Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to. - John Ed Pearce, American writer When Isabelle Bird Bishop, an intrepid Victorian lady traveler looked back on Seoul as she departed through the mountain passes one winter's evening at the turn of the 19th century, she was charmed--and strangely touched--by what she saw.
In the purple twilight, the darkening city in its mountainous cradle was a mass of grey tile and straw thatched roofs; onl y the palace buildings poked above one story. Its homes and alleyways were illuminated with innumerable oil lamps and paper lanterns. She felt it was a Hermit Kingdom that would not last for much longer.
She was right. Korea was about to plunge into an era of unprecedented tumult and upheaval: colonization, dynastic downfall, division, war, industrialization, authoritarianism. In the crucible of the 20th century, generations of Koreans underwent a brutal transformation unprecedented in their country's long history.
Only in the late 1980s was the long-suffering nation finally rewarded, as it reached a level of economic and political development that its citizens had worked and struggled so hard and so long for. It was a "rags to riches" epic that astonished the world, one which Bird Bishop could scarcely have dreamt of.
But regardless of the enrichment that has unquestionably made the lives of Koreans vastly more comfortable, more convenient and more secure than that of any of their preceding generations, one wonders what she would think of the aesthetics of Seoul were she to be transported to the 21st century.
Today's metropolis is unrelentingly modern. Drab forests of concrete apartments, traffic-fouled streets, intrusive information technology and unending bustle are far more visible than any signs of the erstwhile "Land of Morning Calm." One of the most obvious signs of a nation's culture are its buildings, but Korea's modern architecture, sadly, can boast little to distinguish it from that of any other Asian nation. What, then, of the traditional architecture of the nation, the kind of buildings with which Bird Bishop would have been familiar?
A few oases of tradition do remain. The impressive palaces of Seoul and the tranquil Buddhist temples dotted around the mountainous countryside are the most obvious traces extant. What many visitors are probably unaware of is the fact that most of the temples and palaces have been extensively renovated--and in not a few cases, rebuilt from the ground up. Even so, they are there, and can be seen and visited with little effort. Korea's population never consisted onl y of court and clergy, though, so what has happened to the old homes of the overwhelmingly majority of Koreans--the common people?
INSIDE THE HOMES OF OLDE COREA
Before we address that, let us ask first: what is a traditional Korean home? They are generally known as hanok. Like Provencal farmhouses and English cottages, they have an undeniable visual charm that strikes even those otherwise unfamiliar with Korean culture.
In their basic form, the urban hanok of the late Joseon (1392 to 1910) and colonial period (1910 to 1945) are single-story structures, built around a central courtyard. This gentle embrace of a private, outdoor, central space is one of a hanok's finest features. The courtyards were clay floored, or stone-tiled. Decorations included stone lilies and fish ponds, kimchi jars, bamboo stands, trees and rockeries.
Frameworks were of wood and walls of stone, with the largest stones laid at the bottom. As well as being structurally sound, this placement led the eye naturally upwards to the home's most attractive feature, its roof.
In the days before cement defaced the country, hanok were built of natural materials. In the countryside, roofs were thatched; in the city, grey tiles set in clay or mud were the main materials. Tiled roofs had generously curved eaves, creating a constant line of protection from rain or shine in the courtyard. Doors and windows were of rice paper; their wooden frameworks beautifully intricate. The most attractive internal feature, though, was the network of broad wooden beams that supported the roof.
Traditionally, hanok faced south so that the living areas could benefit from maximum sunshine. Kitchens faced east, exposing breakfast ingredients to the beneficial rays of dawn. Above the kitchen--where the home's fire was maintained--a clay-floored attic was emplaced on a deliberately fragile framework. Should the cooking fire get out of hand, or a conflagration break out, this would collapse, smothering the flames.
However, traditional hanok did have a number of inconvenient--or downright uncomfortable--features.
Thatched (and even tiled roofs) could become the homes of animals, birds and insects, for example. There are 19th century accounts of snakes dropping from ceilings ont o startled families below. Hanok materials were far from imperishable. Thatched roofs needed constant attention, not to mention periodic replacement. Even tiled roofs had their drawbacks, with mud or clay sometimes turning liquid in the monsoon. Hanok were high-maintenance dwellings.
RISE OF PRICES, FALL OF HANOK
The rice paper that filled window and door frames was not onl y extremely fragile; it was also highly flammable. Conflagrations were feared. Anyone visiting the palaces today will notice the ubiquity of stone statues of haetae--a mythical animal believed to suppress fire.
With the kitchen fire being connected to the flues of the ond olunder floor heating system, hanok were hot all year round. In winter, this was cozy, but in Korea's muggy summers, was unbearable, especially for Western travelers.
Ondols were also uneconomical. Even before Japanese colonialists began logging, much of Korea had been deforested to feed the voracious appetite of the ond ols; wood sellers are a common theme of late 19th and early 20th century photographs of Korea.
Finally, of course, while some hanok were beautifully constructed, in the immensely poor nation that Korea was up until the recent past, most were not. Gaps in window and door frames, warping of wood, damp, etc., were typical inconveniences.
So where are the hanok now?
In most cases: obliterated. From the 1960s to the 1990s, a brave new Korea was taking shape. Government policy and construction company practices promoted the destruction of old homes.
As the nation reached for the sky, and urban drift lured more and more people from the countryside to the cities, hanok neighborhoods were flattened by the acre under the command of mayors with nicknames like "Bulldozer Kim" to make way for the drab apartment complexes that characterize residential Korea, and which could comfortably accommodate the rising population far more efficiently than the muddled mazes of hanok neighborhoods. Meanwhile, in the countryside, thatch was disappearing, as the government promoted the use of more permanent roofing materials.
This vaporization of heritage was not met with the outcry that it would have in, for example, a European capital. Modern Koreans have (until very recently--of which more later) disdained to live in hanok. In the upwardly mobile, nouveau riche society of the 1960s-to-1990s, a high-rise apartment or a modern villa-style home denoted higher status than an old-fashioned hanok. Moreover, apartments offered security, parking, and children's playgrounds. Businesses sprang up around the wealthier complexes: supermarkets, department stores, educational institutes. Those in low-rises looked on enviously and muttered as real estate prices soared in the new villages in the sky, while those in the old, low-rise areas stagnated.
LAST OF THE HANOK
One might ask at this point: have allthe hanok gone? Are there none left?
Here and there, clusters do cling on.
Perhaps the best place to see a variety of hanok--that is, regional styles from across the nation--is in the Korea Folk Village outside Suwon. There it is possible to witness traditional artisans at work, enjoy traditional food, watch performances and so on. It offers a great day out, but it is, when all is said and done, a tourist attraction.
In Seoul itself, the city government acquired a collection of half a dozen hanok, removed them and placed them in a cluster it named "Namsan Hanok Village" on the slopes of the great mountain that is Seoul's most famous landmark. While these hanok have been faithfully restored, again, nobody actually lives here. They are empty shells; houses but not homes.
However, right in the very heart of millennial Seoul, there is one , last area where hanok--in which real people still live--hang on.
Mindful of the extraordinary speed at which traditional housing was disappearing, in the 1980s, the Seoul government earmarked one district of hanok for preservation. Between the palaces of Gyeongbok and Changdok lies the 640,000-square meter district of Bukchon, or "North Village." Originally a well-to-do area of courtiers, and later merchants, the hanok here were some of the finest in the land, most dating to the late Joseon or early colonial eras.
Preservation was forced upon the district. Hanok owners were not even allowed to install modern bathrooms or fitted kitchens. With democratization in 1987, residents rebelled. For too long, they had watched other districts growing richer, while, due to the development restrictions, the values of their own homes were eroded. The city government acquiesced in 1991, and a storm of development shook Bukchon. While height restrictions meant that no apartment blocks could be erected, hanok were demolished to make way for modern, multi-story villas that offered rental possibilities. Over six hundred hanok disappeared.
In 2000, seeing the destruction taking place, Seoul finally came up with a policy that incentivized owners to preserve old homes: City Hall would stump up a certain percentage of renovation costs. Today, while the district is dotted with modern villas, businesses and shops, some 920 hanok are still visible--albeit hardly dominant.
At the very center of Bukchon is the area's jewel. Here, in the sub-district of Gahoe-dong sit three unadulterated streets where hanok--and onl y hanok--still stand. On steep streets on the lower slopes of Mount Bukak--the mountain forms the backdrop for the two palaces that bookend the district--the homes overlook downtown.
Unless you are lucky enough to know one of the residents and so get an invitation inside, there is nothing to actually do in Gahoe-dong except walk around at gawk at the charms of yore. But there is a serenity here, a time-capsule quality. In its own quiet way, the existence of Gahoe-dong is extraordinary: It would be the equivalent of, say, three streets of timbered cottages dozing on in the very center of London.
THE HANOK RENAISSANCE
These houses are, at long last, enjoying the premium that their charm, surely, entitles them to. By the millennium, newly sophisticated Koreans began to rediscover the joys of their heritage, while simultaneously taking heed of the "wellbeing" trend that promotes a healthy, natural lifestyle.
Men like restaurateur Yoon Young-Ju, proprietor of the upscale "Wood and Brick" franchise moved in, renovating hanok using traditionally trained craftsmen, and also installing modern kitchens and bathrooms. Yoon, who spent over US$200,000 on the work, says that the meditative quality of the house led him to take up calligraphy after a lengthy layoff. To the delight of the visitor, his home is a masterpiece of aesthetics: sunlight filters through the paper windows, dancing across Yoon's collection of calligraphy, ink paintings, porcelain, bound iron and wooden chests, and of course, the house's backbone--its fine, polished beams. Leading presidential candidate Lee Myung-Bak--a former CEO of Hyundai Construction & Engineering and so one of the leading figures in the modernization of Korean architecture--has rented a home in Bukchon, though with the election in December, he is likely contemplating a move to grander quarters.
Nor are foreigners immune to the charms of hanok life. David Kilburn, a British expatriate and owner of a chain of teahouses, moved into the district in the 1980s. Deeply in touch with the spirit of Bukchon, he claims to have seen ghosts here. His home boasts wooden balustrades above a stone courtyard that features stands of bamboo and is enlivened with a stone lily pond.
A hanok restoration industry is surging and it's not just a matter of homes being renovated. Fashionable and attractive restaurants, wine bars and craft and jewelry shops are being established in converted hanok in Bukchon and its neighboring district of Samcheong-dong.
To experience the joys of hanok living, Buckcheon's Seoul Guest House beckons. Visitors stay in ond ol-heated rooms around a grassy courtyard, illuminated at night with colorful paper lanterns hanging from the wooden beams. (This being modern Korea, it also offers guests broadband Internet.)
"Modern" hanok--i.e., hanok built with completely modern materials, but constructed in the style of old--are sprouting up as the supply of authentic hanok is outstripped by demand. While a small cadre of dedicated protectionists deplores the ersatz nature of some of these constructions, the re-ignited interest in hanok bodes well, in the long run, for its preservation in other parts of the city and the country. (There are, as yet, no local or national laws that stipulate mandatory preservation of authentic hanok.) Real estate and rental prices in Bukchon, flat for so long, are now soaring, giving owners sound commercial reasons to maintain hanok as hanok.
It's all a long way from the 1890s. But in Bukchon, Seoul's last pocket of traditional homes, the genteel charm of Olde Corea that so struck early foreign travelers to "The Hermit Kingdom"--lives on. Just.
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