When I look at the work of Kang, Woon-ku I am struck almost immediately by the changes that have occurred in Korea in a very short time. Having just arrived here a short year and a half ago, the Korea that populates the frames of Mr. Kang is often not a Korea I've come to know. Though what I see in his frames resonates in the Korea of today, on the surface things have changed drastically in the past 15-25 years. I think this is the most impressive thing about the work on first glance.

(I feel I must mention here that I am looking at the work of Kang, Woon-ku as published in his book titled Luck or Destiny, 1994. I know not what he's done since nor before this publication, and I have not had the pleasure of either meeting Mr. Kang, nor seeing his photographs displayed.)

Most of the work in Luck or Destiny was produced over a 10-year period, between 1973-83, one of the most politically intense times in recent history. But the work is seemingly non political. One expects of the work of a photojournalist produced during that time to be filled with images of protest--dramatic, explosive. Where are the images of police in riot gear, clouds of tear gas wafting through crowds of young students, bloody protesters who dare to cross police lines? Luck or Destiny has none of this. The few images that allude to protest are sober, suggestive--not sensational. Perhaps the photographer is tired of the typical, finds the expected exploitative; perhaps he feels suggestion is enough. Though I wasn't here, I remember well the images coming out of Korea from that time, and suggestion is enough to recall a whole truckload of violence. Do I need more images, it’s hard to say; maybe the memory is fresh enough.

But the work in Luck or Destiny is at its heart political. I come from the school of thought where every action is political. From buying a McDonald’s hamburger, to the way you talk to your grocer, every thing you do carries some message, some perhaps underlying meaning. But the message in the work of Kang, Woon-ku is nowhere near underlying.

As one goes through the work with the knowledge of it's historical milieu, it becomes apparent what Mr. Kang had things other than protest on his mind. In times of political upheaval, no matter how bad or good the outcome, life goes on. Whether the president is getting assassinated or protesters are being slaughtered, people have to eat, the rice has to be planted, babies are born. That's the way it works. And even though major political events have effect, the everyday lives of everyday people are often little changed. Though sentimental, perhaps this is his point.

But the fact that this work gives little space to the chaos of the times speaks to more than the sentimentality of an artist. Now I know that this work is probably not meant as a historical document, but considering the fact that it spans a period of more than ten years, and that the images are followed by dates and locations placing them in space and time, it does function as one. So we must consider this fact when looking at the work. And we must ask ourselves what it means that a historical document from that time has such an absence of political explosiveness.

As I've said I am a great believer that every action or inaction is motivated, that an artist's choices carry a message that speak to his or her situation or belief systems*. And the work in Luck or Destiny gives us a peek into the sentiments of Kang, Woon-ku. I have to reflect on two facts when considering this point: first, the work does offer an indication of the turmoil that was taking place at the time, though slight and not explosive there is some declaration of it, and second, the fact that this takes up less than ten percent of the book. The small space devoted to this kind of imaging tends to place it as a minor phase, perhaps a less important chapter in the history of that time; it thus becomes a kind of erasure of all that was fought for. And there is a subtle message in all this. I propose that there is a subtext in this work, that the changes that were occurring were unwelcome changes, that the work’s insistence on focusing on the “old ways” with a near dismissal of the political upheaval is a stand against those changes.

There are individual images in the work that subtly speak to this political bend. Images that expose westernization, that wryly image that influence. An upside-down American coffee can in the center of the frame. An icon of western influence, coffee was at one time rejected by student protesters who wished to disassociate with western culture. A circular sign, presumably of Douglas Macarthur, once carefully painted now discarded to a back shed of what seems to be an abandoned industrial work yard. A young man warming himself at a heater surrounded by somewhat battered posters of western stars, including a well exposed shirtless Charles Bronson. All of this, with the work's primary bend at exposing the rural, perhaps "unsoiled" Korean experience, points to a cynicism or a warning about cultural influence by western--read American--cultural products.

There is more to this work if we take a look at the book itself and how it’s laid out. Luck or Destiny as an object of art is a beautiful artifact. It is a well thought out journey, a photographic narrative. The book is arranged into twelve chapters on Korean life. And a trip through the book becomes a moving experience at once dependent and independent of the politics contained within.

The book starts with a written piece that, of course I can’t read but I’m told, goes through Mr. Kang’s life as a photographer. Illustrating this is a group of photographs of political posters, ripped, torn, and bound, that are particularly moving since some of the main players are the same as were seen in the recent elections. But the bulk of the book starts after this and goes on into twelve chapters carrying us through a series of aspects of, or I prefer “meditations” on, Korean life. What I appreciate most about the book is its insistence on a linear reading. Many chapters offer images in a sort of cinematic time line--people waiting for a bus, a steer that doesn’t want to work. And through this we are set up to read the work sequentially.

The journey takes us through seven chapters, 135 pages and more than half the book, of rural life. Though some of the images were taken in urban areas they are framed in such a way that they cannot be located; their placement, surrounded by images of rural life, also causes them to fit seamlessly within that setting. The work is beautifully seen and the life lovingly rendered. And though work is somewhat sentimental, I get the feeling that Mr. Kang feels at home in this place.

In chapter eight the images change. This segment takes place in semi-urban settings and offers a segue to the rest of the book’s locus within urban areas. It uses some formulaic iconography--images of train travel, falling snow--to push the sensibility of movement or time, and the emotion in the photos also signifies change. The feeling in this section is one of approaching isolation. It is filled with images of lonely people, sometimes singular, sometimes with others yet alone. Also in this section are the images of western influence. Is it coincidence that these images are found in a section that segues into the city, into the most isolating chapters in the book?

As we move into the city, the feeling of isolation is increased. There seems to be no love in the city, no real families in the city. People are disconnected. The two times we’re given images outside an urban setting we see first a baby tied to the back of a girl who looks confrontationally, perhaps judgmentally at the camera, and second a funeral

--city equals death, westernization equals death?

The last two chapters are like the dénouement of the narrative that is Luck or Destiny, a time to reflect. Chapter eleven is a series of images of trees rendered in increasing degrees of motion blur. This effect breaks the narrative flow leading us into the final chapter: four images of a deliveryman in Seoul smoking a cigarette. As before these images are run sequentially through time. First a wide shot that places him in the city, then close up, smoke in his face, to the final shot staring into the camera confrontationally, eyes half closed. His face is that of a man who’s life has been unnecessarily hard, a man who is perhaps not happy with the hand that life has dealt him--a metaphor for an uneasiness about the future or the current state of this country.

So what we have is a book that takes us on a journey through this country and raises questions for what the future holds. The book skillfully, if not subtly, speaks to the fears of Korean people over the effects of a modern--read western--influence. Through the sentimental treatment of rural life, a more traditional life, the work makes a call for a continuance of the “old ways.” A hope for the future to keep hold of the past. But there is more to this hope than sentimentality, it is a political statement that things were better at one time and things are moving toward something somewhat lesser. And this is a troubling statement. In my country we have an idiom: “The good old days.” For some it’s a positive term, a call to a better time, an older time, when things were simpler and old traditions were never questioned. But for some “the good old days” carries a different meaning, a negative one. In “the good old days” women couldn’t vote, people of color had to sit at the back of the bus, and neither could get a good job at fair pay. There is a lot more to those days, but I think you get the point. And I know that many changes have occurred here that have greatly benefited the people of this country, and I wouldn’t want to see them belittled. I’m not saying that there aren’t many things we need to carry from our traditions. I think it’s inevitable that most of our traditions carry forward to the future, sometimes changed to fit a new idea, sometimes almost unchanged. And these things help make up an identity of a culture. I also know that in a rush to modernize many cultures try to erase what makes them special in order to fit more easily into a world that is not excepting of difference. So what I’m not saying is that we shouldn’t be careful what we loose when we move forward, but I am saying that in a sentimental look to older times we shouldn’t romanticize it and not see it for what it really was. We need to embrace those changes that make more people share in the process of where this country is going, embrace those changes that make more people free to pursue their happiness--especially those who don’t fit into the prescribed notion of what that happiness is. And if that means we must loose some things along the way, so be it; some things are always lost along the way. When we look back to what came before and wish for a more simple life we have to look clearly at what that really means: be careful what you wish for.

Ken Marchionno

* For more on this idea see: "The Photographic Message," by Roland Barthes, and "On the Invention of Photographic Meaning," by Allan Sekula, both from: Photography in Print, edited by Vicki Goldberg, 1981

“A few thoughts on the Work of Kang, Woon-ku,” Sajin Yaesul, Seoul, South Korea, July, 1998