes memories of the days when the whole village celebrated an abundant catch.

Protection from the Elements There is a sacred tourist spot on Jeju called Samseonghyeol, which is made up of three large holes in the ground.

Legend has it that three demigods, or the founding ancestors of three clans, emerged from the holes and spread the seeds of five grains on the island. Although the exact time is unknown, it can be presumed that certain powers possessing advanced agricultural technology emerged and established dominance in the ancient kingdom of Tamna, the old name for Jeju. The kingdom had maintained tributary relations with the Goryeo Dynasty and was subject to its control until 1105, when the island was offi-

cially annexed by Goryeo and named Tamna County.

Records from this time tell the story of Kim Gu (1211– 1278), deputy magistrate of Jeju, who initiated construction of the first batdam (field fence) on the island.

“The farmlands in Jeju had no boundaries, so the strong and powerful would slowly encroach on another’s territory, causing the people deep distress. After becoming deputy magistrate, Kim Gu heard of the people’s plight and had them stack stones to build walls to mark the boundaries, thus alleviating their suffering.” — Dongmungam (“Korean Literary Mirror”) As the population grew, farmland gradually extended from the low plains to mid-mountain areas. But most of the land was covered with rocks, stones and volcanic ash soil, so despite the plentiful rainfall all the water would get soaked into the ground.

Ecofallow was the prevalent method of farming during the Goryeo period. After a year of farming, the land was left to rest

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 7

© TOPIC

for a year or two for the soil to regain fertility. During this time, it would become covered with grass and the terrain changed due to heavy rains, making it difficult to mark the boundaries between fields.

This led to land disputes and local heavyweights taking advantage of the situation to take land from the weak, which prompted Kim Gu to instruct the people to build stone walls of uniform height on their fields. Kim’s tenure lasted from 1234 to 1239. Records from the time serve as a basis to determine when stone field fences were most prevalent on the island.

The stone fences brought many changes. Land disputes declined, as did crop damage from horses and cows put out to pasture. They also helped crops to grow since they prevented soil erosion caused by heavy rains and provided protection from harsh winds, helping to maintain consistent soil moisture.

Now that farming required less work and yielded greater harvests, the once rocky and barren highlands were transformed

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into farmland, on which families relied for their livelihoods.

Today, agriculture constitutes the largest share of Jeju’s economy compared to other parts of the country, the bulk of which is field farming. The island is most famous for its sweet mandarins (gamgyul), but is also a major cultivator of winter vegetables, such as radishes, carrots, broccoli and cabbages.

Jeju carrots and broccoli account for 70 percent of the national production, while its radishes, cabbages and autumn potatoes account for around 40 percent.

Providing protection from the elements, Jeju’s batdam have played an important part in agriculture. In 2014, they were designated as a Globally Important Agricultural Heritage System by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. In celebration, an annual batdam festival is held on the island.

According to a survey, the total length of the field stone fences, built in many different shapes and sizes over the past

1. Stone field fences, called batdam, were built of basalt collected from the fields to provide protection from strong winds and prevent soil erosion. The total length of the stone walls found across the island amounts to 22,108 kilometers. They were designated as a Globally Important Agricultural Heritage System by the Food and Agriculture Organization in 2014.

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thousand years, is estimated to be some 22,000 kilometers.

Weaving their way across the island from the coast to the hills like a huge spider web, the batdam have been recognized not only for their agricultural and landscape values but also as important cultural heritage.

Walls Repurposed for Military Defense In the late 13th century, the people of Jeju, who used to spend their days harvesting seafood or bickering with neighbors over farmland boundaries, suddenly found themselves swept up in turbulent regional conflicts, right after Kublai Khan, ruler of the Mongolian Empire and grandson of Genghis Khan, conquered Song China and established the Yuan Dynasty. The Mongols launched a series of campaigns against Goryeo, forcing the royal court to flee to Ganghwa Island. Exhausted from the prolonged war, the Goryeo government eventually decided to submit to the Mongols and return to the capital, Gaegyeong

2. In fields with low stone walls, low-growing crops like potatoes and carrots are grown, whereas in those with high walls, grains such as millet and barley are raised. The seemingly haphazard walls are in fact the work of skilled masons.

(today’s Kaesong). But the Sambyeolcho, the three elite patrol units of Goryeo, refused to comply with the government’s pro-Mongol policies and mobilized resistance groups based on Jin Island, off the southwest coast of the peninsula.

In the ninth month of 1270, Goryeo sent military troops to Jeju, which was where the resistance forces were expected to retreat to, and gave orders to construct stone walls on the coast to prevent their landing. The first military-purpose stone walls were built by connecting and reinforcing the existing walls on the shores that had been built to block waves and secure vessels. Stones found along the shores are round, weathered by the waves. So unlike the walls on farming fields, the defense walls could not be stacked in a single line but had to be piled up in several layers. The hard labor was imposed on the locals.

The government’s ambitious plans were thwarted, however, when it failed to prevent a counterattack from the Sambyeolcho who landed on Jeju three months later. The Jeju people, resent-

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 9

If one looks closely at Jeju’s stone walls, one can notice that their appearance has changed remarkably over time.

That is, their shape and purpose have changed in line with changes in lifestyle and environment. ing the government’s forced labor and exploitation over the years, sided with the resistance forces. They reconstructed the coastal walls for use as military camp sites, but they were not strong enough to withstand Mongol attacks. After suffering a crushing defeat on Jin Island the following year, the Sambyeolcho reassembled in Jeju and continued putting up resistance, only to be subdued by the Goryeo-Mongol allied forces in early 1273.

For hundreds of years thereafter, from late Goryeo, when the Yuan Dynasty began to decline, to the end of the Joseon Dynasty, the stone walls along the Jeju coastline defended against attacks by Japanese raiders looting food and water.

During the Joseon period, Jeju county magistrates were usually appointed from the ranks of military officers to contend with the Japanese pirates. In the 19th century, Western ships began to visit the shores of Jeju, arousing doubts about their motives.

These stone walls, named Hwanhae Jangseong, meaning the “Great Encircling Wall,” can be viewed while walking along

the Jeju Olle trails. Unfortunately, little of the walls remains intact, so it is hard to feel the grandeur the name evokes. Nonetheless, the view of the stone walls around the smoke signal tower of Byeoldo in Hwabuk reminds us of the desperate plight of the Jeju people who had nowhere to flee.

Enclosures for Grazing Although relations between Jeju and the Mongols were inevitably rife with conflict and confrontation, human and material exchanges during the hundred or so years brought many changes to Jeju society. One example is livestock breeding. Livestock grazing was as old as farming on the island, but the first proper horse ranches were established by the Mongols in 1276, shortly after Yuan subdued the Sambyeolcho and assumed direct control of Jeju. Together with 160 horses, the Mongols brought their stock-raising experts and built “Tamna Ranch” in Seongsan. This marked the beginning of Jeju’s horse industry.

1. A fortress was built by Goryeo’s special patrol units in Aewol-eup in 1271 for their last resistance against the Mongols. Called Hangpaduseong, the fortress consists of double walls.

The outer wall, six kilometers long, is built of earth on a layer of flat stones, and the inner wall, around 800 meters in circumference, has stones stacked in the middle. Parts of the earthen fortification remain.

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2. A stone fortification was constructed along the coastline as a defense against invasion by sea. Traces of the wall, called Hwanhae Jangseong, remain in 19 coastal villages, of which the section in Hwabuk-dong on the northeast coast is relatively intact. Here the remaining stretch of the wall is some 620 meters long and 2.5 meters high.

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However, clashes between nomads, who moved from place to place, and settlers, who wanted to gain control of the land, intensified after Yuan withdrew and the island was absorbed by the Joseon Dynasty. In 1429, increasing crop damage from grazing horses and escalating disputes over shortage of pasturage prompted Go Deuk-jong (1388–1452), a local government official, to suggest measures to King Sejong for the stable management of horse ranches. He proposed a plan to divide the mid-altitude zone of Mt. Halla into 10 sections and create staterun horse pastures in each of them. Key to the plan was the construction of stone walls to prevent the horses grazing in hilly areas from entering the coastal farmlands. Thus, stone walls, called jat or jatseong, were built in heights ranging from some 1.2 to 1.5 meters around the island. Both state-owned and private horses were grazed in these farms.

Horse breeding flourished on the island. The horses bred here were used mainly for military purposes or as presents to the royal family. A breeder named Kim Man-il (1550–1632) raised thousands of horses on his private farm in the mountainous part of eastern Jeju. During the Japanese invasions (1592– 1598), he donated 500 horses to the country and continued to do so in subsequent wars, which prompted King Seonjo to grant him the title of “meritorious subject.”

The expansion and renovation of jatseong continued. Those built in the high mountainous areas to prevent horses from getting lost in the deep woods or freezing to death were called sangjatseong (“upper horse farm fences”), while those in the middle region, constructed where farming and grazing could be alternated every other year, effectively expanding the farmland, were called jungjatseong (“mid-level horse farm fences”).

During the Japanese occupation (1910–1945), these state-run pastures were turned into communal farms. Large sections of the horse farm fences surrounding Mt. Halla have been lost or damaged; only around 60 kilometers remain intact today.

If one looks closely at Jeju’s stone walls, one can notice that their appearance has changed remarkably over time. That is, their shape and purpose have changed in line with changes in lifestyle and environment. Stone walls have been raised to protect mandarin trees, and are being installed as barriers on either side of the ever-expanding roads. To make the walls sturdier, they are encased in wire netting or gaps between the stones are filled with cement. But some things remain the same.

The walls look sullen because they harbor complex emotions, torn between wishes to preserve old values and the urge to accept change. This duplicity of desires is also a long-standing heritage of Jeju.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 11

SPECIAL FEATURE 2

Jeju, An Island of Stones — Legends and Lore

A Trailblazer’s Dream Come True Jeju Stone Park occupies a vast site covering one million pyeong (approx. 3.3 km²) in the town of Jocheon. As rocks are an inseparable part of the volcanic island’s environment, finding a stone theme park here may seem to be nothing special. However, if it had not been for the foresight and perseverance of one person, this scenic park, steeped in the island’s folklore and resplendent with its indigenous stones, would never have come into being.

Heo Young-sun Poet Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

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Jeju Stone Park features stone objects symbolizing the island’s history, folklore and myths. For the park’s construction, the Jeju provincial government provided the land and financial support, and Baek Un-cheol donated his collection of stone monuments and folklore materials as well as his ingenious ideas and service as head of the planning board.

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s a young man studying theater directing at the Seoul Institute of the Arts in the late 1960s, Baek Un-cheol came across the wonder of centuries-old trees during his military service in an engineering battalion stationed deep in the mountains of Gangwon Province. He would dig out dead trees with utmost care, wary of inflicting damage to them, even to their roots. He was so careful that he spent over a week to finish a job that any other soldier might have done in a day. After his release from the army, the nature-loving young man was hard hit by the reality of the time. Under the banner of the government-led New Community Movement (Saemaul Undong), the map of Korea was rapidly changing, causing massive damage to the country’s environment in the process.

Wood and Stone Garden “I was enraged by the way the natural environment was being ravaged by the community modernization campaign, just for economic purposes. I decided to do my bit to protect nature,” Baek recalled.

At a time when roads would appear or disappear overnight, Baek returned to his native Jeju Island, where he traveled extensively to collect natural artifacts worth preserving and displaying. Then he opened a modest showground in downtown Jeju, named the Tamna Garden of Wooden Monuments (Tamna Mongmurwon; Tamna being the ancient name of Jeju), which was later expanded into the Tamna Wood and Stone Garden (Tamna Mokseogwon). Awakened to the value of nature early on, he created a garden of rocks and trees with some storytelling incorporated into the design. With an ingenious arrangement of natural objects, he presented the love story of Gapdol and Gapsun, a well-known folktale also adapted into a folk song and a film. In time, the garden became a must-visit spot for tourists to the island, then a favorite destination for honeymooners.

Created around this enchanting concept, the Tamna Wood and Stone Garden was introduced as one of the world’s 12 greatest gardens in “Monumental Annuel 2001: Jardins Historiques,” issued by the Department of Architecture and Monuments of the French Ministry of Culture. However, Baek decided to leave this successful project behind and start a new one. The plan had actually been set in motion back in 1988, following his trip to Paris for an exhibition of his photography, when he realized how highly his native island was appreciated in the global city of arts and culture. He returned home feeling ashamed of his own ignorance, and learned to drive to

© Jeju Stone Park

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comb the island collecting folklore artifacts and natural stone monuments. Over the next 10 years, he covered 1.2 million kilometers. Then one day, on the coastal road that he frequently traveled, he had a sort of epiphany that moved him to tears.

“Struck by the spiritual aura of the landscape, with rocks of all shapes formed by molten lava hardened on its way to the sea, I rediscovered the beauty of this island where I’d been born and raised,” Baek reminisced.

A Myth Told with Stones That moment of enlightenment led him to give up his beloved garden in order to create “a culture park of indigenous stone objects that will live on for centuries.” His heart growing warmer still when he looked around the site of the prospective Jeju Stone Park, he decided to “protect this place from its possibly precarious fate” and to “bring Seolmundae Halmang back to life here.”

Seolmundae Halmang (Grandmother Seolmundae) is a giant goddess featured in Jeju Island’s creation myth. According to the myth, she had 500 sons, called “Five Hundred Generals,” and she was making gruel for them in the midst of a severe drought when she fell to her death into the gigantic pot of gruel. In the protagonist of this famous folktale, Baek found the archetype of the Jeju woman and her life of toilsome daily labor, and of great motherhood that could be extended to love for humanity. He chose the folktale as the main theme for the Jeju Stone Park.

Baek donated his entire collection of stone monuments and folklore materials to the local government, which in turn promised to procure a 3.3 km² site for the new park and bear all costs incurred thereafter. In 1999, he signed an agreement with the Jeju autonomous government to work for the park for the following 20 years as head of the planning board, managing exhibitions and presentations. The park, opened in 2006, is still in the making. The underground space, previously a garbage dump, was transformed into a museum, and located above ground are the Gallery of Five Hundred Generals, which also serves as a theater, a village of traditional thatched-roof houses, and a recreational forest. The hall for Seolmundae Halmang, still under construction, is scheduled to be completed in 2020.

Baek continues to draw on his imagination and intuition for this ongoing project, living alone in a small shelter on the park premises.

“A spider doesn’t think while spinning its web; the silk just comes out. The same is true for me,” said Baek, who has now reached the final spurt in making his decades-old dream come true. “I hope to showcase history in the hall and present it to posterity. Folklore, mythology and history are essentially the same thing in three separate forms branching from the same

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1. Standing along Course 1 of the Jeju Stone Park, this stone guardian figure is believed to have been carved some 300 years ago. Designated as the province’s important folklore material, the dol hareubang (meaning “stone grandfather”) has all the typical features found in stone statues of the kind — huge, bulging eyes and pursed lips, an official’s hat and the hands pressed on the stomach.

2. Baek Un-cheol rediscovered the beauty and soul of Jeju, where he was born and raised, through stones of all shapes and colors. He is currently pouring all his energy on building an exhibition hall for Seolmundae Halmang, a giant goddess featured in the island’s creation myth, scheduled to be completed in 2020.

origin. On Jeju, rocks are at the basis of them all. We live on rocks and die on rocks. In the end, the stars in the sky are rocks, and the universe itself is a collection of rocks.”

The name of the park contains the words “stone” and “culture” (The literal meaning of its Korean name is “stone culture park.”) because Baek wanted to emphasize that all the components of the park represent “the culture of Jeju islanders that has blossomed on stones.” Fluent in expressing his ideas, he declared, “I wish to spend the rest of my life promoting peace with stones as the medium, associated with meditation and healing. Stones are spiritual beings. Today’s people tend to be

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“We live on rocks and die on rocks. In the end, the stars in the sky are rocks, and the universe itself is a collection of rocks.�

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The recreated village with 50 traditional thatched-roof houses along Course 3 offers a glimpse of the islanders’ lives in the past. Materials reclaimed from around 200 old houses were used to build the village.

Š Jeju Stone Park

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swayed by materialistic desires, but it is important to know that there are other realms in the world.”

An eminent architect from Mexico, the late Ricardo Legorreta praised this park by saying, “It must have been a great challenge to fill the museum with all those stones, and the geography of the mid-mountain area has been fully accommodated here to create harmony with the surrounding environment. Above all, I find the legend of Seolmundae Halmang very intriguing.”

The French photographer Léonard de Selva gave his impression of the park, saying, “The stones of Jeju have a certain aura. I think this park could itself become a myth on this island of stones, just like Easter Island and its giant statues of unknown origin.”

A Lifelong Dedication Baek Un-cheol says he was blessed with a keen eye. He believes he was “born with an eye that finds gems in the midst of garbage and discovers human expressions in the face of the rocks in a way that most people can’t.” © Lee Jae-hong

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Just as Jeju Island was created by the goddess Seolmundae, Baek owes what he is today to two women. His mother, a strong-willed woman, built him a 100 m² warehouse in her orchard to help him realize his dream. Others may have been indifferent to a grown man with no particular job, roaming around mountains and fields to collect rocks, but his mother remained his partner and supporter who provided him his first exhibition space. Among her seven children, she was especially fond of this son and would clap her hands in delight whenever he obtained a particularly interesting stone. Needless to say, his wife’s quiet support has also given him confidence in his difficult undertakings.

“Jeju is an island of stones. Gotjawal, the rocky forest on the slope of Mt. Halla, was formed by heaps of rocks, and its residential areas have stone walls which would be longer than the Great Wall of China if connected end to end,” expounded the connoisseur of stone. “The stones have created a spiritual atmosphere in this place, and the 48 dol hareubang, or “stone grandfathers,” scattered all over the island, are our greatest treasures. Such statues made of volcanic basalt are nowhere to be

found in the world. The stern goggle-eyed stone men, which were stationed long ago as guardians of the island against Japanese invaders, are truly frightening at night. Each of the statues, which must have been carved by nameless stonemasons, is charged with a soul.”

Furthermore, Baek says he sees “beyond the human world” in a dongjaseok (graveside stone statue in the shape of a child).

“Dongjaseok and dol hareubang are the two symbols of Jeju — one spiritual and the other aesthetic. So, whenever I came across a piece that attracted me, I managed to acquire it by any means,” he said.

Baek’s collection, amounting to some 500 truckloads, was moved from his garden of trees and stones to the new stone park over a considerable period of time. Baek also recreated a mid-mountain village composed of 50 thatched-roof houses built with used materials reclaimed from some 200 old houses.

The village was a shooting location for the film “Jiseul” (meaning “Potato” in Jeju dialect), which depicts the 1948 Jeju Uprising, a tragic event in modern Korean history, often distorted by ideological conflict and division.

Explaining the village, Baek said, “I intended to construct not just the replica of an old village but a place for cultural experiences to introduce and hand down our ancestors’ wisdom. I hope to preserve our traditional culture for as long as possible even though it is vanishing elsewhere.”

In his mind’s eye, the ever-present stones appear to be sitting in meditation, with their eyes gently closed. Whether or not you agree, the Jeju Stone Park is the place to go to feel a sense of timelessness. Here, it’s possible to feel that you are one with nature beyond the boundary of time. And, before you know it, you might run into a man walking along a dirt path wearing a worn hat, resembling a white-haired Taoist hermit in a blackand-white landscape.

1. This is one of the oddly-shaped natural stones formed from hardened lava which are exhibited in a gallery of the Jeju Stone Museum on the premises of the Jeju Stone Park.

2. Stone objects related with the everyday lives of the islanders, including millstones and gate posts, are displayed on the outdoor exhibition grounds. Baek Un-cheol collected these articles over several decades.

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© Kim Tschang-yeul Art Museum Jeju

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Stone Houses

Another Face of Jeju Island

Could Jeju Island be seen as an immense volcanic monolith? The bar-

the lava stones are so porous that they cannot bear structural loads.

ren land, forming the southernmost part of a country that has lived on

Therefore, in modern buildings, as in traditional ones, they have mostly

rice, is incapable of producing rice. No matter where you go on the island,

been used for the decoration of walls, fences, or yards, as an attractive

a little digging is sure to turn up some stones. In the past, the islanders

element mirroring the landscape of the island.

would gather the black stones scattered all around them to build their houses and walls. Today, however, a number of factories dig up, process and supply the volcanic stones to builders as demand has shot up amid the recent construction boom.

Art Museum Embodying the Beauty of Stone Viewed from the sky, the Kim Tschang-yeul Art Museum looks like a collection of square boulders. Established in 2016, it is located at the

The vibrant construction market witnessed on the island over the

Jeoji Artists’ Village in Hangyeong-myon. At first, the sooty exterior of the

last 10 years or so is attributed to the rising influx of people from the

buildings seems to indicate the use of black stones, but the cladding is

mainland, which started when this popular tourist destination emerged

actually exposed concrete roughly finished with a coat of black paint. Vis-

as an alternative home for people tired of city life. The new buildings

itors who recognize this may wonder: Why bother to imitate the native

erected everywhere around Jeju, including public offices, private homes

stone when it is so readily available?

and numerous guesthouses, are all quite individual, but they share a common feature: the use of volcanic stones native to the island.

In spite of its pleasing tone and texture, the popular “Jeju stone” is not suited to support the frame of a building. Hardened while flowing,

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Volcanic stones are, as explained earlier, not a suitable material for the frames of large buildings. Nor are they suitable for walls. Nevertheless, it seems the architect wished to imbue the art museum with the “the feel” of the Jeju stone, which represents the essence of the local architecture.

The presumed wish is evident all over the museum grounds — in the decorative wall along the entranceway, built high like a rampart with unpolished basalt stones; the low gabion fences of black stones running around the buildings; and the rooftops entirely covered in shattered stones. Even the black marble at the center of the pond in the middle courtyard could be mistaken for volcanic rock.

The combination of the imagined presence of the massive rocks buried deep in the ground and the mundane landscape of this island strewn

Houses Sharing the Warmth of Stone VT Haga Escape, premium vacation villas built recently in Aewol-eup, features a pleasing array of both interior and exterior walls of volcanic rock all over the premises. The living rooms command a cozy view of stone walls enclosing a small courtyard. Here, guests can enjoy a moment of rest and relaxation looking out at the peaceful view of neat garden walls under the clear blue sky.

If the concrete-framed buildings also had concrete courtyard walls, would visitors want to stay? The architect and the owner must have agreed to create a comforting atmosphere with the rough, ancient

© Jang Jin-woo

with the ubiquitous black stones has been recreated with contemporary aesthetics to deliver an image of the “primordial dream of the island.”

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1, 2. To create an illusion of a volcanic island, ArchiPlan, the architectural firm that designed the Kim Tschang-yeul Art Museum, used exposed concrete cladding finished with black paint, reminiscent of basalt. The image is retained throughout by using basalt rocks for various installations.

3. Neuljak is a guesthouse refashioned from a typical Jeju-style house over a hundred years old. Better known by its old name, Stone Home of Ham PD, the guesthouse was opened by a couple who moved to the island in 2011. The original thatched roofs were replaced by slate ones in the 1970s, but the old stone walls remain the same.

4. Kim Dae-il, director of fig.architects, which designed VT Haga Escape in partnership with Eggplant Factory, said basalt rocks were used all over the villas so that travelers could enjoy the landscape of a local village even when indoors.

stones so that guests would feel welcome.

While Haga Escape shows the modern application of Jeju’s traditional

in 2011 in Gujwa-eup, preserves the timelessness of the stones that

stone walls, the Stone Home of Ham PD [recently renamed “Neuljak,”

have been stuck in the walls of the house for over a century. A comfort-

meaning “slow and relaxed,” by the new owner], a guesthouse opened

able nest for backpackers, the guesthouse has three old buildings with frames, walls and yards kept intact and renovated 4

interiors. Guests happily mingle with each other, often holding a small party at night. In this sense, the modest guesthouse may remind you of your parents’ house during big holidays when the whole family gets together. The original proprietors, who hoped to convey the same feeling to their guests, are a married couple who “immigrated” to the island to settle down in a village that would give them a taste of home, and thus wanted to preserve the original form of the old house.

People who have found a new home on Jeju, whether they have built a new house or renovated an old one, would find it hard to forget the landscape that met their eyes upon landing on the island, with the low walls of dark stones meandering everywhere and the glistening black rocks covering the beaches. The heart-warming beauty of the indigenous stone has been revived in many different forms in the living rooms, bedrooms and yards of their homes.

© Lee Seung-hui

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SPECIAL FEATURE 3

Jeju, An Island of Stones — Legends and Lore

Sentries of the Afterlife

A parasitic cone named Dang Oreum, located in Gujwa-eup, is dotted with walled grave sites characterizing the landscape of Jeju Island. Stone walls surrounding tombs, called sandam, protect the tombs from fire and damage by grazing animals.

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Tombs surrounded by low stone walls and guarded by naĂŻve-looking stone statues are symbols of the natural environment and indigenous faiths of Jeju Island. The modest objects on gentle mountain slopes provide insight into the history and philosophy of life and death among Jeju islanders, who have lived in harmony with nature.

Kim Yu-jeong Director, Institute of Jeju Culture

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round the world, people eventually adapt to their environment and make use of what it has to offer. To block wind from the sea, a natural condition of Jeju, the islanders constructed walls with rocks that had fallen away from sea cliffs or terraces chiseled out by waves, another natural feature of their island. The walls were built along the coast and the levees on fields and around tombs. Small guardian images also were carved from the stones and assigned to tombs.

The iconic stone walls of Jeju represent the accumulated labor of several generations. Fathers would take large rocks and hack them into manageable shapes and sizes. Sons would then use the stones to build walls.

Afterwards, when mothers tilled the fields, they would plug holes in the walls with the small stones their hoes would invariably scrape up. It is unknown for how long this simple but arduous process was repeated but an aerial scanning of Jeju immediately reveals black stone walls of all sizes covering the entire island. It seems to form one colossal work of art. This enigmatic monuŠ Kang Jung-hyo

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Without the abundance of basalt, the islanders would not have been able to properly build homes for themselves, shelters for their livestock, or tombs for the souls of the dead.

ment, built by unknown artists who seemingly used the land as their canvas, stands out for its natural beauty rather than as a work of human hands.

The stone walls of Jeju are all the same in that they crisscross the land without being bound by any rules or styles, twisting and turning as they please. The undulating ribbons of basalt appear as natural as if they had been blown into place.

This probably is why someone said, “The stone walls of Jeju were one with the land from the very beginning.”

Walls for the Dead The volcanic rocks that carpet the island — are they a nuisance or a cosmic gift? When they disrupt a farmer in his field, they are, at that moment, an unwelcome annoyance. But without the abundance of basalt, the islanders would not have been able to properly build homes for themselves, shelters for their livestock, or tombs for the souls of the dead. The ebony and gray volcanic rocks of Jeju are inextricably linked to life and death.

From cradle to grave, walls of stone are fixtures of the islanders’ lives. Their homes are enclosed by them, as are their final resting sites.

The stone walls surrounding tombs are called sandam (san means “mountain” and dam means “wall”).

They protect burial sites and designate their boundaries. The sacred walls are either built in a single or multiple rows. The single-row sandam have a circular, acorn or square shape. Some of the multiple-row sandam form a trapezoid configuration with the narrow side at the back of the tomb.

Each sandam has a gate to provide a passageway for the spirit of the deceased. Called olle, the gate is only 40 to 50 centimeters wide. It is typically on one of the sides and which one depends on the gender of the interred: left for males and right for females. When a couple is buried together, the gate is on the left side, but in some special cases, there is a gate on both sides. Occasionally, burial sites also feature a front gate.

On either side of the opening, several long stones are placed on top of the wall to control the entry of animals or people.

Initially, tombs were placed in the middle of a field, hence the need for a wall to protect them from damage by livestock as well as stormy weather. As crop farming claimed more and more land, tombs were increasingly placed on the edge of fields. It may also be that the change in location was made for the convenience of family and relatives taking care of the tombs.

Regardless of the location of a tomb, the stones of the enclosing walls were sacred and touching them was strictly forbidden. Without permission or a valid reason no one was allowed inside the walls.

There were exceptions, however. It was believed that when a traveler from far

1. Stone statues in the shape of young children, called dongjaseok, stand guard over tombs. The simple statues are characterized by the rough texture of porous basalt and a mysterious aura.

2. The walls surrounding a tomb have one or multiple rows of stone. The size and shape of the walls are indicative of a family’s status.

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© Kim Yu-jeong

© Kim Yu-jeong

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away who had lost his way spent the night inside the walls, he would be protected by the spirit of the dead.

Unlike most stone walls of Jeju, sandam have a beauty and grace that reflect the technical expertise of their builders. Their special artistry is found in the shapes of the lines that the walls form, which are reminiscent of the lines of other Korean structures. For example, the eaves on a traditional Korean tile-roof house draw a curve that softens toward the ends, which point upward and impart a sense of rhythm and flight. The lines of the sandam share the same beautiful contour. Starting low at the back, the wall curves slowly upwards as it moves towards the front, then at the left corner the wall rises, as if it is reaching for the sky. It gradually sinks lower toward the middle as it moves to the right, then rises again to create symmetry with the left side. Here the wall stops. The line ends, imparting a tranquil mood.

Errand Boys of the Souls Stone statues were installed behind the stone enclosures surrounding tombs. They are called dongjaseok, meaning “stone statue of a young child.” They serve the souls of the dead in various ways, as attendants for worship and ritual offerings, acting as sentries, and providing decoration. These images were introduced by sojourners from the mainland such as magistrates appointed by the central government, exiles, and powerful members of the local landed gentry who served in the central government. But the islanders did not simply replicate the statues from the mainland, which initially had a Buddhist influence.

Similar stone guardians first appeared at tombs on the outskirts of Hanyang (Seoul), the capital and center of Confucian culture in Korea. As they were introduced to regions all the way down to Jeju, the southernmost part of the country, the statues came to reflect the different customs and faiths of the regions. Additional influence from the culture and philosophy of Jeju resulted in statues unique to the island. Thus, they project elements of Taoism, Buddhism, shamanism and various indigenous faiths.

The Jeju dongjaseok have a familiar warmth to them.

Those made during the reigns of King Yeongjo (r. 1724–1776) and King Jeongjo (r. 1776–1800) exhibit the finest craftsmanship, featuring bulging eyes and soft lines. They are the result of work experience on the mainland. Whenever a state funeral was to be held, the people of Jeju were quick to volunteer their services. In 1629, during the reign of King Injo, a ban on entering the mainland was decreed, rendering it difficult for Jeju islanders to travel. Volunteering to work for the state was an effective way to circumvent the ban.

After returning home to Jeju, the volunteers recreated stone figures based on what they had seen while constructing royal tombs. They are the dongjaseok of Jeju one can still see today.

They were modeled on the guardian figures of civil officials at royal tombs, but in the hands of amateur craftsmen who lacked technical skills, they took on an entirely different appearance.

Made of basalt, rarely seen on the mainland, the Jeju stone figures are indeed unique. Characterized by the healthy primitiveness that emanates from their simplistic beauty, they are widely loved as the face of Jeju.

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Stones as Tools for Everyday Life The abundance of basalt on Jeju naturally led to the widespread use of stone implements. Besides, relying on wooden tools was risky as they were susceptible to rotting due to the high precipitation and humidity on the island. The most popular stone implements on Jeju were water jar stands (mulpang), millstones (dolbangae) and pig pens (dottongsi). Other common stone implements included grinding stones (maetdol), braziers (hwaro), stone posts for door latches (jeongjuseok), and bowls (dogori). Although the islanders no longer use these traditional stone devices, they Š Yi Gyeom

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evoke plenty of nostalgia.

Mulpang (Water Jar Stand) The mulpang is a square slab of basalt on which the Jeju earthenware water jar, called heobeok, was placed. Considering its function and women’s daily movement around the house, it was generally installed just outside the kitchen door. In premodern times, Jeju women had to collect water from communal springs several times a day, carrying the water jar on their backs. When they returned home, they would lower the jar onto the stone slab.

The distance between water sources and households varied, but in general it was far. Along the coast, spring water was usually found flowing about one kilometer away from most villages.

Called sanmul, this spring water varied in quantity with the ebb and flow of the tide, and the villagers drew their water accordingly. In mountain villages, residents drank water drawn from reservoirs of rainwater called bongcheonsu, and collected rainwater running down tree trunks for washing and other household purposes. In some places that lacked spring water, rainwater running down the thatched roofs of the houses was collected and stored for drinking.

Collecting water for their families and livestock was generally the job of women and young girls. For Jeju females, carrying the

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Š TOPIC

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heobeok to and fro became part of their daily lives at a young

1. A stone slab served as a stand for the pottery jar that women of Jeju used to carry water. It was generally placed right outside the kitchen door.

2. Millstones were used to grind grains into powder to make rice cakes for ancestral rites.

They were also useful for making a natural dye for cloth by crushing green persimmons into pulp.

3. Stone pig pens also served as an outhouse.

The manure was used to fertilize fields.

3 © Kim Yu-jeong

age. In fact, they generally started each day by collecting water in

propped against an outside corner, while the wooden mortar was

their jars. The usually blackish-red jar was round to make it easier

stored in the barn to keep it out of the rain.

to carry and had a full round belly and narrow neck, which helped minimize spilling when carried over a long distance. These jars were made in different sizes to suit the age of the person carrying

Dottongsi (Pig Pen) Jeju’s traditional pig pens built of stones are called dottongsi

them.

or dottong. Pigs were a very important household animal as a

Dolbangae (Millstone)

mainly raised on human waste.

source of protein. But as grain feed was scarce, the pigs were Jeju islanders considered the death anniversaries of their

The stone pig pen also functioned as an outhouse and a place

ancestors more important than the birthdays of living family

to produce manure needed to fertilize crops. Barley straw was laid

members. Hence, every home needed a mill to grind grains into

on the ground and when the pigs, fed on human waste, produced

powder, which was then used to make rice cakes for ancestral

their own waste and crushed it underfoot, the droppings and

memorial rites. The household millstones were operated by two

straw mixed together to create a kind of fertilizer. In winter, the

or three women taking turns.

straw mixture was placed outside to ferment over two to three

The millstones were also useful for making work clothes. After summer rains, most Jeju households picked persimmons and used their juice to dye cloth. Green persimmons crushed in a mill-

months; in the spring, it was mixed with barley seeds and spread on the fields.

There was another reason for rasing pigs inside the yard. On

stone produce seeds that are shaped like a half moon (seeds with

Jeju Island, when a son or daughter reached marrying age, fami-

a dry, astringent taste that children eat for fun). Cotton or ramie

lies bought a couple of young pigs to raise. After about a year, the

cloth is placed in the millstone and covered with the persimmon

pigs were big enough to be butchered for the wedding dinner.

pulp to dye in the juice and then hung on a stone wall to dry in

The dish typically served to guests at a Jeju wedding was called

the sun. When the cloth dries, it is repeatedly soaked in water and

gogitban, or literally “meat slices.” It consisted of three thin slices

dried again for more than 10 days until it becomes stiff and tough.

of pork, one piece of stuffed pork chitterlings and one or two

This persimmon-dyed cloth is called galcheon and the clothes

pieces of bean curd. To this day, when the islanders inquire about

made with it garot. All sorts of work clothes were made with this

a person’s marriage plans, they often ask, “When are you going to

cloth. They were cool and antiperspirant, and became stronger

serve us three pieces of meat?”

and deeper in color the more they were washed.

Although pigs raised on human waste, colloquially called

To crush grains, however, a wooden mortar called nam-

“dung pigs” (ttong doeji), disappeared long ago, Jeju’s black pigs,

bangae was often preferred to the millstone because it was

designated as Natural Monument No. 550 in 2015, are a local icon

lighter and easier to maintain. When not in use, the millstone was

and a source of pride for the islanders.

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SPECIAL FEATURE 4

Jeju, An Island of Stones — Legends and Lore

Pottery from Fire and Stones Jeju’s onggi is fired in a stone kiln instead of an earthen kiln. For thousands of years, the traditional earthenware pots and jars were an integral part of the lives of the residents of the island, where iron is not produced. However, they gradually faded into history after wares mass-produced with synthetic materials emerged in the 1960s. Then, in 2000, after years of painstaking efforts, the traditional stone kiln was rebuilt and production of the island’s indigenous pottery resumed, albeit in small quantities.

Jeon Eun-ja Research Fellow, Tamna Culture Research Institute, Jeju National University Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

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Kang Chang-eon, founder and director of the Jeju Ceramic Center, stokes fire from the top of the yellow kiln. The temperature inside the kiln reaches its peak four days after the fire is lit. This is the final stage when dry firewood is inserted through holes on the sides of the kiln to build up the fire while the vessels acquire a glossy shine on the surface as if glazed.

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D

uring the Jeju Uprising of April 3, 1948, which was effectively a forewarning of the tragic Korean War, the islanders, even when desperately fleeing from government forces chasing communist guerillas, took their onggi with them. It shows just how indispensable the vessels were in their lives.

The use of the homely and sturdy earthenware has a long history on the island, as testified in historical sources. In a poem titled “Tamna,” Choe Bu (1454–1504), a civil official of the Joseon Dynasty, described a Jeju woman carrying a large pottery jar on her way to a spring to draw water. Choe is the well-known author of “Choe Bu’s Diary: A Record of Drifting across the Sea” (Pyohaerok), a masterpiece of ancient Korean travel literature. The poem is contained in “A Journal from the Southern Island” (Namsa illok), written by Yi Jeung (1628–1686), another Joseon official who served on the island.

“Gazettes of Jeju” (Jeju eupji), presumably published in the 18th century, also notes, “There is a store in Daejeong that specializes in onggi pottery.”

The earliest archetypes of Jeju onggi are found in two types of prehistoric vessels, some plain and some with raised patterns, discovered at an archaeological site in Gosan village, located in Hangyeong township. The earthenware is believed to be around 10,000 years old. To date, the undecorated vessels are among the oldest Neolithic pottery discovered in Korea, while those with raised wavy patterns are considered the pinnacle of ancient Jeju pottery.

Onggi production on Jeju reached its peak in the early 20th century, but vanished completely by the late 1960s. With its elaborate production process, onggi could not compete with

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cheap, mass-produced plastic wares. The person who revived the Jeju onggi tradition was Kang Chang-eon, founder and director of the Jeju Ceramic Center.

Restoration of Traditional Stone Kilns In the 1970s, while still in his youth, Kang began visiting ruined kiln sites, and upon closely examining the onggi fragments, he discovered a unique quality in the traditional earthenware. In the early 1980s, he quit his job to fully devote his time to conducting field studies, traveling countless times to coastal villages and mid-mountainous areas. At that time, around 50 stone kilns remained on the island. Eventually, he joined the Jeju National University Museum and began his studies in earnest, working together with scholars at home and abroad. But as modernization swept the country, the remaining sites began to be severely damaged.

In the early 1990s, experienced onggi potters began to pass away one by one, and with them, the tools they used disappeared. Driven by a sense of urgency, Kang searched for surviving potters, but most had switched to farming as it had become too difficult to earn a living as potters. Kang tried to persuade them to join him in his efforts to revive the Jeju onggi tradition, but at first, none of them would budge.

The restoration of traditional stone kilns was only possible with the help of skilled craftsmen. Fortunately, several surviving artisans, including Hong Tae-gwon and Song Chang-sik, eventually gave him their full support. In 1996, Kang invested his entire fortune to establish the Jeju Ceramic Center in the village of Yeongnak in the town of Daejeong; four years later he began making Jeju-style onggi in the traditional way.

Over a long time, Jeju onggi had evolved differently from similar wares produced on the mainland. The biggest difference would be the method of firing, which takes place in a stone kiln made of basalt rocks instead of an earthen kiln built with clay bricks. This production process is distinctly different from other regions in Korea, as well as China or Japan, and is rarely found in other parts of the world.

Different Production Process Another distinguishing feature of Jeju onggi is that they are not glazed, mainly because they are made with volcanic ash soil instead of the white or red clay commonly used on the mainland. This method was devised by the islanders who lived in an environment where soil suitable for pottery production was rare. Volcanic ash soil contains many minerals, which melt and ooze to the surface during the firing process, producing the effect of a glossy coating. In addition, unlike in other regions where wood from tree trunks is used to heat the kiln, branches dried in the shade are used as fuel.

The Jeju onggi production process is also distinguished by the division of labor. The vessels are not made by a single potter; each stage of production involves a different specialist: the geonaekkun collects the soil and firewood; the onggi-daejang shapes the vessel; the bul-daejang stokes the fire; and the gul-daejang supervises the entire process.

Manufactured in this specialized and collaborative way, Jeju onggi are a product of the local communal culture.

In many respects, conditions on the island were not favorable for pottery production, most of the soil being unsuitable and the water having to be carried in large jars over significant distances. The words of the late potter Shin Chang-hyeon, who held the title of Jeju Intangible Cultural Property No. 14, encapsulate the grueling nature of the task: “Making onggi is an arduous undertaking; it requires trips to and from the netherworld.” The pots and jars laboriously created in such inhospitable conditions have long been an important part of the daily lives of the people of Jeju.

1. “Gahina Tea Pottery,” 7.6 x 18.5 cm.

Produced using a patented method by the Jeju Ceramic Center, the tea pot was awarded the Seal of Excellence for Handicrafts by UNESCO in 2007. It is made from a special type of clay developed by the center to imitate the texture of basalt.

2. “Stone Jar,” 28 x 22.3 cm.

The jar was formed by paddling the clay on the wheel with a stone, creating a rough texture resembling basalt.

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Pottery kilns are called gul in Jeju, which means “cave” in Korean. The semi-cylindrical ceiling, so shaped due to the natural contour of the land, gives the kilns the appearance of a cave.

There are two types of kilns: yellow kilns and black kilns, so named because the pots fired in them exhibit yellow and black hues, respectively. The color difference comes from differences in firing temperatures.

Kiln Temperatures and Vessel Colors In the yellow kilns, the temperature is raised up to 1,100 to 1,200 degrees Celsius. During this process, the clay is oxidized, and the surface of the vessel becomes glossy as if glazed and turns yellowish or reddish brown. At such high temperatures, patterns form naturally on the surface, which Kang calls “flame patterns.” These stalwart vessels keep food from going bad, so they are mainly used to hold food or carry water.

The black kilns fire vessels at lower temperatures of around 700 to 900 degrees Celsius. The openings in the front and back of the kilns are blocked to reduce oxygen levels. This results in

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incomplete combustion and as the smoke permeates the vessels, they turn gray or black. These vessels are used for storing dry foodstuff or steaming food.

At the Jeju Ceramic Center, the yellow and black kilns are restored in the traditional style using basalt. Kang picked out stones of appropriate sizes or trimmed them if needed. The gaps between the stones were filled with basalt fragments or clay.

The Virtue of Waiting The yellow kiln measures 12 meters in length; the space from the fire hole to the smoke outlet is divided into the firing chamber and the combustion chamber. The fire hole is made in the front of the kiln, the lower part coming into contact with the ground. It appears to be arch-shaped but is actually more of a square shape with a ceiling stone placed on top of stone pillars standing on either side. A notable feature of Jeju stone kilns is the significantly narrower fire hole, as seen in discarded kilns from over 100 years ago in Sindo village in western Jeju, as

The biggest difference would be the method of firing, which takes place in a stone kiln made of basalt rocks instead of an earthen kiln built with clay bricks.

1. The exhibition room at the Jeju Ceramic Center showcases products of the center. The elaborate process and high costs of production make popularization difficult, but the center attracts pottery enthusiasts from Japan and China.

2. Saddened to see the traditional stone kilns and earthenware of Jeju fading into history, Kang Chang-eon restored the island’s traditional kiln in 2000 after years of painstaking efforts.

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3. “Black Earthenware Jar” (front), 41.4 x 33.0 cm; and “Yellow Earthenware Jar,” 37.5 x 29.0 cm.

The black jar has distinct “flame patterns” naturally created during firing. The yellow jar has a lighter shade around its mouth and shoulder, also a natural phenomenon that occurred while firing.

well as those at the Jeju Ceramic Center.

The ceiling’s exterior is covered with sandy soil; on the left and right side are 15 holes, each about 15 centimeters in diameter and placed at regular intervals. These are for checking and feeding the fire. There is no chimney in the back; instead, there are four small holes to let the flames out.

The black kiln is smaller, measuring seven meters in length, and is not divided into separate compartments. The vessels are placed inside or taken out of the kiln through an opening in the back. After they are removed, the opening is blocked by loosely stacking stones rather than sealing.

Another distinctive feature of Jeju’s stone kilns is the area in front of the fire hole, which is enclosed by a low barrier made of basalt. Called bujangjaengi, the area takes its name from the grass that covers it and provides shelter from the elements, especially from the island’s harsh winds.

Made with porous volcanic ash soil, Jeju onggi is first formed, then stored in a hut for 10 months before being fired. The hut is also made of basalt, and any gaps are carefully filled with soil to prevent light or air from entering. This is another remarkable feature of Jeju pottery. Like the birth of a new life, it teaches us the virtue of waiting — humbly.

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FOCUS

34 KOREANA Summer 2018

Urban Renewal on Second Thought Decaying buildings, rundown commercial facilities and decrepit residential areas are the targets of a new approach to urban revitalization. Rarely visited and forgotten places are being reborn, attracting new occupants, who are redefining the work and living in the once neglected neighborhoods.

Yoon Hee-cheol Professor,

Division of Human-Architectural Engineering, Daejin University Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

The Oil Tank Culture Park, located in Sangam-dong on the northwestern outskirts of Seoul, was created by repurposing five petroleum storage tanks built in the 1970s. The community center in the middle of the complex was constructed with iron plates from the tanks that were remodeled. It contains lecture halls and meeting rooms.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 35

R

ising from the ashes of war six decades ago, Korea has rapidly industrialized and urbanized as its economy transformed at breakneck speed.

Now, Seoul and the country’s other major cities are grappling with how to revitalize rundown areas, and a new approach known as “urban restoration” is drawing widespread attention.

Unlike total redevelopment, which entails high costs and time-consuming macroscopic decision-making, urban restoration preserves some of a city’s history and aesthetics, and often mitigates conflicts and creates new jobs.

The Crucial Spatial Symbolism The transformation of Sewoon Sangga, formerly a hip shopping place for electronics in Seoul’s old downtown, is an example of how rundown buildings marked for demolition can be reborn in a remarkable way. Built in 1968, Sewoon Sangga consisted of multipurpose buildings that stretched one kilometer from north to south, connecting main thoroughfares of cen-

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36 KOREANA Summer 2018

tral Seoul around Jongno Street and Cheonggye Stream, which runs from west to east. As a mecca for electronics, people would say that Sewoon Sangga had “everything except nothing,” and “you can even assemble satellites there.”

At the time of its construction, new-style housing was also promised. Planners envisioned “an attractive multipurpose complex of residence and commerce.” But as Seoul’s Gangnam and Yongsan districts began to develop in earnest in the 1980s, expectations for Sewoon Sangga slowly diminished. Moreover, by the 1990s, its neighboring areas fell into decay, prompting plans for them to be razed and redeveloped.

Fortunately, wholesale demolition stalled until the area began to feel the full force of urban restoration around 2015.

Sewoon Sangga is now being reborn as a crucible of art, technology and culture, where young artists’ talents converge with the legendary feats of the area’s older craft masters and the technologies of the Fourth Industrial Revolution, such as 3D printing aerial drones.

The new urban restoration project goes beyond the use of space or renovations to repurpose a site. The project gains vitality only when the original images and symbolic meanings of old spaces are preserved and enhanced. In that sense, there is another notable case.

The areas of Changsin-dong and Sungin-dong, also in old Seoul, filled with sewing factories that once supplied the apparel business district of Dongdaemun, offer a tapestry of changes. Stagnation of the sewing industry led to the so-called “New Town” redevelopment of the areas. But the project, initiated by the Seoul city government, was also halted and replaced. Since 2014, the area’s designation for an urban renewal pilot project by the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure and Transport has translated into new streets and cultural amenities. Completed or soon to be completed are the Sewing History Museum; the Changsin Communication Art Workshop Center, a base for creative living arts; and the Nam June Paik Museum, which opened after renovations of the house where the video art pioneer spent his childhood, among other cultural facilities.

From Secret Bunker to Art Gallery The repurposing of a small deserted space offering a glimpse of Korea’s modern history is another interesting example. It is an underground bunker presumably built during the 1970s, when Korea was under military dictatorship. The secret, undocumented chamber in Yeouido, home of the Korean parliament, was discovered by chance in 2005, during the construction of a bus transfer station. It has an 80-square-meter VIP room and an 800-square-meter staff room. The facility was seemingly intended as an emergency retreat for President Park Chung-hee, who used a grandstand above the bunker to review military parades during his prolonged iron-fisted rule from 1963 to 1979.

Originally, the Seoul city government planned to turn the bunker into a shopping mall but the plan was shelved when it became apparent that pedestrian traffic was inadequate for commercial sustainability. The mysterious underground space opened to the public in October 2017 as an art gallery, named the SeMA Bunker after the Seoul Museum of Art, which manages it. The gallery has received positive public responses for holding exhibitions looking back on the modernization of Korea and the history of the bunker.

Another former top secret site that has been repurposed is at the foot of Mt. Maebong, behind the Seoul World Cup Stadium in Sangam-dong. Previously, the Oil Tank Culture Park was an access-controlled petroleum storage area that the Seoul city government constructed between 1976 and 1978, after the 1973 oil crisis. Consisting of five concrete tanks with diameters

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3 © culturetank

1. At the Fab Lab Seoul, in Sewoon Sangga, a residential-commercial complex in old downtown Seoul, visitors may use a 3D printer and various materials to create their products. The rundown area, spared by Seoul City’s “Again Sewoon Project” of 2015, is rejuvenating as a syncretic space of art and technology.

2. The shutdown storage tank behind the community center of the Oil Tank Culture Park was remodeled as a performance space by using material from other tanks. The lower part has a stage with an audience area with 200 seats.

3. One of the old oil tanks retains its original form allowing visitors to have a close look at the interior structure. It is mostly used for media-related exhibitions.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 37

The new urban restoration project goes beyond the use of space or renovations to repurpose a site. The project gains vitality only when the original images and symbolic meanings of old spaces are preserved and enhanced.

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38 KOREANA Summer 2018

ranging from 15 to 38 meters and a height of 15 meters, the site could contain a month’s worth of petroleum for Seoul residents.

The existence of the storage site, however, was not publicly disclosed at the time.

In 2002, before the Korea-Japan World Cup, the transfer of the site was decided for safety reasons, but due to indifference, nothing was done for over 11 years. Only in 2013 did experts and citizens gather and agree on setting up “an environment-friendly cultural complex� for the whole site. An international contest for ideas attracted 95 proposals from 16 countries. The selected plan called for one tank to remain in its original shape for exhibition, and the other four tanks to be remodeled for different uses.

A community center was built in the middle of the site as homage to the old oil storage tanks. The same steel plates as in the original tanks were used for the outside walls, which made the community center look as if it was built alongside the old oil

tanks. The remodeled tanks are now used as stages, exhibition halls and multiplexes, and a spacious plaza in front of the tanks was set up as an open arena to accommodate cultural events.

Moreover, trails lined with diverse plants were installed in the spaces around the site and on the ridges of Mt. Maebong.

Since the repurposing, the site has become popular with citizens, who enjoy an array of cultural performances and other events in the revitalized setting.

From Quarrying to Tourist Hotspot Pocheon Art Valley is another pioneer project that illustrates how urban restoration can transform an industrial site long past its prime. Pocheon, a small city north of Seoul, has a quarry that produced granite called “Pocheon Stone,” much sought after by construction firms because of its hardness and beautiful patterns. The output of the granite mine began an unrelenting decline in the mid-1990s as cheaper ore imports

from China increased, and eventually, the quarry shut down.

In 2003, Pocheon city embarked on a project to revitalize the quarry site, restore the damaged landscape and boost the local economy. Large holes, visible remnants of quarrying, were turned into artificial lakes by allowing them to fill with rainfall, and a sculpture park with big and small open-air performance stages was set up in the surrounding area. Pocheon Art Valley, opened in 2009, now welcomes over 400,000 visitors every year. In 2017, the Gyeonggi Tourism Organization named it one of the province’s top 10 tourist attractions.

Revitalizing cities’ decaying and abandoned spaces, the urban restoration projects reshape the environment, sustain residents’ well-being and communication through sociocultural activities, and, by extension, contribute to the recovery of local economies. However, the unique appeal of the old spaces must not be sacrificed in the process of imbuing them with new life and thereby improving the lives of residents.

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1. Seongsu-dong, an industrial part of downtown Seoul since the 1960s for printing, textiles and storage, is transforming into a cultural hotspot. Daerim Warehouse, once used to mill and store rice, has become a gallery café popular among young adults.

2. The Seoul Innovation Park, opened in Eunpyeong District, western Seoul, in 2015, supports projects suggested by citizens in social and economic fields. It is housed in the former site of the National Institute of Health and the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. The photo shows the public study room.

3. Gong, an indie art hall, uses a factory building as an exhibition hall. Mullae-dong, an old industrial area on the western outskirts of Seoul, is changing into a cultural space, as artists have started to flock into the low-rent area.

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KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 39

INTERVIEW

‘My Forte Lies in the Details’ 40 KOREANA Summer 2018

“Osulloc Tea House” (Detail), Seoul, Lee Kwang-ho, Collaboration with Grav, 2017; Electric wire. © Rohspace

Wearing a cap and overalls that he designed, Lee Kwang-ho seems to be envisioning himself as an astronaut traveling in space. “Dreaming is what I do, and so I’m the happiest when I’m able to turn my dreams into reality, and my thoughts into results,” says the young designer. His eccentric but delightful works, created with everyday materials, a simple approach and meticulous handcraft, have garnered recognition in the international art world.

Chung Jae-suk Senior Culture Reporter, The JoongAng Ilbo Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 41

L

ee Kwang-ho’s first break came like a miracle. The first exhibition he held after completing his studies in metal art and design at Hongik University went largely unnoticed. He was extremely disappointed and frustrated when it didn’t receive any reviews, good or bad. Hearing of this, a senior alumnus told him about an overseas website where designers could promote their work. Lee put together a portfolio of his works and posted it on the site. He was desperate, but also confident. Although he had never studied abroad, he firmly believed that his steadfast and sincere commitment to the exploration of materials and handcraft would be noticed.

“Not long after, I was contacted by Les Commissaires in Montreal, Canada,” Lee said. “With high hopes, I immediately flew over there. I met with Pierre Laramée, the gallery’s director and co-owner, who said he was impressed with my work and proposed a solo exhibition. I asked what it was about my work that appealed to him, and he said that it was ‘original and special.’ My first private exhibition held at the gallery in 2008 was well-received, and my works also sold well.

This opened up further opportunities. The Johnson Trading Gallery in New York and the Victor Hunt Gallery in Brussels expressed interest in my work, and I was invited to sample fairs and major international art fairs including Design Miami/ and Art Basel.”

The fact that his works caught the discerning eye of the Johnson Trading Gallery, a leading player in New York’s design and art scene, was instrumental in allowing the then largely unknown Korean designer to successfully enter the global art scene. From then on, it was smooth sailing for Lee. He was flooded with requests for collaborations from galleries based in leading design cities, such as Berlin, Paris, London, Amsterdam and Milan. In April 2009, he was selected as one of the 10 emerging designers to watch in a major event at the Milan Furniture Fair (Salone Internazionale del Mobile di Milano), earning global recognition.

Redefining Ordinary Materials “A simple approach has been the key concept of my works. The lighting design class I took in college was the beginning,” said Lee. “While other students thought that all there was to designing light fixtures was varying the shades covering the light bulbs and thus limited themselves to changing just their shapes or materials, I tried to come up with ways to create something out of the box using the basic elements of electricity, electric

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wires and light bulbs. So, I decided to weave the electric wires. That’s how my ‘Knot’ and ‘Obsession’ series were created.”

Lee has a talent for rethinking the familiar materials we come across in our daily lives. He allows us to rediscover their aesthetic beauty by creating objects through his technique of manually intertwining materials like electric wires, garden hoses and PVC tubes that can be found lying around a house. The interwoven electric wires hanging from the ceiling are beautiful in their rawness and the “aesthetics of the weave.” The harmony created by the juxtaposition of mass-produced industrial materials and knitting is delightful and humorous. For some, the work evokes images of a fishing lamp on a boat and for others, of knitwork.

“I remember my mother knitting sweaters and mufflers for me when I was young,” Lee recalled. “I was amazed at the patterns and textures she created with the colorful wool. Thinking back to those days, I weave each strand with utmost care. I believe that good design boils down to fine details. Ultimately, it depends on elaborate detail and artistic completeness. I myself have striven toward a state of perfection until I add the final finishing touches, which I could say is why I have been able to continue to present my works on the international art stage. I need to stay focused.”

Lee recalled memories of his grandparents’ farm in Cheongpyeong, Gyeonggi Province, which he visited as a child. He remembers having learned to use his hands while helping his grandparents during school holidays.

His grandfather’s hands seemed magical in the eyes of a young boy. He was awed at the sight of his grandfather fashioning a broom simply by binding a bunch of bush clover branches and stacking bundles of harvested crops.

He realized then that design is the process of ordinary,

“I remember my mother knitting sweaters and mufflers for me when I was young. I was amazed at the patterns and textures she created with the colorful wool.

Thinking back to those days, I weave each strand with utmost care.”

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1 © Gallery Seomi

crude materials being transformed through a person’s hands. Memories of his grandfather and his childhood days spent in the countryside have been a source of inspiration for his handcraft projects.

Design That Harbors Many Stories “The collaborative project with fashion brand Fendi titled ‘Fatto a Mano for the Future’ in March 2011 was an opportunity for me to reconfirm my belief in working with my hands,” Lee said. “Sitting side by side with a Fendi craftsman and weaving the leather strings, I realized anew that the precise repetitiveness involved in twining together strings, whatever the material, must have been the future of mankind for a long time. The intense beauty of the weave is sure to deeply impress any viewer.

This simple act is good for passing the time and clearing your mind. Once an object starts to take shape, it stimulates your imagination to go on to the next stage of the

44 KOREANA Summer 2018

creative process.”

The “ramyeon chair” featured in Lee’s “Obsession” series, so called because of its resemblance to curly instant noodles, is a big hit in any gallery around the world. Children rush to it as soon as they see it, and touch and sit on it. It’s not simply a piece of furniture; it becomes a playground. The distinguishing feature and philosophy of Lee’s design is flexibility: his works kindle the viewers’ imagination, inspiring them to think of different uses for the object. He likes to create furniture harboring many stories that vary depending on the space.

“Design is like storytelling,” said Lee. “I attached the title ‘Shape of a River’ to a piece I made by corroding copper. Usually, a title will spring to my mind while I’m working. I start simple, but gradually the work expands.

This whole process is interesting. As these stages are repeated, it eventually results in a good design.”

Expanding Scope of Collaborations Lee has worked on collaborations with many brands, including Christian Dior, Swarovski, Onitsuka Tiger

1. “Obsession” Series, Lee Kwang-ho, 2010; PVC 2. “Osulloc 1979” (Detail), Seoul, Lee Kwang-ho, Collaboration with Grav, 2017; Granite, enamel, copper, aluminum, stainless steel, Styrofoam, glass, and wood 3. “Shape of a River” Series, Lee Kwang-ho, 2017; Copper © Rohspace

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and Gentle Monster, through his company “k L o” (Kwangho Lee Office). The scope of his collaborative projects has expanded remarkably.

In the past, he mainly received offers from fashion brands that saw a similarity between his 3 handicraft technique and the method of weaving fashion fabrics, but now he also receives commissions from hotels and large businesses.

AmorePacific’s new headquarters building is one such project Lee has collaborated on. Designed by English architect David Chipperfield, the building that was completed this year features an unconventional spatial composition where Lee’s design can be witnessed in every corner. The well-structured spacious lobby welcomes visitors, who can comfortably relax in the red, blue, yellow, green and brown chairs and sofas from Lee’s “Obsession” series. Lee also designed the space for the Osulloc Tea House and the brand’s premium tea room, Osulloc 1979, as well as the furniture, lighting and fixtures, which have been favorably received by customers. The interior gives the feel of relaxing and drinking tea in a natural environment, inside a huge forest or cave.

“I used granite because I liked the compressed grains visible on the surface. It is a material with potential for diverse uses,” said Lee. “The AmorePacific project is particularly memorable because I was able to use the different properties, textures and weight of stones to create works of various shapes and functions, applying them to the space. In a large-scale project like that, the artistic completeness of small elements is all the more important. I considered the spatial configuration of the large building, but I realized that in the end, my perfectionism would be the key and solution. I intend to keep forging ahead faithfully, accumulating experience in working with materials I haven’t used before.”

In 2017, Lee was once again in the global spotlight when he was awarded Designer of the Year at Mercado Arte Design (MADE), a design and art fair in Sao Paolo, Brazil. He plans to hold a solo exhibition later this year at Salon 94 in New York. Flooded with proposals for collaborations, the busy designer said humbly, “I chose a great profession and I was lucky.”

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 45

© Ji Yohan

Last year, Lee converted a three-story row house into an art studio. Like his designs, it has a simple beauty, displaying a neat interior decorated with metallic materials while preserving the original form of the old brick building. The location is ideal since it is near the factories that are essential for his work. For more than 10 years, he has been working with the same plastic processing companies and welders who understand his concept. They are like-minded friends who support his unfamiliar endeavors, and at times, even pitch ideas.

GUARDIAN OF HERITAGE

Weaving Fine Bamboo Screens for Five Generations

Master craftsman Jo Dae-yong’s family has made bamboo screens for five generations, beginning in the mid-19th century during the Joseon Dynasty. In traditional Korean houses, bamboo screens were not only practical household items used to divide space, adjust light and protect privacy, but also beautiful objects of art with the family’s values and wishes woven into the decorative designs. Completed over 100 days with tens of thousands of painstaking touches, the process of weaving a fine bamboo screen is akin to spiritual discipline.

Kang Shin-jae Freelance Writer Choi Jung-sun Photographer

On the weaving loom, a small weight is attached at the end of each thread.

To make a screen, fine bamboo strips trimmed to a 1mm width are woven with silk threads, its decorative patterns created by intricate manipulation of the threads. For complicated designs, more than 500 spool weights are needed.

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W

henever Jo Dae-yong recalls his father, he thinks of his hands that never stopped moving. His father used to weave fishing nets in the seaside village of Tongyeong on the southern coast of Korea. The nets he designed and weaved always worked well, regardless of whether the wind was northerly or westerly.

As the winter deepened, he used his deft hands to cut the bamboo growing around the village, strengthened by the sea breeze.

He would split the stalks into thin strips and weave them together to make a screen as tall as a grown man.

Once the bamboo screen left his father’s hands, it would end up hanging in the doorway at the home of one of his neighbors. Natural screens could be made with different materials, including reeds and hemp stalks, but his father used nothing but bamboo.

Jo Dae-yong explained that in the old days, screens were an indispensable part of everyday life: “You know the old saying, ‘Boys and girls should not sit together after the age of seven’?

Gender segregation was such that the women’s quarters were seldom visited by outsiders. The doors to their rooms, when opened during the warm seasons, were covered with screens to hide them from view. A bamboo screen hanging in the doorway looks translucent from the inside, letting those inside see what goes on outside, while it looks opaque from the outside, thus protecting their privacy. This is due to the difference in brightness between the two sides. The screen also allows air to circulate while softening the harsh light filtering through it.”

Separating the inside from the outside and distracting people’s eyes away from private spaces, natural woven screens were an ingenious means of managing the living environment.

The use of woven screens dates back a thousand years to the Three Kingdoms period. In the palace, a screen placed in front of the throne prevented the subjects from the impropriety of laying eyes on the sovereign’s face. Screens were also used to separate the sacred from the secular realm at ritual venues, such as the spirit tablet chamber at an ancestral shrine. Small screens hung on the doors and windows of a palanquin concealed the person inside from view.

Gathering of Bamboo Canes Jo Dae-yong took on his father’s craft as his calling. He used to hover around his father when he wove bamboo strips into screens. There was no real beginning or end to his apprenticeship; he had been neither eager nor unwilling to learn the craft. At first, he would just casually watch his father’s hands operating the weaving loom. In time, however, he came to use the loom as if it had always been his. For years, his days were filled with the same routine: working at the loom for hours on end, kicking the loom away and lying on the floor exhaust-

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 47

As soft afternoon sunlight shines in, and the screen is stirred by the breeze caressing its surface, the woven designs are gently fused into the landscape beyond it.

ed, then sitting up again, pulling it into place with his feet to resume weaving.

That was how his father had spent his days, too, as so had his grandfather and his great-grandfather. “My great-grandfather, who had passed the exams for military officialdom in 1856 and was waiting for his appointment, wove a bamboo shade to pass the time and offered it to King Cheoljong. They say the king was delighted by the gift,” Jo said. “Both my grandfather and my father had other occupations. They wove screens in their leisure hours and would either give them away or sell them to earn money on the side. My father started weaving full-time after retirement, and I was helping him prepare a work to be submitted in a contest when I decided to pursue it as my career. That was in the mid-1970s.”

What did it mean for the men in Jo’s family to carry on a craft that was not an occupation through generations? What was inherited — a life, a culture, or a skill? How can one describe in words the legacy of an ancient handicraft passed down from one generation to another as the feelings in one’s hands or the motions they make? What did it mean to Jo Dae-yong, the country’s most renowned weaver of bamboo screens and holder of the government-designated title, Important Intangible Cultural Property No. 114? One question led to another as his story went on.

The master artisan began to delve into the specifics of his work: “Wood for building a house is gathered before the sap starts to rise in the trees. The same is true for bamboo. It should be cut in dormancy before spring comes. Bamboo stalks cut in summer are apt to break with the lightest touch. Bamboo doesn’t snap so easily, except when insects bore holes in the culm. So, we would boil summer bamboo with lye to prevent insect infestation.”

The quality of a product is determined by the quality of the raw materials. Knowing this, Jo has been especially fastidious about choosing the right bamboo, namely haejangjuk (Arundinaria simonii).

“Wangdae (Phyllostachys bambusoides), also known as ‘giant timber bamboo,’ is thick and the surface is sleek with

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hardly any scratches because it grows sparsely,” Jo explained.

“So it is neat and clean when skinned and woven, but because it is hard it is also easily broken. On the contrary, haejangjuk is slender and grows in dense clumps. When a storm blows, the swaying canes lash each other leaving scratches on the stems.

But they are soft, pliable and less prone to breaking. You know the thin bamboo stems used in the old days to make bows and tobacco pipes? That’s what I’m talking about.”

As he spoke, Jo pointed at a stack of bamboo strips in the corner of his workshop — his raw materials for the year, collected from last December to January. He said it should be enough to make seven or eight screens. To obtain the strips, he has to crouch on the ground and read the past life of the plant.

He pushes his way through the dense bamboo groves, looking for straight stalks with fewer scratches on the surface. Saplings in their first or second year are unsuitable because they are pulpy and difficult to cleave. Only the three-year-old canes that split down the length with a gentle push of the knife can satisfy him. But only one out of ten stalks he examines meets this condition.

An Artwork and Household Item The hard work has taken a toll on Jo’s health. “After spending a month gathering the culms in the groves, I always suffer from back pain,” he said. “The doctors warned me not to sit on the floor for too long. But it’s harder not to do so, as I’ve spent my entire life sitting on the floor weaving at the loom.”

Collecting the culms is only the beginning. The next step is to cut them to the size of the shade to be made, usually 125– 180 cm wide and 180 cm high, removing the skin and scraping out the inside before they darken. The culms are split into long strips and dried for a month, exposed to sunlight, wind and morning dew. When the green surface turns ivory, they are cut again into 1mm-thick strips. Then comes the trickiest part — trimming the strips by passing them through a hole on a steel plate, called gomusoe.

Jo described the painstaking procedure: “You strike a thin metal plate with a nail, creating a sharp protrusion on the

other side. Then, you rub the tip with a whetstone, making a tiny hole. Each one of the 1mm-thick bamboo strips is passed through the hole. The sharp rim of the hole shaves the strip thinner. I do this three times. Each strip becomes about 0.6– 0.7 mm thick. I have to keep my hand extremely steady while pushing or pulling the strip through the hole because tilting it slightly would end up breaking it. Doing this over and over again, your fingertips get worn down and riddled with splinters.

A keen sense of touch is crucial to the job, so you can’t wear gloves, however thin they may be.”

Given that some 1,800 strips are needed to make one screen, and that each has to be passed through such a hole three times, plus an extra 100 strips against losses, this procedure has to be repeated 5,700 times. This means fine-tuning the movement of his arms and fixing his gaze to notice the slightest tilt as many as 5,700 times. However, Jo has never counted the number. As to mastering this skill, he said, “You just keep doing it until you’re satisfied with the result. It takes at least five years just to get the hang of it, longer than any other procedure.”

Jo Dae-yong’s family has made bamboo screens for five generations, beginning in the mid-19th century. His daughter, Jo Suk-mi, works with her father at the loom.

It usually takes Jo around 100 days to complete a screen — 25 days preparing the strips and the other 75 days weaving them. The finely trimmed strips are affixed to the loom and woven together with silk thread, creating decorative designs and characters along the way. Since these adornments are added solely with the thread, the number of shuttles used may exceed 500 if the patterns are complicated. That is, the design is woven with 500 strands of thread.

“The designs are mostly ideograms expressing wishes for long life, good fortune, health and well-being. Look at the screen on the wall,” Jo said, asking, “Do you see the two identical letters juxtaposed at the center, meaning ‘double happiness’? Then, do you also see the hexagonal or fishnet patterns filling the space that forms each stroke?”

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 49

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1. “Bamboo Screen with Character Meaning Double Happiness and Tortoise Shell Design”

by Jo Dae-yong, 2017, 180 x 132 cm.

The screen has an ideogram created by joining two of the same Chinese character meaning “happiness,” and decorating them with a tortoise shell design.

2. More than 1,800 bamboo strips are needed to make one screen. To obtain the material, Jo combs the bamboo fields of Tongyeong every year from December to January. He uses the species of bamboo called haejangjuk, because it is thin, pliable and less prone to breaking.

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Hung on the wall like a scroll, the fine bamboo screen featured faint designs, recognizable only at close range. They were simple and elegant, but hardly impressive at first glance. Things change, however, when the same screen is suspended across the doorway of a traditional Korean house. As soft afternoon sunlight shines in, and the screen is stirred by the breeze caressing its surface, the woven designs are gently fused into the landscape beyond it. The play of light and the wind, turning the screen translucent, brings the patterns into vivid relief, or fuses them into the view on the other side. Responding beautifully to changes in time and space, a bamboo screen straddles the boundary between an everyday object and an artwork.

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Changes in the Living Environment “I don’t want to make the same screens year after year.

The strips and the thread that I’ve used have become ever thinner over the years, but there’s a limit to how thin they can be,” Jo said. “Now, what makes the difference is the design. I’ve tried weaving ideograms into the screens in different styles, but with more characters — and more strokes in each character — it gets more complicated to fit the hexagons of woven thread evenly into the blank space in each stroke. Creating designs with thread may look simple, but it requires meticulous planning and execution. I have done this for over 50 years, but I’m still cautious.”

Speaking of designs, his accounts begin to reveal the shape of his character. When asked about the most elegant bamboo screen he had ever seen, Jo recalled, “I was once asked to repair a damaged screen that Francesca Rhee, wife of former president Syngman Rhee, had given to her husband’s family when she moved to the United States. I could have disassembled and restored the screen, but instead I advised the client who brought it to preserve it in its original form in honor of the person who had presented it. The client agreed. Later, I recreated its designs in another screen, which received the Presidential Award in the annual Korean Traditional Handicraft Art Exhibition.”

Jo’s recollections moved on to an unforgettable work that he came across at Songgwang Temple in Suncheon. It was a

bamboo scroll for storing Buddhist scriptures, and the dozens of flying bat designs woven into it were exquisite. Talking at length about it, he apparently yearned to create such a work of his own.

But when asked if this was so, he replied, “I feel intimidated, because the monk who made it must have devoted himself entirely to the work for a few years. I could tell, by looking at the scroll, how much of his heart and soul he put into it.”

For an artisan who is so cautious, even in his position as a “living human treasure,” reality is precarious. As traditional homes have disappeared, the demand for bamboo screens has also shrunk. For the master artisan, selling rather than producing has been the more pressing matter at hand for some time now. Furthermore, it is difficult to find a way to pass down his craft as hardly anyone regards it as a promising career.

Although Jo’s son and daughter decided to succeed the family trade, the future of the craft seems uncertain.

With rain falling outside all through the interview, the artisan, who had repeatedly shifted in his seat to cope with his back pain, now lay prone on the floor, only lifting his head to answer questions. Up until six to seven years ago, he said, his workshop had visitors, including busloads of kindergarten children who came for a hands-on experience. Now, with no one visiting, the general lack of interest saddens him.

Obviously, into its fifth generation, an illustrious family tradition is flickering amid the harsh wind of time.

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ART REVIEW

A Play about Food Offers Hunger and Abundance

The L.A.-born Korean-American playwright Julia Cho has been active since the turn of the millennium, writing both for theater and TV. “Aubergine,” for which she won the prestigious Will Glickman Award, was presented last year by the National Theater Company of Korea under the direction of Jung Seung-hyon.

The play has returned to the stage this year, touching the hearts of many and drawing attention to Cho’s works.

Kim Su-mi Drama Critic

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© National Theater Company of Korea

A Korean version of “Aubergine,” written by Korean-American playwright Julia Cho, is presented by the National Theater Company of Korea. In the drama dealing with the subject of life and death through food, the protagonist’s uncle shows the ingredients he has brought from Korea to prepare turtle soup for his dying brother, with whom he parted 30 years ago.

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play about food, “Aubergine” is both wholesome and savory. Food serves as a medium for delivering the key message throughout. The clever interplay of English and Korean in the dialogue, as well as the composed manner with which the playwright deals with the problems of life and death, adds to the merits of the play.

In “Aubergine,” Julia Cho suggests that joy and unhappiness may just be a matter of how you see things, and that life and death are merely a part of the flow of things and the end we all dread could simply be like having a meal together. She invites the audience to consider that maybe all it takes is a tiny bit of courage to make that shift in perspective.

A Meal of Reconciliation The story of “Aubergine,” which premiered in 2016 at the Berkeley Repertory Theater in Berkeley, California, revolves around a Korean immigrant family in the United States. The son, Ray, has had a challenging childhood. His mother died in a car accident when he was a little boy, and he grew up under the care of his father who rarely showed his feelings.

Having grown up hungering for motherly love, Ray discovers a passion for cooking and becomes a chef.

His austere and distant father, however, never displays any signs of appreciation for his creations. Their relationship only sours over the years, and before they can patch things up, Ray’s father falls seriously ill.

Ray is stricken with a confusion of emotions as he watches his father slip away, barely kept alive by an oxygen mask.

Supporting Ray through the tough days are his girlfriend, Cornelia, and the hospice nurse, Lucien.

Cornelia, who can speak Korean, helps Ray establish contact with his uncle in Korea, while Lucien helps Ray deal with the complex feelings he suffers at the impending death of his father.

Having received the sad news from Cornelia, Ray’s uncle comes to visit his brother after a 30-year separation. He remembers how his brother cried at the last meal their mother had prepared for them and so decides to make turtle soup for him. It may be his brother’s last meal. Eager to carry out his plan, Ray’s uncle even brings the ingredients, including a turtle, but he clashes with Ray who does not want to cook

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the dish.

The characters in the play have different linguistic backgrounds. Ray and Lucien can only speak English while Ray’s uncle only speaks Korean. Cornelia is the bilingual who makes communication possible. Julia Cho, who does not speak Korean, interspersed the script, written mostly in English, with Korean words.

The translator, Park Chun-keun, noticed this. Had he not fathomed the playwright’s intention, the context would have been lost and the drama downright clichéd. However, the translator understood, and the director and cast smartly delivered.

The conversations between Ray and his uncle cannot be called proper communication. Sometimes the situation gets quite funny due to their inability to verbally connect, but the two men seem quite nonchalant about such misunderstandings. Cornelia proves herself to be a helpful interpreter, seeing their dialogue from her own angle and rendering their words in the other language in a witty way, which invites applause from the audience.

Mix-ups due to the language barrier are far more than just humorous devices. They propose a new take on the meaning of “understanding.” The characters are not quick to jump to conclusions about what the other is saying or thinking. They take their time, willing to stand aside and observe to come to a better understanding. The respect with which they treat each other is palpable to the audience, who share the heart-warming experience and the good feeling that comes from being respected.

Implications of Language Difference The choice of the French word “aubergine” over “eggplant” for the title was very much intended.

There are words in the English lexicon that originated from foreign cultures and Cho said she wanted to convey, for example, how “eggplant” and “aubergine” sound different while they refer to the same thing.

There is indeed a notable difference between the two words. When Lucien gives Ray an eggplant he’d grown in his neighborhood, he tells Ray: “Yes, it’s an eggplant, but aubergine is so much more beautiful.”

Language is a set of rules in which objects are signified by words. Words that are from different languages but refer to the same thing are essentially the

Ray, the protagonist, regrets the misunderstanding and hatred he felt toward his father as he awaits his death. The relationship between Ray, who speaks only English, and his father, who is not good at the language, has soured over the years.

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Julia Cho treats life and death, past and present, misunderstanding and understanding as reflections of each other. She invites the audience to shift their vantage point so that they, too, may see opposing concepts as being tied together on a single thread.

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same, although they are subject to different conventions. Yet, we often see examples of language being used as a yardstick for the relative value of things and people. It is not likely that Cho, who has never lived in Korea, understood precisely how English is valued versus Korean. She respected the differences in the two languages and endeavored to faithfully deal with them in her work, probably without realizing that in Korea there may be an added element of discrimination that plays into these differences. The local translator, director and cast addressed this quite compellingly in the Korean context, where the English language is often preferred or valued over the native tongue. This was then picked up by the local audience. Those who followed the story without thinking too much about these aspects may have asked themselves at the end of the play, “So what does the title mean?” Meanwhile, those who had had the title on their minds from the beginning may have felt that its implications were not fully explored.

When she was approached to write a play about food, Julia Cho had been on a writing hiatus. The new assignment, though, seemed quite simple, and so she took it on. Soon enough, she found herself writing not only about food but about “family, memory and culture, the deeper subjects.”

The characters in the play each deliver a monologue on their memories of food and the things they miss. Cornelia, who hated food because of her mother’s excessive passion for cooking, regains her memory of her father after tasting the mulberries Ray gives her. Ray, on the other hand, finally becomes the true chef he can take pride in being only after he comes to fully understand his father, who had seemed so cold and unappreciative all his life. Diane, a foodie, who travels all over the world with her husband to dine in all kinds of restaurants, but all the while missing the taste of her father’s pastrami sandwiches, appears in the prologue and then the epilogue, or in food terms, like an appetizer and a dessert.

Just as the play’s beginning and end are designed to mirror each other with Diane serving as the link, Julia Cho treats life and death, past and present, misunderstanding and understanding as reflections of each other. She invites the audience to shift their vantage point so that they, too, may see opposing con-

cepts as being tied together on a single thread. In this sense, loss and abundance are inextricably connected.

“We hold the hands of the dying. But we are not the ones holding their hands. They are the ones holding ours.”

These are the words of Lucien, the hospice nurse, whose voice the playwright also uses to say, “No matter how anxious you are, your loved one will choose when to go.” Thus Lucien advises, “There is no need to stay by your loved one’s side every minute of the day and night. Take a shower. Go get some air. Get something to eat.” Through Lucien, Julia Cho seems to be saying that at such times, our best available option is to fully live in the present moment — a message that arouses both hunger and a sense of satisfaction.

Faith in the Audience “Aubergine” has enjoyed more than a warm reception in Korea. At the 54th Dong-A Theater Awards this year, it won the best production award, while Kim Jung-ho, who played Ray’s uncle, won the award for the best actor. After its Korean premiere last year, critics and theater-goers alike praised the play as having “a quiet but deep resonance.” In March this year, “Aubergine” was presented again by the National Theater Company of Korea, and at about the same time, it was also presented in the United States at the Olney Theatre Center in Maryland and the Everyman Theatre in Baltimore.

In terms of its structure and writing, “Aubergine” may not stand out. Yet it continues to be presented in different theaters, drawing favorable responses.

One of its main appeals may be that while dealing with the somber subjects of death and loss, the play does not go into long platitudes or emphasize takeaways for the audience. For the writer to shed rather than add explanations, it takes sufficient faith in and respect for the audience.

There are things that we do not quite notice until we shift our vantage point a bit. Our perspective widens when we are liberated from illusions that trap our thinking. It is in those scenes where the playwright does not attempt to explain all that the audience discovers the unsaid. Julia Cho deftly demonstrates what it means to believe in the audience.

Cornelia, Ray’s girlfriend, is reminded of her father after tasting the mulberries Ray gives her. All the characters in the play have their own special food that takes them on a trip through their own memories.

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IN LOVE WITH KOREA

MORE KOREAN THAN MOST KOREANS In his 19 years in Korea, Lee Mahbub transformed himself from a manual laborer to a civic activist and a film celebrity. Lee says he will continue to struggle for the human rights of immigrants and migrants to help his adopted country become a more open and tolerant multicultural society.

Choi Sung-jin Executive Editor, Korea Biomedical Review Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

L

ee Mahbub is an actor, documentary producer, movie importer and distributor, film festival organizer, and author. And he is a Korean citizen. He is a naturalized Korean citizen and has lived in Korea for nearly two decades, so it may be puerile to ask him what he likes and dislikes about his adopted country.

“I think I am completely accustomed to Korean life — food, culture and everything,” Lee says. “So much so that when I visit Bangladesh, my native homeland, I feel less comfortable.

It’s like a stomachache you get when changing drinking water.”

A Difficult Beginning Lee first arrived in Korea in 1999. He was 21 and named Mahbub Alam. He intended to stay for about three years to earn money to pursue graduate studies in business administration and be able to pay the medical bills of his sick mother back home. But two events changed his plan. First, his mother passed away about six months later, diminishing his will to return home, and then the dire situations facing most migrant workers in Korea grabbed his attention.

Abuse of and discrimination against guest workers were rampant at the time, and still are these days, in more than a few ways.

Lee battled abusive Korean employers who beat their foreign employees, cursed at them and often delayed paying their wages. At first, he fought as an executive member of the Migrants’ Trade Union (MTU), participating in rallies, including a month-long protest at Myeongdong Cathedral, a storied venue in Seoul for pro-democracy activists in the 1980s.

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Later, he realized a more effective way to achieve his goal that better suited him: producing documentaries about the lives of migrant workers and marriage immigrants. “Ever since my high school days, I loved writing and watching movies,” Lee says. At MTU, too, he worked in public relations and helped spread the organization’s viewpoints. “I wanted to practice unionism in a playful rather than combative way. So I helped organize protests where people sang or enjoyed amusing plays.” Through these activities, Lee met Koreans in arts and culture, including people working in the film industry.

One day, a film director asked Lee to recommend a foreigner who could play the role of a migrant worker falling in love with a Korean girl. He looked for one but to no avail, and he eventually volunteered to perform the role himself. He played the character of Karim, a 29-year-old Muslim migrant worker from Bangladesh who is abused by his Korean employer but never loses his temper. For the role, he underwent a rigorous diet to drastically lose weight. Actress Baek Jin-hee appeared opposite him as a 17-year-old high school student.

The director was Shin Dong-il and together they produced the film “Bandhobi” (meaning “female friend” in Bengali). It drew the third-largest audience of all the indie films featuring Korean and foreign actors in 2009.

Hard Work Surmounts Discrimination It was a good experience for Lee, but he paid a hefty price.

On social media, many Koreans spoke evil of Lee, some even threatened to kill him. However, Lee was no stranger to discrimination, ethnic or political. As a child, he suffered preju-

Lee Mahbub, born in Bangladesh, came to Korea as a guest worker.

He ended up becoming a movie director and actor and an advocate of migrant workers’ rights. Lee currently works for the solidarity of minority groups while managing M&M International, an importer and distributor of foreign films.

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© Cine21

2 © M&M International

1 1. Lee Mahbub appears as the protagonist, Karim, in “Bandhobi,” a low-budget indie film depicting the friendship between a young guest worker from Bangladesh and a Korean high school girl, played by Baek Jin-hee (right).

2, 3. Posters of “The City of Crane,” another film in which Lee Mahbub plays the main character, and “The Namesake” (Original title: “Ryeonhi and Yeonhi”) distributed by M&M International.

dice as an outsider even in Bangladesh because his family had moved there from India. “I could feel people differently treated my family and me, directly and indirectly,” Lee says. His decision not to return to Bangladesh and to change his nationality could be explained as a reaction to the discrimination he had experienced there. But far more positive factors were involved.

“Discrimination was more blatant here than in my homeland, which sometimes tempted me to go back,” he says.

Fearing discrimination and doing nothing about it would not change anything, he thought. “The more afraid and agonized I felt, the harder I worked,” he says. Fortunately, he found some Korean supporters, including artists and film directors.

Through his work, Lee also met his wife, Lee Mi-yeon, whose family name he adopted. In 2012, he received the Sejong Cultural Award, bestowed by the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism, for his contributions to turning Korea into a more open and tolerant multicultural society. “I thought to myself, ‘I am a person who can be loved by this country’” Lee recalls. “I wanted to become a complete Korean, which I thought would also make my work here easier and smoother.” Before he realized it, though, Lee had become “a Korean to the bone.” “I had become as quick-tempered as many Koreans, wanting things to be done far more swiftly than before.”

Lee’s favorite Korean food is samgyeopsal (thin slices of pork belly) and soju (cheap distilled liquor). While he was doing broadcasts for migrant workers, he often had hoesik (staff dinners) with people from diverse backgrounds. He usually had

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the final say on the menu, and often ended up choosing chicken. As a Muslim, he had to avoid pork and beef was too expensive. Eventually, everybody became tired of chicken and longed for samgyeopsal and soju. While he ordered pork and soju for his colleagues, Lee continued to eat different food. “Then, one day, it dawned on me that I’d better do away with religious principles if they keep me from enjoying life and mingling with others,” Lee says. “At first, I felt a little icky and bloated, but gradually, I learned to enjoy the taste. When I felt greasy from eating pork, soju nicely cleansed it.”

Lee is currently managing M&M International, a company importing and distributing foreign films, mostly the low-budget kind made in developing countries. Lee has once been to Vienna, where he saw “Bandhobi” being aired with awkward dubbing on a restaurant’s fuzzy TV screen. In Nepal, he found the movie among pirated DVDs. “There was demand for Korean films overseas, but no infrastructure to screen them. Just as there were few ways to introduce foreign indie films to Korea, low-budget Korean films could hardly reach audiences outside of the country.”

“Of course, it was difficult to produce films without financial support,” Lee goes on. “But even if one manages to make a small-budget movie, there’s no way of taking it to overseas audiences. That was why I set up the company. But there’s still a lack of movies with good content. Most movies have a simple plot, in which good Koreans rescue innocent migrants from bad Koreans.”

“ Many people tend to think the ‘ Korean dream’ is a story of

foreign workers getting rich quickly and returning home.

But, in reality, most migrant workers fill vacancies in the labor market, doing jobs most Koreans cannot — and will not — take, especially for such low wages.”

Lee hopes to show more varied aspects of the multicultural communities in Korea through entertaining films produced in collaboration with like-minded artists and producers. “My wish is to provide a medium for Koreans unfamiliar with multicultural issues to meet with migrants and immigrants who want to get closer to citizens of their host country,” he says, adding that, in this regard, he is deeply dissatisfied with the local film distribution system. There is a lack of cinemas to screen small-budget films. No matter how high the quality and the amount of effort put into them, they seldom reach the general public. “It resembles the relationship between large conglomerates and small- and mid-sized businesses,” Lee notes. “A multiplex should be what the name means — a theater that shows varied films in terms of content and budget. The current multiplexes should be renamed monoplexes.”

Korean Dream — A Faraway Goal In his films, Lee wants migrants, or immigrants, to appear as natural as possible — neither unduly miserable nor overly happy. As an outstanding example, he cites “The African Doctor,” a comedy by French director Julien Rambaldi, which has a light touch but a meaningful message.

Lee also points out problems with hallyu, the Korean Wave, where policymakers are obsessed with how quickly and widely they can spread K-pop and other cultural products abroad.

“They may have some interest in importing foreign cultural products, but their interest is largely confined to advanced Western countries. Few bother to introduce films from other Asian countries, although most guest workers here are from South and Southeast Asian countries.”

These are among the reasons why Lee believes Korea has a long way to go before becoming a genuinely multicultural country. He argues that where institutions and public consciousness are concerned, Korea seems unprepared to accept immigrants, which results in the widespread neglect of their basic rights and welfare. In his eyes, Korean leaders have little, if any, interest in developing a comprehensive immigration policy. They just reluctantly pretend to pay attention to the

issue, he says. The election of Jasmine Lee, the Philippine-born television celebrity and actress, as a member of the National Assembly in 2012 was little more than an isolated event, with no successor ever since, Lee contends.

“Immigrants are no longer mere alien residents. Many of them have become Korean through marriage, a prolonged stay for studies, or naturalization,” he notes. “Low fertility is one of the most serious issues facing Korea. Immigrants can help resolve problems arising from a demographic cliff to a considerable extent, but most Koreans ignore that potential.”

Lee also regards the term “Korean dream” as one-sided.

“Many people tend to think it is a story of foreign workers getting rich quickly and returning home,” he says. “But, in reality, most migrant workers fill vacancies in the labor market, doing jobs most Koreans cannot — and will not — take, especially for such low wages.”

Most Koreans Lee has met, knowing he has become Korean, asked him from which country he came and whether he is wealthy now. “I find this sort of condescending interest to be rude and unpleasant. Unfortunately, many Koreans either appear to be simply uncaring or excessively curious about us.”

When asked to cite a few personal wishes, Lee says he hopes to watch South and North Korea achieve détente because he finds most Koreans can hardly hide their concern and anxiety stemming from the division of their country. He also pointed out shortcomings in the tourism policy, stressing the need to develop more programs for visitors to experience the everyday Korean life, rather than focusing on a handful of popular destinations.

What does he envision for his personal life 10 years from now? He replies that he expects to remain engaged in the film industry. Lee, now 40 years old and married for 10 years, says he and his wife have no plans to have children in the foreseeable future. Why? It is because he has little confidence his children would live without experiencing prejudice and discrimination in Korean society.

Maybe, as he says, he has become more Korean than most Koreans.

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ON THE ROAD

Jeong Yak-yong’s Hometown

Cradle of Eminence Jeong Yak-yong dreamed of Joseon’s renaissance with the reform-minded King Jeongjo, applying critical intellect to the humanities, science and various other fields of endeavor and advocating practical action. This year marks the 200th anniversary of Jeong’s completion of his seminal work “Admonitions on Governing the People” (Mongmin simseo) as well as his release from 18 years in exile. Although over 180 years have passed since his death, it seems his heart remains by Chocheon, the little stream that runs along his home village.

Lee Chang-guy Poet and Literary Critic Ahn Hong-beom Photographer

© Choi Il-yeon

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The North and South Han rivers meet at Dumulmeori in Yangpyeong County, Gyeonggi Province, and flow into the Han River. The area lost its function as a transportation hub for people and goods, but it still produces a dawn mist that inspires artistic works.

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M

ist covers the object of one’s gaze, making it hazy. But the view is not completely obstructed. Eyes still rest on a spot between what is revealed and what is not. Aesthetic curiosity is aroused when balance is achieved between the parts that are transparent and honestly revealed and those that are half-concealed. Dumulmeori, seen from Sujong Temple, has always been a famed destination of poets and artists who wanted to recite a few verses about the lovely, clean vastness of the Han River spread out below them or to capture the scenic expanse with their brushes. Today it is a favorite panorama of amateur photographers.

Ancient Temple and Morning Mist Dumulmeori (literally “head of two waters”) is a name commonly used for a place where two bodies of water join.

Here it refers to the southern part of Yangsuri in Gyeonggi Province, where the North Han River meets the South Han River.

An hour’s drive from Seoul, past Hanam and across the Paldang Bridge, brings you to this quiet place with wide-open vistas of the rivers and the mountains. It is the perfect weekend destina© HUFS KContents Wiki

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1. This year marks the 200th anniversary of “Admonitions on Governing the People” (Mongmin simseo), one of Jeong Yak-yong’s most important works. The 48-volume book is highly acclaimed for its criticism of the tyranny of government officials and suggestions on how local magistrates should serve the people.

2. When Jeong Yak-yong was released from exile, he returned to Majae, his home village in Namyangju, Gyeonggi Province, and lived there until his death. He had dreamed of spending his life fishing in his hometown.

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tion for residents of the capital and couples on a date. A further 300-meter hike up a steep path on Mt. Ungil leads to Sujong Temple, which affords the view of the two rivers flowing into the Han River below.

Dumulmeori had a ferry landing that was on the route connecting Jeongseon in Gangwon Province and Danyang in North Chungcheong Province with the ports of Ttukseom or Mapo in the capital. But when Paldang Dam was built in the lower reaches in 1973, this historic place completely lost its function as a watercourse. The dam caused the river to widen and the current to slow down, turning it into a lake-like environment with groves of reeds and rushes, lotus blossoms and water caltrop — aquatic plants that thrive in still water. Taking advantage of this change in the ecological environment, wetland parks have been created by the riverside with diverse facilities and sculptures installed, namely Semi Garden and Dasan Ecological Park, which are crowded even on weekdays.

The highlight is morning mist. At dawn, when the temperature difference between the water and the land widens, mist rises without fail over the gentle water surface. First arising from Lake Cheongpyeong, then wrapping itself around the layers of mountains, the mist finally descends on the Dumulmeori riverside as daylight begins to shine, offering a breathtaking sight. Anyone fortunate enough to encounter this misty daybreak would stop in their tracks, as if caught inside a memory that has been converted into an old landscape. If you have seen the sun rise over Dumulmeori from Sujong Temple, one of the finest views of the Han River, you’ll find yourself stopping by the small café near the parking lot on the way down and exchanging a few words with the woman who runs it. She will show you a few photos on her phone, the enigmatic views of Dumulmeori that brought her to this place.

When the 22-year-old Jeong Yak-yong (1762–1836; pen name Dasan, meaning “Tea Mountain”) passed the lower-level civil service exams in the spring of 1783, he traveled to Sujong Temple with ten companions. It was a way to congratulate himself and also to comply with his father’s wish that he visit home with his friends in a “not too shabby” manner.

It had been seven years since Jeong left home for Seoul, after marrying at the age of 15, to study for the state exams, and over those years his father would have had deep worries. In addition, by coming home in this fashion, Jeong would have wanted to boost solidarity among the Namin, or the Southerners, the political faction to which his kin belonged.

An ancient place more than a thousand years old, Sujong Temple sits in a beautiful natural setting, not far from Jeong’s home village of Majae (“Horse Hill”). When he was young, Jeong often visited the temple to read and compose poetry.

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On his visit there after passing his exams, he asked for liquor when the moon appeared and wrote poetry, relishing “the joy of returning as an adult to a place where you played as a child.”

He recorded the events of that day in a simple volume titled “Excursion to Sujong Temple” (Sujongsa yuramgi).

The Bicentenary of Release from Exile Compared to his contemporaries, Jeong Yak-yong was as much admired in Korea as Johann Gottlieb Fichte in Germany and Voltaire in France. He left behind a vast collection of books and other writings, the output of a critical mind ahead of its time promoting the practical use of statecraft (gyeongse chiyong).

In 2012, Jeong Yak-yong was one of the world’s great figures honored under UNESCO’s “Celebration of Anniversaries” program, along with Herman Hesse, Claude Debussy and JeanJacques Rousseau. This year marks the 200th anniversary of both Jeong’s completion of his seminal work, “Admonitions on Governing the People” (Mongmin simseo), and his release from 18 years in exile and return home to Majae. In April, the city of Namyangju (where Majae is located) and the Korean National

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Commission for UNESCO held an international symposium in Seoul to commemorate the occasion.

Given that Jeong wrote some 500 books, we would have to consult his works every year to examine the road we are taking today. King Gojong, who struggled to protect the country against external powers in the latter half of the 19th century, turned to Jeong’s books every time he fell into despair over his dreams of achieving reform and autonomy, lamenting that he had not lived in Jeong’s time.

Although the intention of this writing is to explore that part of the Han riverside where Jeong was born and raised and spent his final years, and to scan the traces of his life and thoughts piece by piece, it will not paint Jeong as a strict academic.

Jeong read the “Thousand Character Classic” at the age of four, wrote poetry at the age of seven, and by the age of ten had produced a collection of his own poems. But aside from his genius, there are some endearing details that make him seem more human. For example, despite catching the attention of King Jeongjo after barely passing the lower-level civil service exams, he failed repeatedly to pass the higher-level exams until the age

Compared to his contemporaries, Jeong Yak-yong was as much admired in Korea as Johann Gottlieb Fichte in Germany or Voltaire in France. Given that Jeong wrote some 500 books, we would have to consult his works every year to examine the road we are taking today. of 28. As for Jeong himself, he certainly would have disliked being remembered as an uptight, narrow-minded man.

Four-Day Escape from the Palace Jeong, singled out by King Jeongjo, joined the royal research institute and library called Gyujanggak and filled several important posts thereafter, going on to draft and execute Jeongjo’s reform policies. But there were at least two known instances of neglect of duty; it seems that his quirks in character matched his talent and abilities. On one occasion, claiming that he wanted to visit his father, who was serving as magistrate of Jinju, located far away from the capital, he took a leave of absence without permission. This occurred in his second year as a resident researcher undergoing special training at the royal institute. When the king found out about it, he ordered Jeong to be brought back to court and be given 50 lashes, but rescinded the order soon after and granted him a pardon.

When he was a royal secretary in charge of delivering the king’s orders, Jeong played hooky again. Among his writings, he left the following explanation: “It was 1797, when I lived at the foot of Mt. Nam in Seoul.

Seeing the pomegranate flowers bloom in the clearing drizzle, I thought to myself it was the perfect time for fishing at Chocheon. The rules state that a court official can only leave the capital after applying for permission. But as it was impossible for me to gain official permission for a vacation, I simply left and headed to Chocheon. The next day, I cast a net in the river and started fishing and ended up catching 50 fish, big and small. The little boat was unable to sustain the weight of the catch and only a few inches remained above water. I moved to another boat and docked at Namjaju, where we happily feasted on the fish.”

Chocheon was a little stream surrounded by reeds in the village where Jeong grew up. For him it was a symbol of home.

Namjaju is a small sandy islet just below Dumulmeori, but Jeong’s adventure did not stop there. Having eaten the fish, he craved some greens. Urging on his friends, he headed across the river for Cheonjinam in Gwangju. That is where Jeong and

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1. Semiwon, an ecological garden in Yangpyeong, is a popular summer retreat. It features some 270 species of plants, 70 percent of them aquatic.

2. The spectacular view of Dumulmeori seen from Sujong Temple on Mt. Ungil has attracted poets and artists from long ago. Since it was not far from his birthplace, Jeong Yak-yong often went to the temple as a child to read and write poetry.

his brothers had studied Catholicism and, no matter how close the boat was moored, the hermitage was so deep in the mountains that the party had to walk a further 10 kilometers.

“We four brothers went to Cheonjinam with a number of other relatives. As soon as we entered the mountains, the flora was lush and green, the flowers in full bloom everywhere, their scent tickling my nose. All sorts of birds sang and chirped, the sound clean and beautiful. When we heard the birds sing we stopped and turned around, enjoying it all. We reached the temple and spent our time drinking and reciting poetry, not returning until four days later. I wrote 20 poems at the time, and we ate as many as 56 kinds of wild mountain greens including shepherd’s purse, bracken and angelica.” (From “Dasan’s Collection of Poetry and Prose” [Dasan simunjip], Vol. 14) It is not known whether this particular absence from work was reported to the king.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 67

During the Joseon period, aside from their formal names many people carried ho, meaning “pen name,” or “style name,” used by their friends and close acquaintances. Generally, the pen name reflected an individual’s personality or special traits.

Often, houses were also given special names and sometimes people used it for their pen name. When Dasan returned to his home village after retiring from government service, he named his study Yeoyudang (House of Hesitation).

Like Crossing a Stream in Winter “I know my own weaknesses well. I have courage but not the ingenuity to carry things out. I like to do good things but do not have the insight to prioritize and select. So, unfortunately, my endless pursuit of good works has only brought abundant reproach. The Laozi (a.k.a. Tao Te Ching) says that in taking part in favored works, one has to be ‘hesitant, like those crossing an ice-covered river’ and in doing the things one has to do, ‘irresolute, like those who are afraid of all around them.’ This is regrettably so. But these two lines provide a treatment for my weak points!”

Being a young official favored by a reform-minded king made it impossible to avoid having political enemies. Jeong’s

68 KOREANA Summer 2018

acceptance of Seohak, or Western Learning, and Catholicism meant that even the king’s favor could not shield him. In the first month of 1800, Jeong retired and returned to his hometown, where he acquired a small fishing boat with a cabin. He wanted to live with his family on the boat, fishing at Chocheon, and even prepared a name board for the boat, expressing these wishes. But the name board was never hung. The oppression of the Catholic Church, which began in the wake of King Jeongjo’s sudden death in the summer that year, nearly claimed the lives of Jeong Yak-yong and his second-oldest brother, Jeong Yakjeon; they were both banished to remote places. Jeong Yak-jong, his third-oldest brother who firmly adhered to his faith, was martyred.

Aside from “Dasan,” Jeong Yak-yong had another pen name, “Sammi,” which means “three eyebrows,” from which “Sammijip,” the title of his childhood poetry collection was derived. Childhood smallpox had left a scar on his forehead that made him look as if he had three eyebrows. Jeong bore nine children, but smallpox and measles claimed the lives of six of them. He heard of the death of his youngest son while in exile. “It would be better for me to die than to live but I am still alive; it would be better for you to live than to die but you have

Sites to Visit in Yangpyeong

Sujong Temple North Han River

Yangpyeong

Semiwon Han River

Hanam Paldang Lake

Seoul

South Han River

Gwangju

Cheonjinam

Jeong Yak-yong’s gravesite

Dasan Memorial Hall

already died,” he wrote, expressing his deep sadness.

As a matter of fact, Jeong left moving writings behind, mourning each of his lost children. Except for his eldest daughter, who died four days after birth, they were all buried in the family graveyard on the mountain at the back of his home village. Motivated by this personal grief, Jeong delved into treatments of infectious diseases and wrote two medical books, one on treating measles and the other on preventing smallpox.

Passing Summer by the Han River After 18 years of exile in Gangjin, Jeong Yak-yong, as if in compensation for that time, lived another 18 years in his hometown. Although he had been born by the riverside and dreamed of a peaceful life in the countryside, reality did not allow for this. In 1819, the year after he returned from exile, he visited the fields at Munam (in Seojong-myeon, Yangpyeong County today). Every autumn he had spent many days there, tending the crops with his brother Yak-jeon, when they went by boat to pay respects at their father’s graveside in Chungju.

The inner yard of Yeoyudang, the house where Jeong Yak-yong was born and raised, and where he spent his final years. Restored to its original appearance in 1957, the house is part of the Dasan Heritage Site. The name of the house reflects Laozi’s advice to deal with all things carefully with fear in the heart.

Museum of Silhak

Semiwon

“It was 40 years ago that I began to dream of living here tilling the fields,” he recalled. Yak-jeon had passed away three years earlier, never returning from exile on Heuksan Island.

Jeong Yak-yong spent the last years of his life editing and proofreading the books he had written while in exile. Even then, his extraordinary abilities and quirky nature did not disappear entirely. He composed 16 poems about ways to beat the heat, some of which were titled: “Playing baduk (go) on a cool bamboo mat,” “Listening to the cicadas in the eastern woods,” “Dangling the feet in water under the moonlight,” “Trimming the branches of trees in front of the house for wind to pass through,” “Clearing the ditch for water to flow,” “Raising the grape vines up to the eaves,” “Drying books under the sun with children,” and “Cooking spicy fish stew in a deep pan.” Did he have a physical constitution that made him feel the heat more than others? Or was he stout?

The Dasan Heritage Site, located at Jeong’s hometown in Namyangju, is a complex that contains his gravesite, his restored birthplace, the Dasan Memorial Hall, and the Dasan Cultural Center. The hundreds of books he wrote during his exile are on display at the Dasan Cultural Center. Korea’s first crane, called geojunggi, which was used to construct the Hwaseong Fortress in Suwon, and many other items related to the versatile thinker, author and public administrator are exhibited at the Dasan Memorial Hall.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 69

TALES OF TWO KOREAS

Human Rights, a New Perspective for Female Defectors 70 KOREANA Summer 2018

Women’s Human Rights Defenders provides legal assistance to female North Korean defectors, who often suffer human rights violations as they settle down in South Korea. The civic group also educates the women about sexual offenses, a subject with little public awareness in North Korean society, and helps them build mutual understanding and solidarity with South Korean women through various activities including seminars and choir performances.

Kim Hak-soon Journalist and Visiting Professor, School of Media and Communication, Korea University Ha Ji-kwon Photographer

A

ccording to data from the Institute for Unification Education of the Ministry of Unification, women accounted for a whopping 70 percent of some 31,000 North Korean defectors who have arrived in South Korea as of late 2017. Not a few of the women fall victim to human rights violations. Women’s Human Rights Defenders (WHRD) specializes in helping them. The civic group pays particular attention to domestic violence, sexual assault, sexual harassment and human trafficking for the purpose of sexual exploitation, the most egregious crimes against women.

“Victims feel frustrated because they don’t know where to turn to for help,” said Kim Hyang-soon, co-president of WHRD who used to be a counselor at the Korea Women’s HotLine.

“Many female defectors, especially those who recently settled down here, have no community or social network in which they can confide. In many cases, victims fear if they take pains to raise problems or file charges, the subsequent investigations or trials will endanger their safety, jeopardize their privacy, or force them to quit their jobs.”

WHRD’s focus on sex-related offenses against female defectors is driven by the fact that they are 10 times more likely to be victimized than South Korean women. Lee Saem, a WHRD counselor, blames the contrast on “a gap in understanding human rights between South and North Korean people and the desperate situation these women, an economically disadvantaged group, face here in the South.”

Low Awareness of Human Rights Abuses Differences in laws, systems and cultures between the two Koreas have formed dissimilar concepts of what constitutes

sexual harassment and assault. Thus, the initial reaction of most women from North Korea to the #MeToo movement in South Korea and abroad is to ask, “How can one speak about such things in public?”

The reason for such cautious attitude can be found in North Korean society, which tends to be lenient toward sexual assaults by men. After becoming acclimated to such social mores, North Korean women often react passively to acts of sexual violence.

They say in unison, “I never heard of anybody jailed for rapes.”

In adultery cases, women are normally sentenced to three months’ hard labor, but the male offenders are not punished. In addition, it is said that North Korean men frequently make sexual jokes and innuendos with impunity.

Domestic violence is not recognized as a serious human rights violation in North Korea. After their arrival in South Korea, North Korean women’s prioritized needs are to survive and adapt, rendering it difficult for them to react to domestic violence. Furthermore, many lack sufficient access to information on related laws and support services.

At Risk of Sexual Exploitation “Even if they want to raise the issue of human rights violations, including sexual assaults, it remains difficult for them

Yeoullim, a choir consisting of North and South Korean women, practices semimonthly at the Kyungdong Presbyterian Church in Seoul, under the baton of Choi Young-sil, a former professor of theology at Sungkonghoe University. Women’s Human Rights Defenders launched the choir in 2011 to build solidarity, overcome prejudices and nurture a sense of cultural consensus.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 71

“ In our society, they are merely regarded as a group of

disadvantaged people in need of assistance. But from now on, we’d like to open up a new horizon from a human rights perspective rather than from the standpoint of subsistence and welfare, like helping them find jobs.”

to do so. It’s a shame that offenders are able to cover up their crimes by taking advantage of female defectors’ vulnerability,” said Lee, who is also a reporter at Dongpo Sarang (Love of Compatriots), a magazine published by the Korea Hana Foundation.

Lee herself is a refugee who arrived in Seoul in 2011. After fleeing North Korea, she worked as a housemaid in Beijing and Shanghai for 10 years. She recounted the experience of a female defector whom she met as a counselor.

The woman, in her 40s, worked as a caregiver at the home of a company chairman who suffered from leg pain and diabetes. She worked from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. every day. The businessman sexually harassed her frequently by telling lewd jokes or touching her. He sometimes apologized for his actions when she protested but continued to harass her. Nonetheless, she could not afford to quit her job since her salary was high enough to save money to bring her daughter over from North Korea.

Sexual harassment and assaults predominantly occur when North Korean women pursue job or marriage opportunities.

More often than not, men harass or rape them after approaching them under the pretext of finding them a job or a future husband. Some women meet men on dating websites, hoping to have a serious relationship. But the men they meet through those sites often assault them or renege on their marriage commitment.

Some proprietors of illegal establishments lure female defectors into prostitution by taking advantage of their dire need for money to survive. Some of the women engage in prostitution with the mistaken belief that “it is not shameful to sell sex here in South Korea,” because they were taught back in the North that “prostitution is a common phenomenon of capitalism.”

In a 2012 survey of 140 female North Korean defectors,

72 KOREANA Summer 2018

commissioned by the Ministry of Gender Equality and Family, every second woman said that “they have been asked to sell sex in South Korea.” The main reason they were approached was economic hardship due to a lack of opportunities for vocational training and self-help measures.

Programs to Improve Human Rights Since 2016, WHRD has operated a counseling and healing program for female North Korean settlers at the request of the Ministry of Gender Equality and Family, which provides comprehensive support services coordinated by counselors.

The program is designed to help the women become emotionally stable. It supports three self-help cohort groups: a group for housewives providing counsel on children’s education and marriage relationships; a group for office workers providing counsel on work culture, continuing education and fatigue from overwork; and a group for young women in their 20s and 30s providing counsel on college education. An affiliated program, dubbed “Travel Korea Project,” is particularly popular as most of the women have a deep desire to travel freely.

WHRD also publishes pamphlets and creates educational videos for distribution to female North Korean settlers and support agencies such as regional centers across the country.

The pamphlets include “Useful Guidelines on Women’s Basic Rights” and “Manual on Education for the Prevention of Violence against Women for Working-Level Officials Supporting Female Defectors.” They provide detailed information about violence against women and about differences of perceptions between the two Koreas and how to cope with them. The educational videos explain how women can protect themselves from violence.

A new WHRD program aims at training counselors to help female settlers to achieve a better work-life balance. Hong Young-hee, co-president of WHRD, said, “The purpose is to

systematically train experts who can give counsel on the worklife balance and conflicts at work — the issues these women experience on a daily basis.”

WHRD also tries to build a framework of solidarity for South and North Korean women. To that end, in 2011, it launched a joint choir, “Yeoullim,” which has since participated in the annual national choir festival. The name carries a double connotation — “women in harmony” and “harmony of sounds.” The choir practices every other Saturday. On average, about 25 of its 35 members attend the practice sessions.

New Paradigm of Solidarity “We had difficulties at first because of differences in musical culture and methods of vocalization. But we’re narrowing the differences by practicing together,” Kim Myeong-hwa, in her 60s, said. “I’m happy because we’ve got more acquainted with South Korean women at the dinner table after practicing.”

Choi Young-sil, a former professor of theology at Sungkonghoe University who serves as conductor, said, “The process of South and North Korean women listening to one another’s voices and singing together, despite their musical differences, is a good opportunity to increase mutual understanding by overcoming psychological distance and prejudices.”

“A cultural festival of South and North Korean women,

Women’s Human Rights Defenders, which focuses on sexual abuses, publishes booklets to help people understand and cope with the differences in how the two Koreas perceive the problem.

which has been held every year since 2012, has been a stepping-stone to help transform the marginalized North Korean women into masters of their own lives and active members of our society,” said Choi Young-ae, founder and chairwoman of the civic group. “In our society, they are merely regarded as a group of disadvantaged people in need of assistance. But from now on, we’d like to open up a new horizon from a human rights perspective rather than from the standpoint of subsistence and welfare, like helping them find jobs.”

Choi Young-ae founded WHRD in 2010. She also established the Korea Sexual Violence Relief Center in 1991 and led the movement to improve women’s rights long before the term “sexual violence” became widely used. Remarkably, WHRD transcends ideologies and comprises progressive and conservative members and supporters. Its leading members include a representative from a South Korean women’s rights organization and a researcher in North Korean women’s affairs, as well as North Korean women.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 73

BOOKS

& MORE Charles La Shure

Professor, Department of Korean Language and Literature, Seoul National University

74 KOREANA Summer 2018

Short Stories Explore Life against a Tapestry of Time ‘Nobody Checks the Time When They’re Happy’

By Eun Heekyung, Translated by Amber Kim, 178 pages, $16.00, New York: White Pine Press [2017]

“Nobody Checks the Time When They’re Happy” is Eun Heekyung’s second collection of short stories, first published in Korean in 1999. The seven short stories depict the lives of a variety of characters in diverse situations, but there are some common threads woven through the narratives. Two of the most prominent threads are mentioned in the title of the collection (and the third story): time and happiness.

Time is a spectrum, running from the past through the ephemeral present and to the unknowable future. While the stories here do give us glimpses into the characters’ present lives, much of the time is devoted to their past and future. This is not unusual in fiction, of course, but Eun uses these temporal shifts to examine the ways we know and understand our past and future, and the problems inherent in those epistemological methods.

We cannot know our past other than through our memories, and memories often prove imperfect. In the titular story, a young woman tries to reckon with the past by looking through countless photo albums. Her lover — himself but a memory now — is baffled at this impulse to capture the past. “It’s not like the past can serve as an alibi,” he explains.

At the end of “The Age of Lyricism,” a successful writer realizes that the only consequence of mixing up her memories would be having a different story to write. Memory is a central theme in “The Other Side of the World” as well, portrayed as almost a physical thing that might be excised with a pocket knife or weigh one down as a burden. This burden of memory can be incredibly heavy; one of the young men in “Summer is Fleeting” even defends his forgetfulness as a survival instinct.

But time moves in both directions, and we can know even less about our future than we can about our past. All that we have are our hopes and dreams. In commenting on the central tragedy in “Bruise,” one character tells another, “That’s life. Dreams disappear, journeys become too long.” The final story in the collection, “In My Life,” has even more to say about dreams: “When you have a dream, it makes you come alive. It’s almost as if it gives your life reason.” Whether or not this dream is attainable is beside the point; it is the mere act of looking to a brighter future that has meaning.

Yet the dreams of the characters in this book as well as the others lead inevitably to disappointment and sorrow, and here we find the second thread woven into the tapestry. The owner of the bar called “In My Life” has no time for those who are happy, claiming that people are only interesting — and only worthy of being characters in a story — if they are sad. The young woman in the titular story, struggling with the suicide of her lover, sees only despair in her future.

There is one telling passage in “Summer is Fleeting,” in which the author comments, albeit at a remove and through unsympathetic characters, on the sorrow and pain that pervades this collection. The young male narrator talks to his two male friends about books he has read, noting that, unlike men who write “dreamy prose [that] fills an entire world,” women write “a chilling record of the emptiness of life,” prose that is “biting and relentless,” or “lucid accounts of immense pain and terrible suffering.” No doubt we are meant to take this criticism with a grain of salt. But reading deeper, we can see that it is sorrow that makes the characters come alive. In the end, their sorrow might be the most beautifully human thing about them.

A Fuller Picture of Premodern Korean Prose Writing ‘Premodern Korean Literary Prose: An Anthology’ Edited by Michael J. Pettid, Gregory N. Evon and Chan E. Park, 320 pages, $35.00, New York: Columbia University Press

“Premodern Korean Literary Prose: An Anthology” brings together a wide variety of works ranging from before the Goryeo period (918–1392) to the late Joseon period (1392– 1910). The editors recognized the difficulty of putting together an anthology, grappling with the questions of what to include and what to exclude. After a survey of existing anthologies in both Korean and English, they decided to focus on those genres that had received little to no attention in existing collections, attempting to present a fuller and more accurate picture of what Koreans from all walks of life were both writing and reading.

The anthology begins with some early prose forms to show the historical development of Korean prose writing. Other types of writing include the so-called pseudo-biographies — fictional works that take a non-human subject, such as money or malt, and personify it

in order to comment on the issues of human life — and commentaries on various social issues. Also present are a selection of unofficial histories — short tales that offer a different perspective on history from that seen in official documents and records — as well as autobiographies, social commentaries and philosophical humor.

Finally, the collection ends with excerpts from three pansori works from the field of oral literature. In reality, the fields of oral and written literature are far more intertwined than one might suspect based on their treatment elsewhere; not only do the excerpts here function to bridge that gap, they have been translated by Chan E. Park, herself a pansori singer, and thus offers a true taste of their flavor as oral performances. As a whole, this volume will help fill the gaps in premodern Korean literature available in English.

Digital Archive of Joseon Ceremonial Records ‘Oegyujanggak Uigwe’ www.museum.go.kr/uigwe; National Museum of Korea

The website for the Oegyujanggak Uigwe, created by the National Museum of Korea, is a digitized collection of uigwe, records of state events and rites of the Joseon Dynasty that contain detailed explanations and illustrations.

The elaborate documents were designed to serve as both historical records and manuals for future events.

The Oegyujanggak was built in 1782 on Ganghwa Island as a secure storehouse for the most important documents in the royal library, Gyujanggak. However, when France attacked Korea in 1866 in retaliation for the execution of French Catholic priests, they plundered this “outer” royal library and took nearly 300

volumes of uigwe back to France. Efforts to secure their return began in the early 1990s, but the uigwe only returned home in 2011.

This website is now home to all of the 297 repatriated royal books. Readers not familiar with literary Chinese, in which all official documents of the Joseon Dynasty were written, may find the “Procession Illustrations” (Banchado) more illuminating. This is a selection of the long, detailed illustrations of royal processions, with English explanations for each of them. Finally, the “3D Royal Procession,” although not translated into English, brings to life the funeral procession of Queen Jangnyeol in 1688.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 75

AN ORDINARY DAY

Realizing Greater Truths in a ‘School on the Road’ If America’s cosmetics toting “Avon lady” epitomizes home-visit sales, Korea’s “Yakult lady” is no less an icon of door-to-door business. A familiar figure since 1971, she is more than someone merely delivering probiotic milk drinks to homes and offices. She symbolizes a friendly, trustworthy neighbor.

Kim Heung-sook Poet Ha Ji-kwon Photographer

76 KOREANA Summer 2018

N

o woman walks exactly the same way in jeans as she does when wearing a dress. Clothes affect a person’s behavior.

Among the many types of clothing, uniforms are perhaps the most restrictive.

They demand that specific duties be fulfilled, regardless of a person’s character.

More people than you might think spend their lives wearing uniforms. Among them are soldiers, police officers, students, monks, nuns, and cleaners, to name just a few. And then there are the “Yakult ladies.” Kang Mi-suk is one of them — and she loves her uniform.

“Even on days when I’m feeling serious pain for whatever reason, I think of the customers who are waiting for me and it gets me out the door. Then, when I get to work and put on my uniform, I find myself feeling much better. It’s really curious. A friend I used to work with once said, ‘This uniform is like a superhero cape,’ and I think it’s really true.”

Kang Mi-suk began making deliveries in April 1999. Nineteen years on, she has yet to miss a day of work. Today, there are around 13,000 Yakult ladies like her, wearing the same uniform and also delivering probiotic milk drinks to homes and offices. But since their debut in spring 1971, they have come to be regarded as far more than employees of Korea Yakult. “Yakult lady,” after nearly half a century of crisscrossing the nation’s neighborhoods, has practically become a moniker for a friendly and trustworthy door-to-door salesperson.

Much has changed since Mi-suk began donning her “superhero cape.”

Her uniform has been updated several times and the number of products that

“Yakult lady” Kang Mi-suk leaves home at 5 a.m. to start a workday that requires an exhausting 10,000-plus steps, but she always greets her customers with a warm smile. Having worked in the same area of Seoul for 19 years, they feel more like close neighbors to her.

she offers has increased exponentially.

Her daily delivery route, which requires more than 10,000 steps, is now less demanding, too. An electric-powered cart with a refrigerated storage unit has replaced her previous push cart. But her routine remains unaltered, still the same as it has been over the many years.

“Every morning I get up at 4:30 and leave home at 5. I board an express bus from my home in Paju and fall asleep.

Then, an hour and a half later, I arrive at my workplace in Dongja-dong. As I change into my uniform, I think to myself, ‘Right. Today is the start of a whole new life.’”

Amassing Relationships The Dongja neighborhood of Yongsan district (gu) is close to Seoul Station, the capital’s transportation hub. An endless stream of taxis, local and express buses, and subway and high-speed trains converge around the station every day.

There is a constant swirl of travelers making connections through a clean, well-lit labyrinth. But outside, the view changes drastically.

Walking across the plaza outside Seoul Station, you come face to face with homeless people sleeping or strolling around, some seemingly intoxicated, even early in the day. And immediately behind the high-rise buildings surrounding the station, there are narrow alleyways only two to three meters wide, lined with time-worn housing units that look like they could collapse any moment. The occupants are elderly have-nots living alone, who either roam the alleyways outside their homes or pass their time in their dim-lit rooms.

Mi-suk’s refrigerated cart is filled with about 200 liters worth of items, ranging from classic fermented drinks and milk to pre-prepared meals. Her delivery route has her ascend to sleek offices high in the sky and then descend back to ground level, maneuvering

through the alleys barely wide enough for a passing car, to deliver drinks to the elderly. Thus, she meets customers in shirts and ties and fine dresses as well as those enduring their threadbare existence. But in Mi-suk’s eyes, her many customers, who are as unalike as night and day, don’t seem all that different.

“All the people I meet are basically the same. No matter how high your position in whatever company, once you’re out walking on the street, isn’t everyone just the same? I’m someone who works on the street, so they are all just the same to me.”

Following Mi-suk around for a day, it seems as though she knows every single person in Dongja-dong.

“I greet everyone I meet. There are lots of people who are friendly with me even though they aren’t my customers.

When I go to deliver drinks to office workers’ desks and they aren’t there, then the persons at the next desks, who I always greet, will let me know what to do. Whether they’re not in the office that day or just popped out somewhere and will be back soon. Some of them end up becoming my customers, too.”

Rather than urging people to buy her products, Mi-suk simply gets along well with everyone. This must be the reason why she won the Friendliness Award in her company’s annual nationwide contest for Yakult ladies.

Discovering the World The company policy discourages route reassignments. The average Yakult lady has nearly 10 years of continuous service in the same neighborhood. They are often more acquainted with the situation along their delivery routes than local residents. About 300 households are Mi-suk’s fixed customers, who pay her directly. She also serves approximately 70 households of elderly people living alone. Welfare organizations or the government provide assistance to pay for the

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 77

1

products that Mi-suk delivers to them.

“Perhaps it’s because Dongja-dong has the Seoul Station Tiny-Shelter Village Counseling Service that there’s a larger number of applications for food support here, and it seems as though more elderly people are coming to live here because of it,” Mi-suk surmises.

“Among the 70 elderly people I visit, around 10 are in very bad condition. No matter how busy I am, I try to drop in on them every day.”

Whether she is dealing with office workers in neat suits, elderly people living alone, or those sleeping rough, Mi-suk’s attitude to her customers always remains the same. She never judges anyone else’s life but simply hopes to be of help to everyone. “People often ask me if I’m not scared of all the homeless people in this area, but I’m not afraid at all. Even if some look frightening, it’s only because of the drinking.

78 KOREANA Summer 2018

They are not bad people.”

During the time she has spent in Dongja-dong, Mi-suk says she has never had any untoward encounter with any of them.

“I think it’s thanks to the uniform.

Once, when I left my cart for a moment, a homeless man started handing out the products in it to passersby. Even then I didn’t get angry. I just thought to myself, ‘Alright, sure, enjoy it. Fill yourself up and be healthy.’”

In 2002, she enrolled in a Department of Education course at Korea National Open University, aiming to become a counselor and help people overcome their troubles.

“When I just lived as a housewife, I really knew nothing of the outside world. I thought housekeeping and raising my kids was the most important thing in life. Rather than listening to what my children had to say, I raised

them so that they would never disagree with me. If I think about it now, I’m really sorry. Living as a Yakult lady I learned about the real world. I guess I could say I gained a wider perspective.

You get to see so much, and then you start thinking differently, too.”

Wear the Uniform Until 70 The 1997 Asian financial crisis led Mi-suk to her job, which she takes so much pride in that she would encourage her daughter to join her if she also wanted to become a Yakult lady. When the economy weakened, her husband, who had been running an advertising typesetting business, suddenly had to get work at construction sites.

As a housewife who loved books, Mi-suk opened a book rental shop to help shoulder her family’s expenses. She did so without understanding the market or consumer behavior. She did not real-

Whether she is dealing with office workers in neat suits, elderly people living alone, or those sleeping rough, Mi-suk’s attitude to her customers always remains the same.

ize that during a severe economic downturn, people immediately halt spending on culture- and entertainment-related items and activities.

“It would have been much better if I’d just started this work from the beginning, rather than doing the book rental shop, but how was I to know back then?”

The book rental shop soon closed down, and Mi-suk had to find a new job.

She was impressed by the Yakult lady whom she met when buying yoghurt drinks for her children, and she liked the fact that no large initial investment was needed to start working. Also, being self-employed, earning a commission on sales rather than being directly employed by a company was appealing to her.

Having become a Yakult lady with those attractive conditions, Mi-suk always thinks positively about everything. So, people call her “positivity queen.”

“In the old days, about 10 percent of

1. Over the nearly 50-year evolution of the “Yakult lady,” the mode of deliveries has changed from a shoulder bag to push cart and now a mobile refrigerator unit called Coco. The selection also has expanded beyond dairy drinks to ready meals and coffee, but Mi-suk’s earnest dedication remains steadfast.

2

2. Mi-suk’s delivery route near Seoul Station includes huge high-rise office blocks and homes crammed into small alleys.

Inaccessible places on the Coco make her deliver on foot, up and down the steep, rainbow-colored stairs.

the customers took items on credit and then couldn’t pay their bills. But now that’s gone down to one or two percent.

Thanks to credit cards there’s no need to buy things that way anymore, but people’s civic awareness has increased a lot, too. Meeting kind young customers, I’ve learned that the future of the country is actually pretty bright. And by meeting homeless people and elderly people living alone, I’ve learned that I need to be responsible for my own well-being. I want to prepare for my old age well so that I don’t become a burden to my children later on. If my health allows, I’d like to keep doing this job until I’m 70.

After that, I’m going to do whatever it is I want to do. I might even carry on with the Open University course I started and put on hold.”

If it’s the uniform and customers that have nurtured and matured the Mi-suk of Dongja-dong, it is religion that has taken care of her outside of that neighborhood.

On Saturdays and Sundays, she usually is at her local Catholic church. Mi-suk’s baptismal name is Bernadette. Saint Bernadette was born in 1844 and at the age of 16, she saw a vision of the Virgin Mary in Lourdes. She was named a saint in 1933. Mi-suk has never had a vision of the Blessed Mother. But perhaps her baptismal name has led her to become a positive presence on her countless customers over the years. Somehow, her uniform suggests a truth seeker, not a simple Yakult seller.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 79

ENTERTAINMENT

Koreans Dazzled by Foreignized Korea A new format is ingeniously flipping the script on TV travel programming, causing a sensation. “Welcome, First Time in Korea?” has expats and their neophyte visitors take Korean viewers along to reveal a country they thought they knew like the back of their hand.

Jung Duk-hyun Cultural Critic

80 KOREANA Summer 2018

F

oreign residents from various countries appeared on JTBC’s “Non-Summit” in 2014, starting a new TV trend. Gathering in a panel hosted by three Korean celebrities, a group of non-Korean young men, all fluent and articulate in Korean, discussed an array of weighty topics, wowing audiences. Now some of the more popular panelists are rewriting the script on another TV genre — travel shows.

They appear as hosts on “Welcome, First Time in Korea?” broadcast weekly on cable channel MBC Every1.

Subtle but Big Differences When the reality show debuted in July 2017, some people worried that it would be little more than a recycled travel motif that simply added foreigners into the mix and would grab little attention. But by the end of its 33-episode opening season, “Welcome” had an audience share of 5.1 percent in its evening time slot. It was the highest ever for MBC Every1 and an enviable level

© MBC PLUS

for Korean cable TV networks. A second season is currently in the works.

“Welcome” puts a slight twist on a well-worn genre. Most Korean travel shows have featured intrepid Korean celebrities exploring and mingling in international locales. “Welcome” reverses the perspective. In each episode, a guest host invites friends from his/her native country to visit Korea for the first time. Viewers watch how parts of their everyday lives, such as food and transportation, as well as places, are perceived through the eyes of foreigners. The out-of-the-box formula presents enlightening impressions to the audience. Things that Koreans feel they know well are foreignized. Suddenly, familiar things take on a novel, curious, or even outlandish hue, and appear not so ordinary after all.

A German host’s friends were stumped by columns of metal tubes protruding from the ceiling at a barbeque restaurant, which simply were extractor fans. And chicken boiled with rice,

a familiar dish to Koreans, became a “delightful adventure” to the visitors. As visitors peel back the layers of Korea, viewers realize what they take for granted holds many surprises and see their everyday life turn into an exploration full of wonders.

Sharing Cultures and Tastes “Welcome” also opens a window into the first-timers’ own cultural traits and characteristics. Different ways of traveling and experiencing a foreign culture are readily apparent. German visitors gathered information and meticulously planned their trip beforehand, feeling a great sense of accomplishment when crossing off each activity on their itinerary. Their Mexican counterparts, however, felt one of the treats of traveling is to experience a destination through trial and error. Undaunted, they tackled Korea head on with no set plans. Indian first-timers, with a unique sense of optimism, did not have qualms about being in quirky places with strangers.

The format of the program also provides a platform to enhance mutual cultural empathy between the show’s participants and viewers. The show hosts include a young Italian businessman along with three Koreans — a comedian, a rap singer and a TV announcer. As video clips of the travellers are shown, the hosts, perched in a studio, dish out quips and explanatory insights into their

movements, reactions and comments.

Thus, viewers can gain an enriched understanding of different cultures.

The program is immensely popular because foreigners have a special place in Koreans’ minds. Since the end of the 19th century when Western cultures began to be introduced to the country, Koreans became self-conscious about how they would be viewed from the outside world. The tendency became more pronounced in the 1970s; more active exchanges occurred between Korea and the international community and peaked during the 1988 Seoul Summer Olympics.

Changing Attitude Toward Foreigners For a while, Koreans’ high sensitivity to foreign opinion helped pave the way to fame at home. Directors or actors who received awards from international film festivals like Cannes or Berlin were put on pedestals for raising Korea’s national status. Their works attracted moviegoers even if they leaned more toward being artistic than entertaining. These days, however, the general public knows exactly what they like, so accolades from prestigious overseas film festivals no longer guarantee commercial success in the domestic market.

That being the case, why are viewers so enchanted by “Welcome”? It is because of its fresh perspective. Being

neither one-sided with praise or criticism is entertaining in itself. The program conveys the joy, surprise and respect that foreigners exude when immersing themselves in Korean culture. Still, at times, the visitors’ unvarnished reactions cause deeper reflection.

The Finnish visitors, for example, were surprised that Korean saunas served cheap draft beer all night, and said, “There are not so many places in Finland where you can buy a drink in the evening.” The comment could have been interpreted as an observation about Korea’s drinking culture, or a swipe at Korean society for being too casual toward drinking. The Finns also mentioned how they would only go to a hairdresser once or twice a year. That could have been read to suggest that Koreans are overly attentive to their appearance.

This program is meaningful in that Koreans have moved beyond angst about what foreigners think about them. They are now able to exchange thoughts with foreigners on an equal footing. It is not about comparing Korean culture with theirs and judging which is better; it just affirms that cultures are different and that is why they are intriguing.

In the pilot episode of “Welcome, First Time in Korea?” aired in June 2017, the Italian host Alberto Mondi (far right in the picture on the left) and his three hometown friends visit a royal palace in Seoul, drawing a curious crowd.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 81

ESSENTIAL INGREDIENTS

© TOPIC

EGGPLANTS Glowing under the Summer Sun Eggplant is a popular summer vegetable. Its appeal is reflected in the old Korean saying, “The eggplant offers edible joy to endure the rainy season.”

Perhaps people feel more confident about surviving the hot summer by eating the cool purple vegetable chock-full of anthocyanins that have many health benefits.

Jeong Jae-hoon Pharmacist and Food Writer

82 KOREANA Summer 2018

“C

ooking is one of the oldest arts.” This statement by French gastronome Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin contains deep insight. The way certain food ingredients are cooked clearly reveals the characteristics and history of a people’s food culture. Conversely, it can be said that the longer the history of a food ingredient, the greater the variety in the ways it is cooked.

For example, let’s compare eggplants and tomatoes, both of which belong to the Solanaceae family. The leaves and flowers of plants in this family, also called nightshades, cannot be eaten because they contain alkaloids for self-protection; thus, what we eat is their fruits.

But very seldom are tomatoes served as a side dish on Korean dining tables.

While most countries treat the tomato as a vegetable, Koreans consider it a fruit. Except for pickled green tomatoes, tomatoes are mostly consumed as a dessert or beverage ingredient. By contrast, Koreans treat the eggplant as a vegetable and eat it as a side dish with rice, like radishes, Chinese cabbage or zucchini.

Eggplant is often steamed on its own or on top of rice. The hot, steamed eggplants are torn into strips with the hands, first dipped in cold water to prevent them from getting burned. The strips are mixed with sliced green chili, soy sauce, sesame oil and toasted sesame seeds. This cooking method was introduced in the Dong-a Ilbo newspaper on August 4, 1931. The same article included a few other cooking methods, such as drying the eggplants in July and August when they are abundant and eating them during the winter, soaked first in water and then seasoned, as well as lightly salting thin slices of raw egg-

plant, letting them stand for a while and then mixing them with mustard and assorted garnishes.

tables”), Yi Gyu-bo (1168–1241) praised the taste and virtue of the eggplant as follows:

Enjoyed Cooked and Raw In Korea, eggplant has been prepared in many ways over the ages and remains a popular side dish. One way is to cut eggplants into bite-sized pieces, lightly coat them with flour, deep-fry and finally season them. Another way is to make fritters by covering thin slices of eggplant with minced beef, coating them with egg, and frying them in a pan. With increased overseas travel and contact with people from other countries, more Koreans are trying their hand at foreign eggplant dishes, such as Chinese yuxiang qiezi (fish-fragrant eggplant), Japanese nasu dengaku (miso-glazed eggplant) and Italian parmigiana di melanzane (eggplant parmesan).

Although both belong to the Solanaceae family, tomatoes and eggplants have completely different places in the dietary life of Koreans, probably due to the way they were introduced to the country. The tomato, originating in South America, arrived in Korea in the early 17th century but did not take on as a common food ingredient. It entered the Korean diet again in the early 20th century but has yet to be adapted for many dishes. By contrast, the eggplant, which originated in the Asiatic tropics, was introduced to Korea far earlier than the tomato from India via China. It has a long history as part of Korean cuisine; some sources say it was already grown on the peninsula over a thousand years ago during the Silla period.

In the subsequent Goryeo period, the eggplant seems to have become a popular food ingredient. In his poem “Gapo yugyeong” (“Song of Six Garden Vege-

Glowing reddish purple, how can it be thought old?

How can anything vie with the eggplant’s flower and fruit?

Its fruit abounding within the furrow, It is truly good, both cooked and raw.

Some may find it surprising that eggplant can be eaten raw. But it is true.

Koreans use raw eggplants to make kimchi or pickle them in soybean paste.

In Thailand, raw green eggplants that resemble golf balls are eaten with a dipping sauce. Like other fruits belonging to the Solanaceae family, the eggplant contains the toxic alkaloid solanine, but in such small quantities that it is harmless unless 30 to 40 eggplants are consumed in one sitting.

Eggplant also contains nicotine, another characteristic of plants in the Solanaceae family. While nicotine contained in food is not destroyed by heat, the amount found in 10 kilograms of eggplant equals the amount in one cigarette. In any case, the nicotine has no effect because it is detoxicated in the liver upon entering the body and then quickly excreted.

As for wild eggplant, the bitter component helps to protect it against animals that would otherwise eat it, but from the perspective of humans it is poisonous.

Considering the eggplant poisonous, the ancient Romans called it mala insana, meaning “crazy apple,” which is etymologically linked to melanzana, the Italian word for the eggplant. Judging from the 11th-century Bedouin saying, “Its color is like the scorpion’s belly, its taste is

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 83

the scorpion’s poisonous sting,” the bitterness of eggplant seems to have been notorious for many centuries.

Diverse Colors, Shapes and Sizes However, today’s eggplants are far from the “crazy apple” of the past.

Humankind has developed new cultivars of diverse colors, shapes and sizes through breeding and farming. As the result, an eggplant as small as a pea (Thai Pea Eggplant) has been produced as well as one that is up to 40 centimeters long (Japanese Pingtung Long Eggplant), a heavy kind reaching up to 650 grams (Black Enorma), as well as green, white and purple eggplants and even

one with a striped pattern. A white, eggshaped kind was widely grown in America for some time; hence the English name “eggplant.”

Meanwhile, those who disliked the bitter taste of the eggplant explored ways of reducing it. One method often mentioned in early cookbooks is to slice or cube the eggplant, sprinkle the pieces with coarse salt and let them sit for 30 minutes to an hour. The salt can reduce the moisture content, but it does not completely get rid of the bitter taste.

Nevertheless, in the past, many cooks treated eggplant with salt because the saltiness covered the bitterness and improved the flavor. Today’s eggplants are less bitter, which makes this step

The eggplant, which originated in the Asiatic tropics, was introduced to Korea far earlier than the tomato from India via China. It has a long history as part of Korean cuisine; some sources say it was already grown on the peninsula over a thousand years ago during the Silla period.

1 © TOPIC

84 KOREANA Summer 2018

© gettyimagesKOREA

© TOPIC

2

1. Eggplant is mostly eaten in Korean homes as a side dish with rice. It is lightly steamed and torn into strips, and seasoned with a mixture of soy sauce, vinegar, chopped green onion, sesame oil, and toasted sesame seeds.

2, 3. Eggplant is also used to make special dishes for guests or other occasions.

It can be cut into thin slices and pan-fried in oil (left), or cut into thick slices and, with marinated minced beef sandwiched between them, coated with flour and egg batter, and panfried.

unnecessary, but sprinkling salt over them is useful for other reasons.

An Ingredient for a Thousand Dishes Eggplant tissue is spongy, and the texture results in a special sweet flavor. However, when deep-fried or stirfried, the air cells absorb a lot of oil, making the texture mushy. Sprinkling salt beforehand prevents this problem as salt draws water out of the cells and fills them. Turkish eggplant dishes and Sichuan-style Chinese eggplant dishes make use of this phenomenon to obtain soft, buttery textures.

In Southeast Asian regions, the bitter taste of eggplant is used to add flavor.

One example is Thai green curry, which contains the bitter pea eggplant. In many countries, eggplant is consumed as a substitute for meat as well as sweet dessert dishes.

In Middle Eastern countries there

3

is a saying, “A woman is not ready to marry until she knows a thousand ways to cook eggplant.” This means that eggplant can be prepared in numerous ways, which leads one to wonder, “How can you find any vegetable as tempting and appetizing as the purple eggplants glowing brilliantly under the hot summer sun?”

The eggplant’s skin, tinged purple, red and blue at the same time, contains an abundance of antioxidant anthocyanins. Like mysterious paint colors seeping through, these pigments are mostly contained in the eggplant’s skin at 700 milligrams per 100 grams, offering protection against damage caused by ultraviolet radiation. Argument remains over the rate of absorption of the anthocyanins in the human body — all the more reason to cook the glossy purple eggplant with the skin on to gain as much benefit as possible from this beloved food ingredient.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 85

LIFESTYLE

Indoor Simulated Sports Boom 86 KOREANA Summer 2018

The sports center at Ulsan National Institute of Science and Technology is equipped with state-ofthe-art facilities, such as an indoor driving range. The center is popular among students as well as faculty members.

Koreans’ interest in golf soared when 20-year-old Pak Se-ri became the youngest player to win the U.S. Women’s Open in 1998. A few years later, “screen golf” arrived, driven by information technology that projected the path of a player’s struck ball. An indoor simulated sports craze is now under way with some 20 sports joining screen golf, which generates 1 trillion won in revenue per year by attracting more players than actual golf courses.

Kim Dong-hwan Reporter, The Segye Ilbo

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 87

U

ntil recently, the workday in Korea frequently ended with a staff dinner, followed by time at a karaoke club, and then a soju bar or beer pub. But the new generation of employees prefers moderate drinking and healthy leisure activities. As Koreans reset their work culture, indoor sports, a kind of virtual reality activity, has become a booming business.

Sports simulation venues appear to be a combination of the gaming cafés and karaoke bars of the 1990s.

But apart from having a large screen simulator, they are operated differently. Like a theme park, they apply various fees instead of a flat fee, and serve drinks and snacks. Still, many office workers and young people consider these places to be a cheap option for leisure activity.

Socio-cultural Byproduct The indoor sports craze is a byproduct of socio-cultural factors. Korea is a sports powerhouse in terms of Olympic medals per capita. However, its weak sports infrastructure denies most people the opportunity to play real sports themselves. With the population concentrated in urban areas, outdoor spaces for sports are few and far between. There is practically no field big enough for amateurs to play baseball or football. Indoor simulation fills the void, meshing Korea’s IT and video gaming, both global powerhouse industries.

In contrast, on-screen sports simulation would not be a likely alternative in countries that have sufficient infrastructure to play outdoor sports at little cost.

For example, in countries where green fees are low and booking tee-off times is not difficult, there is little reason to play screen golf.

Screen golf centers appeared in Korea in the early 2000s. At the time, not many people expected they would

88 KOREANA Summer 2018

© legendheroes

succeed. A standard 18-hole golf course typically covers one million square meters. The idea of playing a round in a mere 10-square-meter room with the help of a simulator was an alien concept to the golf community.

Numerous critics were unconvinced about the technical aspects. Amateur and professional golfers doubted the simulator could accurately reflect the flight and direction of their ball after a swing. They also doubted if the sensor could account for delicate green undulations. Obviously, there existed technical limitations in the early days that fed doubts. But many shortcomings have been corrected over the past decade.

Now many users admit that the simulator replicates 90 percent of real golf.

Resolving Details Of course, there are still technical details to be resolved, like the feel of grass torn up by a tee shot. But many people are optimistic that this and other limitations of virtual reality will soon be overcome. These days, golf simulators provide such high-resolution digital images that users can feel as if they are standing on a real golf course. New programs are introduced one after another to allow users to experience the real feel of striking a ball on green. Prospects are all the brighter thanks to robots with artificial intelligence that can talk with customers.

Screen golf accounted for about 10 percent (1 trillion won) of the domestic golf industry, which was worth 11 trillion won, as of 2015, according to data from the Ministry of Science and ICT. The annual number of visitors to screen golf centers topped 1.5 million that year, outnumbering those who visited real golf courses.

What caused such a sharp increase in the number of golfers wanting to experience virtual reality visualizations?

High user fees are the primary reason.

1

1. Indoor golf and baseball are the top choices at screen sports theme parks, which have multiplied in cities. Golf simulators mostly attract middle-aged men, while baseball is popular among men and women of all ages.

2. Regardless of the type of sports, all indoor sports centers look similar. They all have booths with a wide screen and an electronic simulation unit.

To play at an outdoor golf range, an amateur golfer would set up a schedule with three other players and book a teeoff time. High demand for weekend reservations make them difficult to secure without paying an extra amount or hoping someone cancels. A weekend time slot also means a long drive to the golf range (from Seoul, an average of one hour) and a lavish fee to play.

In stark contrast, fees at the indoor simulation ranges that can now be found anywhere in cities are only a tenth of real green fees. Users can avoid the stress of trying to get a time slot, the time and fatigue from the round trip to the golf range and the weight of a bag of golf

2

Thanks to diverse programs and convenient access, anybody, man or woman, young or old, can enjoy them. Besides, indoor sports can be played anytime, rain or shine, hot or cold.

clubs. They can also enjoy screen golf alone.

Convenient and Affordable The rapid success of screen golf paved the way for a craze for indoor sports simulation. The industry is predicting that the entire indoor sports market will be worth some 5 trillion won in 2018. Defining the fusing of sports and IT as a new growth engine, the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism is also keen to invest in this industry.

No doubt, the power of content that can satisfy users and expand the customer base has been an important factor in the success of the industry. There are

now more than 20 kinds of indoor sports.

They include tennis, horseback riding, shooting, bowling, fishing, billiards, and climbing. Golf and baseball remain the most popular. A recent addition is curling, thanks to the unexpected silver medal won by Korea’s women’s team at the PyeongChang Winter Olympics.

Generally, men have far outnumbered women in terms of the number of indoor sports fans. But now, thanks to diverse programs and convenient access, anybody, man or woman, young or old, can enjoy them. Besides, indoor sports can be played anytime, rain or shine, hot or cold.

It is not difficult to learn how to

play these sports indoors, either. For example, beginners can play a simulated billiards game, even though they are not familiar with rules or techniques. A projector-camera system and a sensor identify the location of the balls on the pool table and artificial intelligence analyzes the path of the cue ball. Not only billiards aficionados but novices can also play to their hearts’ content.

It is not easy to predict how long the indoor sports industry will remain viable. But it is clear that the current fad has been sparked by people’s desire to enjoy their favorite sports in an environment where a minimum investment of their time and money is required.

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 89

JOURNEYS IN KOREAN LITERATURE

CRITIQUE

Doomed to a Cureless Disease Kang Young-sook has persistently explored the anxiety and suffering hidden behind life, on the basis of a tragic worldview. The characters in her stories are inwardly fractured by varied wounds, which she portrays in a seemingly nonchalant but contemplative tone.

Choi Jae-bong Reporter, The Hankyoreh

I

t is 20 years since Kang Young-sook won the annual Spring Literary Contest sponsored by the daily Seoul Shinmun and began her writing career. In that time, she has published five collections of short stories and three fulllength novels, an average output for a Korean writer.

Kang’s novels and short stories are so different from one another that they could be seen as works by different authors.

“Rina,” her acclaimed novel published in 2006, is about a 16-year-old girl who has defected from North Korea. Rina is exposed to the hardships and trials experienced by most defectors, but she not only resolutely overcomes them, she ultimately makes decisions that are contrary to the usual choices of most defectors. In the beginning, while crossing the border, she had intended to head for “P country,” but then abandoned that plan and decided to cross into the “country of nomads,” assumed to be Mongolia. Several years have passed since she first crossed the border; she now has more extensive experience than anyone else, crossing borders and leading a nomadic life forming her worldview. Though the narrative is somber and painful, Rina’s view of the world is supported by an optimistic and pleasant style.

The author’s two other novels, “Writing Club” and “The Sad and Pleasant Teletubbie Girl,” are relatively light in tone, respectively depicting the love of a single mother and her daughter who come to realize the value and meaning of writing, and the love between a man in his late thirties and a 17-year-old

90 KOREANA Summer 2018

girl. There is a considerable difference between these three fulllength novels and the works contained in the five short story collections.

Kang Young-sook’s short stories are above all characterized by a pessimistic and nihilistic attitude toward the world. This is evident from the first collection, “Shaken,” published in 2002.

The characters in the 11 short stories contained here are almost without exception groaning from their wounds in the face of a world full of darkness, while there is no clear solution. The only touch of warmth arises when the wounded find harmony and comfort in the company of one another.

The basic tone remains the same in the following three collections: “Every Day is a Celebration” (2004), “Black in Red” (2009) and “Dumbbell Night” (2011). Unpleasant weather, devastated landscapes, humans and animals that have lost their vitality, natural disasters such as droughts and floods, tsunamis, epidemics, murders and accidents — all these strongly suggest that this world is not worth living in. The theme of the short story “Disaster Area Tour Bus” in the fourth collection summarizes in one sentence a hellish landscape reminiscent of the “risk society” defined by German sociologist Ulrich Beck: “Bits of broken glass, drops of blood on cement floors and white sneakers, skin tingling as if sprinkled with salt, cows writhing as they die, long mirrors reflecting the backs of cancer patients, people burning to death, voices of women wailing, acid rain falling, and my body on the verge of being scattered

all over the world.”

Readers familiar with Korean society at the time will easily be reminded by this sentence of the protesting evictees burning to death during a violent police operation or the thousands of cattle infected with foot-and-mouth disease being buried alive, to say nothing of environmental disasters, accidents and diseases.

When I interviewed her after the first collection was published, Kang said, “I wanted to talk about social pain through fiction. I think fiction is a kind of record-keeping in its own right.”

She added regretfully, “However, on bringing the stories together like this, I’m afraid they seem too microscopic and even escapist.” Her reason for writing fiction and her dissatisfaction with the result continued with the subsequent volumes. This may have something to do with her ambiguous and fragmented writing style. Kang’s short stories feature bold abbreviations and circumlocutions, rather than closely following the sequence of events.

“Incurable” was published in 2016 as part of her fifth collection of short stories, entitled “Gray Literature.” The first sentence tells that the protagonist’s life is on a monotonous but very solid foundation: “Jin-uk was living a life in which there seemed to be almost no possibility of anything bad ever happening.”

However, everyone knows that something has to happen in order for a fictional story to come into being, and that bad things provide a more interesting narrative than good ones. Moreover, as we have seen above, this is especially so for a story by Kang Young-sook, whose work is characterized by a pessimistic and nihilistic view of the world. The bad thing for the banker Jin-uk, who “always worked aggressively so as to be a model for others” and “was full of confidence and comforted himself with the thought that he had absolutely no problems,” came with the appearance of Su-yeon.

It would be hard to say that Su-yeon “invaded” Jin-uk’s life against his will.

Rather, Jin-uk actively drew Su-yeon into his life. Her credit status was as bad as

could be, there was no money coming in regularly, and almost no savings, so Jin-uk seems to have helped her by doing what he could as a banker. Of course, that was because he loved her. As mentioned earlier, Kang’s stories are ambiguous, so it is hard to know exactly what happened between them. As Su-yeon talks to herself, “Since he knows all my evil deeds, I wish he’d die and disappear,” we can only guess what happened to some extent.

As the story unfolds, it switches back and forth between Jin-uk’s and Su-yeon’s point of view, but it is only through the words of Jin-uk’s hometown friend that the reader learns that he is now over forty and has taken early retirement. We know nothing about the situation before and after, but from these words it can be guessed that Jin-uk tried to help Su-yeon out. In short, his love for Su-yeon has wrecked his life.

Nevertheless, Su-yeon wishes Jin-uk would die. How’s that for love!

Su-yeon’s attempt to obtain a deadly poison in defense against any extreme words from Jin-uk suggests that the relationship was negative and devastating for © Shin Na-ra her as well. As Su-yeon waits in the street for a dealer to bring her the potion, she overhears construction workers expressing fears about their credit card debts: they obviously speak for Su-yeon’s feelings.

The subsequent explosion and screaming symbolize the looming catastrophes.

For Jin-uk, the catastrophe originated with a chance palm reading. The story begins with a scene in which Jin-uk has his palm read one evening at a party and is told, “I can’t see anything, there’s nothing there.

It’s blank.” The palm reader says that the lines on one’s palms are “lines left by things happening to friends that have no relation to the person’s life, and by things happening to family members.” Indeed, after he met Su-yeon and fell in love with her, her problems became his and ruined his life.

Thus the riddling title of this story, “Incurable,” can be understood to some extent. Jin-uk’s peculiar palm is a symbol of his unescapable destiny, like a disease that has no cure. Here Kang Young-sook’s pessimism is reaffirmed.

“I wanted to talk

about social pain through fiction.

I think fiction is a kind of record-keeping in its own right.”

KOREAN CULTURE & ARTS 91

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