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Written by Yeonsook LEE / 리타 (Rita) for QA Blog Series “What is ‘Queer’ in South Korea? Explorations of art, identity, and ‘queerness’” curated by QA2018 Committee Member Amy Kahng

With the increase in a “queer” self-identified population, finding “queer art” in Seoul is not as difficult as it was in the past. Any artwork from artists who define themself as “queer” could be labelled as queer art. Despite the ‘old-fashioned’ nature of this category, it still offers an effective criterion. But defining “queer art” needs more diverse and political criteria. Several queer theorists have attempted to define queerness as an attitude to embraces failure as a tool for a better present (Halberstam), as the anti-social and negative ways to subvert heteronormativity (Bersani), and as an vivid utopia that has not yet arrived but is actively trying to be redeemed (Muñoz). Of course, it is not necessary to internalize all these discourses, because people can decide for themself how to define “queerness.”

Personally, I tend to consider all works that are disturbing and difficult to approach as ‘queer art’. A good example is the twitter account of the notorious cross-dresser “창녀CD민망복장막장극초개변태좆씹돼지년” (hookerCDshamegutspervertcockcuntcowbitch), whose account has since been locked. His various tacky and frivolous hand-made objects, all made to decorate his anus, have a truly queer aesthetic. While the artist clearly finds pleasure in fetishizing himself, through the artist’s artisan spirit and meticulous craftsmanship, the work proves to go beyond mere exhibitionism.

Video works from Kwon Yongman (계정주 of ‘시네마지옥” [cinemahell]) are further examples. His works such as 몬도 코리아 (Mondo Corea), 갓건배에 대한 모든 것(All about Godgunbae) are absurdly funny, but are still too disturbing to directly laugh at since they intimately expose the ugly side of contemporary Korean culture. The work, 갓건배에 대한 모든 것 (All about Godgunbae), also in part becomes about endurance since it has an unnecessarily long running time. In total, these elements come together to beg the question, why would somebody produce a work like this anyway? The work does not seem like it is meant to be productive nor helpful. This fanatically apolitical and pessimistic aesthetic characterizes Kwon’s work [1].

Additionally, I would also like to introduce a drag-show that I have recently experienced. A team of five performers, 여성, 괴물 (The monstrous-feminine) [2], apparently named after a quote by Barbara Kruger, recently presented its fourth event. While all the performances at this event were compelling, the performance by drag-king 아장맨 (Aajangman) was particularly striking since drag kings are still quite rare in Korea. While Seoul does have active drag communities, such as  “서울드랙” (Seouldrag) [3], it is important to have an organization that leads discussions about discrimination towards women and transgender people as well as about the merits of drag.

Since much of the work that discussed could be, but also may not necessarily be, categorized as “queer art,” then one may ask, is there artwork that could be unequivocally labeled as “queer art” in Seoul? I would answer of course there is. The exhibition Read My Lips (리드마이립스) [4], which revolved around the concept of drag in the context of queer politics, gathered an amalgam of works that could be described as weird and queer. The exhibition had the underlying ambition of introducing ‘queerness’ as a concept in a broader context. Made up of a hybrid of different media-painting, installation, performance, and live-broadcast (공개방송), the exhibition was intended to be somewhat confusing and ambiguous. The artist, “이반지하”(ibanjiha), wore handmade costumes with obvious sexual symbols and sang some of her famous original songs such as ‘나는 이반 그녀는 일반’ (I am Gay, She is Straight) [5], ‘레즈바에 온 작은 헤테로’ (‘Lil hetero in a Lesbian Bar), and ‘오염’ (Contamination). If one senses a desperate sense of urgency in her repetitive chorus, it comes from the idea that we all eventually need to go home after the song finishes. To not break the promise of this temporality, we will all endlessly be wanting to collect, encounter, and to be around its “queerness.”

Yeonsook LEE / 리타 (Rita); Host of the podcast channel 퀴어방송 (Queercast). Queer, feminist, and art writer. Exhibition planner and curator. Graduate from Seoul National University, Department of Aesthetics. Personal blog and twitter at http://blog.naver.com/hotleve. 

(Translation : Mire LEE)

[1] <2017 MONDO COREA Trailer> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWAP7HNZfpg <갓건배에 대한 모든 것 All About Godgunbae> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8URM7ZthvGU

[2] <여성,괴물> https://twitter.com/monstrousfem

[3] <서울드랙> https://twitter.com/dragnerd_seoul

[4] <리드마이립스> https://www.facebook.com/events/629055017302493/

[5] In the Korean language, ‘이반Eban’ means homosexual and ‘일반Ilban’ means heterosexual

About the blog series What is ‘Queer’ in South Korea? Explorations of art, identity, and ‘queerness’ :

Drawing from the diverse perspectives of a curator, artist, and podcast host, this blog series investigates the categorization and perception of queer art in South Korea. It is being curated by Amy Kahng, an emerging curator and art historian. Her research interests include contemporary art of Asia, Korean video and performance art from the 1960s-90s, and the intersections of queer theory and art history. She is based in Los Angeles and Seoul. She can be reached at askahng@gmail.com

Other blogs in the series: 

• Performing Art in South Korea by Cynthia Sungjae Lee
• Reflections on an exhibition of queer art in Korea by Camille Sung

Written by Cynthia Sungjae Lee for QA Blog Series “What is ‘Queer’ in South Korea? Explorations of art, identity, and ‘queerness’” curated by QA2018 Committee Member Amy Kahng

As an artist, I expose the presence of subjects in the fringes of society by revealing the limitations of the privileged “center” through my artworks. From a socio-political perspective, this center is a construct created by norms, and it exercises an overshadowing influence on the fringe because of its implicit acceptance by the social majority. Despite the dominance of the center, it is the fringe that catches my eye. Meaning is produced when we are aware of our surroundings, and I endeavor to reduce the authority of the center to allow people to recognize the existence of the fringe, and thus enrich our society with the value of diversity.

“The influence of labeling is so strong for an artist’s career; it standardizes characteristics of an artist’s work and thus limits their potential to expand into new creative territories.”

Despite my interest in shedding light on the fringe, it has been difficult for me to create and exhibit queer-themed pieces in South Korea due to its conservative belief perceived by the majority. Because artworks are representative of the artist when exhibited in galleries, I often worry about revealing my sexual identity during public exhibition. I cannot proudly present my work because I have learned through my life in Korea that outing myself often does more harm than good. Furthermore, there is the risk of being labeled as a “queer artist” and, consequently, all of my works being interpreted as “queer artworks,” even if I may choose to create a piece that is unrelated to queer issues. The influence of labeling is so strong for an artist’s career; it standardizes characteristics of an artist’s work and thus limits their potential to expand into new creative territories.

It is in this context that I submitted my text work “Men I Have Ever Met” which I signed with the name of my alter-ego, “Cynthia,” at SEMA in 2016. To illustrate how gay relationships have changed through the emergence of technology, such as smartphones and social media, I wrote various stories that I have had with guys since 2008, when I came out to gay society. Since the work contains not only bittersweet love stories but also one-night stand stories, I chose not to reveal my private history with identity, even though my work intended to examine the power that could be generated by displaying one’s personal narratives in public. Therefore, I created my alter-ego and chose text as a medium in order to avoid the risks that could come with outing myself.

However, in 2017 the approach to presenting my work contrasted with my previous exhibiting experience. I was less fearful when I presented my performance piece “Fringe” at the art space, Hapjungjigu. Because the exhibition’s main theme was “drag,” I still hesitated to participate, because it could potentially reveal my sexual identity and restrict my work to be labelled as ‘queer’ art. Nevertheless, I was able to present the work with my real name and summoned the confidence to be myself because I was collaborating with Nix, a Brazilian drag artist. The collaboration with this courageous drag artist led me to rethink not only the importance of genuine presence as the essence of performance art, but also the political power of artwork produced by openly queer artists. I experienced that I was actively engaging in my artistic concentration or duty—adding diversity to a society—by communicating with audiences and conveying my message to them directly.

I am now pursuing my master’s degree in the US, where there is greater awareness of sexual diversity and queer rights than in Korea. By studying in a culturally enriched environment, I hope to further include queerness into my work and to continue to boldly exhibit these works.

SUNGJAE Cynthia LEE is a Korean artist working in immaterial media such as performance, installation, and video. He received M.F.A. and B.F.A in Sculpture from Seoul National University. He has presented his works at Seoul Museum of Art, Hapjungjigu, XPO Cheongyang, Art Sonje Center (South Korea), Galleri CC, and KHM gallery (Sweden). He was also video and stage producer of the theater group Bjung(丙) Society and presented several pieces at play festivals. He is currently living in Chicago, IL and pursuing his M.F.A. at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

About the blog series What is ‘Queer’ in South Korea? Explorations of art, identity, and ‘queerness’ :

Drawing from the diverse perspectives of a curator, artist, and podcast host, this blog series investigates the categorization and perception of queer art in South Korea. It is being curated by Amy Kahng, an emerging curator and art historian. Her research interests include contemporary art of Asia, Korean video and performance art from the 1960s-90s, and the intersections of queer theory and art history. She is based in Los Angeles and Seoul. She can be reached at askahng@gmail.com

Other blogs in the series: 

• Reflections on an exhibition of queer art in Korea by Camille Sung
• Queer art from Korea (Seoul): A List of My Own, 2017 by Yeonsook LEE / 리타 (Rita)

Written by Camille Sung for QA Blog Series “What is ‘Queer’ in South Korea? Explorations of art, identity, and ‘queerness'” curated by QA2018 Committee Member Amy Kahng

In May 2017, Jinsil Lee and I organized an exhibition titled Read My Lips at the art space, Hapjungjigu, in Seoul, South Korea. Themed around “drag” as a concept, an important term in queer politics, the exhibition gathered and exhibited queer artworks. Drag often refers to the play and practice by sexual minorities of putting on the costume and exaggerating the gestures of the opposite gender. However, the exhibition explored drag in a broader sense, following Renate Lorenz’s theory which stated that “drag may refer to the productive connections of natural and artificial, animate and inanimate, to clothes, radios, hair, legs, all that which tends more to produce connections to others and other things than to represent them. What becomes visible in this drag is…an ‘undoing.’” [1] From this perspective, the artworks in the exhibition were read as figurative attempts to transcend and transform in-between male and female, things and human, everyday life and art, and the white cube and subculture. They included paintings by Yongseok Oh and Eunsae Lee, drawings by Bob Kim, sculptures by Mire Lee, an archive by Dong-jin Seo, performance bu Ibanjiha and Sungjae Lee, and internet radio broadcasting by Rita, as well as and extensive exhibition catalogue.

“For the queer is a lack in the coherent and it makes others look at the very lack by excavating something queer.”

After the exhibition opened, we received various comments and reactions, including interest, excitement, and doubt. The exhibition was based on meticulous observation and minute conceptualization of drag and queerness, which was originally formulated in the West. One could say that such subtle theorizations might be too early for Korean society. The slogan of Korea Queer Cultural Festival in Seoul (Seoul Pride) in 2016 was “Queer I Am,” which called for the recognition of queer people in Korean society. The slogan paradoxically proves the absence of queer presence in Korea and thus the urgency of this issue. To borrow Elizabeth Freeman and Lorenz’s theory on the queer space and the queer time, the queer practice and theory in Korea is at the level of discussing only the queer space. In other words, Korean society does not see the queer because it does not know it. This also holds true to queer art: the Korean art scene does not make queer art because it does not know it. In this circumstance, even if one acutely appropriates Lorenz’s concepts of the radical drag, the trans-temporal drag, and the abstract drag, they are comprehended only as abstruse and ambiguous notions without materiality and substantiality. Discourse on the queer and queer art has no anchoring point in Korea. This becomes a reference as well as an obstacle to curators and viewers, and this might be the source of the discomfort one might feel in front of the queer works of Read My Lips.

Sungjae Lee (with the performer Nix), Fringe – Korean version, performance documentation, 2017

The discomfort is also related to the fact that queer aesthetics can be misidentified with contemporary art. As Freeman points out, “[q]ueer theory… pays attention to gaps and losses that are both structural and visceral… Queer theory also describes how specific forms of knowing, being, belonging, and embodying are prevented from emerging in the first place, often by techniques that intimately involve the body.” [2] Contemporary art also focuses on gaps and losses that have been neglected in the grand discourses and everyday life. Both queer theory and contemporary art are attracted by the unreachable Real and imbued with the pursuit of the Real. Thus, if one does not equip with keen eyes, the subversive power of queer art can be merely read as the revolutionary and resistant nature of contemporary art. And such an affinity often lets the viewer to misrecognize the discomfort from a queer artwork as the uncanny from a contemporary artwork. Nonetheless, the awkward, uncomfortable feeling you might have in front of an inscrutable image is something truly queer. For the queer is a lack in the coherent and it makes others look at the very lack by excavating something queer. Therefore, the idea that one cannot easily comprehend the queer exhibition, but rather only has an uncomfortable and awkward internal response to the exhibition, serves as an index for the absence of discourse on the queer in Korea.

The otherness of the queer would lose its subversive character when admitted into the comprehensible, coherent system of recognition and perception. It is because the others become different types of subjects. It might be the fate of all others. Even so, Read My Lips wanted to pull out a discussion on the ‘queer’ in Korea. We hope that the exhibition has spurred various queer practices and discussions.

Camille (Ji Eun) Sung is a PhD student in Art History, Visual Art & Theory at the University of British Columbia, Canada. Her current research explores experimental and performative art, particularly in postwar Korea and Japan. As a former queer feminist activist drawing from her background in aesthetics, Camille also has worked on the materiality of art and movement. She can be reached at camille.j.sung@gmail.com. 

*The essay is an excerpt of my essay “D-r-a-g the Drag,” published in the exhibition catalogue.

^[1] Renate Lorenz, Queer Art: A Freak Theory (Bielefeld: transcript Verlag, 2012), 21.

^[2] Elizabeth Freeman, Time Binds: Queer Temporalities, Queer Histories (Durham [NC]: Duke University Press, 2010), 11.

About the blog series What is ‘Queer’ in South Korea? Explorations of art, identity, and ‘queerness’ :

Drawing from the diverse perspectives of a curator, artist, and podcast host, this blog series investigates the categorization and perception of queer art in South Korea. It is being curated by Amy Kahng, an emerging curator and art historian. Her research interests include contemporary art of Asia, Korean video and performance art from the 1960s-90s, and the intersections of queer theory and art history. She is based in Los Angeles and Seoul. She can be reached at askahng@gmail.com

Other blogs in the series: 

• Performing Art in South Korea by Cynthia Sungjae Lee
• Queer art from Korea (Seoul): A List of My Own, 2017 by Yeonsook LEE / 리타 (Rita)

Queer Asia | Essay Prize, Runner-up

Ping H. Wang looks at how, since moving from Taiwan to Washington, DC, he has found his desires being categorised

I was sitting down in a corner of a club with a man I’d met just fifteen minutes earlier when, in the dimly lit room with deafening music in the background, I vaguely heard a voice traveling from the other side of the table: “I see you’re a rice queen.” The man next to me accepted the title bestowed upon him with alacrity. All of a sudden, in that dark and loud space, my ethnicity was in the spotlight. Everyone became perfectly conscious of the presence of an Asian man in a popular gay club in London on a Saturday night.

Before leaving Washington, DC for London, I thought for a week I’d be leaving behind all the categorizations of desires in the gay community, where my physical and emotional attraction for other men could be untangled from my racial traits. I was proven wrong upon the dawning realization that this meticulous, perhaps somewhat pejorative, attention to one’s preference for gay men of a certain race actually existed across the Atlantic Ocean in the wider Western societies. I found in that encounter an eerie sense of familiarity.

My appearance, as a result of being situated in this specific context, is then closely associated with this particular food that’s meant to characterize the desire for Asian men. It’s funny, in fact, how I have come to facetious terms with it to the extent where I can no longer tell whether my obsessive craving for rice comes from this labelling or the other way around. I still wonder, however, how this categorization of our desires contributes, if any, to building relationships with one another within the community. Do most people pleasantly assume the role of a rice queen the same way as that man with whom I rendezvoused in the club?

At least, personally, I rejected the notion of being thought of as a potato queen when I first arrived in the US.

Coming from Taiwan, where Asian men date other Asian men, I knew nothing about the different categories of desires; the dating scene is rather homogenous by contrast. When my profile picture first showed up on dating apps in the DC area back in 2015, I first ventured into the racialized field of desires and rediscovered who I was in the eyes of other gay men. I remember in lurid detail the encounter in which I first acquired the term “potato queen” when I was, again, in a gay club in DC. After some intense and rapturous kissing with a Spanish man, this title was likewise given to me. With all candidness, I was uncomfortable with the idea of having my desires put into categories.

Maybe I was unused to it. Maybe I simply didn’t want to admit my fixation on White men.

The whole concept, by now, has been interpolated into the way I see myself in different relationships with other gay men as well as the way I look at the food I eat. The process of integrating or assimilating into the gay community in DC entails this subtle alchemy of adapting to associations with a certain type (of food). Never were dishes and desires so interconnected in a fascinating way.

I have learned to see myself against a larger cultural backdrop where we are defined by our desires as much as by the food that we consume. But tracing the discomfort I felt when I was first introduced to this categorizing mechanism and a brand new way of describing my social location based on the desired racial intermingling, I have never stopped challenging, while entertaining, such an idea. That visceral reaction has been a constant reminder of my resistance to being put into categories with which I don’t entirely identify.

Like I was saying, maybe it was part of the culture shock that I was experiencing having come from a country where race is rarely the focus of a relationship. Maybe I contested the categorization of desires when I could explore them free of the restraints from this heightened awareness of one’s race. On that note, I go back to the question, what does it contribute to the community?

How do we benefit from our categorization of desires? The tendency for gay men I’ve met to adopt this system seems to speak to the issue.

Living in a multiracial society, we’ve become accustomed to the fact that desires are inseparable from who we are and how we look. What caused my discomfort turns out to actually bring some comfort to gay men growing up in this environment, as evidenced by the manner of that British man in London who claimed to be a rice queen. It was also seen in the occasions where some of my friends were surprised upon learning that I, a potato queen in their understanding, had dated other Asian men. It is, at the end of the day, a way for many gay men to navigate their desires as well as others’ and it cannot be more natural. With me, it’s a different story; it involves negotiation with how I deal with an intricate and delicate intersection of being a gay man and an Asian man in DC or in London.

We are, nevertheless, left with copious food metaphors that amuse us from time to time. Bearing in mind that our desires are protean and ever evolving, I would like to end with this remark: we are more than what we eat.

‘Queer’ Asia ran a blog contest in partnership with Zed Books on the theme of our 2017 Conference ‘Desire, Decolonisation and Decriminalisation.’ This essay is our runner up piece. It was first published on the Zed Books website.

Other blogs in this series: 

• Being Queer in North Korea – Shyun J. Ahn
• Waiting for the Worst – Diego García Rodríguez
• The Colonial Choreography of Queer Value – Sara Shroff
• Versions of Violence Against Trans People in China – Ausma Bernotaite

 

Queer Asia | Essay Prize, Runner-up

Ausma Bernotaite looks at the issues surrounding Legal Gender Recognition (LGR) in China

“Ah, it’s the third one this week, I really need to go to sleep now”, says L.X. while working one more evening of late night overtime at a trans center in Guangzhou, China. We talk about providing legal advice and – if needed – protection to yet another teenage trans girl fighting her family who are denying her identity and trying to stop her from going further in her transition. She runs away to another city in the hope that her friends and older sisters will support her decision to transition as a teenager. Within the community she is considered quite lucky as her parents and friends don’t stalk, beat or threaten to kill her, don’t forbid her going to school and still support her financially. She is one of the lucky few trans teenagers who stand firm by their identities, while their families and schools do not.

Domestic violence is one of the most serious issues facing trans women and girls in China today.

Parents hope to convert them into being their “sons” once again, as patriarchal expectations of sons – in terms of holding space and face for their families – are still commonplace, especially in rural areas. Moreover, representations of trans issues in educational materials and mainstream media, and even LGB spaces, are still widely missing. Historically, there have been representations of trans and intersex people but, as Howard Chiang explains, there hasn’t necessarily been an attempt to create trans discourses and local identity politics. The word that is most presently used must be “kuà xìngbié”, 跨性别 – a literal translation of the word “transgender” and the most popular identity word that can be used both as a noun and an adjective, alongside MTF (Male to Female) and FTM (Female to Male). These and other borrowings from the English language increased in popularity in the 1990s in Hong Kong and further travelled into Mainland China with their own interpretations and adaptations.

While Legal Gender Recognition (LGR) of change between binary genders of “male” and “female” is currently officially recognized in China, new markers are only allowed once the “whole set” of gender affirming surgeries (GAS) are complete, as per definition in official gender change documents, and only with notarized parental consent. Historically, despite there being no fierce discourses around trans identity politics, the 1990s saw an increase in unregulated GAS. The current set of regulations was drafted in 2002 to guide GAS and in 2008 to help people having completed GAS to change their official documents. While it was a big step aimed at regulating a messy situation where hundreds of trans people were being “treated” by unlicensed doctors and non-specialist clinics, the creation of regulations heavily relied on Western medical thought and was based on the International Classification of Diseases (ICD) manual published in 1994 (ICD-10), and consequently instilling concepts of pathologization, Gender Identity Disorder and its treatment in interpreting trans identities. A recent case of a trans man fighting for compensation over alleged transgender discrimination illustrates the difficulty for trans people in navigating the rigid rules grounded in pathologized trans identities, which invalidate trans people who do not seek medical trans-related care and are thus barred from changing gender markers on their official identity cards.

Bangladesh, Pakistan, India and Nepal have turned the tide as they bypass the current ICD-10 advice and centre attention on formal LGR to pass LGR laws acknowledging the existence of trans people and grant them legal rights.

Despite these existing examples from Asian countries, China is unlikely to follow lead in the short term due to a lack of tolerance for its civil society and increasing censorship of trans organizations.

Nevertheless, the next version of ICD, planned for release in 2018, will have received feedback from trans-led organizations from around the world and, should depathologization be a part of it, many medical professionals in Asian countries basing their own medical regulations on international manuals will have strong ground to further advocate more flexible legal gender recognition laws.

However, GAS and consequent gender recognition is just one of the many legal hurdles that trans people will have to jump over to smooth sailing. Lack of legal protections for trans people and increasing government censorship in China is a deadly combo that both doesn’t defend and instead criminalizes trans identities in the country, as the recent case of the hospital surgery photo leak illustrates.

My fiancée is a woman who also happens to be trans, and who will probably never be able to receive her graduation certificate due to anti-trans feminist activism at universities, let alone receiving a diploma with the correct gender marker. Should she be able to change her gender marker on the Chinese ID card, a gender marker change on a university or college diploma would still be invalidated. Additionally, under the wing of the present anti-domestic violence law, as well as teenager protection laws, trans teens can seek help, but the intersection of “trans” and “violence” can sometimes lead to complex interpretations of what constitutes domestic violence.

In light of the extreme violence that trans people face in China, inflexible legal gender recognition rules and a lack of gender protection law, it’s time to understand the roots of legal discrimination against trans people in China, and define the actual needs of trans people. As trans organizations work arduously to serve their communities and struggle to survive in a country that aims to quieten their existence, the questions of both how to survive and how to aim for desired change hang in the air frozen.

‘Queer’ Asia ran a blog contest in partnership with Zed Books on the theme of our 2017 Conference ‘Desire, Decolonisation and Decriminalisation.’ This essay is our runner up piece. It was first published on the Zed Books website.

Other blogs in this series: 

• Dishes and Desire in DC – Ping H. Wang 
• Being Queer in North Korea – Shyun J. Ahn
• Waiting for the Worst – Diego García Rodríguez
• The Colonial Choreography of Queer Value – Sara Shroff