台北，首爾眾生相：。Seoul, South Korea. Somewhere Street. A Hundred Cities Within Seoul 百 城之城——首爾 Memes, Jokes and Cats: South Koreans Use Parody for Political Protest KOREA: As Seen by Magnum Photographers (缺點之一是缺地名索引，所有照片以首爾為主 )
Korea: As Seen by Magnum Photographers Hardcover – Illustrated, 2008年 11月 17日 作者 Magnum Photos (Author), Bruce Cumings Ph.D. (Contributor)
More than 230 full-color images by some of the world's most-renowned photographers.
South Korea, with its craggy hillsides, gnarled trees, and ancient temples, is steeped in tradition yet, at the same time, is thoroughly modern―the tenth-ranking industrial power in the world. Its capital city, Seoul, is one of the most populous cities in the world and home to such cutting-edge buildings as the Samsung Tower Palace.The beautiful landscape and day-to-day details of life in South Korea are depicted here in images taken by the photographers of Magnum―the famed cooperative whose members are among the greatest photographers of our time. Here we see a rich culture that both respects a dynamic cultural history and celebrates the latest trends in fashion, technology, and architecture. These extraordinary photographs are set in their historical context by an insightful text by
Seoul, South Korea. Somewhere Street. A Hundred Cities Within Seoul百 城之城——首爾 ---
They hoisted banners and flags with whimsical messages about cats, sea otters and food. They waved signs joking that President Yoon Suk Yeol’s declaration of martial law had forced them to leave the comfort of their beds. Pictures of the flags spread widely on social media.
The idea was to use humor to build solidarity against Mr. Yoon, who has vowed to fight his impeachment over his ill-fated martial law decree on Dec. 3. Some waved flags for nonexistent groups like the so-called Dumpling Association, a parody of real groups like labor unions, churches or student clubs.
Memes, Jokes and Cats: South Koreans Use Parody for Political Protest
表情符號、笑話和貓：韓國人用模仿來抗議政治
Seoul, South Korea Somewhere Street Seoul, the capital of South Korea, has a population of 9.6 million. Home to one fifth of the country's residents, Seoul is famous for the celebration of tradition as well as the latest in fashion.
A Hundred Cities Within Seoul
By ELISABETH EAVES July 26, 2015
百城之城——首爾
旅行ELISABETH EAVES 2015年7月26日
Adam Dean for The New York Times
梨泰院社區雩祀壇路10巷的一家餐廳。
The Korean filmmaker Bong Joon-ho turned from the street into a passageway barely wide enough for two people. “Look at these dirty stairs,” he said rhapsodically, pausing to peer through a doorway at tiles of perhaps '70s-era vintage. The passageway descended farther and took a hairpin turn into a pedestrian alley of uneven brick walls, overhead knots of electrical wire and drying laundry. “Maybe a detective could chase a criminal here,” he said, presumably imagining actors careening down the alley. “I have to shoot something here before something destroys it.”
Mr. Bong, the critically acclaimed director of the dystopian thriller “Snowpiercer” as well as “The Host,” which is set in Seoul and stars a man-eating river monster, is not your average tour guide. And that was exactly the idea . I had visited the South Korean capital once before, during a rainy autumn, and while dazzled by the neon lights and spectacularly effective subway system, had barely scratched the city's surface.
Seoul is the heart of an urban area of more than 25 million people — among the largest in the world — and like any 21st-century megalopolis, it is impossible to grasp as a single entity. From N Seoul Tower, a 777-foot- spire atop an 800-foot hill, the densely packed city rolls away into the hazy distance, stopping only where it comes up against the encircling mountains. If you look down from the top, there could be hundreds of Seouls, and I didn't know which to choose.
I knew, though, that I wanted to see contemporary culture beyond the best-known exports — the television shows that are staples across Asia and the perfectly choreographed K-pop videos. And so I sought out native informants, each a creative force unto his or herself: Shin Kyung-sook, a best-selling novelist; the fashion designer Juyoung Lee; Kim Sehwang, a musician; and Mr. Bong. I invited each to show me a part of Seoul that inspired them or held special meaning. One invited me to a museum, one to her place of work, and the other two to favorite neighborhoods. They decided which versions of Seoul I would see.
“Snowpiercer” was based on a French graphic novel and shot in the Czech Republic with actors from at least seven nations. In it, people of all classes, humanity's last survivors, are jammed together on a hurtling train. I should not have been surprised , then, that Mr. Bong, 45, chose to share a global Seoul. To get to our rendezvous, I climbed the sloping streets of the Itaewon neighborhood, past a cluster of gay and transgender bars, and, farther on, an increasing quotient of Middle Eastern restaurants.
In Itaewon, you can take a date or business associate out for a suitably impressive dinner on Itaewon-ro No. 27, or get a cellphone hooked up after hours in Nigerian Alley, side streets that respectively draw full-freight expats and the scrappier remittance class. I passed these places on my way to meet Mr. Bong at the Seoul Central Mosque, set on a hilltop where Itaewon meets the neighborhood of Hannam, its dome and twin minarets a beacon to Korea's tiny minority of Muslims.
While Friday congregants milled behind us in the late afternoon sun, we sat on a bench that looked out over the city. “This part of Seoul is amazing,” he said. “It symbolizes the incoherence of a city that doesn't have strong continuity.” He held his hands up and made a rectangle with his fingers, framing an imaginary shot. “Look at the layers,” he said.
In the foreground were old houses, then a church steeple in the middle distance, a common sight in a country that is nearly a third Christian. Beyond lay the Han River and too many high-rises to count. “In five or 10 years these old houses will be gone,” he said. “This is a city of destruction and reconstruction.”
As the call to prayer sounded, Mr. Bong led me away from the mosque and onto a narrow street, Usadan-ro No. 10. The businesses we passed fell roughly into three categories. There were specialty shops — haberdashery, hardware — where it appeared neither staff nor signage had changed in 50 years. There were restaurants of more recent origin serving kosher Korean food or Turkish kebabs. And then there were the newest arrivals: a three-month-old wine bar, a juice bar, a tattoo- studio-slash-art-gallery called Soul Ink, a clothing shop in which every item was either black or white. One cafe sported a name that, as near as I could figure out, roughly translates as “maybe we're open today” ; two invitingly fluffy white Samoyeds named Cloud and Storm “work part time,” according to the barista. The neighborhood hovered in that sweet spot just before people start complaining about gentrification. “Here it all mixes very naturally,” Mr. Bong said.
We walked farther down the street to a bar called Aoi Sora with a triangular sign. It specializes in daytime drinking, Mr. Bong said; from Monday to Thursday, it closes at 7 pm Inside, by the light of a single large square window at the back, he ordered clams in their shells and a bottle of clear alcohol with a ginseng root winding through it, which was not on the menu but was created by the bartender, who in his off hours teaches a class in traditional booze-making. We sipped from small ceramic cups, and Mr. Bong talked more about his changing city. “Every alley has its own story,” he said.
Over eight days in Seoul, destruction and transformation were regular themes. Ms. Shin, the novelist, explained her city this way: “In Paris or New York, when you have an appointment with a friend, you can meet her in the same place that you did a year ago. In Seoul, you can't, because there will be something new there.” New Yorkers may quibble, but her point stands; in Seoul the change is especially fast and comprehensive. But, Ms. Shin said , those same qualities are part of the city's dynamism and energy.
They are also ones essential to her work. Ms. Shin, 52, is the author of “Please Look After Mom,” which sold more than a million copies in Korea and was published in English in 2011. In it, an old woman from the countryside comes to visit her grown children in Seoul. She makes it as far as the central train station and then disappears, lost in the matrix of the shape-shifting city. “Seoul is an important backdrop because I wanted to represent the clash between generations,” Ms. Shin said.
The city is not all frenetic evolution. There are serene oases in its parks and greenways, on the grounds of its centuries-old palaces and in its museums. Ms. Shin asked me to meet her at the Leeum, Samsung Museum of Art. It displays Korean art through the centuries, as well as contemporary works by both Korean artists — like the video-art pioneer Nam June Paik — and international stars like Andreas Gursky and Louise Bourgeois. When we arrived just before opening, an air of tranquillity prevailed.
A small group of us — Ms. Shin, a poet friend of hers, an interpreter and I — followed an English-speaking guide through the Mario Botta-designed wing that houses mostly traditional art. (Other parts of the museum complex were designed by Jean Nouvel and Rem Koolhaas.)
The first piece we saw was an ethereal celadon ewer from the 13th century, decorated in a raised-relief lotus pattern. Beneath a soft spotlight in the darkened room, it looked almost translucent. Under the Goryeo dynasty, which lasted from the 10th to the 14th century, Korean artists adopted the Chinese method of making the glazed, pale-green pottery, then refined the craft to the point that many art historians consider Korean celadon among the finest ever made.
Though a well of knowledge herself, our human guide had also handed us digital ones. Museum audio guides tend to be clunky and overly insistent, but these lightweight, touch-screen paddles invited play. My sleek little machine sensed which object I was looking at and silently presented its image with white-on-black text. Some of the objects could be enlarged and spun around on the screen, allowing me to study curves and texture in minute detail — the next best thing to being able to pick up the items . In front of a 15th-century blue-and-white porcelain jar, I became so absorbed in the digital display that I fell behind the group.
But one specific item was our true destination. It was a foot-and-a-half-tall, white, rotund, 18th-century porcelain vessel called a moon jar. Lit from above, it appeared to float like a heavenly body over its pedestal. A jagged, tea-colored stain cut across the surface like an abstract painter's flourish, the result of oil once held in the vessel seeping out. Ms. Shin said the jar reminded her variously of a mountain, a pregnant woman or a woman in a hanbok — a voluminous traditional dress — on a windy day.
She visits the jar regularly, she said, and it offers her peace when she is stressed. If Seoul's manic side pulses through her settings, the jar shapes her work in a different way. “I want to write sentences as beautiful as the moon jar ,” she said. “I haven't done it yet.” She is particularly in love with the oil stain. “The line of the stain shows the flow of time. Humans didn't make it; only history and nature could. ”
Ms. Lee, the fashion designer, invited me to visit her at her showroom in Gangnam, the district made internationally famous after being cheerfully ridiculed by the pop singer Psy. Gangnam has had an exceedingly short modern history — two locals, only half-jokingly , told me that it began in 1988, when the country's first McDonald's opened there and became a popular meeting place.
By reputation a land of bling, it is where the luxury brands that line ritzy avenues around the world have established their Korean beachheads. It is also the seat of Korea's own fashion industry, home to labels like Jinteok and Bakangchi, both stars of Seoul Fashion Week. They and other Korean designers share the stretch of Samseong-ro between Hakdong-ro and Dosan-daero with Ms. Lee's brand, Resurrection.
Ms. Lee, 44, is a traditional Korean woman in some respects: She went into the same business as her mother, who works in the same building, still a designer, and helps care for Ms. Lee's two sons. But she is also known for her sumptuous neo-Gothic creations, which have clothed, among other foreign celebrities, Marilyn Manson. When he played in Seoul about 10 years ago, Ms. Lee seized fate and delivered some of her clothes to the concierge at his hotel. Ten minutes later, she said, Mr. Manson called her and asked for more. “He has a strange beauty, a grotesque beauty,” she said, calling him one of her biggest influences.
So it was perhaps not a surprise that I found her in the Resurrection showroom, which is open to the public, sitting on a carved black-lacquered chair upholstered in velvet. Her hair was streaked magenta. Dozens of red candles set in front of an enormous mirror suggested an altar, and wrought-iron chairs contrasted with a red wall that displayed an eclectic set of crosses. I would not have been surprised to find a well-appointed dungeon nearby. All this was backdrop to clothes made of sheer fabrics, leathers and synthetic furs, visible heirs to the designs of Alexander McQueen.
Ms. Lee is unusual in the world of high-end fashion as a woman who designs mainly for men. Or, at least, she sends mostly men down the runway, often looking like futuristic vampires, but women buy her designs, too. Her men's wear, in turn, sometimes incorporates feminine details. She showed me a men's sleeve garter inspired by women's garter belts.
Men, women, East, West — Ms. Lee mixes it up. Her love of black and leather reflects her Western side, she said (she studied at Parsons School of Design in New York). Lately, though, she has been reaching into the Korean past.
She walked to a rack of clothing and brought out a gold, red and black brocade jacket. This kind of silk was once used to make hanbok, she said, and she learned how to work with it from her mother. She showed me another piece , a men's jacket for her 2015 collection, in a traditional embroidered swan pattern. “That's my homework,” she said. “To combine Korean traditional fabrics with the modern.”
All the artists I met seemed to observe more than lament Seoul's ceaseless transformation. All of them, though, without making an explicit point of it, showed me how history ran through their city and their work. Kim Sehwang, a nationally renowned guitarist, suggested we meet in the neighborhood of Samcheong, and invited along a longtime friend, the movie producer Jimi Nam.
We sat down to lunch upstairs at a busy restaurant called Nunnamujip, near a window overlooking the street, where the stairway is lined with celebrity signatures. They ordered a spread of traditional items that included succulent marinated beef ribs (dok kalbi), tofu with kimchi and North Korean dumplings, which are bigger and rounder than the usual South Korean kind. Spicy rice cake sticks (dok boki), a dish that Mr. Kim said he misses when he goes abroad, rounded out the feast.
Mr. Kim and Mr. Nam, both in their 40s, had similar takes on Samcheong, remembering it as an old, rundown but romantic neighborhood that somehow, around a decade ago, became fashionable. Having escaped the kind of wholesale overhaul that has affected other areas, it has undergone a different, more gracious kind of modernization. It is still home to many hanok, traditional houses with wood frames and curving tiled roofs. Most are no longer the homes they once were, but have been restored in keeping with their original design and repurposed as shops, teahouses and restaurants. The buildings' arched eaves line the stair-step passageways that lead up from the main road, Samcheong-ro.
Mr. Kim's mother would bring him to a noodle soup restaurant in the neighborhood when he was a boy, and when he was dating his now-wife, they would come to its cafes or the restaurant where we had lunch. The soup restaurant he and his mother would visit, Sujebi — also the name of the soup itself — is still there, and when we walked by, more than a dozen people waited outside. Groups of friends strolled the sidewalks, some couples embracing the curious local custom of dressing to match each other, stripe for stripe and toque for toque.
Mr. Nam said he first came to the renewed Samcheong in 2004, when Park Chan-wook, director of the revenge movie “Oldboy,” invited him to meet at a French restaurant. “I was skeptical,” Mr. Nam said, “ but he told me that the neighborhood was starting to change.” Now he doesn't come to Samcheong often, but when he is publicizing a new movie, he rents out a whole cafe in the neighborhood and invites the news media.
We finished our neighborhood tour over iced drinks in a cafe; its windows were wide open to the sun and a light breeze ruffled our napkins. Out on the sidewalk, Seoulites passed glass storefronts and curving tiled rooftops, sometimes both part of a single building that stitched together old and new. Mr. Kim looked up and down the street and said, “I wish I could come here more often.”
The Leeum, Samsung Museum of Art, 60-16 Itaewon-ro No. 55-gil, Yongsan-gu; 82-2-2014-6901; leeum.samsungfoundation.org/html_eng/global/main.asp.//needs the whole web address.//
三星藝術博物館李氏分館，龍山區梨泰院路 55巷60-16號；82-2-2014-6901；leeum.samsungfoundation.org/html_eng/global/main.asp. //needs the whole web address .//
N Seoul Tower, 105 Namsangongwon-gil, Yongsan-gu; 82-2-3455-9277; nseoultower.co.kr/eng.
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