Sacred Art: Identity and Conflict in Korean Cultural Expression

In exploring Korea for this new installment of the Sacred Art series, I have run into a minor issue: many of the influential philosophical and religious elements that form and inform Korean culture, we have already discussed in previous articles. Certainly, there are ancient shamanistic religions unique to the region. However, as with the country’s near neighbors of China and Japan, Korean religion is defined by the interplay of these traditional practices with Confucianism, Buddhism, and, more recently, Western thought.

Granted, Korea’s murky identity in relation to its larger and (usually) more politically significant cousins has long posed a problem for the Korean people themselves, one that has often made it difficult for Korea to define and develop its culture. But that has not stopped them from trying. Few nations have persevered in protecting their sanctity of identity in such trying circumstances. With a list of invading forces ranging from countless Chinese states to groups of Japanese forces to Mongol imperial hordes to the Russians, French, and Americans – not to mention civil uprisings or the technically ongoing Korean War, which has seen the nation split in two for almost three-quarters of a century – it seems that many, many people have wanted to see Korea assimilated for their various sociopolitical purposes. Yet somehow their distinct culture has remained, even flourished, across over two thousand years of history. It may not be “sacred” in the religious sense we have tenuously maintained throughout this series, but it is Korea’s reverence towards its resilient cultural identity that I would like to explore today.

Books and Scholars' Possessions, early 20th c.

Though many eras could exemplify Korea’s self-assertion in the face of conflict, one of the clearest is the Joseon dynasty, which lasted for just over half a millennium, from 1392 to 1897, until the Korean Empire replaced it. It was during this time that the capital was moved to Seoul, that early iterations of the modern Korean flag first appeared, that the Hangul writing system was developed to improve literacy, and that periods of relative peace and prosperity allowed Korean artists to begin experimenting with expressions of their cultural identity and values outside the bounds of Chinese Confucianism – which, while the reigning influence of the day, did not encompass all of Korea’s unique priorities.

Some Korean paintings of this period reflect a playful approach to Confucian and Buddhist ideals, particularly in their attunement to nature. The gyehoedo genre of paintings claimed to depict important political gatherings – and indeed they did, off in the corner, with majestic nature scenes dwarfing them in grandeur. In the painting, Gathering of Government Officials, 1551, for example, the civil servants do not look out of place in the scene, but they are merely a part of it; the artist acknowledges that their human concerns are only a part of a much larger picture. It is difficult to imagine the Chinese imperial court fostering a similar atmosphere of humble self-reflection.

Gathering of Government Officials, c. 1551

Another Korean genre of painting that developed in the late Joseon period was munbangdo, a brand of still-life painting that translates literally to “scholar’s study painting.” After Japanese and Manchu invasions stretching into the seventeenth century, Korea had begun to stabilize again, and with its rediscovered prosperity came what scholars referred to as its “golden age.” Artists experimented with illusionism, attempting to give their paintings the feel of real space. Many people had become fascinated with scientific and technological exploration, which led to vast collections of materials from nature and history that could form a distinctly Korean basis for their still lives. And the paintings were optimistic, full of an almost humanistic hope for the nation’s future success. The empire, it seemed, was carving out a place for itself alongside its ever-warring neighbors.

attr. Jang Seung-eop (Owon), Still Life with Bronze Vessels and Flowering Plants, 1894

Unfortunately, as we all well know, the peace did not last. While there were other wars in the intervening centuries, many of Korea’s most recognizable moments have occurred over the last century, chief among them the Korean War and the subsequent splitting of the nation into North and South. The rift caused by the war and its aftermath – if the armistice can even be called that – has forced the nation into cultural limbo, in which each “side” must struggle to search for its own identity, even while continuing to assert its fundamental unity with its counterpart.

Surprisingly, for a nation known for inflicting some of the worst human rights abuses in the modern world upon its citizens, North Korea has fostered a thriving art community in Pyongyang – albeit in the most communist way imaginable. The Mansudae Art Studio employs around 4,000 artists, many sourced directly from Pyongyang University, who are tasked with creating much of the nation’s fine art, including its political propaganda. Their media include paintings, drawings, woodcuts, embroidery, sculpture, and other traditional and modern forms. They designed and produced over 200 bronze statues for the Mansu Hill Grand Monument in 1995 to commemorate the “revolutionary struggle of the Korean people” (according to the North Korean website) – including the 72-foot-tall statues of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jung-il.

Mansudae Art Studio, Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il, Mansu Hill Grand Monument, 1995

Even more surprisingly, the Mansudae Art Studio’s foreign division, the Mansudae Overseas Project Group, has occasionally found itself commissioned by other nations, as well. In 2004, they rebuilt Frankfurt’s Fairy Tale Fountain based on the original 1910s art nouveau design. They also famously – and extremely controversially – designed and built the African Renaissance Monument in Senegal in 2010. Like much of the Mansudae Art Studio’s work, the piece has a Soviet flare. It is also, rather notably, not made by an African. 

Mansudae Overseas Project Group, Senegal African Renaissance Monument, 2010 (photo by  Christof46, CC BY-SA 4.0)

The world is amply justified in its concerns over North Korea’s forays into global art and architecture. That said, it is a testament to the state’s unilateral efficiency that, despite its penchant for the insular and regressive, it has managed both to develop an artistic definition (though one bearing significant Soviet influence) and to export it with any degree of relevance on an international stage. 

Mansudae Overseas Project Group, Frankfurt Fairy Tale Fountain, c. 2004 (photo by Epizentrum, CC BY-SA 4.0)

Thankfully, it is not only nor even chiefly North Korea that has achieved this feat. The ongoing expansion of South Korea’s cultural influence needs little introduction. From K-dramas to K-pop to K-beauty to manhwa – and, of course, corporate juggernauts the likes of Samsung or Hyundai – South Korea has gone from an economically devastated region in the wake of the Korean War to a global phenomenon. Much as North Korea adopted Soviet art styles into its artistic identity, so South Korea adopted elements of Western ideals. But like fruits of the Joseon “golden age,” this cultural exchange has not been the death of Korean culture; rather, it has served as an impetus for its revitalization and even expansion, providing a platform for it to engage in an increasingly global conversation about art, philosophy, and beauty. Even in the fine art sphere, styles such as the monochromatic dansaekhwa have influenced others in Tokyo and Paris, becoming a key form of modern East Asian art.

Let me sum this all up by admitting that I was not expecting it to be easy to find examples of Korean art for this article. After all, it is a small country. When plotting this article, I imagined I would likely have to slough through a massive quantity of low-quality images and examples of dubious provenance, which could just as likely be Chinese or Japanese. I anticipated a struggle, even knowing how perseverant Korean culture has been. But I could not have been more wrong. Perhaps it is due in part to the inherent fickleness of Internet and scholarly resources, but I was blessed with a superabundance of Korean pieces for this article, each more fitting than the last. And they were all subtly yet unmistakably Korean. 

I have come to think of Korean art as a little like what happens when you prune a tree. I’m no gardener, but every source and poet I’ve encountered has assured me that trees give their best, sometimes their only fruit when regularly pruned. While I am sure we all hope and pray that the Korean Peninsula’s “pruning” days are soon to be behind it, the enduring significance of Korean culture despite thousands of years of adversity can be admired, in a very real way, as the “fruit” of its people’s suffering. Its identity itself is a monument; its existence is an achievement. While it may not be “sacred” in the purest sense of the term, it is certainly worth celebrating.

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