The Front Line/Go Ji Seon (2011)
Directed by Jang Hun
Cast: Shin Ha-gyun, Go Soo, Ryoo Seung-soo

Hills are tricky places, but they’re also massively symbolic. The people who scale the hill are worthy of exceptional merit, perhaps even of biblical proportions. But hills embattled by brotherly hatred in one of the most bloody conflicts of the 20th century are, according to the South Korean film The Front Line, neither exceptional nor meritorious. They are a curse.

The Korean War, of course, is a vintage war fought during the Truman-Eisenhower transition years, but in Korea its outcome has lingered long after the signing of the Armistice in 1953. Which may be why South Korean filmmakers by and large think less of the heroism of that War, and more of its destructive outcomes, and what it does to otherwise good people.

There are no John Waynes in The Front Line, nor even a Captain John Miller, the Tom Hanks character in Saving Private Ryan. (That movie, by the way, probably has had more influence on South Korean war films than the rest of Hollywood combined). In many Korean films about this war, I’ve noticed a tendency to portray the soldiers as victims of a greater force, rather than masters of their destiny. The Front Line is no exception. We see good people trapped in a nexus of indifferent manipulation: higher-ups, Americans deciding the fate of Korea at Panmunjom or conducting aerial bombings from the safety of their aircrafts, even propaganda blaring from megaphones. As a viewer, you are treated to the spectacle of tragic men hurtling towards demise, because of a shoddy, fallible system that has failed them. It’s really not their fault they might die tomorrow, but there’s also nothing you or I can do.

That said, I still want to recommend this film for those of you either taking a hiatus from Korean movie-watching, or unfamiliar with Korean history. That’s because I think the movie has something interesting to say about fate and individual irrelevance. At our core, we may be intrinsically good, but we also live in a world shockingly indifferent to who we are as people: warm-blooded, emotional creatures who want to reach out to each other — even across enemy lines — an unrealistic expectation that can and does culminate into a bullet in the chest.

But if a bullet in the chest — or even heartbreak — is what it takes to salvage a bit of human amid the devastation of war, so be it. At least that’s the message I kept hearing between the script lines. The most memorable scenes took place during the intermittent breaks between the violent skirmishes on the hill, in a hideaway nook where the North and South Korean soldiers exchange gifts of cigarettes, alcohol, and even letters to their relatives, a custom that has developed as the hill has changed hands more than 30 times in the course of an unrelenting civil war. After all, there’s a fundamental alikeness to us, even if we must stare down at each other from the barrels of our guns. Because we all know how to laugh, sing, and long for home, but mostly we want this war to end. If only we knew how to end it.

The Front Line was selected as South Korea’s submission to the 84th Academy Awards for Best Foreign Language Film, but did not make the shortlist, which is a shame because it definitely could have been a contender. But no matter. You can still watch it here.

This past winter I traveled to Cambodia and other parts of Southeast Asia, and I thought I owed it to myself to write a few thoughts that have lingered on. Travel took place mostly by land, on roads that were at times littered with rubble or sometimes crowded with ox carts that were a throwback to the bas-reliefs of Bayon. It was quite the adventure.

In many ways, and even before I began my travels I expected the food to be sublimely delicious and the sights show stopping. After all, Angkor Wat was on the itinerary, but the one thing I didn’t expect were the smiles. The miles and miles of smiles of ordinary people that made sense in those cultures, but perhaps not anywhere else, and particularly in a city like New York: large, impersonal, and generally free of obligations to your fellow man.

And I feel so bewildered. Perhaps we used to smile like that too. Once upon a time. But when I think of the smiles of Cambodians I met, I think I can be forgiven for momentarily forgetting the headache-inducing headlines of newspapers and CNBC ticker tape updates. Whenever that simple greeting of unspoken words came my way, I thought, why not? After all, what is there to frown about? I was on vacation after all, and so I smiled back. In fact, I ended up smiling all the time, even when there was really nothing to smile about. And I’m pretty sure I looked like an idiot.

A Khmer family enjoying the vista at Angkor Wat.

But the Cambodians I met were hardly on vacation. Most people live under the heavy hand of political corruption. The Khmer verb to govern literally means, “to eat the kingdom,” and now as it was back in the days of the powerful Khmer kings, the many live in rural poverty, taking on the backbreaking work of planting rice. Meanwhile modern mandarins collect significant fortunes by selling teak and other valuable resources to the Thai.

Check out my belly button! Children in Siem Reap, Cambodia.

Which pretty much left me to grapple with the other side of this perplexing equation: the seeming impossibility of that smile, from amputees serving as a daily reminder of the land mines, but who walked around Siem Reap with a bright smile waving a friendly hello. Or the little girl in a boat in Tonle Sap who smiled into my camera with abandon, because this is what two people do when they meet. They greet each other. But this wasn’t Eden. Obviously. There was some squalor, and the feeling most inhabitants were just getting by, but the instant friendliness of everyone took me completely by surprise.

So maybe Cambodia is one of Asia’s poorer countries rich in other ways. Coming from a country (or countries) that has a love/hate relationship with wealth, money, and good looks, I guess I’ll never completely understand why humble Cambodians smile as they do. But there is something powerfully liberating about drawing from a well of enduring satisfaction, and extracting happiness from a place that’s never too far away. Perhaps that’s what it means to be alive, just to be here.

And I’m grateful.

Thai monks walk by colonial buildings in Penang, Malaysia.

Liu Bolin at Eli Klein Gallery earlier today

I’ve blogged about Liu before, so if any of you are curious about some aspects of his art, and why he keeps awing the world with his Invisible Man series, don’t forget to read around. But standing just a few feet away as two assistants laboriously painted his hands, face, and even his hair, it wasn’t difficult to gain renewed respect for the artist.

Liu stood for close to two hours as he gradually camouflaged himself into shelves at FAO Schwarz. The statement was brilliant, the language universal. It was also a moving experience to see up close the kind of forbearance required by the artist as he used his own body as a canvas, in a form of protest against the material conformity that was the topic de jour.

I managed to capture some video footage which has been transformed into a slow motion capture, which you can see below and also on Vimeo. The assistants swiftly carried out his instructions, and most of the time they held a yellow pad between them, with a diagram of Liu’s face that included indications as to what color goes where. Everything happened pretty quickly, which is why when you watch the slowdown of this performance, it’s a slightly different experience than the one had by the audience this afternoon, but also more telling about who Liu is as an artist: a latter-day Buddha with the stoicism to match.

Liu Bolin will be present at Eli Klein gallery on Tuesday, March 20, 2012 from 6 – 9 PM, for the opening of a new exhibition that’s on view from March 20th through May 11th, 2012.

Liu Bolin from Elizabeth on Vimeo.

Everything lining up nicely.

Almost out of the picture.

A palette board where Liu's assistants mixed colors before taking to their canvas.

SEOUL SWEET SEOUL!
The definitive girl’s guide to living, discovering, and enjoying South Korea
By Hana Yoo and Elizabeth Shim
Small Planet Publishing

Call me crazy, but I keep hearing little voices that are nudging me to declare 2012 as the year to visit, discover, and frolic in the land of Korea. Perhaps even live there for a year or two, and really get to the bottom of a bottomless intrigue.

Sure, things are a little shaky up North. And everyone’s a tad bit nervous about a 29-year-old, Swiss boarding school-trained neophyte handling the last Stalinist regime standing. I mean, would you hire this guy to run a country? I wouldn’t.

Luckily for us, South Korea is everything North Korea is not. The keywords here would be leisure and entertainment. Many travelers from neighboring China and Japan are now coming in droves to do their shopping, hang out in the cafés of Gangnam, and taste some of that ferociously delicious Korean food. Kimchi, anyone?

Other, rather unexpected events have also taken place that have put Korea squarely on the map, kind of like the way you can see places like London, or New York not just geographically but also symbolically.

First — and let’s just get this out of the way — there’s the K-pop phenomenon. I’m thinking of the scores of websites dedicated to Korean entertainment news, especially this lovely one based in Singapore — designed to quench the unquenchable thirst of K-pop fans for more pictures, updates, and music videos by some of Korea’s cutest, eye-catching, what-have-you stars. This stuff is addictive, I’m telling you, so don’t get sucked in. But if you do, you may find yourself actually traveling to Korea.

And I’m here to tell you that’s not a bad idea. Especially if you are young, Korea seems to hold a few promises for the smart, adaptable person who’s curious to learn more about Asia.

So if you’re headed to Korea, check out Seoul Sweet Seoul! There’s lots of information about shopping, spas, and travel, in a detailed language you won’t find in tourist brochures, or the usual suspects published by Lonely Planet or Moon Guides. It also helps it was written by myself and Hana Yoo, and we’ve lived in Korea for a combined six years.

There’s also information here about expat living and finding a job, but with none of the usual ranting about locals that you’ll find on forums littered with trolls who suffer from some arcane inability to adjust.

The world’s getting smaller. And we’ve all got to make an effort to understand each other better.

And in 2012, as this piece on CNNGo suggests, what better place to head for than the Land of the Morning Calm, in a year when the Mayan Calendar ends?

Mark my words, dear readers. All roads lead to Seoul. So buy the book already.

I’ve been trying to figure out what it is about Takada Kenzo that I’m so drawn to, and I think what it really comes down to is the designer’s legacy of color, vibrancy, and fabric expressions of a love for life. The sway of a Kenzo skirt or a floral scarf flapping in the wind is certainly the material substance of good advertising, or a glimmer of a reason to get up in the morning, but if there are fashion editors out there who try to justify their work by conveniently suggesting fashion designers are the harbingers of things to come, or a thermostat to the reckless mood of the times, then the House of Kenzo should give them a reason to think again. For Spring 2012, Humberto Leon and Carol Lim paid tribute to Kenzo’s legacy with a no holds barred display of color, cut and proportion. Theirs is a fashion universe of orderly cheerfulness, an interesting concept to play around with in a world where we must constantly worry about what tomorrow may bring.

Fashion, like any other creation, seems to tell a story about a designer, or in the case of the Spring 2012 collection, his legacy. For decades Kenzo has been a Japanese designer shrouded in the whirlwind that is Paris couture, but for his fans he always stood out with his ever-so-subtle expressions of Japanese aesthetics. For myself, it’s something of a guilty pleasure to find a hint or two of Eastern influence in the mist, like the accessories shown here, re-envisioned for a fashion crowd with a discerning eye. The House of Kenzo is a rest stop for the weary, perhaps even the fashion-weary. And I wonder if it’s because this collection is a nod to influences in the designer’s childhood, when he read through his sisters’ magazines in Japan. It’s an outlet of happy escapism that looks backward rather than forward at one designer’s transcultural legacy.

A reminder that sometimes even nostalgia is enough to move us forward.

All photos courtesy of Vogue.com

Many Americans think of Koreans in the United States as diligent and capable newcomers who adjust quickly to their host country. Different, yes, but in a nation of differences and diversity, Koreans are just another stripe of color in an ever trendy mosaic. Do they have reservations about the new culture they must adapt to? Are they experiencing difficulties? No one knows, because no one ever bothers to ask them. No one, except for perhaps Korean artist Do Ho Suh, who resurfaced to transform elements of the autobiographical into both the artistic and the architectural at Lehmann Maupin Gallery.

As you can see from the photograph above, Suh created replicas of two buildings that have become fused thanks to a collison of two worlds, which took place when the artist first arrived in the United States in 1991 to attend the Rhode Island School of Design. The prewar brownstone replica represents the home he adopted in Providence, Rhode Island, and the hanok on the right depicts his childhood home in Korea with painstaking accuracy. According to the art narrative, his Korean home was lifted up by a tornado, transporting Suh to a strange but soon-to-be-familiar place called America. And the results are a vision to behold.

Details of hanok in Fallen Star 1/5, 2008-2011

Floor by floor of Fallen Star 1/5, 2008-2011

The tornado-driven crash landing has devastated the interior of the brownstone across all immediately adjacent floors. The damage is severe, even irreparable, but also void of catastrophic emotion. The rooms appear to be inhabited, and yet there are no people. All we have is silence, but a silence so indifferent it’s practically an ode to the ones who know that when a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, it really does not make a sound.

Suh is a remarkable artist whose intimate knowledge of cultural displacement has in many ways inspired my desire to become a better interpreter of transnational Asian culture and experience. Suh’s collision is a serious crisis, but I know all too well the greater crisis is our defiant disregard for our feelings of discontinuity and change. It’s a story that’s defined entire swathes of people but remain suppressed and unverbalized, until someone like Suh takes a stand and says, “You. This is you.” The fact that Suh is Korean and has intimate knowledge of Korean architecture made this exhibit feel all the more personal.

As for his art, I’ll let the visual outcome speak for itself.

Details of a kitchen

The attention to detail, such as in this bedroom, was simply mind-boggling.

Rear window

Visitors standing by Fallen Star 1/5, 2008-2011. Certainly gives you a sense of scale!

The parachute attached to Suh's childhood home. Definitely has echoes of his previous works.

Fresh rambutans on Canal Street

UPDATE: The Itinerary I mention below is now available on UnAnchor.com! Check it our here.

Recently in New York there’s been an ongoing movement to nosh on ethnic foods, edible delights that shouldn’t just taste good but also be as authentic as possible. Almost every other week we hear of an insider’s tour of Jackson Heights, or a Flushing Food Tour that will leave all stomachs happily full and sated. The best part of eating ethnic, and particularly Chinese, is that it is very kind on the wallet, which given the economic mood of today, is probably the biggest draw of a dumpling that’s Made In Flushing or a red bean bun at a Chinatown bakery.

Financial considerations aside, I would gladly eat at some of my favorite Chinatown restaurants any day. It’s just too good to pass up, which is why I’m also working on an itinerary that will help visitors eat like a local and really enjoy the Asian quarters of New York.

The foods eaten in the Chinatowns here represent something of a culinary democracy. Every color, shape and size is completely represented, and no ingredient that’s natural or good is spared.

So I’ve been pounding the pavement looking for wonderful food and gathering information. What I’ve learned along the way about Asian food, and Chinese cuisine in particular, has been a revelation. The foods eaten in the Chinatowns here represent something of a culinary democracy. Every color, shape and size is completely represented, and no ingredient that’s natural or good is spared. And while it’s something of a truism that actual, political democracy is a faraway reality in China and will remain a bone of contention, I can’t help but turn my attention to a different kind of democracy, one that’s been around in Asian culture for thousands of years, and revolves around food, life’s most important necessity. The best part of Chinese culinary democracy is not just all-out representation of textures and colors, either. It is for me, as it is for others, food that’s economically accessible to almost anyone with a dollar to spare.

And that to me sounds like true democracy: simple, beautiful, delicious and available to all.



Bánh cuốn at Thái Son (89 Baxter Street)



Dumplings with chili oil at White Bear (135-02 Roosevelt Ave, Flushing)



Fried chicken drumsticks at LIRR Food Stall, Flushing



Almond cookie ice cream at Chinatown Ice Cream Factory (65 Bayard St)



Ten Ren Tea (135-18 Roosevelt Ave, Flushing)

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When I first started this blog, I must have been tremendously naive, or at least under the impression that Asian-y events in New York were manageable, at least from a writer’s perspective. Of course, now I know better.

New York is positively Asiafied. It’s actually a challenge to curate great places and people, and reduce a month’s worth of events to one page. It’s also bewildering that some really terrific stuff gets totally ignored by mainstream media outlets! As usual, I’ve taken an avalanche of information for October and reduced it to reasonable a number, all in the vague hope it’s of some service to my readers.

Enjoy!

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Li Youran inside the People's University, 1999

James Bollen is a Shanghai-based British photographer whose work was shown this year at SH Contemporary, one of Shanghai’s most talked about art fairs. He recently discovered my blog, and I thank him for this, because if he didn’t, I may never have had the privilege of seeing his portfolio online.

Bollen, while technically not an Asian contemporary artist, represents a growing community of expatriates and foreigners whose insights into China are enriching the larger narrative of contemporary Asia. Bollen’s medium is the quiet lens of photography, and his stage is urban China. And even by the standards of the crowded, Flickr-driven photosphere of today, the results are simply sublime, because as you may see for yourself, Bollen is no ordinary photographer.



Inside the Forbidden City, 1997



Urban Abstract



Ji'an Road, Luwan (All photos: James Bollen)

I’m still not sure when photography is just photography, and when it crosses over into an art form, and no doubt the debate rages on, somewhere within the realms of secluded, ivory towers. But recently I was struck by an interesting idea about the medium, and it’s stayed with me since. I think photography is striking not because it’s necessarily an art form, but its grasp of life is so final, and so absolute, that it reminds our absent-minded selves that life is the ultimate art form. We’ve just forgotten to look around. The best photographers know this very well, and using what they know, they’re able to give us the world anew.

I love Bollen’s photographs because they’re not just beautiful to look at, but because they serve as a valuable documentation of a decade in the life of China. He’s seen dramatic changes in Beijing, where he says many of the places he’s photographed “no longer exist.” He documented the nascent punk scene in China’s capital back in 1999, and it’s good that he did. The Scream Club, a popular punk hangout, was demolished and replaced by a bus depot so that “there’s nothing physical left to remind anybody those places existed in Beijing.” Save, perhaps, for Bollen’s photographs, which gently remind the observer of China’s forgotten moments as the country now races to a “glorious new past.”

Bollen’s impressions manifest themselves in his city walks, so he keeps his equipment light and portable, which includes a 35mm rangefinder, an iPhone, and a Rolleiflex3.5f. Equal parts spontaneous chronicle and unofficial history, Bollen’s work is an archive that I’m sure we’ll revisit several times over, and each time we do, we do it to realize how much China has transformed, mutated, or as is sometimes the case, just stayed where we last left off, always ready to continue a never ending conversation.



Outside the Drum Tower underground station, 1997



Alley running past All For One bar, Sanlitun South street, 1999

]]> http://globalasianculture.com/2011/china-punk-james-bollen/feed/ 0 http://globalasianculture.com/2011/china-punk-james-bollen/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/globalasianculture/ybaH/~3/ezqEY89wTIg/ http://globalasianculture.com/2011/chuseok-time-is-japchae-time/#comments Sun, 11 Sep 2011 02:27:21 +0000 Liz http://globalasianculture.com/?p=2292


This is japchae. You eat it.


I’ve been Korean for as long as I can remember, and for as long as I can remember I have never been a big fan of japchae, a lightly stir-fried dish of glass noodles embellished with various vegetables and proteins. Which, to me, is ironic, because I love stir-fries and noodles, and japchae has both these bases covered.

Japchae has counterparts in other Asian cuisines, but I’ve always been secretly dismayed that it has neither the sweet and sour fragrance of Pad Thai, or the greasy but good sated feel of American Chinese chow mein. The appeal isn’t immediate, which probably explains why it’s taken me this long to finally come around. Yes, I now love japchae, and here’s why.

I love japchae because it’s a stir-fried dish that keeps grease to a minimum. It’s also one of few, perhaps the one and only stir-fried noodle recipe that uses mushrooms to incorporate an aromatic, earthy flavor to what’s already a color and taste-rich dish.

Japchae is also a taste of home. My mother always made it on special occasions, and though I’ve never understood why, we always ate it with rice, a seemingly incompatible accompaniment to the noodleliness of japchae. But now, when I eat japchae as a standalone item, my palate knows something’s not quite right, unless, of course, I take a bite of rice.

So this Chuseok, a celebration of harvest and gathering in South Korea, why not make a plate of japchae? I’m providing a variation of a recipe I used this weekend from one of my favorite Korean food blogs, a translation if you will, so you can try this at home.

A quick glance and the recipe is a bit intimidating, because there’s many small steps to master. But, take heart. If I can make this, so can you.



Stir-frying the pork. Yum.

Chuseok Japchae (adapted from here, serves 5 to 6)
9 oz. sweet potato noodles (called ‘dangmyeon’ in Korean)
1/2 bunch of spinach
7 oz. of oyster mushrooms (here I just used an assortment of mushrooms)
1 large onion
1 carrot
3 eggs, yolks separated from whites
5 oz. pork cutlet

Seasoning for pork
1/2 ts of salt
1 tb of Chinese cooking wine
Pepper to taste

Seasoning for noodles
4 tb of Jin Ganjang, thick Korean soy sauce (available in Korean grocery stores)
1 tb sugar

Seasoning for vegetables
1 tb of Jin Ganjang
2 tb of sesame oil
Crushed sesame seeds, to your liking (I crushed mine with a mortar and pestle)

(FYI: instructions to stir-fry below usually requires adding a tablespoon of canola oil or equivalent to the pan prior to pouring ingredients to cook)

1. Wash the mushrooms, and boil quickly in hot water, no more than 10 seconds. Drain and squeeze water out completely, then lightly sprinkle with salt.
2. Wash the spinach, also boil in hot water for approximately 10 seconds. Again, drain water and squeeze out excess moisture. Sprinkle lightly with salt.
3. Peel and slice the onion into semi-circles and stir-fry in a non-stick pan on medium-high heat until partially cooked.
4. Peel and slice the carrot into thin strips. Stir-fry until partially but not completely cooked.
5. Pour the egg white into an omelet pan, flip, and cook on both sides. Repeat for the yolk. Slice both omelets into thin strips. Set aside.
6. Slice the pork cutlet into thin strips, and marinate thoroughly with the seasoning for pork. In a non-stick pan, stir fry until fully cooked.
7. Bring a large pot of water to a boil, add the dangmyeon (noodles). Cook for no more than 10 minutes, drain, place quickly in a bowl of cold water to chill. Cut into bite sized pieces (best done with scissors).
8. Now for the home stretch: add 1 to 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil to a large, non-stick pan or wok, set at medium-high heat. Pour the noodles and add the seasoning for noodles. (Note: do taste frequently as you cook, and feel free to add additional doses of the noodle seasoning sauce as you see fit.)
9. You’ll notice the noodles change color as you add the sauce. Make sure the sauce is absorbed evenly.
10. Next, add the pork and vegetables, stirring all ingredients thoroughly.
11. Lastly, add the seasoning for vegetables. Stir once more and mix thoroughly.

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