Rootless Seoul: Why We Need Memories Over Landmarks

For the past few days, I have been working frantically on the design for The Kosmosis Vol. 2. I have also been working on the manuscript in between design tasks whenever necessary. One moment I am thinking about the grand narrative encompassing the entire magazine, and the next I am obsessing over the tiniest detail on a single page. Being able to move freely between these two perspectives with a single sense of purpose seems to be the quiet joy I feel while doing this work alone. It feels like I am holding meetings between the editorial department and the design department several times a day.

This time, there are many things to take care of in terms of editorial design, especially since I am using both English and Korean. How can I make the Korean and English fonts blend appropriately, giving an equal impression without one leading the other? I carefully check which typefaces to use for each, and what the size, leading, and kerning should be. I know very well the immense power that these small differences create. Now, the design system is almost complete, and the table of contents has been decided to some extent. The thought of filling the blank pages with substantial stories makes me excited again. As if this second issue were the last, I intend to pour my heart and soul into making it as the publisher, editor-in-chief, and creative director. I have a mountain of work ahead of me, but I do not dislike this feeling. I wonder briefly how long I will be able to do this work.

However, after focusing on design work for a few days, I suddenly feel the urge to write. Various thoughts are floating around in my head. It seems that when I concentrate hard on one thing, I have always had a stronger desire to do other things as well. I want to finish the magazine quickly, and I also have to report VAT this week (I do not know why I hate doing it so much), but first, I should relieve this urge to write and then think again. I am unpacking a bundle of unrefined, miscellaneous stories that are a bit different from my usual tone. Before the thoughts I had on my way to work this morning disappear, I am tapping on the keyboard with a sense of impatience.

Seoul is a city embraced and comforted by its mountains. (Photo by Seoul Goodman)

01. Teomunui (Patterns of the Land)

A few days ago, a valued guest visited the office, so we had lunch in Huam-dong, and I drank a cup of Marocchino at Orso, my favorite espresso bar nearby. There was a huge poster on the real estate agency in front of it. Along with the news that the redevelopment of Huam-dong had been decided with the approval of 30% of the residents, there was a crude bird’s-eye view drawing showing how this neighborhood would change. You do not need me to explain it, but it is one of those large residential-commercial complexes you can see anywhere. These alleyways and the sentiment of Huam-dong will all disappear into history in a few years. And the memories of walking on these streets will become a pile of trash together. The emotions I felt in Hannam-dong District 5 resurfaced. Why is our country so anxious to destroy what already exists? Why are we so hell-bent on this kind of “rootless” redevelopment?

Of course, the thoughts of the people living here may be different, and that must be respected too. The inconvenience of going up and down hills, roads that are difficult for cars to navigate, and the stress of dodging cars because there are no sidewalks. It is naturally right to change these parts to make the place more livable. But does redevelopment necessarily have to be done by tearing everything out, cutting down hills, digging up the ground, and eliminating roads? I feel a resistance, wondering why we cannot make it more convenient and pleasant while preserving and inheriting what is there.

In Italy, there are still many stone roads made during the Roman Empire. Even now, if they need to do pipe work, they have to dig up those stone roads. This is not an easy task. After taking out the stones one by one, they number them. After finishing the construction, they fit the stones back in, one by one, according to the numbers. It would be easy to just cover it with asphalt, but there is a clear reason why they maintain this method. This is truly what it means to have “Teomunui.”

Teomunui is a pure Korean word that means there is a pattern (munui) on the site (teo). Our ancestors have long had a deep attachment to the land. When building a house, they tried to melt it into the surrounding environment as much as possible, and places like Byeongsan Seowon gently placed the house on the land. So when you go there, you get a strong feeling that the land is the master, not the house. To say there is no Teomunui (which is the etymology of the Korean word for “absurd” or “groundless”) means that there is no history or memory left on the site, meaning it is rootless.

Most redevelopment in Korea lacks Teomunui. It starts from zero base. Even though Seoul is a city with a history of over 600 years, creating a rare case globally, we build anew while ignoring regional characteristics or the patterns of the site. It is truly regrettable. And then everyone wants to create a landmark. The DDP might be an architecturally interesting icon, but not a single trace of the original Dongdaemun Stadium remains. The roads and flows created by people coming and going for a long time were all severed by placing a giant pebble-like building on top. It is truly an absurd story. What is a landmark anyway?

Recently, I was introduced to someone who built a wonderful Hanok (traditional Korean house) in Seochon and was invited to her home. It was a night with heavy snow, and the feeling that the alleys of Seochon gave was truly fantastic. I heard that those alleys appeared even on maps from the Joseon Dynasty. The fact that there are still people who have settled down and are living in such a place. Living in a city with Teomunui probably feels like that.

If you go to Sinheung Market in Haebangchon, you can find clues about how old things can be accommodated in modern life and what redevelopment with Teomunui is. If Huam-dong can be “gentrified” while maintaining its current movement flow as much as possible, I guarantee that the value of this place in the long run will be much higher than a banal residential-commercial complex. What we need is gentrification, not demolition.

02. Landmark

One of the reasons we are hell-bent on redevelopment is to create more landmarks in Seoul. The concept of a landmark was created when urbanization progressed rapidly after the Industrial Revolution and cities were stamped out on flat, empty fields, necessitating something eye-catching. The skyscrapers in Dubai or Abu Dhabi built on the desert are examples of this. However, Seoul already has enough landmarks. It is a city with many mountains, which is rare in the world. The reason Hanyang (old Seoul) was fantastic in terms of Feng Shui was that mountains surrounded it on all sides and a large river flowed through it. There would be no better landmark than this.

Local attractions are not something that someone can artificially create. Is the residential-commercial complex in Seongsu-dong a landmark of Seoul? It is just a place where some people live. How can something without a public nature be a landmark? Landmarks are naturally created over time, not made by armchair theories.

For me, a native of Dongbu Ichon-dong, the landmark is Paris Croissant, which has kept its place since the late 80s. This is a place that neighborhood residents have patronized for nearly 40 years. It is a place where office workers, students, housewives, and the elderly have never ceased to visit, even from the days when concepts like franchises or specialty coffee shops did not exist. This place, which has consistently spent time in the same spot with me, is the landmark of this neighborhood, if I had to name one. It is nothing more and nothing less. Seoul does not need new landmarks. Excavating what exists well, thinking seriously about its historicity, and letting it permeate our lives more naturally. I believe that is the minimum courtesy to Seoul.

Paris Croissant, the anchor of Dongbu Ichon-dong. (Photo by Seoul Goodman)

03. Urban Planning

The Gangnam of the 70s and 80s and the new towns of the 90s forcibly transplanted master plans that rose like comets overseas in the early 20th century, but eventually ended in failure, into a country of mountains. This is particularly evident in large-scale residential facilities like the Jugong apartment complexes. Ignoring the unique terrain and flow of the mountains, blueprints designed based on wide, flat land were forced in. The landscape that harmonized with nature disappeared, and huge concrete boxes entered, erasing the Teomunui.

Road planning is the same. Let’s compare the maps of the two cities here.

Gangnam’s subway stations (source: Google Maps)

Looking at the map of Gangnam at the bottom, you can see that the massive boulevards connecting subway stations form a square grid. From Sinsa Station to Nonhyeon Station, or from Gangnam-gu Office Station to Seonjeongneung Station. You probably know how long and tedious the journey is from one center to another. Since you have to walk for a long time without visual changes within a massive block, the joy of walking disappears. This is exactly why Gangnam feels like one giant block.

On the other hand, the blocks in Manhattan, New York, are rectangular. What is important is that the short side of this rectangle faces the Avenue (vertical direction), and the long side faces the Street (horizontal direction). Thanks to this, when walking along the wide Avenue, you face the short side, so you keep meeting new alleys (Streets) at very short intervals. A rhythm is created where your view opens up and a new landscape appears in less than a minute. This irregularity and frequent intersections create the so-called “taste of walking.”

In addition to this, there is a large road that boldly cuts diagonally across this grid-patterned city, and that is Broadway. At the point where the neat rectangle and the diagonal line meet, where people naturally gather, unexpected and interesting spaces are created, and Times Square is a representative example. Such coincidence and unconventionality come together to complete the “placeness” of the city.

It is so regrettable that the appearances of new towns are all the same and have no placeness. A few days ago, I received a message from a friend saying that a close family from the US is visiting Seoul and asked me to recommend some “hot places.” I guess he thought I would be sensitive to trends since I am doing this kind of work. However, I do not know hot places well and do not bother to visit them. Instead, I like “Nopo” (long-standing establishments) that have been verified and survived for a long time. I think that hot places springing up like mushrooms are just a consumable trend, and this too shall pass. The Nopo that have firmly taken root in their spots, enduring decades of time, are the true face of the city I think of.

So I told my friend: “I am not a person who introduces Top Places. Instead, I can tell you about the Top Feels that can only be felt in Korea.”

As some of you may already know, the meaning of Kosmosis is a combination of K and Osmosis. Osmosis is a chemical term, but it is also used to mean that an idea or component spreads slowly and permeates. It is a brand name built with the hope that the Essence of Korea will slowly permeate the world. There are too many media outlets introducing hot places. I am not confident I can do better than them, but instead, I want to unravel the Korean sentiment a little deeper.

Somehow, I ended up writing too much. Now I should get back to my design work.