Steel, Troops and Robots: Interview with Kelvin Kyung Kun Park

After graduating, I had to return to Korea for military service. After completing that, I started filming in Cheonggyecheon area, where there are small factories that have existed since the 1960s. The factories were the birthplace of what now are big corporations, like LG and Samsung, which copied Japanese and US machines. I thought this area was quite interesting, so I made a film and a five-channel video piece.

I think I have always worked both ways. It wasn’t intentional, but as a survival strategy for an artist, it worked out. In Korea, the film industry’s infrastructure is much stronger than that of the art scene, and I have received recognition in the film world, which carried me into new productions. So I utilize both systems.

Would you prefer to create more traditional documentary films or films geared toward the art world? The audiences are very different, and the funding is different.

Increasingly, I am putting my energy more in the art world because I am much more of an image-driven person rather than being text-driven. For me, I feel much freer in an exhibition setting, but there are some advantages in the film world. For instance, a film has the possibility of getting distributed.

So film has a broader audience?

The kind of films I make have a niche audience, and there is something appealing about watching a film as part of a group, so I think there is some attraction in that as well. But in terms of narrative structures, my brain doesn’t really work that way.

I also realized that the film and the art audience are quite different. I find the discussions in the art world to be much more interesting. For example, in the film world, the questions are quite simple, like: “How did you film this?” I enjoy the intellectual discussions in the art world; I think they go much deeper.

Some people consider you to be a social critic. Could you talk about your interest in Korean history, culture and society?

My intention is to make good work. I don’t want my thoughts to override my senses, so I use my senses first and let them guide me toward a different way of thinking. The topics I touch upon happen to be historical or social, but that’s not my main intention.

Why did you gravitate toward the steel plant in Cheonggyecheon Medley (2010)?

At the time I was involved with an artist group known as Flying City, and they were documenting that particular area, because of the neighborhood’s redevelopment. When I came back to Korea, I met those guys by chance and immediately joined them. I have lived abroad for most of my life, so that was my first entry into the Korean art scene. When I went to Cheonggyecheon, the feeling was quite mixed. I felt some repulsion and some attraction, and when I looked at those old machines and rusted materials, I felt what I feel when thinking about or talking to my father, or men in my father’s generation. There’s something about that particular area, because it looks the same as it did in the 1960s. It’s a forgotten zone for redevelopment; it’s a pretty rare neighborhood in Seoul because it’s the only place where you can see some kind of layering of time. 

Where history is not erased.

My intention wasn’t to conduct social critique; I wanted to express the emotion of being there. Something about the material of metal gave me a similar feeling toward old men in Korea—those in their 50s or 60s, or my father’s generation. That feeling is very cold, very rough and very rigid. At the same time, metal rusts very easily, and it is a very weak material. It appears strong, but out of all the materials, metal is the most brittle.

Which metal are you referring to?

Iron, steel—what the machines are made from. When I visit museums, I look at the historical objects, and the most nasty-looking ones are made of metal. Metal rusts very quickly, but when you’re using it, it appears to be the strongest. Over time, it breaks down. That is the kind of feeling I have toward men of that generation, and also when I look back at myself. This kind of emotional connection was the drive.

Was it more a question of self-exploration?

In a way, it was. The way I feel about myself is that I am hardly an individual because I am somebody’s son, I have to do what my father and mother expect. You have to play a certain role. This is the social frame. Korea has a very Confucian culture, and places so much emphasis on the collective, and the individual somehow gets suppressed. My personal explorations seem like a social critique, but I’m just talking about my feelings.

In the case of the Korea Art Prize, how does that work reflect your inner state?

The inspiration for that piece came from my first day of military service. When I first entered the training camp, I saw hundreds of men with shaved heads. For five hours, the drill sergeants make you practice the salute. Everybody has to be synchronized. The training stops if one person is off, they hammer you and make you do push-ups to instill fear, and everybody has to restart the exercise. This lasts for about five hours. So your senses become very alert, but at the same time you are shocked by the experience and you become very numb. You are very disorientated, and you just feel nothing. If you mess up, then you become the scapegoat. I could feel the other guys’ anger and aggression. So that fear is much stronger than the pressure from the top. It’s the collective, looking at you to see if you fail—that’s the ultimate fear.

But you’re also doing that to the others?

Yeah! Because if someone fails, you’re a part of that. I realized that’s how a collective forms—the top-down fear and the scapegoat complete it. That experience left a strong impression on me. It’s a trauma. This goes beyond the military too: some Korean men who have completed their compulsory military duty have nightmares about their service. It definitely leaves some kind of scar. For the past three years, I’ve wanted to make a film about the military. So I went back, and I followed one guy from the beginning, filming the whole process for two years. I think that process helped me objectively look at what I went through and revisit those emotions.

I wanted to ask you about robots and how they pop up into your work. How do you use them as tools and metaphors?

I made a piece called 1.6 Sec (2016), where I filmed a car factory that’s fully automated. I had a strange experience in the plant: I felt that, compared to human workers, the machines looked much more lively. The human workers were really gray and depressed; they looked more like machines than the actual machines. So maybe Charlie Chaplin’s [1936 silent comedy film] Modern Times is reversed, because the machines are much more adaptable to change, but the workers are trained along a conveyer belt, so they are difficult to change. That’s why people are getting laid off too, because they become obsolete.

The most obvious way to read this is that soldiers are like robots. They are totally automated, they have no brains. What’s strange is that the military trains you to be a robot, but robots are advancing to become more human. That metaphor and the opposite trajectory are very interesting to me.

I’m intrigued by how certain motions can invoke emotions. For example, when you want to make a structured motion, it involves careful engineering and calculations. Otherwise, the setup will just wobble. So I need to make the motion decelerate, and stop at a certain velocity, to invoke that feeling, like choreography. When I’m working on the robots, I really have to train them to be more human.

What does your nomination for the Korea Art Prize mean to you?

I think the institutional infrastructure in Korea is in its early stages. I want to contribute something to building arts institutions. We can’t do it all on our own when it comes to making art and culture. In a way, it’s all about people working together.

Elaine W. Ng is the chief editor and publisher of ArtAsiaPacific.

The “Korea Artist Prize 2017” exhibition is on view at the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, Seoul, until February 18, 2018.

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