by Miles Yung Sahm Miller 김영삼 金永森, Architectural Design & Craft Researcher
“Why would you want to learn that old stuff?”
As the words leave her mouth, realization dawns upon her face like the sun on a frigid winter day. Her cheeks flush as she looks straight ahead and rephrases, “Well it seems that most people, not me, but other REAL Korean people, just…well, we view 한옥 (Hanok— traditional Korean homes), and all that as old stuff of the past. But I understand why elders or 교포 (gyopo— Korean diaspora) would care about—”
Before I can finish sharing this past conversation, the Hanok architect interjects.
“People say things without knowing anything…”
He grasps his wrist briefly, considering the weight of his words before continuing, “Well, it just seems that if a person learned the basics, or visited a beautifully crafted modern Hanok, they wouldn’t form such an opinion. Many Koreans are still obsessed with the notion that everything ‘Western’ is modern and more valuable, and anything from Korea is old. Our work is needed now more than ever.”
Months later, I am perched upon a second-floor scaffold drinking instant coffee from a paper cup as these echoes of conversation drift by in parallel to the clouds. Heavy rains rhythmically drum upon the blue tarps overhead. They shield the carefully sculpted timbers of a partially-built modern Hanok.
Looking out from our team’s vantage point, I see young Seoul-lite couples bedecked in the latest Western fashion waiting in line for a busy cafe. Some peek curiously through the sheet of rain separating us, while others point excitedly at the structure unfolded before them. Today I am working at the Eunpyeong Hanok Village, an entire neighborhood of modern Hanok in northwestern Seoul.
When I am not on-site for field research, I am at the National University of Cultural Heritage (NUCH) conducting academic research to better understand traditional Korean architectural design and craft. Each day has been a blur of activity and overload of information. At the university, I am either absorbed in learning about the foundational wooden joints for traditional architectural fittings, a craft called 소목 (Somok), or poring over seminal texts in the library.
“Natives Praying to Wooden Devils, Chosen (Korea),” proclaims the caption of a photo taken by an American Christian missionary and sold by the Keystone View Company. I look at the photo of indigenous Joseon (Korean) people showing respect to traditional guardian totems called 장승 (Jangseung) outside a village. Careful to avoid the piercing glare of the librarian, I stifle a burst of laughter at the absurdity of the Western gaze. As I flick through the photos showing a unified Korean peninsula—known more accurately as Joseon—a bittersweet taste enters my mouth.
Our class crowds together tightly, straining to hear our professor—an Intangible Cultural Heritage Expert of Somok—as he speaks in a low, serious tone. “The difference between the crafts today is that we had to work to survive in the past generation.” He takes a long sip of tea and continues, “We worked under the cruelty of the Japanese colonizers, the American military reign, the war and those years after… so we worked to feed ourselves and them. I’m happy that this generation can still learn our craft and design, but we need to support students to train as professionals, not just as a hobby or for tourists. Train with this in mind.”
The landscape sprints backwards from our comfortable train seats as the Professor of Traditional Architecture at the NUCH speaks. “We are doing a great job educating many students, but will there be enough properly paid jobs for them?” He lets out a deep sigh and continues, “So many people choose to buy a home out of a catalogue. Then they fill it with expensive, yet ordinary, imported Western furnishings. Instead we could build a wonderful, custom Hanok that will last for generations.”
The furrows across my brow deepen as our 할머니 (halmeoni—grandmother) speaks through the phone. It is still five months before my departure flight, and just three months before her final departure and graduation from life. She states bluntly, as usual, “I’ve lived longer than I want.” I share a bit about the research work I am preparing for in Korea and she perks up. “I’m glad you will return to 우리나라 (woorinara—our land)… and I’m happy you remember your name. When we came to America, it wasn’t good to use them. Remember us when you return to our land and use the name I gave you.” I feel the deep furrows of my brow straighten.
“Yung Sahm shi!” A wave of gratitude washes over me as I hear the name my mother and grandparents gave me as a child. 김영삼 (金永森 Yung Sahm Kim): a golden eternal forest. I turn away from the sheet of rain and the onlooking crowd outside the café. “Come and look here,” the 대목님 (Daemoknim—Traditional Timberframe Carpenter) holds up a thick stack of architectural plans. He flips through the pages and points through the maze of pencil markings detailing the wooden joints over the computer rendered floor plans. Pointing to a corner he says, “This is where the 평방 (Pyuhng Bahng) will be. The structural brace for the second floor. You still remember Mr. Yung-Sahm?”
The ripples of past conversations drift away as I shift my attention back to the task at hand.
“Yes, I understand it!”
A smile is on my lips.
“I will re-member it.”
