Living Space: From Hanok to Apartment Houses and Back Again
Visitors to South Korea often remark on the unattractiveness of the big cookie-cutter apartment buildings that blanket the capital and other major cities, and seem to bear little relation to their surroundings. These buildings arose from two factors: first, this is a small, mountainous country with a large population in its capital, and high-rise dwellings make the most efficient use of available land; and second, postwar economic development and urbanization occurred at such a rapid pace that city planning and aesthetics were matters of little concern to the authorities of the time.
Yet Korea does have a strong legacy of traditional residential architecture, in the form of the hanok, the classic Korean home. At the turn of the millennium, the hanok was considered a thing of the past that had no place in Korea’s future—it was perhaps even “chonseureopda” (“country style”), or outmoded. Increasingly, though, South Koreans are seeking connections with their traditional culture. They are demanding greater sustainability and beauty in addition to functionality in the objects that fill their daily lives, and as they do some are discovering that all of these can be found in modernized versions of the houses they turned their backs on years ago.
The Hanok and Pungsu-jiri
What is a hanok? In the words of architect and modern hanok specialist Hwang Doo-jin, it is a style of house that is the “result of a very long-term process in which Korean nature and Korean culture worked together” to develop a habitation suitable for people to live in. Built from natural materials such as wood, clay, and stone, its dimensions will vary depending upon its location. Hanoks in the north of the peninsula, where the climate is colder, tend to be constructed in a closed square shape, while those in the south are typically based on a more open rectangular shape. Ideally, in either case, the hanok would be positioned facing a river, and with a mountain to the back, in accordance with a geomantic principle known as baesanimsu.
The importance of correct house location was first promulgated in Korea by a monk named Doseon (827–898) as part of his geomantic philosophy called pungsu-jiri. Jiri simply means “geography,” but pungsu will probably resonate most with Westerners—it translates as “feng shui,” the Chinese art of positioning physical objects in a way that promotes the correct flow of qi (gi in Korean). Doseon’s system is influenced by Chinese feng shui but focuses on macro-scale features: he was more concerned with the location of houses, communities, and even the gi of the whole nation in relation to geographical features like mountains and rivers. Chinese feng shui is concerned with the location of houses but also with the placement of the objects within them. Pungsu-jiri was so influential, it inspired a rebellion against the Koryo dynasty: in the late 1120s and early 1130s, a monk named Myocheong attempted to overthrow the government and establish a new state with Pyongyang as its capital, at least in part because he believed Pyongyang a more auspicious location than Kaesong, the city in which the Koryo court was based.
In a hanok, slatted windows and doors are covered with hanji, a type of mulberry paper treated in a way that renders it waterproof, yet breathable. Hanji panes give the hanok a sense of natural light and aeration. The hanok’s roof, the cheoma, has a curved edge, the length of which will vary according to the need to allow in light and heat. Wealthy yangban hanok owners had roofs covered with clay tiles known as giwa, while poorer people had to make do with thatch. Yangban also liked to situate their houses on high ground. They were able to look down, literally, on the tenant farmers who served them, and on their smaller, more humbly constructed homes.
The typical hanok of the past reflected Confucian social mores. There were separate rooms for the men and women of the house. These were known as the sarangchae and anchae, respectively, the former being a place in which the gentleman scholar could receive guests, while the ladies kept to themselves in the latter. Even so, there are regional variations on this theme. The province of Gyeongsang-do, which is known to this day for its conservatism, adhered to strict division, while in the more liberal Jeolla-do Province one can find hanoks with sarangchae provided for women to entertain their own friends.
Encroaching Modernism
The twentieth century saw vast changes in Korean residential architecture. As early as the Japanese colonial period, apartment buildings were being constructed in areas of Seoul like Sindang-dong and Jangchung-dong. These buildings were intended mainly for Japanese workers, who had been sent over to participate in transforming Korea into a Japanese industrial powerhouse that would aid the island state in its plans to extend its dominance to Manchuria and beyond. These structures were typically two or three stories in height, and contained between fifty and seventy units. Later, buildings available for general lease to Koreans as well as Japanese were erected, such as the Yurim Toyota Apartments at Chungjeongro (1932).
The year 1942 saw the first Korean-built apartments, in the northern Seoul district of Hyehwa. However, not until the Park Chung-hee era of rapid economic development that begun in the early 1960s did apartment living really take off, with the completion of the Mapo Apartments in 1964, in the Dohwa-dong area of Mapo, Seoul. This was the very first large residential complex of the sort that millions now live in.
As the population of Seoul swelled—half the country’s population now lives in or around the capital—the hanok became less and less viable. New residents of Seoul needed cheap housing, and that meant building high, stacking their homes on top of each other. The spirit of the times was growth at any cost, which meant that no emphasis was placed on aesthetics. Apartment blocks were built as quickly and cheaply as possible, with no design flourishes. Planning was not much of a concern, either: buildings were erected in any available space, regardless of the effect they might have on the surrounding area. People “simply needed a space to live in,” according to Mr. Hwang.
“I don’t one-hundred-percent denounce apartment living, because we had our reasons to do it,” he adds. Like many of the changes in Korean society of the past half-century that created unwelcome side effects, apartment living was a practical step on the road to economic take-off. One could compare it to the building of endless rows of two-up two-down terrace houses found in mill towns all over Northern England, which, though most seem ugly today, served a particular purpose at that time.
Apartments are also supremely convenient. Many say hanoks are difficult to keep warm compared to apartments. And while maintaining a hanok takes a great deal of effort, if one lives in an apartment, window cleaning, security, external repairs, and so on are no longer one’s own responsibility. South Koreans pay a gualli-bi—a management fee—to the apartment complex’s maintenance firm every month, and in return all of these things are taken care of. For those working 51.6 hours per week (plus uncredited overtime), as the average person did in 1970, this is entirely understandable.
Many believe that this apartment culture has resulted in increased alienation. People no longer live in true communities, and the enclosed isolation of this living space causes a disconnect from nature and one’s neighbors. On the other hand, one might argue equally that apartment alienation is a reflection of the atomized, lonely reality of the large industrial city, where citizens working all day long in an office or a factory lack the energy and inclination to develop any neighborhood spirit in the little free time they have.
The End of the Hanok?
Hanoks used to exist in large numbers throughout all towns and cities, but industrialization and population growth meant that vast swathes of hanoks were knocked down to be replaced by apartment buildings and factories from the 1960s onwards. By some estimates, the number of hanoks nationwide declined from over a million to just ten thousand by the year 2000. People began to see these traditional houses as relics, quaint throwbacks to old Korea, and in a country where anything old was considered undesirable, the hanoks had to go. By the 1980s, architecture students like the young Mr. Hwang continued to learn about hanoks, but never expected to work with them. Hanoks were regarded as anachronistic and inconvenient, especially in comparison to apartments.
The apartment has thus become the default residence in South Korea. Even in the countryside, one sees giant, gray concrete blocks, neatly divided into units, offering convenience for their residents but utter incongruity and even ugliness for their surroundings. Giant construction companies that specialize in such brutally generic structures are among the largest firms in South Korea, and have managed to use their influence to propagate the view that the apartment is the only viable solution for living space.
However, there is a growing glimmer of hope. Since around the turn of the millennium, some members of society have started, albeit slowly, to shift their priority from hyper-growth functionality to quality of life. This is evidenced in a number of areas: greater interest in art and public beautification, an increased environmental awareness, the growth of cultural industries, and stronger demand for leisure time, to name a few. Furthermore, people are now starting to rediscover the past.
As we saw in chapter 12, Koreans have felt a sense of shame over their history, and this makes them prefer to look forward rather than backward. However, the elite classes (both financial and cultural) are now beginning to find value in the historic. This emerging interest has touched a number of areas: old Korean music, traditional hanbok clothing, and furniture, to name a few. In the case of hanok, the trend for nostalgia has led to the construction of new hanoks and the preservation of old ones. Whereas the elite once sought to trade in their hanoks for apartments, now they are leading a trend in the opposite direction.
Hanoks have a great many advantages with regard to twenty-first century concerns such as energy consumption and sustainability. Since hanoks are constructed from basic materials like wood and stone, they have less environmental impact than cement (producing a ton of cement causes the release of almost a ton of carbon dioxide, several kilograms of nitrous oxide, and particulate emissions). Due to simple features like the elongated, overhanging roof, they naturally draw in heat in the winter, when the sun is low, and provide shade in the summer, when the sun is high. This eco-friendliness is winning the hanok new admirers.
Purists and Progressives
Of course, concerns about cost, practicality, limited land for building, and economic realities mean that Koreans will never completely turn against apartment living. However, demand is growing for the construction of “modernized” hanoks. Because of the cost of land, this option is available only to the wealthy at present, but there are plans for generic hanoks and hanok complexes, which would naturally reduce prices somewhat. Mr. Hwang has even proposed hanoks with basements and multiple stories to meet the challenge of high population density. They would be constructed from traditional materials, but in a more mass-produced way. Both concepts are new, representing a kind of hybrid of traditional Korean and modern urban living, and both have skeptics. For example, traditionalists do not like the sound of a multistory hanok, and others question its energy efficiency.
The modernized hanok generally features the kind of conveniences found in apartments or Western homes, such as bathroom suites and air conditioning. Some even make use of concrete as a building material. While such innovations are drawing back those who dismissed hanoks in the past, they are also causing a divide between so-called progressives and purists, particularly in the historic Seoul neighborhood of Bukchon.
Bukchon, located near the fashionably leafy district of Samcheong-dong and in the vicinity of the presidential mansion, has had a history of changing fortunes. Originally a yangban residential district, it has spent much of the modern era as an overlooked, depressed neighborhood for the poor, with property values below those found in other districts. However, in 1999, the government instituted a policy of preservation in which those who invested in the redevelopment of hanoks received generous subsidies. This has drawn in a new breed of hanok owner. Furthermore, the government’s policy coincided with the development of the modern hanok, and, as a consequence, Bukchon has undergone rapid gentrification. Many old homes were simply knocked down rather than renovated and were replaced with large, modernized (and subsidized) super-hanoks. Bukchon is now a nouveau riche area that attracts legions of foreign tourists armed with DSLR cameras.
The Bukchon purists argue that since that district is virtually the only place left in Seoul with beautiful, traditional-style hanoks, it ought to be maintained in a traditional way, rather than exposed to hybridization. Several of the strongest proponents of this view are in fact Westerners, long-term residents of Korea who bought their hanoks for bargain-basement prices back in the days when Koreans did not want them. The debate has split local opinion, with some voicing support and finding it sad that it apparently falls to foreigners to protect Korean heritage. Others consider the purist campaign romanticist meddling over houses too “inconvenient” for modern living.
The Future of Seoul?
As Korean society begins to accept the need for reduced consumption of energy and resources, a contradiction is becoming apparent. “There is no sense in creating an eco-friendly society if people have to commute for two hours every day,” generating considerable emissions of greenhouse gases, according to Mr. Hwang. It is clear that the Seoul megalopolis, a sprawling octopus of a city, occupies too much space. The tendency of the capital since industrialization has been to suck in people from other areas and then expand outwards, overtaking surrounding cities and subsuming them in the greater Seoul conurbation.
Yet, while there are blocks of giant apartment buildings, it is worth noting that the average number of stories in smaller Seoul buildings is just 2.5, much lower than in Paris or New York, for instance. Commercial buildings, such as those used for shops, are typically low-rise. If the average number of stories could be doubled, through mixed-use buildings of around five or six stories that feature shops on the ground floor, offices in the middle, and residential units on top—as is the case in Paris—a great deal of space could be saved. This would reduce the need for giant apartment blocks and allow for more urban hanoks, parks, and so on. The future of Seoul could arguably be smaller, yet taller, and greener.
As some are now realizing, developing other areas of the country in order to create a more geographically balanced nation would make a great deal of sense. Without a concerted effort to limit the growth of Seoul, South Korea risks becoming a Singapore-style city-state with tens of thousands of square miles of countryside attached, give or take Busan and a handful of other cities. Educational, business, and administrative capacity is concentrated inordinately on Seoul. One could say that Seoul has double the clout in South Korea that London has in England. This imbalance is wasteful and creates excessive competition for space, excessive property prices, and excessive commutes and traffic jams, which reduce productivity. And with armed-to-the-hilt North Korea about a marathon run’s distance from Seoul, there is also a slight chance that it could be catastrophic. Though achieving any meaningful rebalancing would be a massive political challenge, it would certainly be worth a try.