Then I Decided to Create a Short Play: An Interview with Artist Woojin Kim
Hyonkyong Kim
Since 2015, you’ve been working on projects that collect memories of disappearing languages. When did your interest in such topics begin, and what inspired it?
When I was in college, I went abroad for language training, and my roommate was Japanese. One day, she bluntly asked me, “Why does Korea hate Japan?” I replied, “Why haven’t you thought about that until now?” and explained what I had learned in history class. She then told me that she hadn't learned any of that. She had only been taught about Japan’s modernization in a positive light—how Japan had supposedly “enlightened” Asia. I was struck by how differently history could be remembered. That experience sparked my interest in exploring alternative perspectives on writing and reading history.
My interest in the fate of minority languages, I remember, traces back to my stay in New Zealand in 2014. New Zealand is a bilingual country where Māori and English are official languages. This piqued my interest in the differences between indigenous policies in Australia and New Zealand and even led me to work on projects incorporating the Māori language.
After that, I went to Taiwan, where I resumed studying Chinese after a long hiatus and delved into Taiwan’s history. Mandarin, an imported language, became the official language after 1945 when people were forced to learn it. This experience reawakened questions I had previously explored while working on gymnastics-related projects—questions about the mechanisms that inscribe thoughts into our bodies. If gymnastics is a tool for creating obedient bodies, isn’t language an even more potent tool for shaping thoughts?
My interest in minority languages naturally extended to the Jeju language. For a long time, I had thought that Korea was a monolingual and single-ethnicity nation. However, after returning to Korea and talking to a friend from Jeju, I began to question this assumption. Could “Jejueo” be considered as a distinct language?
What is the difference between viewing the Jeju language as a dialect versus recognizing it as an independent language?
There is a hierarchy between dialects and standard language. I think classifying Jejueo as a dialect—placing it beneath Korean—might accelerate its disappearance.
Is it because a dialect is seen as something to be corrected, whereas a language is viewed as something to be preserved?
In particular, I think dialects in Korea have historically been treated as something to correct. That’s why, in my work, I approached Jejueo as an independent language. However, after exhibiting my work, people from other regions began sharing their grievances. They asked if I could imagine the discrimination they had faced because of their way of speaking. I was born and raised in Seoul, but I remember, as a child, seeing transfer students being teased for their accents. These experiences build up over time, eventually leading to moments of recognizing the numb parts within myself, the frames I’m confined to, and the things I’ve overlooked or failed to consider. These realizations naturally flow into my work.
The recurring theme across the “Brave New Exercise Project” and the “Memories Project” is Asia’s modernity. What does Asia mean to you?
I didn’t set out with the intention of talking about Asia. I wanted to at least understand Korea, so after working on Taiwan, I started focusing on Jeju. However, as I gathered materials, I found that most were written in English. That made me question why I had to read about Asia in English. Every piece of writing reflects a certain perspective, and works written by Western authors inevitably carry a Western viewpoint. So, I thought—why not start by softly telling stories from my perspective?
Do you consider yourself an “Asian”? Do you identify with an “Asian” identity?
I would rather put it as an awareness of shared historical experiences. After World War II, the entire region of Asia gained independence and underwent modernization, resulting in similar trajectories. Would I truly be able to say that I understand myself without being aware of that history?
As I worked on those themes, I shifted to the topic of digital erasure because I thought that similar patterns were repeating today. Within the digital space—which could also be considered a kind of territory—the unfolding dynamics reminded me of the era of global wars. I felt that the forces we once associated with the violent eras of history are now manifesting itself in a non-physical, virtual space in much the same way.
Are you saying that the history of colonization and war is being repeated within digital territories?
Yes, it seems to be repeating.
Do you consider your works to be political?
Don’t you think they inevitably are? It’s not as if I can claim that my works aren’t political. However, I don’t want my images to explicitly declare, “I’m political. This is politics.” Every story is inherently tied to politics. Nonetheless, I wonder what kind of image can convey the political things subtly, allowing the story to seep in naturally. My work is about conveying something political by deliberately trying not to make it overtly political.
Because art is not just a simple slogan?
Exactly. Propaganda requires clear answers, but I don’t believe I could provide them. What I do is simply pose questions, hoping that those questions will lead to even more. And in fact, this seems to be my way of progressing. By continuously asking questions, and then moving on to the next—that’s how my work has continued to grow.
You spend a great deal of time studying the histories and languages of minority groups and conducting interviews with people. As an anthropology major, I find it deeply impressive that your work overlaps so much with ours. How do you think the work of an anthropologist differs from that of an artist? Or are the lines perhaps not so distinct?
In some ways, my work may resemble that of an anthropologist. As you mentioned, I conduct research and interact with “others.” The most significant difference, however, might be that I transform my questions into images. I analyze the data, identify images within it, and attempt to encapsulate those images in a new form. Creating artwork is akin to presenting water. Water is fluid—it can be contained anywhere and shaped into different forms. With each new project, I deliberate on the format and method of creating images. For instance, I might decide to create a trailer for one project and incorporate the structure of a play for another. I primarily work with video media, but I always start by considering spatial composition and sketching how to structure the exhibition space for maximum impact, especially when a specific space is allocated for the exhibition.
Could you tell us about the work you’re currently creating?
It’s a piece about the Ainu language, reconstructed in the form of a play based on interviews.
What is its title? Why did you choose this format?
And Then I Decided to Create a Short Play. I chose the format of a play because everything within a play is controlled—just like a museum exhibition. I’ve always been fascinated by museums. Museums present history, but never in its entirety. A play is a format widely used in museums. When I worked with an elderly woman from Jeju, she participated in plays at the Haenyeo Museum that depicted the work of haenyeo (female divers). She even performed in aquariums. In a sense, the essence of being a haenyeo had been reduced to performance. Similarly with the Ainu, although it is said that they still exist, my impression is that they do not feature in our everyday lives. Everyone connected to the Ainu—all those who work in or around the subject—seems to be linked to museums. They either work there or are involved in related projects. This made me think that when it comes to the Ainu, we cannot truly know everything about them; we can only see what has been curated and presented to us. So, I decided to fully embrace the forms of a play and a museum, structuring my work around this concept. I interviewed individuals from different locations and brought their words together to create the sense that they were conversing with one another. To enhance this, I incorporated a teleprompter-style feature into the video structure, allowing the audience to feel as if they, too, are participating in the play. Perhaps this is a reflection of how the world we see operates.
Hyonkyong Kim (Writer, Translator)
Born in Seoul in 1969, Hyonkyong Kim studied anthropology at Seoul National University and earned a Ph.D. from the School for Advanced Studies in the Social Sciences (École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, EHESS) in France. She currently works as a writer and translator. Her principal work is Human, Place, Hospitality (Moonji Publishing Company, 2015). Her art-related activities include contributing the essay “The Future of Seoul: Between Modernity and History” to the English-language catalog Spectres of the State Avant-Garde for the Korean Pavilion at the 2018 Venice Architecture Biennale; writing an introductory text titled “Bam Islet, or Expurgated” for Seunggu Kim’s 2019 photobook Bam Islet; and co-creating Act 4, “I need somebody not just anybody,” for Hyesoo Park’s 2020 project Forum Theatre: URI.
