Transmitted Folklore, or the Practice of Listening to the Voices of the Common People
Hyosil Yang
According to transmitted tales and folklore, Yi Seong-gye regarded the Buddhist monk Muhak, who had meditated in a cave for nine years, as his lifelong teacher after Muhak interpreted a strange dream as foretelling his future kingship. Yi is also said to have lived as a devout Buddhist throughout his life. However, royal preceptor Muhak ultimately lost his struggle against Jeong Do-jeon, the powerful statesman, regarding the directional placement of the palace in the new capital, Seoul. Similarly, Muhak’s efforts to include Seonbawi Rock on Inwangsan Mountain within the capital's boundaries to promote Buddhism were thwarted by Jeong Do-jeon, who championed Neo-Confucianism. Buddhism, which had been the religious core of the Korean Peninsula for a millennium during Silla and five centuries under Goryeo, and shamanism, an indigenous faith, were denounced as superstition and suppressed as harmful customs throughout the Joseon era, the Japanese colonial period, and into modern South Korea. Yet, because Buddhism and shamanism were deeply embedded in the agrarian and fishing-based lives of the common people, their belief systems persisted despite the ruling elite's efforts to impose "advanced" religions and ideologies through education and discipline. Despite being recognized as a “prominent Zen monk of the late Goryeo and the early Joseon in the history of Buddhism” (Kim, p. 317), Muhak is mentioned only once in official histories. Folklore, legends, and unofficial histories preserve the figures, belief systems, and narratives excluded by mainstream history. Countless tales about Muhak continue to be passed down through oral traditions and written accounts of the people. Even in the 21st century, we witness a president with the Chinese character for “king” (王) written on his palm being elected. Supernatural and irrational beliefs persist as anomalies within a democracy, a system founded on rational choice. The recent resurgence of shamanism, particularly among younger generations, reflects a defensive psychology—a way to frame contemporary global anxieties and misfortunes within inherited cultural structures. The practice of consulting shamans as advisors paradoxically coexists seamlessly with the use of AI. Seung-ho Kim argues that the story of Muhak interpreting Yi Seong-gye’s dream should not be dismissed as a speculative anecdote. He views it as a narrative strategy designed to imbue the founding of Joseon with a sense of divine legitimacy, with Muhak functioning as a “sacred image” (p. 325). Nevertheless, in the transmitted folklores of Muhak's image, crafted by the common people (p. 339)—for example, the prophecy that Joseon, having excluded Seonbawi Rock, which resembles a monk in Zen meditation wearing a conical hat and robe, would face a terrible calamity 200 years later (realized as the Imjin War)—we see how the power of rumors that lack origin, evidence, or certainty disrupts written history. This demonstrates the potential of counter-discourse to convey the catharsis of the grassroots populace. Kim’s study examines how the people appropriated Muhak as a figure representing their lives while Buddhist perspectives recorded him as an exceptional Zen monk or a divine monk. Their enjoyment of spreading “rumor,” their embellishment, amplification, and propagation of tales about the historical Muhak, exemplify the survival mechanisms of communities faithful to beliefs disapproved by the ruling elite.
Jungho Jung’s solo exhibition Topography of Beliefs at the Seoul Art Space Geumcheon (SASG) showcased photographs, videos, and installations. It consisted of interview videos and pictures of individuals he encountered at Seonbawi Rock on Inwangsan Mountain during the sweltering summer heat of 2024—porters, shamans, the head monk of Hoapsa Temple on Hoamsan Mountain (near SASG), the head monk of Bulyeongam Temple, and a spiritual medium from Bongcheon-dong—along with various objects he collected. Jung describes his work as an exploration of “the relationship between ‘auspicious sites’ and faith,” focusing on visits to the spiritual locations of Inwangsan and Gwanaksan Mountains. His investigation draws on the geomantic theories of Muhak, tied to the relocation of Joseon’s capital and the construction of Gyeongbokgung Palace. Jung is not interested in neutralizing, restructuring, or recontextualizing his subjects’ stories by distancing himself from what rational perspectives might dismiss as absurd or blind faith. Instead, during interviews, he positions himself as an involved participant—“sharing” the inner world of the interviewees—and as a conversational partner actively engaging in questioning and response. This, perhaps, is what makes this project unique and distinctive. Jung connects his subjects’ stories to the deities they worship—enshrined in rocks, stone statues, wells, and shrines—while shedding light on marginalized individuals or those on society’s fringes, bound by the “fetishes” they depend upon. Whether it is shamans performing rituals or exorcisms at Seonbawi Rock, an elderly man who “guarded a well for 53 years” and kept the sacred space clean, the head monks of a hermitage or temple that is neither particularly large nor small, or ordinary shamans, Jung treats them all with equal respect and impartiality. Standing before a microphone, sharing their stories with an earnest listener who views them as “important,” they are transformed into “special” individuals.
The view of Seoul from Seonbawi Rock, where Jungho Jung stood during his countless ascents amid foreign hikers enjoying their climbs, evokes the verisimilitude of Doseongdo (Map of the Capital City), created in the 18th century. The dense forest of apartment buildings pales compared to the rocky mountains encircling the city—features that Doseongdo emphasizes as more significant. From Seonbawi Rock, Seoul’s present-day appearance seems strikingly similar to the depiction of the capital Hanyang, as seen from above during the early Joseon period. A recurring story surfaced in Jung’s interviews with the head monks of Hoapsa Temple and Bulyeongam Temple. Yi Seong-gye reportedly had numerous dreams, and while constructing Gyeongbokgung Palace, he dreamt of a tiger-like monster. The construction faced constant setbacks, prompting Yi to command Muhak to establish Hoapsa Temple at the “tail of the tiger” on Hoamsan Mountain (Tiger Rock Mountain), a site geomantically significant for suppressing the tiger’s energy. Versions of this tale varied depending on the storyteller. Legends and myths exist as both fanciful narratives and records bordering on actual events backed by evidence such as tiger-themed Buddhist paintings in temples, a stone dog statue lamented by the head monk for resembling an ordinary temple dog instead of the mythical haetae, or a mountaintop well that never runs dry. These static fetishes and artifacts serve as the origins, evidence, and sources for the expanded and exaggerated tales that continue to circulate.
The most challenging storytelling subject in Jungho Jung's video work Direct to the heaven without a divine being was the speaker—the shaman from Bongcheon-dong. I was present during the interview, but her story was difficult to grasp. Jung shared that he had to listen to her account repeatedly, dozens of times, to unravel the language of an isolated woman and a commoner—speech that was not even a dialect. This was the time he physically devoted to drawing her into the circle, treating her as an important individual worthy of attentive listening. Personally, I made the mistake of “judging” the old man featured in The man who guarded the well for 53 years. I could not bring myself to believe his claim that his son was a vice president at Samsung and that his daughters lived in Gangnam. To me, a vice president at Samsung would not earn a mere ten million won per month, and his stories about his children felt like a repetition of the collective dream or fantasy we all share about Samsung and Gangnam apartments—symbols of success and aspiration. However, recalling Jung’s approach—listening to and believing everything his counterpart says—I found myself trying to simultaneously perceive the illusions woven into the elderly man’s story and entertain the possibility that his account might actually be true—a suspended judgment. There are things that only someone who “believes” the words of a liar can accomplish. Believers might be those who have been or will be betrayed. So, in order to “see” Jung’s work anew, I set aside the skeptic’s argument that strong faith is a false world constructed by a fragile “self.” Instead of judging or trying not to be deceived, there is a “frame” to be built—one that emerges through being present, listening attentively, and listening repeatedly. Within that frame, anyone can tell a story, and therefore, no one can be wrong. For someone like me, who had yet to recognize the futility of seeking the true Muhak within the transmission tales of Muhak, it is the structure and form of storytelling itself that I must unlearn······.
Hyosil Yang(Art Critic)
Hyosil Yang teaches at Seoul National University, the Korea National University of Arts, and other institutions. She is passionately committed to reading texts where the aesthetic politics and strategies of feminism and queerness—understood as attitudes—are embodied. Although her primary field is art criticism, her work also spans theater, literature, and performance. Her books include Life of Disability, Words of Love and Imagination Against Power, Chronicles of Cultural Movement. She co-translated Judith Butler’s Bodies in Alliance and the Politics of the Street (with Ungsan Kim) and translated Notes Toward a Performative Theory of Assembly. She has also contributed to publications such as Haegue Yang O2 & H2O, Red, Blue, and Yellow, and Scoring Space: Eunme An's Dance Archive.
