Field Notes: April 18th at Songpa Sandae Noli Practice

These days I rarely write up real field notes. That's stupid of course. Yes, I'm not writing my dissertation, or revising it at the moment (I have an overdue book chapter for an edited volume to write instead). Of course later I will forget details. So yesterday I actually took some decent field notes and I'm going to actually type them up! Wonders never cease! (Note, that I should be writing the book chapter).

The full length performance for this year is on the 9th of May, so there are only a few days left before the performance to practice. This means that the attendance is higher, and everyone takes things more seriously.

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Today in the morning (11?) 함승헌 took his 이수자 test. I recorded an interview with him about it. He said it was more frightening than when he interviewed for anything else ever in his life, he had to talk about how his life aligned with practice of SSN (as a non-full-time performer), and answer a few questions to gauge his knowledge of the art, demonstrate the basic dance motions, and perform (with just 장구 and 피리 and no one across from him) the part of 취발이. He passed. More details are on the MP3 file.

Because Ham Jr. had done his test, a certain number of people had been around for a few hours already by the time I arrived at 1:45 (practice started at 3). Principally 이한복, 강차욱 (those two played the music for the test), 김영숙, 이병옥 and 함완식 who must have been very proud that his son advanced to 이수자 but I couldn't see any hint of that in his face or deportment. Other people also arrived before me, and shortly afterwards. The 심사위원 who had come for the exam had introduced various conversations while talking with 이병옥 and 함완식 and had infected everyone with an attitude of seriousness about how to best prepare for the full length performance. One of the things they said was that the 서울놀이마당's madang is too large, and if we try to take up the whole thing it loses feeling and looks bad-- they advised that the performance happen in the center with people sitting around outside, as has been done before some years. 김영숙  is going to look into the legless chairs with backs and see if we can get some of them for the viewers.

Before practice started I mostly talked with 김영숙 about a variety of things-- I started off by talking to her about the subject of the book chapter-- women in mask dance dramas. The interview was very unscripted and rambling, I basically stayed next to her and the conversation wove in and out of the topic, commenting on people around us, and various criticism that the office manager (a woman of opinions, no joke) had about other people and recent events. I managed to pull out my voice recorder and turn it on, tucked under my arm. The moment she sees the recorder she gets too reticent, and almost won't talk about anything at all -- even without seeing a recorder she often says things to undermine the value in her words (ex. "I'm not a talented dancer"). There was a ton of background environmental noise, including even the noise of at times 3 or 4 instruments in the small space-- and the recorder was under my arm, not held close to her mouth. And, as I said, the conversation ranged widely. The critical things of course I would never use, but the comments about women doing mask dance drama I need, so I'll just send her an email in a few days with the English content referring to the conversation, and a translation, and ask if she wants me to say "an experienced woman who has been a mask dancer more than thirty years" or if it is okay to use her name. Since what she said was already very curated (on that subject) and she knows I'm writing this chapter and have already talked to a lot of other performers about it, she'll probably agree for me to use her name. If I was confident of my memory, I wouldn't have sneakily recorded at all, but I excuse the sneakiness because I'll show her exactly how I want to use her words and get her permission to use her name before I ever do it. I much prefer what I can do with people like 이병옥, just stick the recorder in his hand, and just easily record in a quiet location.  At one point Yeongsuk and I went to the office, but by then she'd basically finished saying anything about her ideas and was asking me questions about my work situation and when I'll know if I am signing a new contract.

After stretching and basic motions (perhaps 30 minutes, combined), 이병옥 and to a lesser extent 함완식 pointed out some issues. One was confusion over 3 different dance motions with similar names and motions (the difference being the 장단 the motion is performed to, and whether you walk in a circle, or do the motion in place). When SSN does basic motions, unlike other mask dance dramas, such as Bongsan Talchum or Goseong Ogwangdae where everyone does the same sequence of events, the sequence and number of each motion before doing the next motions depends on who is leading. 김명하 was leading, in the front left corner facing the mirror and next to the musicians (이한복 (on piri or daegeum), 강차욱 (on janggu or piri), 윤지희 (haegeum) and another woman who is a friend of Jihee's, I think her name is 김희경, also playing haegeum plus 함완식 sometimes playing the janggu), I was in the back right corner, and over the instruments and space, I could only occasionally hear the call of the next motion, and just had to be quick on my toes so that I wouldn't make a mistake. Each motion is repeated on both sides for two, four, or even a dozen times before moving on. Since most members of the group, including 김명하 are older and their physical conditioning is not very good (they're older than me, and don't do hapkido 5 days a week), by the time they finished most people were drenched in sweat, but I felt like we had really barely practiced some of the motions. After discussion about the three similar motions and trying to clarify the names so that everyone wouldn't get confused, the discussion moved onto why SSN is called a --------- dance. I will have to ask someone, because I thought I'd noted the name correctly, but googling the name doesn't return a result. The conversation then went on to discuss if (or not) SSN has distinctively bold use of the wrist in dance motions. The senior members all denied this, although Ham Sr. brought up the fact that one of the original members at the time of certification had had particularly active wrists.

After this interlude practice of scenes commenced. The first scene was 곤장놀이, after the scene ended 이병옥 emphasized that everyone had to use very precise pronunciation in the performance. The eight monks were each told to practice at home to make their performance more "멋있어요" (in this case we can gloss this as meaning impressive). Next they practiced 침놀이 and after the scene ended 함, 이 and other senior members, such as 이수환 criticized the crucial end of the scene, correctly the delivery and actions of the players "죽든지 살든지, 내가 몰라." After this everyone last focus for a good 10 minutes, then came back together to practice the 7th scene (the first one with 노장). I was extremely happy to see them making all the 먹중 coordinate their motions, because the last two times I've seen this scene someone has been off. After the scene was rehearsed there was a discussion of line delivery "as if you have no mic" because this will match the traditional tone better (and, dare I say, the mics DO fail sometimes).

Crappy cell phone photos of rehearsal

Next the 먹중 (most of them) got a rest and they practiced the 샌님/말뚝이 scene. 다미 will perform as the youngest of the 3 양반, which disappointed me. I would really have liked to perform that role. After they practice there is a long discussion. As with most discussions the voice or authority starts with "I remember when [old teacher so and so] used to do this..." "It used to go like this" -- to actually find fault with others without bringing up the past is much less common and only happens if you're super confident about your opinion (like 이병옥). The discussion goes over where the members of the scene should be, and in what orientation to the audience, Ham Sr. accused 탄종원 of over-action, and 다미 is given feedback both pulled aside (by 장규식 who usually does this role) and by the group. There is a group repeat-after-이병옥 of some of the words (no longer used) so that pronunciation and delivery is correct. A lot of this focuses on 사처. If you drag it out it's a place for the dead, not a pigsty.

Then 김명하 runs through part of the scene as the shaman. Last year the shaman was 이영식, and I am not sure why it's changed. 김명하 will perform in the majority of the 12 acts-- my rough count has him delivery more lines and being on the stage more than anyone else.

There is a brief discussion of final bows (yes or no, carrying a mask, wearing a mask, in costume, only for those in the last scene, etc.). Should we do "fan service"? (Here they mean, should we offer a chance to take photos together when we've got our costumes on). This discussion often involves "다른 단체" (other groups...). And finally it is agreed that after the bow (where everyone is in the last costume they wore), there should be a period of group dance with the audience.

Everyone hesitated to leave, but I live so far away, I bowed and left quickly.

Learn from my students

In my Korean Folklore class I wanted the students work to be for something more than a grade-- so they made videos and the videos and their sources have been uploaded to a common webpage and the videos are on YouTube as well. Most of the videos are really well thought out-- the students did tons of work and I'm really proud of their work.

Today I want to highlight the work of one student, Haejin. Haejin is sometimes shy, and definitely quirky, but she has excelled in this class. I am so proud of her work, I could do a happy dance about it. She went to volunteer at the National Folk Festival and did the basic research for a final paper to be submitted in another class and simultaneously worked on these two videos. The fact that she included actual live interviews with performers is the part that makes these videos absolutely stand out.

Here are the links to her two pages (I want you to go visit those pages, instead of viewing the videos here, that's why I'm only supplying links).

Gangneung Gwanno Gamyeon'geuk
Pyeongyang Sword Dance

Next time I'll tell you about other videos.

Discussing Chuseok

Next week I will go to the KBS radio studios to record a special guest interview for a Chuseok special broadcast (thanks to Eugene for introducing me to the KBS radio host). Chuseok (추석) is the Korean harvest festival, sometimes translated into English as the Korean Thanksgiving, partially because it does include coming together with your family for a large meal. But Chuseok is much more than just a meal, leading me to prefer calling it a harvest festival-- to reflect the large number of activities that people would participate in/watch during Chuseok. [Thursday Edit: I was reading a blog by my friend Eugene (yep, same guy mentioned a couple sentences ago) and he expressed his frustration with Koreans constantly labeling Korean things "the Korean this" and "the Korean that." My mind immediately snapped to several instances of this, including when I wrote the above paragraph on Wednesday. I find no problem with someone saying that Chunhyang is the Korean Romeo & Juliet. The story is similarly tragic, and extremely well known. But there are so many cases where, as Eugene said, it's just ridiculous and ends up causing more misunderstanding than understanding.]

I am writing this blog as sort of a way to get my thoughts together before I have to speak eloquently (I hope) on the radio. In addition, this radio discussion will provide me with an example for my students for the Korean Folklore class I am teaching this fall. One of the main aspects of this class will be teaching my students how to explain Korean traditional customs in an engaging way in English. I chose that focus for two reasons (1). my students have varying personal experience and background knowledge of traditional customs. A few of them are from more traditional rural families, and have a much deeper understanding than my urban Christian students. Through focusing on explaining the traditions we manage to avoid making anyone feel uncomfortable for lack of knowledge, or frustrated through reviewing too many things they know. (2). Even if you have the background knowledge explaining things in an engaging way is crucial for growing interest/ re-connecting Koreans to their traditions-- and through learning how to make it interesting in English I am confident my students will also be able to turn on friends and family members with their presentations. Just this Monday one of my students was visiting my office and she told me she repeats everything I say (presumably she means the interesting bits) to her mom, who is a teacher, so that her mom will teach it to Korean young people.

I am a virus. ㅋㅋㅋ
I am infecting Koreans around me with my own attitude that not all traditions should be forgotten.

Okay, first of all, did you realize that there is more than one kind of jesa? (제사)

Jesa -Ancestral Rites
Jesa is one of those terms that Western people hear Korean use, usually glossed as 'ancestral worship ceremony,' or 'ancestral veneration' and often they don't feel comfortable asking more. Especially when a Korean tells them they're really tired because they were awake in the middle of the night doing jesa for their grandpa or their mother. It can feel rude to inquire further. Maybe you did, though, because you're curious and you felt comfortable asking that Korean friend. Probably (unfortunately) you wouldn't learn that much-- and you might get confused because of the different types of jesa and the (somewhat) different activities and motivations behind them. You'd hear about preparing special food, offered on an altar, or at a gravesite, clipping some grass, bowing, and probably an excuse about how your friend's uncle (father's oldest brother) or grandfather is the person who really knows all about it, that your friend just follows along as instructed.

The big types of jesa are gije (기제 or 기일제사), charye  (차례), and sije (시제).

With these three the type you need to sensitive about with your friend is gije -- this is the one that is done on the death anniversary for close relatives. So this might be for your friend's grandmother this week, and two month's later your friend's family might be doing it for his dad, or it could be the next week-- it all depends on when someone died. If the death is pretty recent then it is certainly a sad occasion -- getting together with family and memorializing that dear departed family member. Asking who the gije was for, and how long since he/she passed on would help you assess whether your friend might need some extra emotional support.

Charye is the type of jesa that is done at Chuseok. It's jesa for the relatives of 4 generations (count this from the generation of the family head, so if your friend has a living paternal grandfather this is counted from grandfather). Therefore a memorial tablet should be placed on the charye table for each of those relatives, usually in couple sets following the male line (paternal great grandparents, great great grandparents...). Of course, if by chance someone has died of a generation below the family head (paternal grandfather is alive, but father is dead), then father's tablet should be included on the table, too. So charye includes the recently passed, as well. Because charye is for 4 generations it is sometimes called sasanje (사산제). 

Charye  is held four times per year according to the Zhuzi Jiali (주자가례 in Korean), the family rituals of Zhu Xi (12th century, Chinese, the thinker whose brand of Neo-Confucianism became most dominant in Korea's Joseon Dynasty). The four times for charye are Chuseok, Seollal, Hansik, and Dano (or sometimes at Dongji (winter solstice), instead of one of the other four, depending on the family).

So charye is actually literally tea (cha) and rye (ceremony). But don't let your mind go to some orientalist representation of a Japanese tea ceremony-- alcohol is offered (and drunk) during Chuseok. It's earthy, it's gritty, it's real, it's Korean. It's not refined and exclusionary at all. To do charye at Chuseok you usually go take care of your grave site the weekend before (or a couple weekends before, because a lot of grave sites are located on little backroads that can get jammed up if everyone goes right at the same time-- or these days some people will just ask a couple family members to do it, and not perform the grave maintenance as an act of humility because humility be damned compared to the horrible inconvenience of visiting a tomb somewhat near the hometown that probably most people in the family don't even live in any more.)  This grave site maintenance (벌초) generally means clipping the grass and uprooting any weeds. So on Chuseok the family goes to the grave and bows with offered food and drink, but the elaborate table with offerings is at home. So the grave site ceremony is called Chuseok seongmyo and the ceremony at home, which usually takes place first on the morning of Chuseok is Chuseok charye.

Foods for the different charye, sije and gije vary by time of year of the ceremony and by region of the country. For Chuseok special foods include songpyeon (송편) -- specifically the type of songpyeon stuffed glutinous rice cakes that you make with pine needles in the steamer. It may be made with the new rice, and theoretically an unmarried woman who made pretty songpyeon was going to find a good husband, while a pregnant woman making pretty cakes would have a beautiful daughter (if you are wondering if in son-obsessed Korea this meant that you didn't want to even engage in making songpyeon at Chuseok if you happened to be pregnant, you'd be sort of right. After the cakes were cooked, if you sampled a cake and it was undercooked, you were having a girl, and if it was cooked completely, you were having a boy). In Jeolla Province they have a traditional offshoot to Chuseok charye  called olbe simni (올베심리)-- the offering of prematurely harvested rice (rice that isn't fully ripe). Other important foods at Chuseok include Taro Soup (토란국), skewered mushrooms (화양적), and skewered egged and breaded veggies and meat (느름적).

This graphic explains a somewhat standard table for charye. The back is to the north wall, notice that the west side and east side are carefully explained on the graphic. At the very back, the four things there are the ancestral tablets with the names of the deceased. The first row has noodles, rice, soup and songpyeon or ddeok. The second row has meat, savory pancakes, tofu, and fish. The third row has a meat soup, tofu soup, and fish soup. The fourth row has a different type of fish, then vegetable side dishes, soy sauce, and even a sweet rice called sikhye. The fifth row has different types of fruits and nuts and snacks. Then there is the table for ritual incense and alcohol. This is usually a lower and much smaller table. Female descendants are on the west side (left) and male on the east side. If someone is officiating and talking through the whole ceremony, pouring drinks, reminding people how many bows to do, etc. they will be at the east corner of the little table. 

Sije, a ceremony that few Korean families still observe, is the jesa that is done for the 5th generation and onwards back into the past. Sije can be held either on Hansik (Cold Food Day-- in April) or during the 10th lunar month (two months after Chuseok). Sije has several other names-- including 시사, 시향, 묘사, 묘전제사, 세일제, and 세일사. This ceremony is held regularly once per year at the tomb site, traditionally, although these days it is more common for people to eschew going to the tombsite. If sije is held on Hansik it is possible for charye and sije to be held four times total, whereas if sije is in the 10th lunar month there would be five ceremonies-- four charye and one sije.

So those are the three main types of jesa, but it gets even more complicated!
Jesa is Confucian culture, so of course we also have a Buddhist version, called daeryejae (다례재), usually held in the temple to honor monks who have passed, and of course the Won Buddhists always insist that they are not the same as the Buddhists, so they have a jesa just a little different than other groups.
The Catholics have long realized the importance of accepting jesa as a way to harmonize with Korean culture, and the Catholics also prepare their jesa a little differently. Naturally, instead of placing the names of deceased family members on the jesa table, the Catholics place a cross at the center back (so that you are not bowing down to dead people, but to the Lord).
The Protestants long prohibited any kind of jesa. To make it possible for some Protestants who are good Koreans and want to honor their ancestors, but don't want to "worship" them because that would be sacrilegious, there is the hybrid ceremony called chudosik (추도식). There is a good article in English on the topic by a guy who seems to have no idea how to spell his own name. Hung Chull Jang. I'd guess that's 장흥철 but...

Chuseok (beyond Jesa)
So Chuseok itself is actually celebrated on August 15th according to the lunar calendar. (The 15th is always full moon, the 1st is the new moon). The name Chuseok means Autumn Evening, and other terms for the holiday include 가재, 가재일, 가위, 한가위, 중추, 중추절, and 중추가절. To tell you the truth I've only ever heard people use (han)gawi, and jungchu before, but the book I am referring to as I write this paragraph listed those other names, too.

At Chuseok people didn't just cook a lot and bow to the deceased ancestors, they also would predict the harvest (rain=poor crop yields, clouds obscuring the moon completely was a bad sign, but a totally clear night was a very bad sign for barley farming.)

People would dress up at Chuseok in Chuseokbim (추석빔)-- special clothes and accessories. (설날 clothes are called 설빔, 단오 clothes are called 단오장). The clothes would be new, or maybe really well laundered. Because this was right before the cold season started, these clothes would be the new set of clothes to wear for the winter, often quilted 마고자 (a jacket) or a 두루마기 (long coat down to the knees). The special clothing for girl children would include the classic top with striped sleeves and a red skirt.

The alcohol associated with Chuseok is gabaeju (가배주)ㅡ if you were getting excited about trying a new type of Korean alcohol you'd  not previously had, sorry. This was just sort of the generic name for the alcohol available at Chuseok, the only thing special about it was that it might be made from the brand new crop of rice.

Ganggang Sullae (강강술래) is one of the key arts performed at this annual festival-- not that it was ever performed everywhere in Korea until more or less the modern era, though. This art is from the south coast of Jeolla Province. It is a circle dance, generally performed by a group of women (only). The dance steps and the accompanying song are not that difficult, what is difficult is constant flow from one type of pattern to another, including some special ones where the ladies form a bridge out of their backs and another walks along the bridge-- all while continuing the song in a classic folk song style where everyone sings a chorus and individuals sing each verse. Traditionally performed outside on the night of Chuseok (under that big moon), it is also performed at Daeboreum in some parts of Korea.

Particularly because it is preserved most actively on Jindo Island and the adjoining mainland, it is often associated with Admiral Yi Sunsin (the turtle boat guy-- the guy in the middle of the street in armor at Gwanghwamun). Some scholars try to link them together, but there is no credible evidence.

Ganggang Sullae is usually divided into three parts by speed of the accompanying drumming. There may be games inserted within the performance such as 개고리타령, 남생아놀아라, 고사리 꺽자, 쥔쥐새끼놀이, 청어엮고 풀기, 기와밟기, 덕석몰이, 꼬리따기, 문지기놀이, 가마등, 수건놓기, and 외따먹기. Each of these games has a connection to some sort of traditional activity, and in a long, full-length performance (usually just once per year), all these parts can be seen but otherwise the entire list will not be performed. Most scholars believe that the entire dance was performed to bring the gods pleasure, but that the deeper religious significance has been forgotten. The art is protected under Korea's Cultural Property Protection Law as Intangible Cultural Property #8.

Chuseok itself is an agrarian festival-- most of the various activities associated with it were connected somehow to the land and agricultural life. One such is geobugi noli (거북이놀이)-- the turtle dance/game. The turtle costumes were made from millet stalks, and usually two people would get inside the turtle's top shell and walk from home to home with a turtle leader and people playing pungmul music. The head of each house was to invite the turtle and troupe inside to play and dance, and the troupe would wish for the long life and prosperity of the family who lived in that house. The household should also feed and provide drinks for the performers. Apparently this tradition is still alive nearby where I lived in Gyeonggi Province, but to the best of my knowledge it's only a re-enactment, now. Also it's worth noting that the turtle, as a long life creature, was associated with these prayers for long life of villagers. A very similar practice elsewhere in Korea was called sonoli (소놀이) with pungmul and two people inside a cow costume. Another activity was a weaving game, called gilssam noli (길쌈놀이). And having sossaum (소싸움) or ox fights was also common. Don't worry the oxes fought each other, they weren't goaded like in the European style. These fights are still going on in places like Cheongdo in Gyeongsangbukdo.

For me what is interesting is two other performances-- that of Bak Cheomji noli (박첨지놀이),  and that of Songpa Sandae Noli (송파산대놀이).

I am going to start my first day of my Korean Folklore class with Bak Cheomji's tale. We'll be reading the story in translation. So this story is actually a puppet play with 9 human characters, a temple, a serpent, a hawk and birds, as well as the funeral flag bearers, carpenters, funeral casket bearers, and the mourners. The puppets in Korea are manipulated from below, generally on a single rod. The play is performed by two groups-- by the Namsadang group (and then it's generally called Ggokdu Gaksi Noleum), and by a group from Seosan. The story is the same, but the Seosan version is registered as regional cultural property for Chungcheonnamdo, instead of as a national one like the multi-act Namsadang (National Treasure #3). The puppet play, like most of the mask dance dramas, is not very complimentary to the upper class yangban, and particularly addresses the 처첩관계 -- the relationship of wife and concubine. In the regional version Buddhism looks pretty good-- fervent prayers to Buddha give the character Sogyeong his sight back-- but in the Namsadang version Buddhism is more heavily criticized.

Of course the characters are quite rude to each other. Here's a passage from the Namsadang version where old Pyo Saengwon is reunited with his old wife (a common scene in mask dance dramas, too). The old man criticizes the appearance of the old woman.

꼭두각시:  Do you know why this has happened? I must tell you. To look for you, I climbed a steep mountain in Gangwon Province where I ate acorn jelly. That is the reason by face has changed to its present appearance.
표생원: What? What are you talking about? You! You harlot! Are you trying to tell me that you have so many pockmarks on your face because you ate acorn jelly? I ate mounds of corn and acorns when I was coming to 산수갑산 from 백두산 in 함경도. But I don't have a single pockmark on my face. My face is as smooth as if it were planed. What an absurd and hollow liar! [pauses] However, if a dragon appears out of a small ditch, we must still call it a dragon. And even if the guardian of a temple is made of straw, we must still call it the guardian of the temple. According to this logic, I must now admonish 돌몰이, my concubine, to greet my wife. [He brings them together]. Well. Wife. Let's stop talking nonsense. We must discuss our future. You have already passed your sixtieth birthday. I am eighty years old and poor. In addition, we don't have a single child. What a great failure! Aren't you sad about this, too?
꼭두각시: I haven't seen you for many years, but this has been the cause of my worries.
            [translation by Oh-Kon Cho in his excellent book Traditional Korean Theatre]

Songpa Sandae Noli was a mask dance drama often performed during Chuseok festivities. But I have written about it repeatedly in the past, so I won't go into it more here. [Some previous posts on Songpa Sandae Noli 1 2 3 although those won't be particularly basic information].

[To write this post, in addition to a large number of things stored in my brain that I accessed, I also used the Encyclopedia of Korean Seasonal Customs, published in 2007 by the National Folk Museum of Korea, and I've been reading a very nice book called 제사와 차례.

Changes to Traditional Theatre in Modern Korea

I was asked to write three entries in an upcoming publication called the Dictionary of Asian Theatre. This is my draft of one entry... the word count is practically killing me.

Changes to Traditional Theatre in Modern Korea

Three main primary reincarnations of traditional theatre in modern Korea have reimagined tradition in new ways: madanggeuk,yeonhigeuk, and changgeuk.

During the Korean pro-democracy movement activists became interested in re-appropriating Korean tradition from government control (as registered items of protected traditional culture), and to that end learned mask dance dramas and pungmul drumming. Motivated youth staged what appeared to be a traditional performance, but after a crowd had amassed and the show was underway, the traditional would often give way to a more explicit political message. Over time these young people realized that they no longer needed to clothe their politics within tradition and the genre madanggeuk was born. Through their connection with the democratization movement, these plays by and large focused on spoken and mimed messages. Due to performers’ background training in mask dance drama and pungmul and a desire to remain allied with Korean folk culture, their plays often incorporated traditional music and movement, with the players clad in Korean traditional clothing. In the present day many madanggeuk are performed without these elements, on a variety of themes limited only by the imagination of those involved. New members of madanggeuk troupes may never have learned pungmul or mask dance dramas, and although some troupes explicitly continue to incorporate tradition and train their members in these skills, others do not.

This madanggeuk performed by students of a women's university (not professionals) has lost almost all markers of tradition. 

This madanggeuk maintains the various traditional trappings, but the performers are not necessarily explicitly trained in traditional performance-- they employ the markers of tradition that are useful to evoke a country bumpkin aesthetic but the emphasis is on a humorous delivery of the story. When most Koreans picture madanggeuk they picture something like this.

             Although madanggeuk originally appeared to be the naturally evolving future of Korean traditional theatre, today yeonhi groups, or groups performing yeonhigeuk (yeonhi is a loose term for traditional folk theatre) have emerged. One reason for the resurgence of this term is the opening of a department in yeonhi at the Korean National University of the Arts. The department trains students in mask dance drama, pungmul, shamanic performance, and the skills of the traditional itinerant Korean performers, the Namsadang. Yeonhi groups, often including graduates of the university, have thorough traditional training and reassemble various traditions into full-length shows. Many yeonhi groups create new stories as a framework for presenting traditions they have learned. Instead of limiting themselves to one art or one genre (such as a single village’s pungmul style or one traditional folk dance), they combine styles and genres in a single show. This may include the lion dance from Bongsan’s mask dance drama, the spinning disks from Namsadang, drumming in a pan-regional style, and newly coined humorous dialogue delivered in a traditional style.

I really want to show you a specific video that perfectly encapsulates yeonhigeuk -- but for some reason I cannot embed it. Please visit it here.

Here is another example, this is of highlights from the yeonhi performance of "Good Morning Gut" by The Gwangdae

             Finally, changgeuk is the re-staging of the epic pansori tales that were originally sung by a solo singer accompanied by a drummer. In changgeuk, similar to an opera or a musical, each character is voiced by a different singer on an often elaborate set with props. Changgeuk were first staged in the early twentieth century and contributed to the ongoing success of the pansori genre by providing an alternative setting in which to hear the distinctive singing style. When staging pansori as changgeuk, the music expands from a single drummer to include multiple Korean traditional instruments, and other traditional arts such as dance may be presented in a scene only briefly described in the original tale. Newly composed changgeuk that are not based on the traditional pansori epics have been less successful.

This video is from a production of the National Changgeuk Company's performance of a changgeuk of the pansori tale of Shim Cheong. 

Trusting the Universe, Korean Honesty, and My Wallet

Back in 2000, as everyone knows, I met K (my husband), at the Andong International Mask Dance Festival. This is also the festival that made me fall in love with Korean Mask Dance Dramas (in the inaugural year, 1997). And of course both of these things have changed my life.

In 2001 I went to China to see K for the first time (before I knew more than a few words of Chinese, and none of Tibetan). I took the boat from Korea to Qingdao, and without any Chinese managed to buy myself a  ticket (seat, not sleeper) on a train to Xi'an (most of the way to the end of the train line nearest K's home). In Qingdao in the train station waiting for my train, nervous, laden down by a huge camera bag and another bag for clothes and necessities, I desperately needed the bathroom, but had already realized how hard this would be to navigate without setting my bag on a very nasty Chinese train station bathroom floor covered in fluids one does NOT want to identify. Then I met a Korean-- he had seen me on the boat and said something to me. All I needed to know was that he was Korean. "Can you watch my bag? I have to use the bathroom!" and off I went, only realizing once in the bathroom how funny it was that I was willing to trust this fellow based purely on the fact that he was Korean. (As it happens Kenneth as I are still friends, he brought his family to a performance of K's in Vancouver in August-- I don't think we'll ever lose touch of each other).

I have always been convinced of Korean honesty, and a little government and business corruption aside, I maintain that belief.

I did lose my wallet on the bus once. Dang that sucked. And I did have to pay a "finder's fee" to get it back (the finder claimed the cash was already gone when he found it). Actually he wouldn't even deal with me. My friend Yoomi's mom had to go meet him and exchange for my wallet. Ugh. But that guy did not dim my belief in Korean honesty.

Until last Thursday, that is.

I arrived at the Andong International Mask Dance Festival at 2pm, right as the performance of Goseong Ogwangdae was starting. I had left home at 7:10, caught a bus to the bus station in East Seoul (a single bus... but it took forever to get there), but then was stymied when the next two buses to Andong were sold out. As an experienced traveler in Korea, I joined the line of people hoping that not all the ticket holders would show up... allowing me to catch an earlier bus. I missed the first bus by three people. When the second bus hit departure time I was third in line and made it on. Anyway, I arrived in Andong with this big rush rush rush stressed energy. I got in line and bought a ticket for the performance hall (the festival is free, except for that one hall. A single entry is 7,000 won, in order to come and go as I liked I bought a 30,000 won ticket good for the entire duration of the festival). I even managed to find a front row seat in the packed hall. When the funeral procession of the last act entered the stage I stood up and slipped 10,000 won into the rope on the front of the "coffin" for the character of Keun Eomi. This was the last time I saw my wallet.

Hwang Jong-uk Performing in the Role of the Old Monk

After the show I gleefully reunited with my Goseong friends (although in fact I saw them all in July, but still I had a chance to tell them about my job, and I'm still pretty excited to say "I got a job! I'm a professor now!"). Before long the bus took most of them back to Goseong, except Hwang Jong-uk, Minsu, and two K-Arts students who were helping out. I hung around with the four, especially Hwang, walking around, taking photos of them teaching a demo class for kids, and then eating dinner together (Hwang's treat-- I think I owe him about 20 meals at this point). Once they left I had to carry all my stuff again, and decided to go check into a hotel, then return for some night photography.

In the hotel room I couldn't find my wallet. "Don't freak out! Don't freak out!" I kept repeating. But it was really gone. The hotel owners (who couldn't remember me from last time, but that might be good as last time I left with their key and didn't find it in my pocket and send it to them for at least a week) were pissed when I tried to leave with the key but not paying, but I assured them my friends would loan me money.

My friends?!!! My only real Andong friend, Yeong-ae, was in Bali performing at the opening ceremony for APEC. I walked back to the festival in a half panic, looking everywhere I'd been and asking at each official desk, tourist info center, the police station, the ticket office, and finally the main festival office if a wallet had been turned in. In the main festival office Gwon Duhyeon (festival director whom I've met before but barely remember) reached into his wallet and set 50,000 won on the table in front of me. "Give me your name card" I insisted. And eventually he did, although he really would have just given me the money. I went looking more, then returned to the office. "Can I use your computer?" I asked Gwon and checked, finding out that my Chase accounts hadn't had even a whiff of action (my wallet had a Korean cash card, "check" card, two Chase cards, my Islander's Bank card, my driver's license, my university ID that I'd received on Tuesday, my transportation card loaded with more than 40,000 won, 110 in American cash AND over 250,000 in Korean cash). Sitting there I got a text from Hwang Jong-uk "Shall I save you?" he asked. "What does this mean?" I asked Gwon, handing the festival director my phone. "Oh, you're a friend of Hwang Jong-uk?" He asked, laughing, and dialing Hwang who promptly ordered Gwon to give me another 50,000 won.

I couldn't shake the memory of the man who'd wanted a finder's fee to return my wallet, and although I felt that my wallet had to return to me, I tried to accept that all the cash would be gone. And I kept trying to remind myself that I have a job. After spending seven years as an MA and PhD student with only one year in between (on Buddhist pilgrimage) and one year after finishing my doctorate (unemployed), I am very used to being stressed about money. And if someone started using my check card, I'd lose much more than just the cash. Korean "check" cards (kind of like a debit card) don't need even a pin, just a signature. (Gwon and I had tried to cancel my check card, but I couldn't use the automated system because I didn't know the account number). Dejected, but "saved" from embarrassment at the hotel by Gwon's loan, I settled in for a mostly sleepless night tossing and turning as I imagined someone partying with my money.

I was first in line as the door opened at Daegu Bank in the morning. What would you do if a foreigner walked into your bank without any ID? Would you cancel and reissue their "check" card?
Me:      (After summarizing the no money, no ID issue) You need to call my friend at Daegu Bank in Seoul (holding out my phone with her name and number)
Them:    Uh, we can't do that. (But then checking on their computer) Oh, a Jo Suhyeon does work in Seoul!
Them:     (After their phone connects) Do you know a foreigner called 시이달?
Jo SH:     Yes, of course.
Me:        Give me the phone! (Into phone in total Daegu-dialect whine) I lost my wallet. It has this and that and that and that in it! And I'm in Andong! Alone!
Jo SH:     Don't worry, give me back to them.
Them:      (After listening to Jo SH) Here is our form filled out with your ID number and your bank account info, sign here. Okay, here's your new card. And there hasn't been any activity on this account.

Of course I called Jo Suhyeon back to thank her after I had withdrawn some money. At that point I felt much less stressed, because it seemed I wasn't going to have a large amount of money lost, just potentially a lot of hassle to replace all the rest of the cards and ID. Then I had a nice breakfast (at my favorite Andong restaurant).

By the time I got back to the festival I knew my wallet had been found. Arriving at the festival I learned that it had been found by Im Jaeseon, a "friend" of mine whom I've known for about 15 years-- a professional mask dancer with Hahoi Byeolshin'gut Talnoli. Every single thing, including all the cash, was still there. I paid back Gwon, bought a fancy ceramic plate for Im, and had a good rest of the festival, my faith in Korean honesty stronger than ever.

Breakfast on my third day in Andong-- Note the Andong Salted Mackerel and two-type of squash squash savory pancakes

Everything You -EVER- Wanted to Know about Korean Mask Dance Dramas

Ah yes, my favorite subject! I wrote an essay to accompany photos published by the Journal Cross-Currents: East Asian History and Culture Review. If you want to access the article and the photos, here is the link. I wish I had found more time to edit the writing, as it's a bit clunky, but I'm pleased with the article in general. It was also reproduced in the the Vol. 1, No. 2 (November 2012) print version of the same journal.

The photo collage below did not make the cut for inclusion. The photo is of the Bibi Gwajang from Goseong Ogwangdae.

Cheonha Jeil Tal Performance

June 10^th, 2011

Today Karjam had his very important day of adding percussion tracks to the CD. 고석진 Go Seokjin, a talented traditional drummer and dancer agreed to take on the task of creating most of the percussion tracks for the CD.  He was, unfortunately, returning from Jeju Island where he'd been performing, and he ended up taking a taxi with only some of his instruments—the recording didn't get finished, in other words. The final decision was that he would add percussion to 7 of the 11 tracks, but they only got through four. Or mostly through four, as there may be a little of some other percussion instruments added next Friday when they finish the recording. The remaining three tracks are the three traditional tracks, mostly those will be a cappella with just a little bit of an intro.

I had to leave before they'd finished up to get to see 천하제일탈 Cheonha Jeil Tal's first piece, which I had not seen before. The piece was very very good.

First 손병만 Son Byeongman performed monk 1's dance, followed by monk 2's monologue and then monk 3's dance, moving into 합동 circling and then he left the stage. Next 허창열 Heo Changyeol performed 문둥북춤 Mundung Bukchum, brilliantly and perhaps just a bit longer than normal, it seemed that there was some extra 소고춤 sogochum at the end but I could be wrong. Finally 이주원 Yi Juwon entered from the back of the audience as 이매 Imae from 하회별신굿탈놀이 Hahoi Byeolshin'gut Talnoli. He did indeed pull an older Korean woman and then a foreign man from the audience, adding the extra moment of amusement when the woman could not be enticed to speak in English to the foreigner and Juwon had to suddenly out of character explain.

           

Next the players donned new masks and acted out a play with two parts, the second humorously about plastic surgery (and its popularity in Korea). I found this second section to be ineffective as it was extremely reliant on dialogue for long stretches, and while it had acting it didn't have much of any dance.

After the show I had dinner with the players and musicians, who were all getting ready to leave for Namwon, where they'd be performing on Saturday.

Gangneung Dano Festival

June 5^th, 2011

Luckily Karjam and I arrived at the bus station 2 minutes before the bus to 전주 Jeonju. If we'd arrived even a little later we would have had to wait an hour and a half. In Jeonju we decided to use the bus from the 시외터미날 to 남부터미날 in Seoul instead of lugging our bags and ourselves to the Express Bus Terminal. Also the buses are cheaper. We left 20 minutes later for Seoul and managed to get home by about noon. At home I had to quickly deal with Photoshop for some photos of mask dance dramas that were requested by 황종욱 Hwang Jong'uk of 고성오광대 Goseong Ogwangdae. I was happy to help him, but he wanted photos of performances I'd never gotten around to processing at all. Not photos of his art, but of three others—I'm sure he has a good use for them, but I didn't ask. I'll put some of those photos before this paragraph for your enjoyment.

Eunyul Talchum

Eunyul Talchum

Yangju Byeolsandae

Yangju Byeolsandae

Yangju Byeolsandae

We headed back to the Express Bus Terminal and took a bus to 강릉 Gangneung leaving around 3:30. In Gangneung we took a local bus to the festival grounds and wandered around just a little bit before the 8 p.m. performance of 강릉 관노 가면극 Gangneung Gwanno Gamyeon'geuk which was the reason I wanted to go to the festival. Otherwise the festival seemed really commercialized, there was just this one little strip with traditional performances and demos and a TON of commercialism on both sides of the local river.

The performance was (of course) very good. I had a chat with a few students learning the Gamyeon'geuk after the show, they were of the age that could be late middle school but I suspect early high school. They were also the most enthusiastic members of the crowd. Then I talked to the man who'd acted the part of the 양반 yangban character. They have a huge building right next to the festival site dedicated as a training center. Again, as in October, the actors all seemed pretty young, with the percussionists containing the older members of the art.

We had a hellish time finding a place to stay, the whole town was full of tourists enjoying the long weekend and the festival—we ended up paying 40,000 won for a small room that should have been 20,000 won.

June 6^th, 2011

I had originally thought I might want to stay in Gangneung until the evening, but we got to the festival pretty early and decided to leave around 3 pm. I am really adverse to crowds and it was very crowded. I spent more than an hour watching a shamanic ceremony/performance sitting in a sea of short-haired permed grandmothers. It was actually really interesting to watch them, but the shaman was also fairly spectacular, a woman with a large number of disciples and a very good 장구 janggu player who she interacted with. Both sides of the altar had young festival workers/volunteers stationed with vacuums. They were kept constantly busy vacuuming drifting ash out of the air after people had burned a prayer at the altar.

I then watched two entire entrants in the 농악nongak (pungmul) music competition, both groups were quite similar to each other and I was not enormously impressed with them, but I was happy to see how many people were ardently engaged with Korean traditions, so I guess I should keep my judgments of their 상모 sangmo ability to myself.  

I also got to see some girls doing 열뒤기 (jumping standing see-saw). They were amazing. Back flips in the air and landing smack on the board and repeat. Seriously.

Our bus back to Seoul was stuck in serious return to Seoul after holiday weekend traffic. 

Dissertation Excerpt: Age and Performance

Watching performances in Korea over many years, and being familiar with the CPPL [Cultural Property Protection Law] system I have long accepted that the performers will frequently be quite elderly. When I returned to Korea for my year of dissertation field research I was lucky to be supported by the Fulbright-Hays Fellowship which offers a spousal stipend. My husband, a Tibetan performing artist, was therefore frequently dragged along to performances as my escort and as a cameraman. Because my research focuses on transmission of performing arts knowledge by individuals who are within the CPPL system, I rarely go to see shows by energetic twenty-somethings. In large group performances, such as mask dance dramas and pungmul, the performers have a large age range, but I can only think of three shows in the past year that did not include performers past forty and all three were outside the CPPL system but headlined by young performers from inside the system. In all these shows Karjam's largest and enduring criticism has been related to the age of the performers: how younger (and he sometimes also mentioned more beautiful/handsome) performers would have presented a much "better" performance.

            It is true that in high level dance companies around the world the leading performers are often fairly young: in the case of ballet it is infamous how early the careers of the dancers peak. When I picture older performers in the West, my mental rolodex supplies orchestra conductors, the occasional classical music soloist and opera singers; yet it is safe to say that all of these individuals intend to retire leaving their reputation for strong performances intact. East Asia with a foundational respect for age and experience, not to mention the teachings of Confucius, places more elderly people in the limelight in all sectors of society. In Korea the oldest and most experienced performer, often a National Human Treasure, will frequently be the star – drawing the audience, providing the focus for media coverage and receiving adoring standing ovations.

            I have seen performances by dancers so infirm I was afraid that when the choreography required them to kneel down they would not be able to rise again at the proscribed place in the music. Performances by dancers who pushed themselves off the stage floor using the hand drums and drum sticks they had knelt down to retrieve. Performances by dancers who have lost their balance and so quiver and sway as they stand on one foot. Performances by dancers whose hands were visibly shaking. Performances by dancers who walk out with a cane and pick it back up as soon as they've taken their bow for the walk off the stage. Performances by dancers who are led onto stage and helped off again at the end. Performances by dancers who had obviously abridged a dance in order to last through to the end of the performance. I even saw a performance by a dancer so beset by osteoporosis that she was bent over with a huge hump on her back. Sometimes an entire evening with seven to nine dances each between ten and fifteen minutes in length will be performed by dancers with an average age in the high seventies. I love these performances. In most of these cases I felt the dances were richer, deeper and more meaningful; I have been moved to tears. Yet there is no denying that a forty or fifty year old could have executed salpuri, seungmu or taepyeongmu after twenty-five or thirty years of training with the same technical proficiency and hopefully just as much emotional complexity as their elderly teacher: but with perfect balance and a straight back.

            What about Korea encourages the performance of elderly dancers?  I see three interlocking reasons for staging the elderly. First, there is the desire of the audience for the authentic, for the person trained in the village who is the embodied connection with a near-mythical past that has been lost in the urbanized modern age. Watching the performer who physically holds the 'old' knowledge and 'old' ways may be more rewarding (emotionally) than watching the young and beautiful dancer who after even two or three years of practice should  theoretically be able to perform the dance well. Second, there may be something about the aesthetic of specific Korean dances which cannot be successfully communicated by a lithe young dancer. Dances such as salpuri, the solo of Mundung in Goseong Ogwangdae or almost any of the old monk characters in the various mask dance dramas require a certain degree of heaviness or sorrow to be infused with the motions (c.f. Loken-Kim and Crump 1993, Loken-Kim 1983, Jeong BH 1997). This can be particularly hard for young dancers, although it is not impossible. If an audience expects flexibility, swiftness, precision and grace these older dancers may not perform as "beautifully" as younger dancers, but for an audience who expects the appropriate Korean aesthetic the performance of a weathered grandmother may be superior to that of a twenty-two year-old dance-college graduate with a Miss Korea face. Third the CPPL system itself may play a role here. By labeling a performer a National Human Treasure their performance has been given an added value, they are more of a "star," or a "brand" than the performers who have not yet attained this rank. Even though a National Human Treasure may be past their peak, even though their performance may be less captivating than it was five, ten or twenty years ago, the legitimizing effect of the law is strong. In addition within their group they are accorded the respect due their ability, knowledge, age and rank. This means that often they have right of first refusal on an opportunity to dance. Since the CPPL requires the National Human Treasure to perform, a performance opportunity may seem more like an obligation. If the performer too often declines performance opportunities they should retire to the sidelines and become an Honorary National Human Treasure (the non-stipended designation for former National Human Treasures who are too infirm to continue their activities). In some cases this may be a financially difficult decision to make, in other cases stubborn pride or a desire for the limelight may interfere. In practice Honorary National Human Treasures are almost always no longer physically able to leave their homes or a health-care facility. Talking with Imshil Pilbong Nongak isuja Yi Jonghui he agreed with my arguments but also said "I think they continue to perform because they want to. They still have the desire for the stage."[1] In a society and in front of an audience that accepts the performances of the elderly, there is nothing stopping them.[2]

            Obviously I have just laid out the active involvement in performance of elderly dancers, but what about the musicians? Do they push it so far? While watching a performance with Yu Sejeong, a daegeum player currently working on a MA in traditional music theory at the Korean National University of the Arts, I leaned over and asked her if musicians who now shake and quiver continue to perform.[3] Sejeong answered "When someone watches an old dancer it's obvious the dancer is old, and people are impressed that they can dance despite the physical difficulty. For the old musicians it isn't so obvious that they're old, it just starts to sound bad. The musicians retire when they feel they cannot perform at a high level anymore."  Racking my mental images of Korean performances I have seen, I only uncovered one case of a musician who was now shaking but as of fall 2010 still performing. Hwang Yongju, the National Human Treasure from Seonsori Santaryeong, dances and sings while beating the janggu. He is still leading his group despite his thinning voice and shaking hands, but he is also visibly old, not like the seated soloist or musician in the imagined ensemble in Sejeong's example. In some ways Hwang is the figurehead and mascot for the group while younger members take over a more substantial degree of the drumming and singing in each of the Seonsori Santaryeong performances I have seen in 2008, 2009 and 2010. Heo Juri, a gayageum player, had a similar opinion, pointing out that a few elderly performers continue into their seventies, but that it's unusual and only in the instruments that do not require an intense level of physical exertion.[4]

---

[1] Personal conversation, April 5^th, 2011 at the Imshil Pilbong Nongak Seoul Training Center.

[2] Korea is not the only location in which the performances of elderly artists are highly valued. The day I finished writing this article the International Herald Tribune (the international edition of the New York Times) ran an article about Tsuyako Ito, an 84-year-old Japanese geisha, the last one in the tsunami stricken town of Kamaishi who was preparing for a performance at the time that the tsunami struck, but had to be carried to higher ground by an admirer.

[3] Personal conversation, April 4^th, 2011 at KOUS.

[4] Personal conversation, April 5^th, 2011 at the Imshil Pilbong Nongak Seoul Training Center.

Great Songpa Sandae Noli Rehearsal

March 26th, 2011
Saturday has traditionally been my day for 송파산대놀이 Songpa Sandae Noli. When I returned to Korea late last summer everyone still practiced in one group on Saturday, but before long they decided to split up the practice so that the 이수자 isuja would have their own special practice on Friday nights. This was partially out of a sense that what they needed to practice was different than what others needed (the isuja handle the bulk of the performance duties but haven't been doing it as long as the higher ranked people, so they are still rehearsing specifically to improve their performance), and partially because the timing was more convenient for the majority of the isuja. Honestly I was annoyed at first, because I thought it would be poor for my research not to see how the isuja were practicing. But honestly, I've seen them all practice before right when I got here and in past years. There really isn't anything that would have been that different. With them gone, the idea is that the Saturday and Sunday practice could actually work on equipping the jeonsuja (registered students) and other junior members with the skills needed to perform with the troupe. Which I'd like, since I've only been able to perform Songpa Dari Balpgi so far. Recently I was talking to 어원석 Eo Wonseok and he told me that he practiced for more than ten years before he was allowed on stage. Talk about a way to discourage people from continuing to practice! With isuja and jeonsuja on the same day, basically the jeonsuja are expected to learn from watching, without many chances to actually stand up and participate.

In class on Saturday we began with three accompanists (I forget the name of the 피리 piri player, but 함완식 Ham Wanshik our National Human Treasure was there to play janggu and 박주현 Bak Juhyeon came to play 대금 daegeum. Jeonsu gyoyuk jogyo 이수환 Yi Suhwan was there, as well. There were three jeonsuja, Eo, 함승훈 Ham Seunghun and me. For learners we had Ham Wanshik's annoying friend, Yi Suhwan's friend (her second or third practice), plus the two elementary school girls. It was sort of obvious from the moment I got there that Yi would be running class that day, but I'd just been fighting with him on FB over the previous two days (and I felt very disrespected) so I was not particularly happy to see him. I did not greet him warmly or talk to him directly at any point during the practice. However, it was the best practice I've had for Songpa Sandae Noli –ever- in my 7 years with them. Before things started Yi and Ham were discussing why the preparations for the performance would be on Friday not on Saturday, because of course this creates a problem since Eo and Ham Jr. will perform, but they aren't welcome to Friday night practice. So they have to practice acts that need multiple players without the others who will actually perform in the Annual Full Length performance (scheduled for May 15th this year).

First we all did the basic motions with Yi leading, using our voices instead of the 장구 janggu to mark the timing (deong ddak gi deong ddak –eolsu- and repeat). It was a bit odd because most everyone doesn't have the level of physical conditioning to keep up the 입장단 Ip Jangdan, so I was more or less the only person doing it by the end. It was also weird, and I don't know if this is an old habit that has fallen out of practice, but Ham Wanshik kept practicing 불림 bullim scripts instead of doing the jangdan (the timing is the same), and it was really distracting because I've never heard that done before. After about fifteen minutes the three musicians sat down to play and the rest of us went through the basic motions for over 15 minutes in a circle. It was long enough that we worked up a good sweat. Yi told Ham Jr. and Eo they'd have to work on their acts and after a short discussion (where Yi pointed out incredibly obvious things like how your motions should be bigger –spatially- in a big madang than if you're performing on a small stage) we moved onto practicing the acts.

The two then ran through the act (act 5) one time, then Ham Wanshik had the rest of us join in. We did it one more time after which Ham could not resist being all authoritarian so he went to the white board to explain all about the act, but then gets worried he's not quite on and asks me not to write down what he's writing on the board. Which wasn't something I could fully follow anyway, as it had more to do with the historic meaning of 곤장 (act 5 is 곤장놀이) than anything that happens in the play. Ham should really either prepare a lecture or not go to the white board, but I guess I can't tell him that.

Then we switched to act 3 (the one I've been practicing) and this time I was 먹중 갑 Monk 'Gap' instead of 'Eul' which I've done every time so far. I did a pretty good job, actually. I delivered my lines with confidence, anyway. We were all (except Eo) reading from the script the whole time, though. Next we practiced 말뚝이 Malddugi's act, which was the first time I could ever do that one! I got to be 도련 Doryeon, the youngest of the yangban, and that was fun because he's all goofing off and running around and stuff (but no dialogue). Coolness!

Class ended then, a full two hours after we started!

After class, unfortunately, Ham Wanshik's annoying friend decided to confront me in the middle of Lotteria when we were all having a nice bit of fries and soda and various types of burgers. We'd gotten in each other's faces a couple weeks before—honestly I didn't behave like a Korean should and he was being a dick, so we were both at fault. Whatever, worked it out.

March 27th, 2011
Chans Bros on the computer and at home on the computer. I skipped Sunday Songpa Sandae Noli practice because I just wanted to get some sleep instead.

Thoughts on Bad Korean Writing

My Korean is not perfect. I know that. I sometimes say things that come out garbled because of poor word choice or grammar issues. Not ordinary everyday things, of course, but sometimes it happens when I try to express complex ideas. Or it happens just because I have bad habits with my Korean that my friends have been too gentle to point out. When I write in Korean I tend to keep my sentences fairly short, mostly because I'm confident in my ability to craft simple sentences and much less confident that I can make a long sentence error free. I can, however, read a newspaper without difficulty (although if it's on a topic I've never been interested in I might have to look up a couple key words in the dictionary). I can read academic articles and books, although I don't enjoy it, and search out the most important information for closer reading. I think this qualifies me to comment on the quality of Korean academic writing, although maybe you won't agree that I'm qualified. In Korea sometimes people are antagonistic to a non-Korean criticizing anything Korean—and I can understand that.

Today I want to vent a bit about bad Korean writing, specifically bad academic Korean writing. I have been forced to think a lot about this topic over the past few weeks because UCLA's Center for Korean Studies asked me to translate an article for publication in a journal. The article they asked me to translate was, they said, very close to my own research. I read the title and I was sold—it was about cultural policy and mask dance dramas! I was quite busy at the time that I agreed to do the translation, so I didn't start right away. I printed the article and I started reading it, but mostly for the big ideas. It was slow going, and I put it away and didn't take it back out until I'd made it through a couple of deadlines. It was when I tried to translate it into (academic) English that I began to appreciate just how bad this article was. My main arguments with his writing are:

1) He does not introduce concepts or organizations. For example, if you're going to talk about intangible cultural heritage policy in Korea, you should introduce the governmental bodies that oversee it (such as the Cultural Heritage Administration) and the law that governs it (the Cultural Property Protection Law). You can't just say "the governmental body that manages intangible heritage" and "intangible heritage policy" throughout your article. It just doesn't make sense. He will use a very technical term and not explain what it means. Including some theoretical terms he's apparently made up. In English I have to explain, for example, which established definition of transculturation I am referring to by clarifying that it is transculturation as used in Wallis and Malm (1993). Heck, I have to have a working definition of 'traditional' and 'culture' and a lot of other words you use all the time that you might not think of a definition for if you haven't had professors jump on you for using them without knowing just what you mean.

2) He does not use proper structure, simply speaking he does not: introduce an idea, support the idea with facts and reason and arguments, sum up. He doesn't use this on a paragraph by paragraph basis, and he doesn't do it for each section of the paper, either.

3) He doesn't believe in transition from one paragraph to another. You could almost reorder entire sections of his paper, just scramble the paragraphs. Ideas are introduced and one paragraph does not flow into the next, so it doesn't matter which order they come in.

4) He frequently neglects to clarify the subject of the sentence. In Korean writing the subject is not always necessary. If I asked you if you'd eaten, I'd just say "식사했어요?" (meal+did?), I wouldn't need to say "you" or anything else that might indicate who I was talking to (it's obvious if I'm speaking to you, isn't it?). However, in academic writing omission of the subject quickly becomes confusing.

5) Most of his paragraphs are three or four sentences long. Many sentences contain in excess of two lines (in a journal) of text, sometimes more than three, and Korean is denser than English. In others words he would take something the length of number (4) above and write one sentence. All with academic vocabulary.

Because I know someone will read this who doesn't believe me, here's a sample of his writing. Go ahead, I dare you to translate it into English in less than 15 minutes. Heck, take more than 15 minutes for these three sentences. Do you feel confident in your translation? If you do, post it in the comment section, I'd like to see how it matches up with what I'm going to submit. Yes, I know the last sentence isn't too bad.

Was I able to translate this by myself? No. At first, even though the limit of my previous translation work was making subtitles for Korean TV shows, I thought I'd be able to do it. After all, I felt like I understood his major points as I was reading. And it's about (more or less) the same topic I spend all day everyday thinking about. Mostly my friend Jisoo helped me. We sat together with multiple cups of coffee and talked through each sentence. Some sentences required 10 minutes before we had a decent translation! And frequently we just had to spend a few minutes blowing off steam about how bad his writing is. My friends Kyungjin and Hoijung also helped a bit, they both were shocked at how bad the writing was (considering that it had been chosen for publication).

The article I'm translating was already published in a journal. So how could it be so bad that Jisoo (post-MA, about to enter a US Ph.D. program), Kyungjin (post-MA, fluent in a gazillion languages and more than halfway through a JD) and Hoijung (post-MA, about to take her comp exams for her Ph.D. and a professional teacher of Korean) would all confirm that it was horribly written?

Possible Reasons Why Korean Is Written Poorly:

1) Languages need a long time to develop and get firm rules for writing: Korean was not the written language in Korea until the end of the 19th century. Even though the alphabet was invented in 1443 (promulgated in 1446), it was used mainly for communicating with/by the lower elements in society—it was used by women and merchants. –Educated—people (men) still used Chinese characters (although they were writing Korean) which required too much time to learn for any but the upper classes to learn well (everyone else was too busy working). There were publication projects usually sponsored by the government to translate important works into the Korean Alphabet (한글 Han'geul) but very little was produced in the alphabet. So many things were not standardized (for example where to put a space (like is it correct to write 할수있어요 or 할 수 있어요? Do you write 경진의 or 경진 의? Do you write 우리는냉이된장국먹었다 or 우리는 냉이 된장국 먹었다) until pretty recently.

2) Then Korea was taken over by the Japanese and the elite became educated in Japanese writing, not Korean writing (the best universities were in Tokyo, of course). Near the end of the occupation the use of Korean was even prohibited. So, in other words, academic works were rarely produced in the Korean alphabet until after liberation in 1945. How we write English was hardly developed over night. The rules of composition that clarify meaning were obviously different a few hundred years ago, and I'm just going to remind you—Shakespeare had darned inconsistent spelling.

3) I don’t know about during the past decades but since I've been in Korea it has been unusual for Korean universities to teach composition or academic writing. The assumption is that the students already know Korean. They're still required to take English in university even if they're in a two-year program to become a car mechanic, but they aren't required to work on their Korean writing skills. In fact, most Korean universities rely on tests and grade students primarily based on those. Even if they do have papers, they're more likely to be 'reports' than an exercise in academic writing. And perhaps the professors would rather just tick off presence and the quality of the major arguments than actually work with the students on how to improve how they presented their ideas. So when could the students ever actually be instructed in how to write? It's not in high school, either, where Korean language classes certainly don't require the teacher to correct the writing of his/her classes. (In the past Korean high school classes had 60 students in a class, by the time I came to Korea the lowering birth rate meant low 50s in a class, now it's often more like the mid 30s, however, if you assign writing to five classes of 30 students, you're still reading and correcting 150 papers, and that's a lot to ask).

4) I think one reason why they wouldn't have a concerted effort to teach Korean writing is because if they taught it then the other professors in the university might feel threatened that the students would now feel they were able to criticize the writing, if not the ideas, in their professors' published works.

5) In addition the legacy of an elite education based on Chinese philosophy is that obtuse writing is more academic. If your writing is impossible to understand it must be because you're smarter than the reader. Not because you don't know how to present your idea. I definitely see this in the preference for 75 cent vocabulary words. It would be easier to just use the super obscure vocab when you had a very specific point to make and 'big' didn't convey the size as accurately as 'humongous,' and use the lower score words the rest of the time. But it wouldn't make you look as smart as if every sentence was packed with those big, long, obscure words. Right?

6) Reputable US Journals require blind review, this means a graduate student can get published and a professor can be denied publication based on how well the ideas are presented. Of course in smaller fields it can be hard to get a truly blind review. I sent in an article on Korean performance to a journal recently. If they sent it for review to someone who works specifically on Korean performance, but is already in a tenured position, there are only about two dozen people in the English-speaking world they could have sent it to. And I'm probably at least in email contact with half of them, if not FB friends. Korean language academia is an even smaller pool than English language academia. A truly blind review is almost impossible here, and most Korean journals don't even bother. With Korea's Confucian values pressing on journal editors, age and length of service to Korean academia will be more likely to guarantee publication than anything else, regardless of how good/bad the writing is.

This only leaves me with one question: why was this article chosen for translation into English? Does someone, somewhere, truly think the ideas are that important? I'll admit he's got some good ideas (along with some not so good ones) but if presentation wasn't important, Korea wouldn't be in the middle of a plastic surgery epidemic.

Feel free to comment if you think I missed a major reason of if you think I'm wrong.