Seoul's Historic Walks in Sketches

Gwanghwamun, you are younger than even our children.

But you will live much longer than they.

This message is for your future self, when you mean something quite different than you do today.

It’s good to see you again.

Please take care of Seoul.

Gwanghwamun Gate

The first thing that comes to mind when you think of Seoul

"I knew it!"

That was all my friend had to say when I told him about the draft of this book.

"You knew what, exactly?"

I mean, as soon as I heard you were working on a book about Seoul, I knew that Gwanghwamun Gate would be the first thing you’d mention, he said.

Come to think about it, Gwanghwamun really is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Seoul. The gate has gradually become a part of me, just as street lamps come on with a buzz in a dusky alley as the sun sets. To those who complain that it’s always Gwanghwamun, all I can say is that there’s no other way. Why does it have to be Gwanghwamun? Why is it this one gate that we keep thinking of, and not another part of Gyeongbokgung Palace? Why not Geunjeongjeon Hall, the main court inside the palace, or Gyeonghoeru Pavilion, which never goes out of fashion (possibly because of its presence on large-denomination bills)?

I guess it’s because of what the main gate symbolizes. Back in the days before photographs, regular people—that is, everyone but the royal family and the select few with access to the palace—must have been dying to know what was inside the palace. But their curiosity could not take them past the gate. That’s why people came to equate Gwanghwamun Gate with Gyeongbokgung Palace. But today, anyone can go inside, and still all I remember when I think of Gyeongbokgung is Gwanghwamun. I guess it’s not so unusual, though. While I do work inside the four gates of Seoul (in the old city center, where the palace is located), I could probably count on one hand the number of times I go inside Gyeongbokgung in a year. But I can see Gwanghwamun outside the bus window on my way home each day. The gate was hidden from view when it was being restored from 2006 to 2010, so it feels strangely comforting to have it back with us. That just shows how much it means to us, I guess.

A ticket to Gyeongbokgung Palace

In fact, it costs less to get into cultural sites in Korea than in other countries.

Well, enough about why I've decided to start my sketches of Seoul with Gwanghwamun. Let’s get started.

Gyeongbokgung Palace was christened by Jeong Do-jeon (1342–1398), a government official who played a crucial role in founding the Joseon Dynasty (1392–1897). The Chinese characters Gyeongbok (景福)—taken from the Confucian classic the Book of Songs—mean enjoying good fortune forever. But the Joseon Dynasty didn’t last forever; in fact, its kings weren’t even able to reside in the palace for long. When the Japanese invaded Korea during the Imjin War (1592–1598), the entire palace was burned to ashes, leaving not a single building intact. The palace grounds were left in ruins for 273 years after that, giving Gyeongbokgung Palace the dubious distinction of being the one Joseon palace that didn’t even exist for half the Joseon Dynasty.

The palace remained in that state until the Prince Regent Daewongun (regency, 1863–1873) rebuilt it in 1865 to a size of 7,481 kan (a Korean unit of area measuring the space between pillars). Considering that the palace had originally been 390 kan in size, the rebuilding project clearly went well beyond mere restoration. And it was an ill-advised project, which earlier kings had not dreamed of doing for lack of funds, carried out in disregard of practical considerations with the object of enhancing the king’s prestige. A special tax was collected, and tens of thousands of people were drafted to take part in the construction. When the stock of wood ran low, trees were chopped down around gravesites across the country, with families expected to accept this since it was on behalf of a sacred national project. Thus it was that Gyeongbokgung Palace was brought back to life, though not for long. In a stark reminder of the vanity of human efforts in the face of history’s relentless march, nearly all of the structures built at such expense were destroyed during the Japanese colonization of Korea (1910–1945) and the Korean War (1950–1953).

At the very heart of Gyeongbokgung Palace is Geunjeongjeon Hall. The Chinese characters for Geunjeong (勤政) mean governing diligently, implying that as long as the king works hard, the kingdom will be governed well. I rather like the old style of giving gates and buildings meaningful names.

It was at Geunjeongjeon Hall that the king met with government officials and foreign dignitaries. As befits its stature, the hall sits atop a two-tiered stone base and overlooks a massive courtyard. Together with the arcades around it, Geunjeongjeon Hall served as the royal court of the Joseon Dynasty.

At a time when society was strictly divided into classes, it’s interesting that buildings had ranks, too. The ranking system for buildings divided them into jeon (殿), dang (堂), hap (閤), gak (閣), jae (齋), heon (軒), ru (樓), and jeong (停). Even if you don’t know enough Chinese characters to fully interpret the inscription on the building, you can hazard a guess at the building’s rank as long as you remember this order. The highest rank in the system was jeon, which referred to buildings that that were used by the king, the queen, or the king’s mother or grandmother. This also explains why the great hall in Gyeongbokgung is Geunjeongjeon, and not Geunjeongdang or Geunjeonggak.

The word jeonha (your majesty), which is often heard in historical dramas, literally means "the person underneath the jeon." The word gakha (Mr. President) derives from the same system, as it means "the person under the gak." Needless to say, a president does not have the status of a king.

This ranking system was applied to every building during the Joseon Dynasty. For example, the main halls at Buddhist temples that housed the statues of Buddha were called daeungjeon, and the building at Sungkyunkwan University where the spirit tablet of Confucius was stored was named Daeseongjeon, illustrating the high regard given to religion at the time. Only the most important buildings could be given names that included the character jeon.

When Geunjeongjeon Hall was rebuilt under the Prince Regent Daewongun, the builders used techniques that were standard at the end of the Joseon Dynasty, resulting in a structure that looked different from its original design. As for the roof, The Veritable Record of King Sejong (r. 1418–1450) and King Seongjong (r. 1469–1494) tell us that the roof of Geunjeongjeon was covered with blue tiles. The admittedly less reliable Chōsen seibatsuki (Record of the Subjugation of Joseon), prepared by the Japanese during the Imjin War, says the roof, made of blue celadon tiles engraved with a dragon pattern, had the beauty of blue glass. It really is a shame that we are unable to see Geunjeongjeon in its original form. The only blue-tiled palace building that still stands in Seoul today is Seonjeongjeon Hall in Changdeokgung Palace.

As I sat in the corner of the covered walkway and gazed up at Geunjeongjeon, I was reminded of the awe I felt when I first saw Todai-ji Temple in Nara, Japan, the largest wooden building in Asia. I was so overpowered by its sheer size that I lost track of time as I stared up at it.

If you compare the old buildings of Korea, China, and Japan, Korean buildings are the smallest. It makes sense, I guess. If a country is small, its buildings are bound to be small, too. But more and more—and maybe I’m biased—I’ve come to appreciate that there’s a beauty in the flowing lines of old Korean architecture that you won’t find in the buildings of China and Japan.

If someone were to argue that I only feel this way because I’m Korean, I wouldn’t have anything to say. But if you sit down and try to actually draw these buildings, it’s simple to see the difference. No building is easy to draw, but there’s something particularly demanding about conveying the grace of the curving eaves on Korean buildings.

The dancheong, or the traditional colors used to paint the buildings, is different for each of the three countries. Adding dancheong to old buildings took so much time, skill, and effort that it reportedly made up half the construction work. The dancheong in China tends to be dark and plain; in Japan, there’s hardly any dancheong at all because of the humid climate. The charm of the dancheong on Korean buildings stands out in comparison.

On my way out of the palace, I sat down in the open area behind Gwanghwamun Gate, wanting to take a moment to admire the recently completed restoration. Not to state the obvious, but the gate looked brand new. Not so much grand as simple and unobstructed, as if it were about to take flight.

Gwanghwamun seen from behind

Gyeongbokgung Palace

There are so many stories to tell about Gyeongbokgung Palace that a whole book wouldn’t be enough to contain them. For now, I’ve marked a few of the locations I sketched on this map.

Geunjeongjeon Hall

Stone animals on the railing

The stone animals guarding Geunjeongjeon Hall are fascinating. On the railings of the upper and lower slabs of the two-tier platform, the four divine beasts, the twelve earthly branches (Chinese zodiac animals), and seosu, or mythical creatures, are each guarding their spots. It’s easy to lose track of time as you gaze on each of these intriguing creatures. The four divine beasts are positioned on the upper slab according to their respective directions, but the twelve earthly branches are not in the right places. Not only that, but there is no dog or pig because these are incompatible with the dragon (the animal that symbolizes the king). In fact, there is no normal dragon here either, perhaps because there is already an azure dragon (one of the four divine beasts). I wonder why no one has made figurines based on these mythical creatures? I’m ready to start my collection!

Geunjeongjeon Hall from the front

Chwidu: dragons that are biting both ends of the dragon roof ridge

Lightning rod: needless to say, a recent edition

Jeong (bronze incense burner): a symbol of the ruler (at one time, this was also the primary design for trash cans)

Designed so that water drains from the slabs

While Geunjeongjeon Hall is twenty-five kan in size, each kan here is larger than normal. At 660 square meters, this hall is much grander than Sujeongjeon, even though the latter is forty kan in size.

Deumeu: Meaning a vessel with a wide mouth, this was set up and filled with water so that evil spirits that caused fires would be startled by their hideous reflections in the water and run away. This is one of the items at the palace that most piques visitors’ interest.

Why was the Chinese character 卍 (a Buddhist symbol for peace, not to be confused with the Nazi swastika), pronounced man, used on a palace during the Joseon Dynasty, when Buddhism was being repressed? Here, the character is being used not for its Buddhist connotations but rather as a neutral symbol of good luck.

Haetae on the sleeve stone

The somaetdol, or sleeve stone, got its name from the formal attire worn in ancient times. The sleeves of old garments were so long they were said to brush against the stone. The haetae at Gyeongbokgung Palace is smiling awkwardly at a Russian woman.

Throne at Geunjeongjeon Hall

On the ceiling is a seven-clawed dragon. Typically, the dragon that symbolizes the king has five claws. So why is it that the dragon at Geunjeongjeon Hall has seven claws? The secret has yet to be revealed.

Irworobongdo (painting of the sun, moon, and five peaks) is a genre of folding screen paintings that were set up behind the throne in Joseon Dynasty palaces. These paintings depicted the sun and moon, believed to be the center of the universe; five peaks, reflecting the five great mountains of philosophy; and pine trees, waterfalls, and wave patterns. We are told that the Joseon kings always sat in front of such a folding screen, in a custom that was unique to Korea. Irworobongdo always appeared behind the king, even when he was going on a long trip or when he was dead and lying in state. The screen even appeared behind the king’s portrait. Perhaps it makes sense that the pattern behind the portrait of King Sejong was changed to Irworobongdo on the new 10,000 won bill that came into circulation in 2007. If you stare at this picture in a quiet place, there’s something quite odd about the five peaks soaring above the rolling waves and the left-right symmetry.

Since the king generally climbed the stairs on the east side, the central staircase in the front was largely used for ceremonial purposes. It was common to decorate the posts of the staircase railing. Such a decorated post was called beopsu. At Injeongjeon Hall at Deoksugung Palace, for example, the top of the post is carved in the likeness of General Chi You. General Chi You, a general who defeated an army of the Han Chinese, was chosen to protect the king.

Anyone who sits on the throne will realize just how uncomfortable it is. This seat, and the power it represents, may well be the ultimate goal of many people with political ambitions.

Dapdo

The sedan chair carrying the king went this way.

Corner of the arcade

This offers the best vantage point for viewing Geunjeongjeon Hall. If you look closely at the pillars in the arcade, you can see traces of the mortises, where the baseboards were stuck in. These show that the gaps in the pillars were blocked off so these spaces could be used as rooms. Master builder Shin Eung-su, who headed the restoration work at Gyeongbokgung Palace for around twenty years, once said that Geunjeongjeon was the finest structure in Korea.

Gwanghwamun Gate

Seventy percent of the original masonry was retained.

The original Japanese plan for the Government-General Building called for the destruction of Gwanghwamun Gate. Fortunately, strong opposition led to Gwanghwamun being relocated to the east side of Gyeongbokgung Palace.

As it happened, one of the people who played an important role in organizing popular opposition to tearing down the gate was the Japanese Yanagi Soetsu (1889–1961), better known as the founder of the Mingei folk art movement. Soetsu, who was greatly interested in Korean art, is regarded as having laid the groundwork for the study of handiwork in Korea. During the regime of former president Chun Doo-hwan (1931–), long after Korea regained its independence, the South Korean government even gave Soetsu an award for helping to preserve Korean culture. To this day, there are conflicting views on the man.

Whatever the case, Gwanghwamun may have endured the Japanese occupation, but it did not survive the Korean War. It was reduced to ashes during the fighting, torn down by the nation that had built it. Later, the gate was rebuilt by President Park Chung-hee (1917–1979) to reinforce the legitimacy of his administration. The results beggar belief. The new gates were made with the sturdiest material available at the time: reinforced concrete. Back then, there was little appreciation for the fact that wooden structures improve with time.