Korean culture often breathes most freely when it isn’t looking over its shoulder at an international audience. When the focus is on the Korean people, it resonates more deeply, more authentically, and with everything that gives it a special charm. Whether in dramas, music, movies, or literature, the Korean language produces something so idiosyncratic that it becomes, paradoxically, universal.
But what is Korean culture? Everyone has a different definition and understanding, but for the purpose of this exploration, Korean culture is that which is produced by Koreans for Koreans. It’s a mirror. Conversely, K-Culture is when it’s produced by people for those outside Korea. It’s the billboard. So when Daniel Dae Kim releases his “K Everything” series for CNN this week, the letter “K” reminds us that this is more likely for Sally in Sacramento than it is for Sujin in Seogwipo.
And that’s okay. This isn’t to argue the supremacy of one over the other. Different people speak different languages and want different things. And yes, some works straddle the dividing line so skillfully they seem to belong to both Korean culture and K-Culture. But too many people seem to believe they can understand Korea by accessing K-content rather than Korean content. They discover a few K-pop groups and conclude that Korean music is just Western dance or black American hip-hop with Korean faces. That’s not malice, per se. Just a misunderstanding and lack of depth.
Much of contemporary K-pop is intentionally transnational. It is designed to travel. English lyrics, Scandinavian producers, American hip-hop influences, and global choreography trends are combined with Korean bodies, beauty standards, aesthetics, training culture and emotional registers. It’s called K-pop because it’s Korean-ness made portable. It means Korean enough. And trade has its own beauty. It’s also outrageously hard to pull off. Moreso than some might imagine.
But then there’s the other side. Korean music made by Korean people for Korean people in the Korean language. Kim Kwang-seok, Kim Chang-wan, Cho Yong-pil, and Lee Chan-hyuk. Yim Jae-bum’s “After This Night,” Deli Spice’s “Confession,” Jaurim’s “Twenty-Five, Twenty-One,” or Bank’s “I Can’t Have You.” Every Korean knows these songs, these melodies, these voices. They are Korean culture. They feature in adverts, memories, life stories, wedding ceremonies, and the little bits of the everyday life that don’t get shown in foreign news programs.
The best of Korean cinema and film works the same way. It’s when a director drills down into the hyper-local anxieties of Korea. Lee Chang-dong’s work does this particularly well. There’s something powerful about his films when you recognize the locations, see familiar faces in the supporting roles, and get trauma from the sounds of buses, electronic door keypads, and mobile phones. “Poetry,” “Secret Sunshine,” and “Burning” all speak to something so undeniably Korean that it almost becomes uncomfortable to watch.
Of course the language is a huge barrier. Even with all the automatic translations that now feature on most SNS platforms, you can’t really grasp what’s going on without understanding the words that are being said.
Literature written in Korean can only be read by those who can speak the language. References are left unexplained because everyone here knows who Park Jeong-cheol is. Who Yu Jae-ha is. When Kim Young-sam was in office. The controversy surrounding BoA’s livestream. Noh Hong-chul’s personality. And so on.
None of these things is really relevant to modern K-culture. And that’s fine. The K-prefix simply signals a different audience. Western validation. Southeast Asian affection. Global eyes. There’s an economic logic to it, too: if a Korean-made product sells well in Bangkok or Buenos Aires, it gets certified as authentically Korean. Not because it emerged from these dense, local particularities, but because the market spoke. Foreign revenue. National image. Pride back home.
It’s like wearing a hanbok and going to Gyeongbok Palace. It’s like the trip to the DMZ where you’re shown a decrepit North Korean village and reminded of their poverty and the supremacy and moral virtue of South Korea. It’s like standing in Bukcheon and gazing at the hanok – the image that seems to be the feature of Daniel Dae Kim’s latest documentary. People feel like they are getting a true sense of what it means to be Korean. But, it’s the K-version.
Source: Korea Times News
