When Words Are Not Enough
When Words Are Not Enough By Elisabeth ‘Suds’ Sudbey, 1st Year ETA Left to right: Enjoying samgyeopsal at my first hoesik (dinner with coworkers); taking a break during a post-lunch walk with the gwahak seonsaengnim (science teacher); exploring the downtown stores and sijiang (traditional market); passing the iconic Andong bus mascot on the way to the mart; sightseeing at Bongjeongsa, a Buddhist temple visited by Queen Elizabeth; and sharing kimbap on a bench before a hike at Dosan Seowon, a 16th century Confucian academy. This collection features moments spent with people that comprise my Andong community, the city I’m placed in. These six memories in particular remind me of my journey towards improving my Korean language skills. As a Korean adoptee, I grew up speaking English not Korean, celebrating Thanksgiving instead of Chuseok, and eating chicken fingers rather than tteokkboki. It is through the people I have met in Andong that I have been able to improve my Korean, a goal of mine since the beginning of this year. It is through language that I have been able to befriend local mart workers, ask a teacher about their trip to Mongolia over summer vacation, and insist on paying for coffee after someone bought me dinner. This is one of many six-panel pieces that I have created while living in Korea that represent the connections I have made. Similar to how we reminisce while looking at photos, when I see these drawings I am immediately drawn back to the memories from that day. Each one represents a different person who showed me great kindness and helped me improve my Korean speaking skills in those first few months living alone in Andong. I have been documenting my trips in various journals since I was seven years old and first went to Disney World. Each day, I would meticulously record all of the details from the day, sometimes even walking while writing to make sure I did not forget anything. I continued this 18-year-long tradition while in Korea; however, I chose to create a journal with art instead of words. Although I have not drawn a picture each day, I have captured many core memories while living in Korea using art. My visual journal represents the beauty of being back in my home country and the emotions evoked when words are not enough. [Featured Image by Elisabeth ‘Suds’ Sudbey]
Landscape Reflections
Landscape Reflections By Noé Toroczkai, 2nd Year ETA These paintings came from meditative moments in my travels within Korea where I was captivated by my surroundings and existed solely in the present. No thoughts, only an overwhelming sensation of warmth and connection to my environment. Snapping a picture during these moments does not do enough to convey the sense of inner peace and veneration for the surrounding nature that I experienced. Going through the labor-intensive process of creating these paintings allowed me to get to know the environment on an intimate level. Painting is a way that I can show my utmost respect to these places, by spending countless hours getting to know every stone, leaf, branch and flower that shared those moments with me. My hope is that these paintings provide an opportunity for the viewer to join me in appreciating the beauty of Korea’s natural landscapes. [Featured photos by Noé Toroczkai – Autumn in Bulguksa, Field of Comfort, Flora Garden ]
Through Mud and Myth
By Johanna Alexander, a second year ETA in Gumi, Gyeongsangbuk-do The importance of history, they say, is that if we know the mistakes of those who came before us, we can avoid repeating them in the future. I’ll grant them this: it’s good advice if you’re like the people in those histories. The kind of person who could fall prey to petty schemes and deceitful promises. “Guys, come on now! He’s spreading false prophecies! I’m trying to protect you—clearly,” Poseidon said as he sent two giant serpents to strangle poor Laocoon, who had just warned the Trojans that the horse was a trick. “Thanks,” they all replied. What fools. Thanking the god for enabling their impending doom. Me? I’m nothing like them. “Thanks,” I said to the woman at the ticket booth. To her left and right sat two more employees, each with the same slicked black hair and pressed, collared uniforms. The three fates making an appearance this early on in my weekend adventure wasn’t surprising; the destiny of a legend was something anybody would want a part in. I pretended not to recognize them, but my blood was boiling in anticipation. What prophecy of greatness did they have in store for me this time? “The mud is great for your skin,” they said. All three women seemed to speak with one voice. Their eyes glinted through the plexiglass partition, but looked past me as I nodded and left with my friend. My friend, who desperately needed the weekend of rest and relaxation that this festival promised. My friend, who, when I presented the idea to her just yesterday, seemed hesitant that we could succeed on such short notice. “Last time we didn’t make a plan, it turned out fine right?” “Please, look who you’re talking to. It will be great!” We entered the festival, a huge stadium bordered by a fence with only one gate. At the beach behind us, hundreds of oblivious visitors were swimming and laughing in the ocean as their cellphones, shoes and wallets were slowly being washed away by the creeping shoreline. We soon found the mud arena and took turns pouring a thick concoction of earth and sea water on each other’s heads. This is what we came here for; I could feel my skin being nourished and rejuvenated. Not a moment after we had returned the ladle to its home in the barrel, we were grabbed by hands belonging to faces we could not see and thrown into a ring of strangers calf-deep in a diluted bath of the healing mud we had just indulged in. A man at the front of the ring blew a whistle, and all hell broke loose. Strange, I thought as my companion and I huddled together for protection. I came to relax like a king, but I’m made to fight like a Spartan? The other revelers at this bacchanal, with faces made anonymous and inhuman by the gray sloppy clay that covered us all, violently slung mud into our eyes, mouth, ears and somehow even in places where the sun rarely shines—though I supposed the mud was good for me in those places too, like they say. In the few moments I could spare to think during the assault, I began to wonder why—why would this turn of events be happening to me of all people? I had done nothing wrong. I had made no mistakes. I never do! And that’s when it hit me—the thought, along with a well aimed chunk of mud. I must be too perfect. They say every hero has a fatal flaw, and mine was that I had none! I was climbing too close to divinity myself and the gods were threatened. This was their punishment. A group of men launched a surprise attack and a shower of mud exploded across my face. Did they know what they were doing? Did they know that this assault was not of their own free will, but simply the hand of my heavenly atonement? Yes, I was having a miserable time. But a hero of my strength, stamina, beauty, cunning and renown (just to name a few) would never be felled by a little teasing from jealous gods who were too cowardly to face me themselves. I lifted my gaze and whispered through the mud in my mouth. “I’ll come out on top. Just you watch.” Crouching shoulder to shoulder with my friend, who was struggling to keep one eye open as witness to our judgment, I decided that I would take their preordained punishment with a smile. My body would be healed and I would feel relaxed—if only to spite them. As the festival dragged on, my voice grew hoarse with shouts of “Yay! I love mud! I can’t believe how awesome this festival is!” We tried to leave, but we couldn’t seem to make it to the exit gate, always getting mixed up and turned around in the hoards of muddy strangers who smiled and cheered as if this weren’t the first circle of hell itself. I had a thought then, that maybe they were not the executioners as I had previously believed, but the damned themselves, overcompensating just like us with a plastered-on smile and repeating hoorah. I wondered what the sorry lot had done to get here, for they could not have been the envy of the gods as we were. In the end—after hours of wrestling our way through ring after ring of muddy hell—we made it out alive. But it seemed our punishment was not yet complete. No, that would have been too quick, too dull for our celestial audience. The sun set as we hailed a taxi, trying to cover up our damp and dirty skin—unacceptable for sitting in someone else’s car—with our damper and dirtier clothes. “Can you take us to the Saerom 24-hour Jjimjilbang?” Sweating and bathing at a sauna is great for your health, they say. We hoped it would offer us some