Architecture

and
Urbanism
in Modern Korea

Inha Jung
Architecture
and
Urbanism
in Modern Korea
Spatial Habitus: Making and Meaning in Asia’s Architecture
Edited by Ronald G. Knapp and Xing Ruan

House Home Family: Living and Being Chinese

Edited by Ronald G. Knapp and Kai-Yin Lo

Allegorical Architecture: Living Myth and Architectonics in Southern China

Xing Ruan

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Edited by Jeffrey W. Cody, Nancy S. Steinhardt, and Tony Atkin

Architecture and Metaphor: Song Culture in the Yingzao Fashi Building Manual
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Original Copies: Architectural Mimicry in Contemporary China

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China’s Contested Capital: Architecture, Ritual, and Response in Nanjing

Charles D. Musgrove

Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

Inha Jung
Architecture
and
Urbanism
in Modern Korea

Inha Jung

University of Hawai‘i Press, Honolulu

Hong Kong University Press
© 2013 University of Hawai`i Press
All rights reserved
First published in North America by University of Hawai‘i Press
ISBN 978-0-8248-3585-9

Published in China by Hong Kong University Press

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Printed in Hong Kong, China

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Chong, In-ha, author
Architecture and urbanism in modern Korea / Inha Jung.
pages cm. — (Spatial habitus)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Published in China by Hong Kong University Press.
ISBN 978–0-8248–3585–9 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Architecture—Korea (South)—History—20th century. 2. Urbanization—Korea (South)—History—20th century.
3. Architecture and society—Korea (South) I. Title. II. Series: Spatial habitus (Series)
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Contents

Foreword vii
Acknowledgments ix
Introduction xi

Part I Modern Life in the Colonial Period 1

1 The First Urbanization 3

2 The Genesis of Urban Housing 23

3 Architecture and the Introduction of New Materials 36

Part II Searching for Identity in the Developmental Period 49

4 Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom 51

5 New Urban Housing 70

6 The Quest for Architectural Identity 81

7 The Semantics of Technology 97

Part III From Modernization to Globalization 109

8 Discovering Reality 111

9 New Paradigms for Urban Design 126

Epilogue: A Correlative Architecture between the Void and the Solid 142

Appendix: Proles of Korean Architects and Planners 145

Notes 153
Bibliography 167
Index 185
Foreword

During the twentieth century, one of the most dramatic rises to modern prominence in Asia, if not
elsewhere in the world, occurred in South Korea. From a scant three percent of the total population
living in urban circumstances less than one hundred years ago, the urban proportion is now over eighty
percent. The wealth of the nation’s citizenry has risen considerably, from literally dirt poor after the
calamitous civil war in the early 1950s to respectable middle-income status today. Industrialization,
one of modernization’s hallmarks, has also evolved prodigiously, producing technological world-
class companies such as Samsung and Hyundai. Despite this prominence, however, anything like a
comprehensive English-language account of Korean modern architecture and urbanism, as this volume
attempts to be, has been non-existent. Much of what has been available is sandwiched into more general
discussions of Korea’s modernization or into accounts of its capital, Seoul, primarily after World War II.
Other snippets are in articles dealing with particular buildings and related projects, as well as with their
architects, in several serialized professional and trade magazines. Further glimpses can also be found
through historical panoramas and other photographs in a few albums, usually thoughtfully published
by government-supported institutions.
One of the challenges in structuring the contents of a first-of-a-kind book like Architecture and
Urbanism in Modern Korea is how to frame the discussion and what to include and what not to share.
Another challenge is how to discuss plans and projects appropriately for their time and place them in
a broader and more accessible context. Development of underlying themes of historical and theoretical
interest also requires consideration, along with sufficient supporting material, for the book to serve as a
useful reference. Then, too, narrative style and the use of illustrations can enhance the book’s readability
and ultimate enjoyment.
On par, Inha Jung has written a fine volume, full of well-informed accounts of events, insightful
analyses of projects, and nuanced ideas about the unique flow of architectural and urban modernization
in Korea. He begins by dividing the presentation into three distinct periods of colonization, development
and globalization, using what he calls two “thick fault lines.” One is the transitional period between the
liberation of 1945 and the Korean War of 1950–1953, and the other is the movement into democracy
from the late 1980s into the early 1990s. Not only does this subdividing capture the essence of what
appears to have happened, it also coincides with ideas of “turning moment” and “tipping points,”
now routinely used by other historians of modernization when encountering substantial disjunctions
between one era and the next. Furthermore, he puts these distinctions to good use by defining the
underlying possibilities, design activities, and practices pertaining to each by way of what he calls
“structured fields.” These, in turn, are akin to the Foucault-like idea of a “discourse,” which more or less
defines what can be “said” or in this case designed, planned, or otherwise made from what is excluded.
Far from being entirely inevitable or mechanistic, however, these structured fields can be willfully altered
and replaced through significant changes in technological orientation, attitudes to regional identity on
the part of architects and planners, as well as other changes to the underlying urban and architectural
discourse. Elaboration of this idea in each of the three periods is then pursued in a straightforward
narrative description, analysis, and parsing of three principle aspects: the period’s planning discourse;
the provision of the component of urban modernization in shortest supply, namely, housing; and the
character and thrust of architectural debates and prevailing orthodoxies.
viii Foreword

What is included here in the form of plans, building projects, and related discussions cannot hope
to be entirely inclusive, even in a relatively small setting like South Korea, which is somewhat the
geographic size of the state of Indiana in the United States. Nevertheless, within the foregoing tripartite
concentration of material and the confines of the prevailing discourse or structured field, what needs
to be incorporated comes across as being reasonably apparent and is delivered in an even-handed
manner, replete with useful illustrations and, at times, diagnostic diagrams. Numerous side references
to plans and projects elsewhere in the world are also helpful. Along the way numerous local architects
are introduced, many not well known outside of Korea, along with a repertoire of projects that span
a spectrum from plans, to urban design proposals, to a broad array of building types. The requisite
“survey” aspect of the book is well served and supplied; in short, the author is able to say quite a lot
about a lot of projects and urban-architectural undertakings.
Keenly aware of the unusual and he would say unique trajectory of modern architectural and
urban development in Korea, Inha Jung also challenges some of the so-called universal veracities of
modernization. This, in turn, places the text clearly on the side of those who conceive of “modernities”
rather than the all-encompassing “modernity” of contemporary phenomena. For one thing, Jung’s
interest in what survives from earlier times and goes largely unchanged is of as much interest as the
apparent wholesale commitment of Koreans to modernization. His use of and reflections on the
persistence of the madang, or courtyard arrangement, in building is a case in point. Then, too, there
is the introduction of Western technologies and other agencies of modernization, although via Japan
with its own re-interpretations and implementation. Here Jung evenly balances relevant discussion
between the two prominent views of Japan’s rule in Korea as one of exploitation, on the one hand,
and of colonial modernization, on the other. Turning to the developmental period in the text, Korea’s
modernization, as he puts it, “took place . . . largely removed from a Western liberal pluralist paradigm.”
Nor, overall, can it be “accounted for by Western standards nor those pertaining to underdeveloped
third-world countries.” Also, down among the details of architectural production, during the period of
so-called globalization, there was an inversion in Korea away from theory, unlike what occurred in the
West, toward pragmatism and the embrace of situational aspect of context. Disparities in the scale and
morphology of superblock development—a fundamental spatial component of Korean urbanization—
with block structures anywhere else in the world is yet another distinctive outcome of modernization. So
too is Jung’s interpretation of what he terms “landscaped architecture” toward a blurring of distinctions
between nature and building away from nature’s more prevalent objectification in other places.
Throughout, the presentation is well structured, inviting in its language, and engaging. Much of what
I have said in the foregoing, although certainly there as a strong intellectual underpinning, may well
remain less obvious, and to the good, for other readers. The scaffolding, so to speak, doesn’t get in the
way of a very welcome addition to the literature on Korean modern architecture and urbanism as well as
the “modernities” of architecture and urbanism more broadly construed.
—Peter G. Rowe,
Raymond Garbe Professor of Architecture and Urban Design
and Harvard University Distinguished Service Professor
Cambridge, Massachusetts, January 2013
Acknowledgments

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to all those who provided support and guidance throughout
this study. This book began life when I was a visiting scholar at the Harvard Graduate School of Design
in 2007, where I had the unique opportunity to develop my ideas in collaboration with Professor Peter
Rowe.
Special recognition should also be given to Professor Jong-Soung Kimm, whose insights have been
truly invaluable for the publication of this book.
I am very grateful to the architects Tai Soo Kim, Kyu Sung Woo, Kerl Yoo, Hyo-Sang Seung,
Kyung-Kook Woo, Sang-Leem Lee, and Young-Joon Kim, who were willing to help me obtain a better
understanding of their work.
This book has benefited from the assistance of many scholars, especially Byung-Joo Park, Chae-
Shin Yoon, Jae-Woong Yoon, Tae-Jung Kim, Sang-Koo Lee, Mann-Young Jeong, Sam-Geon Han, and
Masanori Tomii, who granted me permission to use their precious visual materials.
I owe much to Eunice Kim and Hye-Young Chung for their careful editing of my manuscript, and to
photographers Young-Chae Park, Nils Clauss, Heun-Kang Seo, Jong-Oh Kim, and Jae-Kyung Kim, who
allowed me to use their photos in this book.
I would also like to thank my assistants Eun-Jung Youn, You-Kyung Kim, Min-A Kim, Su-Jung Kang,
and Woon-Jin Um, who prepared most of the drawings and models that appear in this volume.
I am especially grateful to my family for giving me the opportunity to pursue my dream. My
wife, Ja-Hyun Baik, my son, Jihoon, my parents-in-law, and my mother provided much-needed
encouragement.

* This work was supported by a National Research Foundation of Korea (NRF) grant funded by the Korean government
(MEST) (No. 20050049719)
Introduction

This book traces the transformation of architecture and urban space over the course of the last
one hundred tumultuous years of Korea’s history, a time when the built environment changed so
fundamentally that it is difficult to grasp completely its transfigurations. Judging from pictures taken
by an Australian photographer in 1904, Korea at that time was a land of seclusion and isolation, remote
from modern civilization. The urban population was barely 3 percent of the total; the population of
Seoul, Korea’s bustling urban capital, was less than 200,000. The majority of the land was blanketed with
rice paddies and farm fields, sparsely dotted with thatched roof houses. Within a mere one hundred
years, Korea transformed itself into a completely modern society. Today’s population has increased
fivefold, with more than 80 percent of it living in its urban centers. Much of the pastoral landscape has
been converted into large, monolithic buildings and labyrinthine networks of streets. Obviously, the
process was not easy. Buildings and cities were repeatedly destroyed and rebuilt due to a succession
of vehement sociopolitical disturbances. Indeed, the changes were so dramatic that few buildings
constructed one hundred or more years ago remain. The legacy of the twentieth century in Korea must
be regarded as one equally made up of destruction and construction.

Ruptures and Continuities

Although modernization began more than a century later in Korea than it did in the West, it has been
the predominant ideology throughout the past century, bringing about radical changes in Korea’s
architecture and cities. The nature of modernity, which continuously negates what existed in the past,
brought with it the complete uprooting of the traditional lifestyle. As a result, the history of Korean
architecture and urbanism over the last century has been characterized by discontinuities, ruptures,
and transformations. Two thick fault lines are particularly significant: the first sandwiched between
liberation (1945) and the Korean War (1950–1953), and the second, between the late 1980s and early
1990s. Although the second fault line, marking a transition in the South from a military regime to a
democratic society, was perhaps not as dramatic as the events surrounding the first, it was still the case
that architectural and urban discourse changed remarkably in both.
With these ruptures as boundaries, Korean architecture of the twentieth century falls into three distinct
periods, with modernity taking on a different meaning in each. The first, coinciding with the period
of Japanese occupation, was a time of colonial modernism. A particular strand of modern civilization,
including some Western technologies, was transplanted to Korea via Japan, and a modern way of life
started to take shape for the first time, albeit in a distorted way. The second period, extending from 1961
to 1988, was a time of developmental dictatorship when the Korean government presided over a large-
scale construction boom, and architects sought to establish a modern identity through traditional means.
The last period, which began to take shape in the mid-1990s, may be defined as a time when Korea’s
modernization was not only achieved, but also subsumed in the globalizing trend of the present era.
Because the modernization of Korea was belated, it condensed into a very short time period changes
that had taken place over more than two centuries in the West. But while the rapid and radical changes
that have occurred are undeniable, of greater significance for this study is the identification of elements
that have remained unchanged. In Korea, long-standing relationships between humans and their built
environment have formed continuities that are still deeply rooted in the way of life of the Korean people.
xii Introduction

For this reason, regionalism exerted a powerful influence on Korean architects in the twentieth century,
inspiring them to discover formal ideals in the method of organizing outdoor space which they found in
old temples; the topological singularities in traditional gardens; the multilayered arrangement of walls
in old palaces; and the different types of courtyards in traditional houses, all with a view to projecting
them in a modern fashion. It is evident that the practices of Korean architects are deeply associated with
the places where they grew up, and by exploring those places, Korean architects have pursued and found
a modern identity that can be called their own. For that reason, identifying the elements of continuity
and the process of their transformation through the last century is of great importance in this study.

Practicing in a Structured Field

Because it is impossible to consider all of the events related to architecture and urbanism in twentieth-
century Korea, we need to be selective in our approach. The key task in this book is to identify the
practical rules that were applied by architects in the spatial reconfiguration of modern Korea. To this
end, our discussion starts with lines that are drawn up on a plan. When a line is drawn for the first
time to conceive a building or a city in an empty place, it already contains an extremely complicated
signifying system. The subjective ideas of the individual architect and the objective structure of society
are integrated by the act of drawing a single line, through which theory and practice work together
to produce a unique built environment. By clearly understanding the process in which complex built
environments are generated, starting from a single line, this book tries to present a comprehensive
overview of architectural and urban development in modern Korea. Here both architecture and cities
belong to the same discursive plane and are closely interrelated, rather than work as elements with an
independent existence.
To develop these ideas effectively, we must look at the aforementioned periods as structured fields.
They constituted the fields of possibility in which architects had to act, and the architects’ design activities
were a form of practice conditioned by those structured fields. When one visits a university campus,
where buildings built in different periods are gathered together, one can verify how structured fields
permeate everything—from the overall design to the individual details of the buildings. The majority of
buildings built within the same structured field make common use of materials, construction methods,
building codes, and design concepts. The same is true for urban spaces. Cityscapes, street networks,
and even city boundaries change in accordance with the periods when they were planned. The urban
spaces of the 1930s, 1970s, and 2000s were all conceived in distinctive ways and are endowed with the
signifying systems of the practices and structured fields they at once embody.
One might well ask in what way a structured field affects an architect or planner’s practice. A
structured field acts in two ways. First, it acts as an existential horizon. All architects work within an
objective social reality, and their designs also take place within a given set of constraints. It is extremely
difficult to escape those constraints until they are considered inappropriate by most practitioners. To do
so, one must accept the burdens of economic inefficiency and waste, and ultimately the risk of losing
one’s customary relationship with the outside world. In this sense, a structured field is composed of
the limitations and constraints that are innate in an architect’s practice. But it can also be productive,
giving rise to new forms of activity, rather than simply censoring certain forms of activity. It provides a
structure, like the rules of a game, and architects must understand their modus operandi intuitively or
logically, and negotiate their course using those procedures. The more skillfully they do so, the higher
the probability they will successfully compete with other architects, with the commissioning of better
projects as the reward for success. But it is also possible for architects to point out the unreasonableness
of certain rules rather than simply submitting to them, and in this way the ideas of architects interact
with the social structure, affecting the process by which a structured field becomes internalized in an
architect’s practice.
 Introduction xiii

There are many ways that preestablished structures become internalized, since structured fields are
dependent on natural conditions, laws and institutions, representational methods, production methods,
and existent spatial systems. In most cases, they have been formed before an architect starts to work,
having been naturally acquired at home or at school. In Korea, residential spaces, in particular, seem
to form at an early age as the “proto-scenes” in an architect’s spatial consciousness. Because they
were acquired unconsciously, these spatial concepts have appeared repeatedly in the work of Korean
architects. When we compare the projects designed by two Korean architects, Hyo-Sang Seung and
Kyu Sung Woo, we can see that while their architectural activities stem from completely different
professional backgrounds, their design attitude relies on the same spatial consciousness derived from
early experience of a form of traditional Korean housing called the urban hanok. This experience
functions like a latent diagram in the architect’s consciousness, and it repeatedly emerges whenever they
come up with an image. This process is the reason this book focuses specifically on the formation of
urban and residential space.
Structured fields are dynamic and ever changing, since they can be affected by internal as well as
external forces. But what makes a structured field disappear, to be replaced in turn by a new one?
There may be several factors, but large-scale changes in urban discourse, technological orientation, and
regional identity can all play a role. Generational change occurs when architects and planners have to
work in conditions completely different from those encountered by the previous generation and, as a
result, need to restructure the rules of the game. It is the dynamic interplay between architects and
structured fields that has consistently served as the driving force changing the practice of designing
architecture and cities in Korea.
 Part
Modern Life in the Colonial Period
1

The First Urbanization
The modern world arrived in Korea in force following
Japan’s annexation of the Korean peninsula in 1910.
Although Koreans were initially captivated by the
prospect of modernity, the occupation soon brought
a succession of miseries, causing those sentiments
of wonder to be subsumed in feelings of anguish and
humiliation. The occupation ended in 1945, and it was
followed by the outbreak of civil war in 1950. In spite
of this troubled history, Koreans have never stopped
yearning for modernization. For this reason, recogni-
tion of modernity as a primary goal of Korean society
must be included in any analysis of Korea’s history in
the twentieth century. The development of modern
architecture and urbanism in Korea can be defined
as the path taken by intellectual and practical efforts
to construct the country’s built environment in forms
appropriate to the transformation of the traditional
society upon which Korea’s national identity had been
based. To extricate themselves from their historical
bonds, Koreans have pursued modernization for over
a century.
Colonial Modernism in Korea
When Korea was colonized in 1910, the newly
dominant power, Japan, had already undergone its
own modernization. Indeed, it had begun this process
earlier than its neighbors, and this advantage enabled it
to use the norms of a modern society, commonly iden-
tified as health, productivity, and efficiency,1 as tools for
dismantling a traditional social order. The antagonism
that resulted played out in two directions—between
Japanese imperialism and Korean nationalism on the
one hand, and between modernism and the premodern
on the other. This confrontation of oppositional forces
spawned complicated fault lines that fractured in differ-
ent ways, forming the major themes of the architectural
and urban discourse of the colonial period.
Because of this complexity, two contrasting views
of the colonial period have been maintained: one is
founded on a theory of colonial exploitation (sikminji
Chapter
1
sutalron); the other, on a theory of colonial moderni-
zation (sikminji geundaehwaron). Despite the emer-
gence of postmodern criticism in recent years, the
two approaches remain controversial because they are
essentially concerned with a historical accounting of
the colonial period. As Jonghoe Yang observes, “more
nationalistic Korean scholars are prone to reject the
colonial modernization theory by pointing to the con-
tradictory and exploitative nature of colonial moder-
nity. In contrast, more empirically oriented researchers,
many of them are foreign experts on Korean history,
tend to argue for the positive effects of the colonial
legacy by analyzing statistical data on colonial indus-
trialization.”2 According to these latter scholars, Korea’s
transportation and communication infrastructure,
together with some of the industrial facilities built in
the colonial period, all contributed to Korea’s economic
growth after liberation.
This book gives due weight to the recognition that
the modernization of Korean society took place during
the period of its colonization. Yet, as many scholars
believe, the best conceptual account of the situation
may be given from the perspective of Gramsci’s theory
of hegemony,3 which provides an analysis of the inten-
tion of the ruling class in relation to space.4 Gramsci’s
theory reminds us that the ultimate purpose of the
policies formed during the occupation was to con-
solidate Japanese colonial rule in perpetuity. Although
colonial modernism was dependent on cultural control,
including control of the built environment, the goal of
modernization persuaded many Koreans to believe that
Japanese rule was not entirely repressive but produc-
tive, allowing them to accept, adopt, and internalize
foreign norms and values. This was a fundamental limi-
tation that led to the fluctuation that can be observed
in various sectors according to the degree of Japanese
interest in them. The imbalance proved an impediment
in the advancement of modernization in Korea.
Notwithstanding this limitation, a modern way of life
did begin to emerge in Korea during the colonial period,
with attendant impacts on the built environment. In
4 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
the West, the Industrial Revolution had brought about
radical changes in the urban landscape. Until this point,
most people had resided in villages set in a landscape
sparsely dotted with houses, and this pattern of spatial
dispersion dictated the forms of everyday life. When
migrants from the countryside flocked to the cities to
pursue employment related to the manufacture and
increased availability of consumer goods, the housing
that was available was incapable of accommodating the
sudden increase in the population. In due course, city
dwellers had to accept the prospect of living in large-
scale housing complexes and high-rise buildings, a new
built environment characterized by enormous invest-
ment in infrastructure. This built environment could
not be constructed in the short term, however, causing
many social difficulties.
The first urbanization of Korea occurred during the
colonial period, apparently caused by similar factors.
Korea’s population doubled, and the increase was largely
absorbed in the cities.5 Overall, the urban population
rose from approximately 3 percent of the entire popu-
lation to 13 percent. In Seoul, the resident population
increased approximately fivefold during the colonial
period. In addition, new modes of transportation accel-
erated the process. Korea built its first railway in 1899,
and railway routes continuously expanded thereafter.
Inland cities such as Daegu, Gwangju, Daejeon, and
Pyongyang underwent rapid urbanization during this
period. Upon analysis, however, the roots of the urbani-
zation of Korea can be seen to lie not in the industriali-
zation process per se, as occurred in Western countries,
but in Japanese colonial rule. Industrialization did not
start in earnest in Korea until the 1930s. The main
reason for the migration of population from the Korean
countryside to the cities was the ruthless exploitation of
Korean peasants by the Japanese.6 This meant that the
increase in urban population did not occur through a
typical “push-pull” process in which a growing demand
for urban labor coincides with unused labor in the
countryside.7 The demand for an urban workforce was
actually meager, and new immigrants to Korean cities
led a hand-to-mouth existence, looking to be hired by
the day without prospects of finding a permanent job.
Moreover, the increase in the urban population was
also caused by a large influx of new Japanese residents.
The Japanese colonial government had allotted large
tracts of land at subsidized prices to Japanese families
wanting to settle in Korea. With this encouragement,
landownership among Japanese residents, which in
1916 stood at 36.8 percent, jumped to 52.7 percent by
the end of the colonial period. These land distribution
policies formed a significant part of the urban planning
that took place in Korea during this period.8 In the early
1920s, Japanese residents made up about 30 percent
of the urban population. With acute segregation the
norm, Japanese residential districts inserted themselves
into traditional Korean districts, splitting the urban
fabric. Indeed, the most revealing aspect of Korea’s
urban planning at this time was its total dependence on
Japanese interests. For example, when the colonial gov-
ernment designated thirteen cities three years after the
annexation, only three of those cities corresponded to
traditional definitions of a city. The others were created
for economic exploitation. Najin, built in the 1930s, was
designed as a logistical and military base for Japan’s ter-
ritorial ambitions on the continent of Asia. As a conse-
quence, most of the cities that flourished in the colonial
period did not develop further after liberation.
Despite these origins, there can be no doubt that the
urban spaces created during this period were forms of
colonial modernism. In particular, the street systems of
Korean cities and their infrastructure became forma-
tive influences on subsequent developments. Even with
land use plans being continuously deformed as cities
continued to grow, the street systems remained largely
unchanged. As we review the urban planning of the
colonial period, we will have occasion to examine how
these street systems were formed.
The Urban Planning of Open Ports
The first wave of urbanization in Korea dates back to
1876 when, under pressure from Japan, Korea dropped
its long-held policy of isolation. The Joseon dynasty,
which had ruled Korea for more than five centuries,
opened its doors to foreign countries and signed
treaties granting them commercial rights and the lease
of a certain territory to support consular affairs and
trade. Ten ports in Korea—Busan (1877), Wonsan
(1880), Incheon (1883), Mokpo (1897), Jinnampo
(1897), Gunsan (1899), Seongjin (1899), Masan (1899),
Yongampo (1904), and Cheongjin (1908)—opened
in succession, and five inland cities, including Seoul,
Pyongyang, and Uiju, opened to trade. The opening of
these ports brought a new way of life and a need for
modern urban planning. Prior to the port openings,
Korea’s major urban areas had been located inland.
Although there were ports for marine transportation
 The First Urbanization 5

and fishing, their scale was insignificant by comparison.

The areas selected for the treaty ports had been chosen
by the foreign powers, and their urban planning took
place under the foreign concession system. This was
a system developed originally in China and Japan “in
which a certain tract of land within the treaty port is
allocated for foreign settlements, and all or part of the
local administrative power in the district is transferred
to foreign governments (consuls), or the committee of
foreigners residing in the district.”9
Although the open ports in Korea followed in the
footsteps of the Chinese and Japanese models, their
urban space was organized somewhat differently. As
Japan gradually consolidated its dominance in Korea
during these decades, the formation of the open ports
took place in accordance with Japanese planning
models. Incheon, the third port opened, offers the
clearest example of this. Because of Incheon’s strategic
importance as the gateway to Seoul, three independent
settlements—Japanese, Chinese, and general foreign—
grew up at Incheon, and it became a model for the
planning of the open ports that were developed later.
The Japanese Concession was the first of the foreign
settlements to be constructed. Indeed, preparations Fig. 1.1 Plan of the general foreign settlement at Chemulpo
for it had begun even before the Joseon government (present-day Incheon) (National Archives of Korea,
agreed to open Incheon. There are eleven documents CJA0002274)
dating from September 1883 to November 1884 that Fig. 1.2 The general foreign settlement at Incheon, ca. 1915
reveal the planning process for the settlement.10 A (Gyu-Heon Lee 1996, 64)
drawing attached to the report sent by the Japanese
consul at Incheon on September 8, 1883, shows us the general foreign settlement, a concession shared by
Japan’s original concept for the settlement. In a site the Western powers, owed much to William George
measuring 43,627 sq m, the Japanese consulate was to Ashton, who had been appointed British consul-
be placed at the center with three layers of residential general for Seoul in 1884, becoming the first European
blocks laid out symmetrically. The dimensions of each diplomatic representative to reside in Korea.12 Ashton
block were 20–30 m x 120 m, with 12-m-wide roads had experienced the general foreign settlements in Kobe
inserted between the blocks. These dimensions and the and Osaka and did not have any difficulty in drafting
partitioning scheme seem to have stemmed from the the land regulation and plan for the common conces-
Japanese jobo system, on which the commoner districts sion.13 The land regulation segregated the lots into four
in Tokyo were also patterned.11 A similar scheme was categories to determine an upset price and rental value
also discovered at the Japanese district of Yokohama. consistent with location and geographical features.14
The construction of the Japanese settlement spurred The layout of the blocks and the street system were pat-
China and the Western powers to speed up the planning terned after the existing Japanese settlement. However,
of their settlements in Incheon. A Chinese settlement the average size of each lot was 900 sq m, considerably
was established on a hill west of the Japanese settlement larger than in the Japanese settlement. This can perhaps
in December 1883. The site measured 26,700 sq m and be explained by the fact that the commercial value of
was subdivided into irregular tracks. Based on this the lots was a significant index of their importance to
layout, Chinese soldiers stationed in Seoul undertook the Westerners, while the Japanese intended to develop
the construction of building lots and roads in April 1884 their settlement as an outpost for the invasion of the
and finished the work in March 1885. The planning of Korean peninsula (figures 1.1, 1.2).
6 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

In the wake of the opening of the first three ports, the

remaining ports were unilaterally opened by the Korean
government, under pressure from Japan, rather than
through diplomatic agreements with foreign powers.
Regulations for the foreign settlements at Chinnampo
(Jinnampo), Mokpo, and Kunsan (Gunsan) were prom-
ulgated in October 1897, and regulations for Masampo
(Masan) and Songjin (Seongjin) were issued in June
1899. They all had the same form and contents. The
location of the ports had been determined by Japan’s
interests. Japan was intent on establishing its supremacy
over Korea after its victory in the Sino-Japanese War,
and it needed new ports to maximize the economic
exploitation of the peninsula. Mokpo and Gunsan were
opened to facilitate rice exports from Jeolla province.
In the new settlements, the subdivision of urban space
followed the precedent set by the general foreign set-
tlement in Incheon. After removing all Korean houses
within the settlements, the Korean government
prepared, filled in, laid out, and subdivided the lots,
selling them at public auction to the highest bidder. To
ensure consistency in the public auctions, the lots were
partitioned into grids of the same size. Land was sold in
three categories: (a) village, rice-field, or low-lying lots
not requiring filling in; (b) hill lots; and (c) foreshore lots
requiring further filling in.15 The lots had minimum and
maximum sizes: 500–1,000 sq m for Class A and Class
C lots, and 1,000–5,000 sq m for Class B lots. In Mokpo
and Gunsan, the block size was largely determined by
these lot sizes. In Mokpo, there were two block sizes:
one was approximately 60 m x 80 m, or 4,800 sq m; the
other was approximately 90 m x 90 m, or 8,100 sq m
(figures 1.3, 1.4). In Gunsan, the block size was 40 m x
60 m (2,400 sq m). These were blocks that were easily
rentable if they were subdivided into four parts. Except
for restrictions on building access and sanitary facili-
ties, land use in the blocks was unregulated. Various
buildings began to fill the blocks according to their
partitioning, including public facilities such as consular
buildings, customs offices, and warehouses, as well as
Japanese-style housing called machiya to accommodate
the Japanese who were rushing to the new ports. This
general pattern became a common way to organize the
urban space of treaty ports in Korea (figures 1.5, 1.6).

Fig. 1.3 Plan of Mokpo (Seok-Kyu Ko 2004, 58)

Fig. 1.4 View of Mokpo, ca. 1930? (Photo courtesy of Sam-Geon Han)
Fig. 1.5 Plan of Gunsan, 1902 (Ei-Won Kim 1982, 652)
Fig. 1.6 View of Gunsan, ca. 1930? (Photo courtesy of Sam-Geon Han)

Cheongjin was the last port to open in 1908.
When Korea was annexed by Japan in 1910, all of the
open ports lost their original function and meaning.
The Japanese government opened negotiations with
the foreign governments over their concessions in
Korea and completely abolished the system in 1914.
Consequently, the urban planning that took place on
the Korean peninsula after 1910 assumed a completely
different character.
Annexation and the City Ward Improvement Plan
After winning the first Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895),
Japan focused its national force on the colonization
of Korea. It concluded a treaty for the first Anglo-
Japanese Alliance in 1902, which laid out an acknowl-
edgement of Japanese interests in Korea. In the peace
treaty ending the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905),
a defeated Russian empire acknowledged and hence-
forward deferred to Japan’s military, political, and
economic interests on the Korean peninsula. A separate
agreement, signed in secret by the United States and
Japan, recognized both the Japanese interests in Korea
and the American interests in the Philippines. With
this recognition, the Japanese government sought to
formalize its sphere of influence by forcing the Korean
cabinet to sign the Protectorate Treaty, giving Japan
complete responsibility for Korea’s foreign affairs and
placing all trade through Korean ports under Japanese
supervision. The treaty was signed in November 1905,
allowing Japan to set in motion a large number of urban
policies aimed at extending its power in Korea. It would
only be a matter of time before it seized full control of
the apparatus of government.
Railways and Fortress Walls
The Japanese colonizers consolidated their control of
inland cities by constructing railways. Japan had obtained
the right to construct railways in the Korean peninsula
in 1894 but transferred the license for the Seoul-Incheon
rail line to an American businessman, James R. Morse, in
1896, amid soaring anti-Japanese sentiment in the wake
of the assassination of the Korean empress the previous
year. Two years later, when construction of the line was
halted due to financial difficulties, Morse relinquished
the rights to a Japanese firm, and the first rail line was
opened in September 1899. Japan continued to operate
the Seoul-Busan line in 1905 and the Seoul-Sinuiju line
in 1906, which served as a stepping-stone for Japan’s
The First Urbanization 7
invasions of Korea and Manchuria. As newly con-
structed railways and roads became operational, inland
Korea began to see how a new transportation system
would open a new era of growth. Several new cities arose
at the intersection of the newly established railway lines.
Daejeon, the sixth largest city in present-day Korea, took
form to facilitate the settlement of Japanese workers
who took part in the railway construction.16 With the
expansion of railway lines, railway stations became new
centers of urban growth, triggering a great increase in
land prices. One result was the surfacing, in the 1920s, of
sharp conflicts between Koreans and Japanese over the
relocation of railway stations in Daegu.17
Along with the opening of the railways, the electric
streetcar brought great changes to the perception of
urban space. In 1898, King Gojong had authorized the
creation of a joint venture with two American business-
men, Henry Collbran and Harry Rice Bostwick, called
the Hanseong Electric Company. The new company,
of which the king owned 50 percent, was charged with
establishing an electrical lighting network in Seoul and
an electric streetcar system as well. Hanseong Electric
completed its first power plant in 1899 at Dongdaemun,
and, by the end of that year, had successfully launched
its streetcar service from Seodaemun to Cheongryangri.
In later years, the streetcar service was extended into
the surrounding suburbs of downtown Seoul, such as
Mapo, Ahyeon, and Yongsan.
As the wave of modernization began to overtake
traditional urban structures, the demolition of fortress
walls became symbolic of the disintegration of premod-
ern urban space and the emergence of a new urban order.
With new regulations for land and building certification
taking effect in 1906, making it lawful for Japanese to
own land throughout Korea, large numbers of Japanese
rushed into Korean cities to form new settlements. The
resulting tensions intensified with the demolition of the
city’s fortress walls. To the Japanese, the walls blocked
off not only a smooth stream of traffic, but also Japanese
commercial penetration of the old city. They began to
demolish the fortress walls as part of a campaign to
construct new roads and improve the urban infrastruc-
ture. This began in Daegu in 1906, and Jeonju fortress
followed in 1907. In Seoul, fortress walls to the left and
right of Namdaemun Gate were demolished in 1908. In
all, about 140 fortress walls had played an instrumental
role in the local administration of the Joseon dynasty,
and their demolition marked the death of a traditional
spatial order and the birth of a new one.18
8 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

Military Cities
The urban planning undertaken between 1905 and
1910 was closely tied to the Japanese military’s plans to
advance into Korea and China. The one-sided expan-
sion of Seoul amply demonstrates this fact. During
the Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895), two divisions of
the Japanese army had been stationed on the Korean
peninsula, one of them in Yongsan, a southern suburb
of Seoul. Ten years later, with Korea falling under its
control at the end of the Russo-Japanese War, Japan
made Yongsan the headquarters of its occupational
forces. It purchased all the land at dirt-cheap prices,
installed barracks for Japanese soldiers, and built
Yongsan Station as the starting point of the Seoul-
Incheon railway line.19 Yongsan, which had been
nothing but a sandy plain near the Hangang River,
became a place of strategic importance. Two arterial
roads from downtown Seoul to Yongsan were con-
structed after 1906 to improve access to the area, and
many residences for military officers were established
around the base. As a military camp, Yongsan stood in
the way of normal urban expansion, and this became a
decisive hindrance in Seoul’s development.
Nanam and Jinhae were two new cities built for
military purposes. Nanam, located 550 km northeast of
Seoul and next to Cheongjin, was surrounded by moun- Fig. 1.7 Plan of Changchun, 1908 (Kobayashi 1996, 57)
tains. In 1907, Japan began construction of the new city Fig. 1.8 Plan of Mukden, 1915 (Kobayashi 1996, 57)
on an empty site measuring about 3,300 ha, judging the
the men who carried out the planning. However, their
area to be strategically advantageous in several respects.
methods appear similar to the way the South Manchuria
Located 90 km from the borders of China and Russia,
Railway Company (Mantetsu) planned the construc-
it would be ideally located for the rapid mobilization
tion of cities around railway stations in Manchuria.21
of soldiers following any outbreak of hostilities, and it
Analysis of the urban formats of Changchun and
could facilitate the direct import of war materials from
Mukden (Shenyang), and of other Chinese cities
Japan by ship. It remains unclear exactly who initiated
planned by the railway company in the first decade
the city planning, but well-trained urban experts clearly
of the century, reveals several similarities (figures 1.7,
had a hand in it. The planners divided the city into two
1.8). First, they commonly placed railway stations at the
parts, making the northern sector a site for military
center of urban areas, allotting the front half to public,
barracks and the southern sector an urban area. The
commercial, and residential areas, and the rear half to
urban area contained two blocks 150 m wide and
factories and warehouses. Second, a regular grid-shaped
160 m deep, each of which was subdivided into 40 m
street network was employed if the ground was flat,
x 15 m street blocks. A notable feature in the plan was
and radial streets were added with railway stations at
X-shaped avenues with a park placed at the center. The
the center. Third, planners attempted to avoid creating
Japanese army would later praise Nanam as “a highly
an undifferentiated urbanscape by inserting large-scale
civilized example of city planning.”20
buildings around the railway-station squares. Fourth,
The planning of Jinhae in 1910 was carried out in
urban amenities such as parks and water reservoirs
a similar manner. After Korea was obliged to become
were built to be self-contained. Last, the average ratio
a Japanese protectorate in 1905, the Japanese navy
of road coverage in the entire urban area was never
forcibly acquired an enormous tract of land to build
less than 23 percent.22 These formats are significant
a military port and a new city. Little is known about

Fig. 1.9 Plan of Jinhae, 1910 (Ei-Won Kim 1982, 659)
Fig. 1.10 View of Jinhae, ca. 1930? (Photo courtesy of
Sam-Geon Han)
because Japanese urban technocrats applied them to
the planning of Korean cities until the enactment of
the Urban District Plan Decree of 1934. Jinhae Railway
Station was located at the center of the city, with a
frontal area subdivided into grid-shaped blocks 60–80
m long, and radial streets were formed by connecting
three urban centers (figures 1.9, 1.10). The Japanese set-
tlement at Pyongyang, planned in the 1910s, shows a
similar scheme.
The urban planning of the Manchurian railway
company was closely associated with the ideas of Goto
Shimpei, the first director of the company, who had
implemented urban improvement projects as the head of
civilian affairs in Taiwan. These experiences had taught
him that the success of colonial rule depended on the
establishment of balanced, advanced urban planning,
supported by infrastructure built to the standard to
which the Japanese had grown accustomed.23 He there-
fore emphasized scientific and statistical surveys and
conducted in-depth research on the urban planning
methods of Western countries. The predominant urban
The First Urbanization 9
planning methods of the time had been developed in
Europe and applied to new American and Australian
cities since the late nineteenth century. Cerda’s plan of
Barcelona showed a typical method of creating a modern
urban space. In his network-oriented approach, street
layout and grid plans were optimized to accommo-
date pedestrians, carriages, horse-drawn trams, urban
railway lines, gas supply, and large-capacity sewers to
prevent flooding without neglecting public and private
gardens and other key amenities. Urban planners in
the United States, particularly Daniel Burnham, looked
to the European models and concentrated on working
out an elaborate system of infrastructure rhythmically
punctuated by public monuments. Burnham’s plan
of Chicago was a typical American example, and the
methods he followed provided a template for develop-
ments in Manchuria and colonial Korea, albeit with
some regional modifications. Jinhae exemplified this
kind of adaptation.
City Ward Improvement Planning
After the annexation of the Korean peninsula in 1910,
the Japanese empire implemented new urban policies to
strengthen its hold over Korea. It introduced city ward
improvement planning to transform the traditional
cities of Korea where thatched-roof houses were clus-
tered together in a disorienting fashion, separated by
snaking alleyways. Historically, the city ward improve-
ment plan carried out in Tokyo was the Japanese govern-
ment’s first intervention to improve premodern urban
structures. Its model was a modernization program in
Paris led by Georges-Eugène Haussmann between 1852
and 1870. At that time, Tokyo was already overcrowded.
The population was close to 1 million and the density
of some wards exceeded 500 persons per hectare. After
years of studying the issue, the government enacted
the Tokyo City Ward Improvement Ordinance (Shiku
Kaisei Rei) in 1888. Its contents covered roads, rivers,
bridges, railroads, public parks, markets, crematori-
ums, and graveyards. The project was never carried
out, however, because of insufficient revenue, and a
new scaled-down plan was announced in 1903.24 The
major achievements of the revised remodeling program
included the construction of thirty-two parks, seven
canals, new waterworks and sewage systems, and the
improvement of 123 roadways up to 1919. Once the
program demonstrated its adequacy, it was applied to
other cities such as Osaka, Kyoto, Taipei, Seoul, and
Pyongyang.25
10 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
According to Iwao Miake, who published Urban
Studies in 1908 after surveying the extensive literature
on Western urban planning, “the first requirement of
the system lies in the widening of roads, and the second
in the unified, technical design of an entire street
network.”26 His statement pinpointed what the program
of city ward improvement entailed. The term itself
contained strong overtones of urban improvement, a
notion often allied in England with town planning.27
Accordingly, the goal of city ward improvement was the
enhancement of urban functions in old towns rather
than the development of new towns, and its most con-
spicuous feature was an emphasis on the construction
of urban infrastructure, as opposed to a comprehensive
account of overall land use.
To ensure effective implementation of the program,
the Government-General of Joseon (Joseon chong-
dokbu in Korean, Chousen soutokuhu in Japanese)28
created a variety of legal and institutional structures. A
comprehensive land survey of Korea had been carried
out from 1910 to 1918 to systemize land registration
and make land—particularly agricultural land—a
secure and easily marketable item for anyone, whether
Korean or foreign.29 As a result, many Korean farmers
were forced to become tenant farmers because they
could not produce any documented proof that they
owned their land. Together with the land survey, the
Government-General of Joseon issued several decrees
concerning architecture and development of the cities.
The Land Expropriation Decree (Toji Suyong Ryeong)
and Road Regulations (Doro Gyuchik) were promul-
gated on April 17, 1911, as the colonial government’s
first steps in the implementation of its urban policies.
The first decree allowed the government to expropriate,
subject to the governor-general’s approval, any estates
required to facilitate the construction of military instal-
lations, public buildings, educational facilities, railways,
roads, and bridges. The Road Regulations specified in
detail the planning and construction methods of roads,
breaking them down into four categories.30 The City
Ward Improvement Decree (Sigu Gaejeong Ryeong)
was issued on October 7, 1912, to regulate the devel-
opment of urban areas. It ordered the Korean people
to seek permission from the Government-General of
Joseon whenever any remodeling or expansion of main
urban districts was desired.31 This law well illustrated
the repressive nature of Japanese urban policies. The
following month, the Japanese colonial government
announced a plan to improve twenty-nine routes in
Seoul. In accordance with the plan, castle walls were
demolished and new roads were established in a grid for-
mation alien to the existing urban environment. Water
supply facilities and sewer systems were also installed at
the same time. On February 25, 1913, the Government-
General of Joseon made public a set of Regulations for
Urban Architecture (Sigaji Geonchuk Chwije Gyuchik)
intended to regulate building activities in urban areas.32
Together, these laws served as the basic legal founda-
tion for maintaining control of all urban development
in Korea until the Urban District Plan Decree (Joseon
Sigaji Gyehoek Ryeong) of 1934. On October 10, 1913,
the Japanese empire began to implement its “bu” system
(buje), enabling local governments to establish a level
of expenditure for urban projects in their budgets.
This meant that a local government could invest part
of its finances in city ward improvement projects.33
On October 12, 1914, the Government-General of
Joseon sent written instructions to provincial governors
regarding the authorization of city ward improvement
projects.34 From that time on, local governments had
the authority to conduct their own city planning in
accordance with their financial situation.
The Record of Civil Works in Korea (Chousen
doboku jigyoushi), published by the Government-
General of Joseon in 1928, itemized in detail the con-
struction process and expenditures for public works
ranging from roads, rivers, harbors, and urban renewal
projects to water supply and drainage systems.35 The
evidence contained in this record verifies that city
ward improvement projects were civil works intended
to reorganize the colony’s territory in accordance
with Japanese interests. Urban remodeling occurred
in thirteen Korean cities from 1913 to the early 1930s
with significant transformations at the center of major
cities such as Seoul, Daegu, Busan, and Pyongyang.36 In
these projects, the colonial government paved the most
frequently used roads, making them straight, separated
sidewalks from carriageways, and installed the needed
infrastructure for water and sewage systems.
In Seoul, the Government-General of Joseon desig-
nated twenty-nine roads as targets for remodeling on
November 6, 1912. The plan was revised five times until
192837 when its scope was finally extended to forty-four
roads (figure 1.11).38 Yet only twenty-five of the forty-
four roads were actually completed before liberation.
Prior to the city ward improvement planning, street
networks in Seoul had not departed very much from
a framework that dated back to their medieval origins.
 The First Urbanization 11

In fact, main roads in old Seoul were never

intended to be crossed at right angles, appar-
ently for military and geomantic reasons.39 The
first city improvement plans for Seoul showed an
intention on the part of the colonial government
to change this closed street system into an open
system as part of the city’s transformation into
a modern metropolis. The city center of Seoul
was composed of blocks approximately 200 m
to 300 m in size. The plan intended to place the
Government-General of Joseon’s headquarters at
the center of power (figure 1.12b), so radial roads
were created that led out from the headquarters
building, centering the axis of the urban scheme
on the building. As a way of expressing political
power in urban space, similar schemes had been
adopted in Versailles and Washington, D.C. The
plan was changed, however, when it was decided
Fig. 1.11 Road remodeling in downtown Seoul (Map redrawn from
that the colonial headquarters building should
land registration of 1918 and digitized by Sang-Koo Lee)
be relocated directly in front of Gyeongbokgung
Palace, requiring significant changes in the street
system. The newly prepared plan of 1919 reflected
these changes. Radial streets moved to the front
of Gyeonbokgung Palace, and all the radial streets
and plazas at the old building site disappeared
(figure 1.12c). The 1919 plan still maintained a
grid-pattern layout of street networks; as in the
1912 plan, minor streets continued to be aligned
with the linear patterns of the old streets. Most of
the arterial roads in the old center of Seoul were
built at that time.
Pyongyang, the present-day capital of North
Korea, offers a glimpse of how old walled towns

Fig. 1.12 Changes in the urban structure of downtown

Seoul: (a) city fortress of Seoul before modernization;
(b) city ward improvement plan, 1912; (c) city ward
improvement plan, 1919; (d) present-day urban structure
of downtown Seoul
1. Gyeongbokgung Palace
2. Changdeokgung Palace
3. Jongmyo (the ancestral shrine of the royal family)
4. Gyeonghuigung Palace
5. Deoksugung Palace
6. Sajik (altar to the state deities)
7. Government-General of Joseon headquarters
building before the relocation in front of
Gyeongbokgung Palace
12 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
in Korea were transformed into colonial cities through
city ward improvement projects. As a place of strategic
importance in the northwestern region of the Korean
peninsula, Pyongyang had formed its urban core within
four layers of fortress walls between the Daedonggang
and Botonggang rivers. However, after the opening of a
railway line between Seoul and Sinuiju in 1906, the old
town began to dissolve. In addition, when the construc-
tion of Japanese army barracks near Mt. Seogi ignited
a Japanese rush to Pyongyang, the city government
formulated a plan for a new town to meet the urgent
demands of the Japanese settlers. Its design resembled
the Chinese cities conceived by the Mantetsu with
streets laid out in a grid and arterial roads radiating
from a railway station at the town center. It is intriguing
to contemplate how the plan also reflected a traditional
urban layout from the sixth century, imitating ancient
Chinese urban formats characterized by a clear division
into distinct city blocks or wards. The size of each
block in the new town was 84 m x 84 m. Prior to the
construction of a Japanese supply base in 1917, the site
to the rear of the station was left empty, existing only
in traces on maps. By maintaining the existing layout,
Japanese planners had intended to link the new town to
the old fortified city of Pyongyang.
Afterwards, Pyongyang underwent two major
changes that prompted the overhaul of its urban struc-
ture: the introduction of streetcar service in 1922 and
the construction of Daedong Bridge in 1923. Of the
two, the construction of Daedong Bridge provided
momentum for the expansion of the city’s boundary
into the east bank of the Daedonggang River. Until then,
both the old and the new town had been contained by
the west bank. However, in spite of the rapid popula-
tion growth that industrialization brought to the city,
the city government had trouble selecting suitable sites
for the expansion of urban space because many ancient
remains surrounded the city. The Government-General
of Joseon decided to span the river with a bridge to
resolve these problems. The construction of the street-
car track also had a substantial impact on the urban
structure. In 1922, the city government established a
five-year plan for the first city ward improvements to
meet the new requirements. However, the initial plan
to widen and straighten the existing roads in accord-
ance with the new traffic system was not accomplished
within the expected timeframe, only reaching its con-
clusion in 1927. Through these projects, the new town
was directly linked to the old town of Pyongyang. The
second round of city ward improvements were carried
out from 1927 to 1933, remodeling four roads to
renovate the old town (figures 1.13, 1.14).
Since city ward improvement planning left a lasting
influence on the urban structure of Korean cities, a look
at the historical context of its implementation may be
instructive. Above all, there was a significant difference
in purpose between its development in Japan and its
application in Korea twenty-four years later. In Japan its
purpose was the remodeling of premodern cities, espe-
cially the capital of Japan, into modern ones; in Korea
the same program was carried out to extend colonial
rule. This difference can be verified by history. When
Haussmann transformed the old center of Paris into
a modern city, incorporating wide avenues and open
spaces, the population of Paris was more than 2 million,
and its density, at a maximum, was 340 persons per
hectare.40 Haussmann’s planning was in fact a response
to dire urban conditions resulting from overpopulation.
In contrast, when the improvement work for 31 routes
was undertaken in Seoul, the population of Seoul was
250,000, with a density of only 69 persons per hectare.
The housing shortage was less than 6 percent. Therefore,
it can be argued that the City Ward Improvement
Ordinance was not introduced to solve urban problems
but to strengthen colonial rule. Along with a comprehen-
sive land survey conducted between 1910 and 1918, the
ordinance aimed to establish a strict spatial partitioning
of the national territory, and its main purpose was to
make an accurate map that could be used to consolidate
political power. As Arie Graafland has pointed out, a
perceptual apparatus is never neutral to its observation,
but can be used for other purposes.41 In their promo-
tion of urbanism, the common aim of Japanese colonial
officials was to make urban spaces identifiable and more
easily governable rather than to solve, like Hausmann,
serious urban problems stemming from overcrowding.
City ward improvement planning followed a distinc-
tive path in Korea because of its sponsor, the colonial
regime. That is to say, while the plan focused on
improving street networks, it was never part of a com-
prehensive urban planning scheme like Haussmann’s
renovation of Paris or the initial city ward improvement
plan in Tokyo. Because the city ward improvement plan
in Korea focused on road works for Japanese new towns,
delaying any large-scale intervention into traditional
urban tissues, it caused severe imbalances in the urban
domain. For example, there was a widespread shortage
of access to a water supply. According to a 1925 survey,

Fig. 1.13 City ward improvement planning of Pyongyang
(Redrawn from a 1915 map of Pyongyang )
Fig. 1.14 Through road from Sinchangli to Botongmun,
the western gate of the old city of Pyongyang, 1923 (National
Archives of Korea, CJA0013073)
the water supply access rate for Korean households
living in Seoul was no more than 28 percent whereas
that of Japanese households reached 85 percent. Such
disparities accounted for the inadequate sanitation in
the areas of Korean residence in the 1920s.42
The First Urbanization 13
The Experience of Modernity in Colonial Cities
Subtle signs of change began to appear in the urban dis-
course of the early 1920s, for several reasons. First, there
was an apparent change in the style of Japanese rule,
shifting from the iron-fisted domination of the early
years to a more cultural approach, because the former
was seen to be undermining the long-term stabilization
of the colonial society. An uprising on March 1, 1919,
expressing a nationwide outcry against the intolerable
aggression, oppression, and plundering of the Japanese
colonialists, had been a watershed event. In the urban
domain, one of its outstanding results was a transfer of
power from the Japanese government to local govern-
ments. As a result, most urban plans in the 1920s were
drawn up by local governments, and planners and civil
engineers were usually invited to participate. The reason
local governments came to the forefront at that time
was the necessity of adjusting the conflicting interests
of residents before urban projects could be executed. In
particular, a sharp conflict between the Government-
General of Joseon and Japanese residents in Seoul over
the expansion of Seoul reveals how different segments
of the Japanese ruling class took differing stances toward
urban issues. At that time, the Government-General of
Joseon had planned to develop the northern districts
of Seoul, where most Koreans lived, in order to secure
its command of the entire urban area. But the Japanese,
who mainly lived in the southern districts, opposed this
plan and insisted on expanding Seoul toward Yongsan
and the Hangang River.43 This debate sparked a fierce
controversy because the direction of urban develop-
ment decisively influenced land prices.
Second, technocrats of the colonial government
were researching a wide range of urban methodolo-
gies and coming to the conclusion that the city ward
improvement plan did not effectively handle expansion
of urban space, because its priority was the renovation
of old, degraded urban centers. In this research, diverse
urban theories and methodologies were energeti-
cally discussed. It was the early 1920s when Ebenezer
Howard’s idea of a garden city and Le Corbusier’s urban
theory were introduced in Chousen to Kenchiku, the
colony’s only architectural magazine.44 The urbanism
of modern American cities provided an important
template. Another significant reason for the appear-
ance of different urban perspectives was the influence
of Japan itself. A huge earthquake struck Tokyo and the
surrounding Kanto region in 1923, providing sudden
14 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 1.15 Second master plan for Seoul, 1928, showing the
First District (Mugyo-Dong) before and after execution of the
land adjustment plan (Jung-Mok Sohn 1996a, 153)
impetus for the restructuring of Japanese cities and
their transformation into modern ones. As it became
more feasible to disseminate in-depth studies on new
urban theories and methods, the intellectual ferment
had a great impact on colonial technocrats.
Attentiveness to urban issues had already led to the
formation of the Study Group for Gyeongseong (old
Seoul) Urbanism in 1921, organized by colonial tech-
nocrats and pro-Japanese collaborators. The members
of the group agreed on the necessity of drawing up a
master plan for a city of 1 million inhabitants. The first
of three master plans for Seoul was established in 1926
by Takayoshi Honma, director of a newly organized city
planning department in Seoul’s city government, who
had inspected examples of European urbanism. As soon
as the plan was announced, it faced severe criticism for
its unrealistic scale, which included both Seoul and
Incheon. After a reduction in scope, the second plan was
issued in September 1928. The major objective of this
plan was the renovation of Seoul’s old downtown area,
amounting to about 158 ha, by means of land adjust-
ment, including a revolutionary idea to raze the area to
the ground and fill it with Western-style roadside build-
ings (figure 1.15).45 This idea evidently originated in the
Earthquake Recovery Plan established in Japan in 1923
under which land readjustment projects were carried
out in the 3,300 ha area destroyed by fire. Restoration
on this scale had never been seen anywhere else in the
world: an irregular urban sprawl was cleared away and
transformed into precise districts with grid-like streets
and pocket parks.46 For Seoul, however, the second plan
was at some remove from the actual urban situation,
and the colonial government did not have the financial
resources to carry out the plan. More realistic methods
would be needed after the 1930s, when the spatial
expansion of Seoul was finally undertaken.
What was most remarkable about the 1920s was the
appearance of a new generation of urban dwellers who
rejoiced in its everyday culture. “Starting at the turn of
the century, the urbanizing process stimulated the for-
mation of a new sensibility, giving rise to intellectuals
and a new kind of human. They accepted the urban way
of life as it was, looking at cities as an object of com-
mentary and criticism.”47 These so-called modern boys
strutted along newly opened streets and experienced
for themselves the cold-bloodedness, melancholy, and
despair that modern cities engendered. The sensibility
they expressed produced a great change in the spatial
consciousness of colonial intellectuals and artists. To
them, the city was both the distillation of modernity
and, because it was the essence of the modern, the place
where the representation of modernity was embodied.
The emergence of an avant-garde in Seoul revealed the
experience of those who lived in colonial cities from a
different perspective. The works of the novelist Man-Sik
Chae and the poet Sang Yi provide eloquent examples
of how the urban avant-garde portrayed modernity in a
critical fashion.
A Muddy Stream (Takryu), by Man-Sik Chae
(1902–1950), depicted the social life of Gunsan, one
of Korea’s open ports, during the 1930s. The narrative
unfolds in two contrasting areas of the city, capturing
the tensions, abhorrence, and proximity of the inhabit-
ants of the two areas. The Korean district is a shanty-
town supplying cheap and plentiful labor to support
the colony’s economy. In contrast, the Japanese settle-
ment follows a well-defined gridiron plan highlighted
by imposing buildings. This clear dichotomy between

the periphery and the center, the premodern and the
modern, the dominated and the dominant structures,
enforces a sense of inferiority among the local Koreans.
By showing the enormous discord inherent in colonial
cities, the author exposes the pretense of colonial mod-
ernism for what it truly is—a mask of power. To Man-Sik
Chae, it had already become clear that the dominant
power in the colonial period was transforming the built
environment of the colonized society to make it serve
its interests, economic or ideological. A Muddy Stream
presented the critical insights of colonial intellectuals
who tried to plumb the contradictions and inconsisten-
cies underlying the urban space of colonial cities.
Sang Yi (1910–1937) was a graduate of the archi-
tecture school at Gyeongseong Engineering College
who worked as an assistant engineer in the colonial
government for four years. Resigning his post in 1933,
he devoted himself to literature and developed a reputa-
tion as a controversial poet. His writings, especially his
early poems written in Japanese, have been compared
to those of Franz Kafka as forms of “minor literature.”48
This poetry marked the impasse felt by colonials who
were barred access to the dominant discourse. In
depicting the transformation of urban space in Seoul,
Yi refused to bow to the architectural and urban dis-
course of the Japanese authorities, preferring instead
to point out their camouflaged hypocrisies. Yi’s poetry
reveals the emergence of a new subjectivity in Korea,
reflecting a moment when the modern way of life was
becoming embedded in the culture. To express the
chaotic everyday life of a large city as it evolved, Yi
used highly visual forms of language. In this, he shows
an affinity with the perspectives of Charles Baudelaire
and Walter Benjamin, who witnessed the urbaniza-
tion of their respective cities, Paris and Berlin, and
made modern cities, their architecture, and the life of
their residents the themes of their work. Moreover, all
three believed that understanding modernity required
a critical examination of the governing principles of
urban life. Through their works, they proposed a new
vision of the urban landscape, one that has continued to
have an impact on architecture. Each of them placed the
experience of urban shock, associated with the imper-
sonality of crowds of strangers, at the center of their
work.49 Moreover, unlike the disinterest and apathy
expressed by some, all three confronted the shock of
urban life in a combative way, a continued resistance
that eventually wore them out. Baudelaire, Benjamin,
and Sang Yi were modern writers who battled to their
The First Urbanization 15
deaths against the depredations of the urban condition,
making their works exemplary first-hand accounts of
the turbulence that engulfed their time.
Yi’s best-known poem, “Crow’s-Eye View, Poem No.
1,” clearly expresses the point of view of the contempo-
rary urban avant-garde.50 The poem uses metaphor to
insinuate the author’s spatial consciousness. A bird’s-
eye perspective has two underlying meanings. One is
the desire to escape from the disorderliness of Seoul so
that he can understand its space more clearly; the other
is his desire to transcend the bondage of reality. The
poem also uses two contrasting spatial expressions, an
open alley and a dead-end alley, which seem to express
Yi’s response to changes in urban space.
Along with documenting the shock caused by
crowds in the modern city, Yi’s early poems depicted
the wonder and astonishment Koreans experienced
upon first contact with Western science and technology.
The signs and numbers that appear in Sang Yi’s experi-
mental poems are similar to the images and motifs used
by Laszlo Moholy-Nagy to express his fascination with
the process of visualizing the modern. They never liter-
ally represented anything but were used purely for the
visual effects and movement that Moholy-Nagy tried
to create. Indeed, they express the essence of modern
spatial systems as abstract points dotted in a Cartesian
coordinate system, making it possible to measure their
exact position. The space containing these points is
neutral and extensible. Sang Yi found similar spatial
conditions in the colonial planning of Seoul, a new
urban landscape created by Japanese technocrats, and
his poems show how modern subjects interiorized that
urban discourse (figure 1.16).
Fig. 1.16 “Pledge on Line 1,” Sang Yi (Hae-Gyeong Kim 1931)
16 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

Suburbanization and the Land Readjustment Plan

The visionary plans drawn up in the 1920s proved to be
an unrealistic solution to the serious urban problems
triggered by the rapid population growth of Korean
cities in the 1930s. Projects conceived as part of the city
ward improvement planning were ineffective because
they were intended to rebuild bad sections of the cities
at a time when Korea was witnessing suburbanization
for the first time. Throughout the 1930s, the population
of twenty urban areas in Korea increased by 250 percent.
These increases were mainly the result of industrial
development. When Japan invaded Manchuria in 1931,
Japanese militarists quickly saw the geopolitical impor-
tance of the Korean peninsula, since the three routes
they set up to advance into the continent had to pass
through the peninsula. Accordingly, the colonial regime
set out to convert Korea’s economy from rice-centered
agriculture to heavy industry, centering on munitions.
Investments in a large-scale industrial capacity capable
of supporting a war in China increased greatly, together
with a need for sweatshop labor. The increased pro-
duction of war materials led to an economic boom,
drawing many rural peasants to the large cities to seek
work. The result was tremendous growth along the
outskirts of the cities together with serious problems
such as housing shortages and inadequate public sani- Fig. 1.17 Seoul city plan, 1937 (yellow indicates areas newly
tation. In response to this uncontrolled expansion, the developed through land readjustment planning) (Seoul yeoksa
Government-General of Joseon implemented two bakmulgwan 2006, 110–111)
new policies. The first had the effect of enlarging the Fig. 1.18 View of Seoul, looking toward Mt. Bukhan, in the
administrative district of existing cities, and the second 1930s (Gyu-Heon Lee 1996, 10–11)
promoted towns to cities.51 An enormous expansion of
government. Until then, in order for an urban plan to
the boundaries of Seoul in 1936 was the culmination
be realized, a series of steps was required: local govern-
of these policies (figures 1.17, 1.18). In addition, the
ment first produced a draft that was sent to the central
Urban District Plan Decree, which the colonial govern-
government. After collecting feedback from local
ment had enacted in 1934, provided a legal basis for
governments, the Department of Civil Engineering
developing suburban areas. This law involved two major
organized the project’s financing and order of imple-
methodologies, zoning systems and land readjustment,
mentation. The Council of Civil Engineering (Tomok
which brought about a shift in urban planning from a
Hoiui) was empowered to conduct the actual planning,
linear form to a planar one.
which awaited the final approval of the governor-gen-
eral. The Council of Civil Engineering had been estab-
The Urban District Plan Decree
lished to regulate major civil engineering projects—as
The enactment of this law led to great changes in the
the name suggests, urban projects were regarded as
framework of urban planning. Article 2 of the law pre-
part of civil engineering at the beginning of the colonial
scribed that all urban planning would be determined
rule—but this organization was abolished in 1932
by the governor-general after listening to the opinions
when enactment of the Urban District Plan Decree was
of local government officials relevant to the matter in
being discussed in earnest.52 Starting in 1935, the City
question. This meant that the executive principle of
Planning Committee was reorganized in order to play a
urban planning had now shifted from local to central
similar role to that of the Council of Civil Engineering.

However, unlike the Council of Civil Engineering,
which comprehensively dealt with public works in
Korea, the City Planning Committee focused on urban
planning projects.53 This change indicates that the focus
of Japan’s public works shifted from civil engineering
projects, such as the construction of ports, roads, and
railways, in the initial phases to urban planning after
the 1930s.
Based on this law, the Government-General of
Joseon established city planning regimes for forty-three
cities nationwide, some of which began to publish
Explanatory Reports on City Planning Decisions (Sigaji
Gyehoek Gyeoljeong Iyuseo) to state the purpose
of city planning decisions and the decision-making
process.54 An analysis of these reports reveals that
all city planning followed the same method. Urban
planners would initially predict the population thirty
years hence based on the demographic trends of each
city. The calculation equation varied depending on the
city involved. In the case of Seoul, demographic trends
from 1916 to 1933 engendered the following equation:
N = 18.500T + 401.486 (T: the year of the Showa era,
N: the future population). According to this equation,
Seoul’s population in 1965 was estimated at 1,141,486
people (table 1.1). There was some consensus that an
ideal population density would be 100 sq m for each
inhabitant (100 inhabitants per hectare). The source of
this criterion was not noted, but Ebenezer Howard had
suggested the ideal of 75 inhabitants per hectare forty
years earlier, and Raymond Unwin had set a norm of
30 dwellings per hectare in his book Town Planning
in Practice (1912), arguing that it was cheaper to
build in such low densities.55 In addition, the number
reflected the median population density of Japanese
cities: 181.9 sq m per inhabitant (55 inhabitants per
hectare).56 After fixing the targeted density of popula-
tion, planners set the boundaries of newly extended
urban areas, taking into consideration the topography
Table 1.1 Population predictions in the Explanatory Reports on City Planning Decisions
Cities Population and density in 1934
Population Habitable area for
each person (m2)
Seoul 382,491 65
Busan 163,814 98
Daegu 107,657 81
Incheon 75,558 88
Mokpo 55,667 127
The First Urbanization 17
and the administrative zone. Walking distance also
acted as an important factor. Thus the boundaries of a
city were normally drawn up within a 5 km radius from
downtown, a distance one could easily walk within an
hour.
A similarly scientific approach was applied to arterial
roads. Japanese planners analyzed the geographical
features and existing traffic conditions of each city to
design its arterial roads. The starting point was the estab-
lishment of roads to interconnect the cities. Next, the
planners linked these roads to the inner street systems.
They approached the design of the inner roads by sub-
dividing cities into several wards or subcenters accord-
ing to population and topography. In other words, the
principal roads in the cities were created by connect-
ing downtown areas and the subdivided wards, or the
centers of the subcenters. In Seoul, Japanese planners
subdivided the entire city into seven subcenters—the
old downtown, Yongsan, Cheongryangri, Wangsipri,
Hangangri, Mapo, and Yeongdeungpo—and then,
placing the city hall at the center, created principal roads
to connect them.57 The roads had three different widths
according to their functions: arterial roads connecting
the downtown and subcenters were 24 m, 28 m, and
34 m wide; subarterial roads connecting major places
within subcenters were 12 m, 15 m, and 20 m wide;
and local roads were less than 12 m wide. The height of
roadside buildings was limited to assist natural lighting
in roads, following the Urban District Plan Decree.
Another remarkable feature of city planning under
the Urban District Plan Decree was its awareness of
the emergence of automobiles, which became a major
consideration in the planning of the street system. Even
though the number of cars at the peak traffic periods
was no more than 8,000–10,000 in Korea,58 Japanese
planners wanted to factor them into city planning
anyway, predicting an increase in their number thirty
years later. The suggested number was 2.5 cars per 1,000
Predicted population and density in 1965 Real population
Predicted population Habitable area for in 1966
each person (m2)
1,141,486 83 3,793,280
400,000 100 1,426,019
354,807 137 845,189
184,570 138 525,827
138,856 127 162,166
18 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
persons, based on an analysis of Japanese cities.59 This
prediction may seem absurd from our perspective, but
an accurate picture of the world thirty years hence was
not available to Japanese planners. After defining princi-
pal roads, they designed diverse secondary roads, which
remained parallel with the principal roads. These roads
were conceived in close relation to land readjustments, a
major way of partitioning the newly prepared sites.
Using this approach, a nationwide scheme for urban
development, starting with Najin in 1934, led to the
planning of forty-three cities. This initiative is of great
interest for the history of city planning insofar as it
introduced a number of design methodologies based on
a scientific analysis of urban realities. Yet the problem
was that the colonial government failed to secure the
financial resources needed to carry out its plans, mainly
because it excluded the private sector and subsidies
from the national coffers could not meet expectations.
Thus, few projects were implemented properly during
the period of Japanese occupation. The only exception
was the urban districts developed according to a land
readjustment system. Since this did not require signifi-
cant financial outlays, sixty-one districts were planned
nationwide, of which thirty-seven were completed.
Land Readjustment Projects
After the planning of forty-three cities, the colonial gov-
ernment set forth a comprehensive urban development
scheme, designating nationwide sixty-one districts as
land readjustment areas. Land readjustment, which
has been used as an important tool to design urban
space in Korea since the 1930s, produces a particular
urban pattern. Unlike the city ward improvements that
were linear urban designs focusing on the renovation
of roads, land readjustment was a planar development
method.
In fact, this system had been used for agricultural
land consolidation in Japan during the Tokugawa
era and was widespread since the 1880s. In 1899, the
Agricultural Land Consolidation Law (Koshi Seiri Ho),
modeled after the German land consolidation system,
was passed to facilitate agricultural land improvement
through the grouping of scattered landholdings into
larger plots and the building of irrigation systems.60
But unlike Germany, where most of the agricultural
land consisted of dry fields, Japan had many wet fields.
Hence, the initial law underwent a sweeping modifica-
tion that provided the basis of the land readjustment
system that was introduced as an essential provision of
the City Planning Act of 1919.61 In this revised system,
allowance had to be made for two specific provisions
deriving from Japan’s own history: first, all landowners
contributed a portion of their land—usually about 30
percent—for public use; second, all landowners were
required to participate in the project when at least two-
thirds of the landowners agreed.
Also known as land consolidation or land pooling,
land readjustment became an important tool for
urban development in Japan, South Korea, Taiwan,
and other countries. The process basically worked as
follows. After an area was selected for a land readjust-
ment project, a development plan was prepared based
on the current and projected market conditions and
taking into consideration environmental and aesthetic
factors. The plan disregarded existing lot ownership,
however. An area’s parcels of land were pooled into a
single entity, and the parcels were then replotted to fit
the development plan. An individual, a private corpora-
tion, a landowners’ association, a public corporation, an
administrative agency, or another public entity could
all implement the development plan. Land for public
facilities and land that would be sold to help cover some
of the project’s start-up costs were captured through a
technique called “land reduction.” This system became
popular because it was an effective method to develop
urban fringe areas, converting them from agricul-
tural or rural to urban or industrial. In sum, the main
approach was to pool the ownership of neighboring
lands, build an urban infrastructure, and divide the
land into urban plots.
The Government-General of Joseon inserted the
land readjustment system into its Urban District Plan
Decree and detailed the regulations governing land
readjustments. According to Article 42, “land readjust-
ment is defined as the transformation of land parti-
tioning through an exchange, division, or annexation
of plots and a change in the category of land, or as
the creation, transformation, or abolishment of roads,
squares, rivers, and parks in a bid to improve the use of
land as plots.” This system was seen to have many advan-
tages in comparison to other methods of development
or expropriation; principally, it provided for planned
development of land and infrastructure without strain-
ing existing financial resources. For this reason, since
its initial enactment in Japan, about 30 percent of the
urban land supply was developed through its use, and
in some places, such as the city of Nagoya, as much as
77 percent of all habitable land was developed through
 The First Urbanization 19

this method.62 It also became very popular in Korea,
as reflected in the 23.4 percent of newly urbanized
areas it accounted for until the 1970s. Yet the system
also had obvious limitations. The most serious defect
was that it was a development method that relied on
land division to improve the efficiency of land use. This
underlying purpose caused side effects because it could
not yield a comprehensive, long-term plan. Moreover, it
was incapable of dealing with the vertical changes that
accompanied the increasing density of urban space.
Nowadays, the major problems besetting the urban
areas that were developed in the 1930s are said to have
originated because of the limitations of the land read-
justment system. Finally, since this system was totally
dependent on satisfying the landowners’ interests
during the planning stage—the rate of land reduction,
for example, was critical to landowners—it was very
difficult to secure sufficient public space. To make up
for these shortcomings, Japanese planners introduced
the neighborhood-unit theory in 1941.63 However, the
land readjustment projects that commenced in 1937
were already completed in Korea by 1940.
Aside from preexisting city centers and urban spaces
developed since the 1960s, the major part of the urban
space in Korea’s large cities was planned using the land
readjustment method. However, since those plans were
made without seriously considering the concept of
a neighborhood or an overall regional plan, it can be
argued that they have been the major cause of today’s
urban problems. Viewed from a contemporary per-
spective, that planning posed thorny problems. Since
sites were subdivided to accommodate single-family
dwelling units, either detached or attached, the resulting
urban space has proved incompatible with today’s high-
density needs. Moreover, the street systems it provided
are inappropriate for large-scale use of automobiles.
Parking has remained the most troublesome issue for
residents because it was not considered a chief factor
at the design stage. Finally, each district was planned
without reference to regional planning guidelines, so
the entire urban space lacks consistency.
However, since the size of buildings varies with the
passage of time, it is difficult to predetermine these
areas in a monolithic way. Therefore, while the arrange-
ment of arterial roads must be suggested in the report,
the arrangement of other secondary roads follows the
situation at the moment of execution. The partition-
ing of plots must be done in accordance with the Block
Parcellation Standard Drawing attached to the report”
(figure 1.19).64 Judging from this statement, it is evident
that the standard drawing played a pivotal role in the
partitioning of urban space, and an analysis of the areas
developed by land readjustment offers confirmation.
Let’s take a close look at the drawing.
The Block Parcellation Standard Drawing illustrates
three particulars. The first consists of eight kinds of
residential blocks (kaikaku). Each block is oblong
shaped, with the long side measuring 100 m and the
short side varying from 16 m, 19 m, 23 m, 30 m, 37 m,
44 m, and 52 m up to 66 m. The second is two kinds
of roads, either 6 m or 8 m wide. The final particular
is a table displaying the rates for the residential and
street areas delineated from the gross area in the eight
blocks. This table seems to have been intended to facili-
tate the calculation of the reduced land rate in the land
readjustment. So where did the numbers come from?
According to several studies, it is believed that Japanese

The Block Parcellation Standard Drawing

The Explanatory Reports on City Planning Decisions
of every city feature the following statement: “The con-
venience of traffic must be considered as a top priority
in the planning of arterial roads, and the secondary
roads must be arranged to fit the land use plan, with Fig. 1.19 Block Parcellation Standard Drawing, 1937
consideration for the areas demanded for buildings. (Joseonchongdokbu 1937b, 53)
20 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

technocrats made use of eight guidelines to establish

the city planning and land readjustment system.65 Out
of the eight, we can identify two guidelines, drawn
up prior to 1937, that deeply influenced the standard
drawing. They are the Decision Standards and Survey
Data for City Planning (Toshi keikaku tyousa siryou
kettei hyouzyun) and the Design Standards for Land
Readjustment (Tochi kukaku seiri sekkei hyouzyun),
written out by the Ministry of the Interior in July 1933.
The Block Parcellation Standard Drawing is believed to
be based on these two guidelines.66
How was the standard drawing applied to actual land
readjustment projects? Land readjustment was planned
on a nationwide scale and commenced in 1937. In some
districts where the projects made rapid progress, the
process was completed by 1941, but in many other dis-
tricts the plan was not even executed until 1945. Above
all, several wartime control ordinances promulgated
after the outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War in
1937 critically slowed their implementation. In particu-
lar, the Price Control Ordinance concerning residential
sites and buildings announced in 1940 was a serious
blow to the execution.67 After liberation, the original
plans were considerably modified after the Japanese
technocrats who had established them fled back to their
country.68 In Seoul, ten districts were planned as of
1937, but only three were completed before liberation.
The rest were destroyed during the reconstruction of
Seoul following the Korean War. Therefore, to analyze
how the standard drawing was applied, we need to select
districts according to the following two criteria: first,
districts where the development process was wrapped
up before liberation; and second, districts where the
drawings identifying at least the planned block size
have remained intact. Five out of the sixty-one districts
meet these requirements: Yeongdeungpo, Donam,
and Daehyeon in Seoul, and the Najin and Cheongjin
districts in the region. In addition, the Sangdo district
in Seoul can be added to the list because, even though
it was developed as a residential complex, its method
of development was similar to the land readjustment
system in many ways.
Analysis of these six districts reveals that the standard
drawing was not mechanically applied to the plan
for each district but was modified according to three

Fig. 1.20 Initial land readjustment plan for Yeongdeungpo

district, Seoul, 1937 (Tomii 1996, 497)
Fig. 1.21 Yeongdeungpo district, 2010 (Courtesy of Naver)

Fig. 1.22 Initial land readjustment plan for Daehyun district, Seoul, 1937 (Jung-Mok Sohn 1996a, 289)
Fig. 1.23 Daehyun district, 2010 (Courtesy of Naver)
factors: district size, natural conditions, and the pattern
of arterial roads. With the size of the sixty-one dis-
tricts ranging from approximately 1.5 ha to 512 ha, the
average size was approximately 100 ha. Larger districts
were usually laid out in a grid whereas medium-size
districts placed arterial roads at the center of the plan.
Consequently, the six districts under analysis break
down into three types: grid, arterial road, and mixed.
An example of a large district is Yeongdeungpo, where
the land readjustment project ran from March 1937 to
March 1940. The plan for this district subdivided it into
diverse blocks and plots. Large plots allocated to indus-
trial facilities were concentrated near the Yeongdeungpo
station, an arrangement made possible because the
district had been designated as an industrial zone in
the planning of Seoul. Other blocks, however, were
subdivided in a regular manner following the standard
drawing. A block surrounded by arterial roads was 400
The First Urbanization 21
m x 240 m in size, and twenty-four residential blocks
(kaikaku) were located within it (figures 1.20, 1.21).
Donam, Daehyeon, Sangdo, and Cheongjin districts
all reflect a planning method used for medium-size dis-
tricts. First, district boundaries were determined by the
topography. In addition, major arteries penetrated to
the center of the district, and secondary road networks
were planned accordingly. The width of the arteries
was approximately 30 m, and their routing was based
on topographical flow and the need for access to other
districts. Stemming from the major arteries, secondary
roads 3 m, 6 m, and 8 m in width were planned, subdi-
viding several residential areas (figures 1.22, 1.23).
Najin district can be classified as a mixed type. This
was the first city to implement the Urban District Plan
Decree following its announcement in 1934. Although
its size of approximately 300 ha was similar to that of
Yeongdeungpo, Najin was not laid out in a perfect grid
22 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

because of the river’s penetration to the center of the

district. Thus, while entire blocks were designed to cor-
respond with arterial roads, the residential blocks sug-
gested in the standard drawing were repeated in them
in a regular manner (figures 1.24, 1.25).
From this we can see that the Block Parcellation
Standard Drawing was applied in three different ways,
but the size of the residential blocks tended to remain
roughly similar. As a central element of urban design,
the size of the residential blocks was an important
factor in the land readjustment system. Residential
blocks derived from Japanese warrior group residences
in the Edo period had a distinctive size and spatial
arrangement that clearly distinguished them from
blocks based on an American template, and these dif-
ferences stood out in the Japanese open ports, which
often had two divided settlements. The residential
blocks of Donam, Daehyeon, Sangdo, and Cheongjin
districts were very irregular, however, so it is difficult to
calculate their average size. But if we narrow our focus
to the Yeongdeungpo and Najin districts, the average
size of a residential block was approximately 100 m x
40 m in Yeongdeungpo and 104.7 m x 41.6 m in Najin,
both closely approximating the illustrated size in the
Block Parcellation Standard Drawing.

Fig. 1.24 Initial land readjustment for Najin district, 1934.

(Kukaku Seiri, 1935, 41)
Fig. 1.25 Najin district, 2010 (Courtesy of Google)

The Genesis of Urban Housing
When the concept of modernity began to pervade
everyday life, threatening traditional patterns, fun-
damental changes began to take place in the housing
sector. This may explain why a concern with housing
problems has been prevalent across the mainstream of
modern architecture, ranging from the Arts and Crafts
movement in England to the Bauhaus in Germany.
Many architects looked deeply into the essential aspects
of what would become modern housing and estab-
lished major principles for realizing new architectural
forms. In most countries, the modernization process
involved three changes in the housing sector. First, new
housing types were developed in response to serious
housing shortages. When the Industrial Revolution
brought ever-increasing numbers of people to urban
areas, the acute housing shortages that resulted led to
massive overcrowding in migrant districts, worsening
sanitation, and other social ills. In the face of these
challenges, modern architects responded with inno-
vative ideas for housing, revolving around functional
arrangements, standardization of components, and the
installation of many new conveniences. They focused
on establishing minimal living standards together with
mass production of housing materials. It was expected
that the industrialization of the building process would
deliver technological benefits at lower costs. To address
inner-city or urban-fringe housing shortages, public
authorities also intervened when necessary to develop
standardized housing for new urban residents.
The second change in the housing sector was closely
associated with the development of new lifestyles.
Together with a rapid increase in the urban populations
of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in western
Europe, a new middle class emerged as the principal
clients for professional architects. The lifestyle of this
urban middle class was fundamentally different from
that of the aristocratic class,1 resulting in a twofold shift
in urban life. First, living and working spaces were no
longer coexistent in the dwellings. Unlike traditional
housing that often included workshops as well as storage
and annexed service rooms, modern homes turned
Chapter
2
into a family-centered private space. Work and leisure
gradually separated into discrete realms, and modern
parks and leisure facilities began to emerge in towns,
and then in the suburbs.2 Second, as the nuclear family
became a privileged social unit, the importance of a
family’s privacy became enshrined, with comfort and
convenience taking precedence over formal manners
in the domestic space. Accordingly, there were two
contrasting changes in housing design. The first was to
underline the independence of individual rooms, and
the second was to integrate common areas into an open
space. Both continued to act as a leitmotif in modern
housing.
The third major change in the housing sector came
about through the development of modern heating
systems and hygienic facilities, many of them invented
to address specific urban problems. The heating system
in English houses before the 1850s, for example, was
mainly fireplaces fueled by coal, causing the urban
environment to be heavily polluted by smoke and dust.
Rampant epidemics had been traced to inadequate
supplies and the faulty hygiene of common drinking
water. Around the 1870s, water closets and gas stoves
were introduced into English middle-class homes,
and the functional arrangements of the kitchen and
bathroom have been considered important factors
in housing design ever since. This meant that a huge
change in traditional housing was inevitable. Colonial
Korea underwent a similar transformation as new
technologies began to be applied to Korea’s traditional
homes.
In East Asia, the transformation of the housing sector
first occurred through the development of transitional
forms of dwelling that combined traditional and modern
characteristics. Lilong housing in Shanghai, which
debuted in the latter half of the nineteenth century, is a
prominent example. While its origins can be traced to
the spatial concepts and construction methods of tra-
ditional dwellings in southeast China, the stimulus for
its development was Shanghai’s expansion in the 1870s.
By 1949, lilong housing had accounted for 60 percent
24 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
of all dwelling areas in the city.3 Urban hanok, the most
popular form of urban housing in Seoul from the 1930s
to the 1960s, is comparable to lilong housing in many
respects. These transitional types of dwelling are notable
because they provide insights into the essential features
of traditional housing and also demonstrate how those
features were assimilated into a modern way of life. In
particular, development of the urban hanok marked the
inauguration of urban housing in Korea.
Urban Housing before Modernization
Until the late 19th century, Korea was an agrarian
country where most living spaces were dispersed
around farming land. People lived in small villages or
clustered around city fortresses. In these fortresses were
regional government buildings and official residences;
outside the fortresses, single-lineage villages were estab-
lished near farming land.4 Well-defined urban housing
was found only in Seoul, capital of the Joseon dynasty.
Seoul’s development as a commercial center since the
late seventeenth century was the impetus for its urbani-
zation. As many as 300,000 are estimated to have lived
in Seoul in the nineteenth century.5
Prior to modernization, there were three types of
housing in Seoul, all derived from the traditional class
system. At one end were high-class (yangban) resi-
dences that were sparsely dotted around major palaces.
They were built on relatively large sites surrounded by
fences, and contained a cluster of buildings, including
men’s quarters (sarangchae), a main building (anchae),
and servants’ quarters (haengnangchae). These quarters
were spatially separated in accordance with Confucian
precepts, with several courtyards (madang) between
the buildings acting as intermediary spaces to ease
the separation. Apart from the courtyards, the sole
landscaping was usually a corner pond and, in some
cases, a cabbage patch. Although residences of this type
have practically disappeared in Seoul, the drawings of
twenty-three residences preserved in the Janseogak
of the Academy of Korean Studies give us an accurate
idea of their skeletal frame and spatial properties. The
Go-Yang Hong residence in Sogongdong is a typical
example (figure 2.1).6
The second type of housing, for the middle class,
was built on a smaller scale. Although the residential
site was usually surrounded by fence walls, only one or
two buildings were inside the compound. The number
Fig. 2.1 Layout of Go-Yang Hong residence in Sogongdong
(Hangukhak jungang yeonguwon Jangseogak 2008b, 231)
of courtyards also decreased—to one or two.7 Namsan
Hanok Village in Seoul provides examples of typical
middle-class homes.
The third type of housing, for commoners, had
no fence walls surrounding the property. To secure
maximum inner space, buildings were sited along the
land boundary. They normally formed a U-shape or a
“quadrangular donut”-shape with auxiliary wings for
tenants beside the gate (munganchae) to the L-shaped
main building—a housing type typically found in Korea’s
central region. Two types of building materials were
used, forming thatched houses and tile-roofed houses,
and there was normally only one central courtyard.
Photographs of Seoul taken around 1900 demonstrate
that commoners’ houses predominated in the urban
area (figure 2.2), and the urban hanok that appeared
in the 1930s evolved from this type of housing. A rare
statistical chart of Hanseong Sinbo, dated January  17,
1900, details the housing situation at the end of the
Daehan empire. According to this table, Seoul had
200,922 inhabitants and 42,870 households. The
houses built for these residents were 20.2 percent tile-
roofed, 69.6 percent thatched, and 10.2 percent semi-
tile-roofed.8 To imagine this urbanscape, one should
bear in mind that tile-roofed houses were considerably
larger than thatched houses, averaging 91 sq m of floor
space versus 40 sq m.9
For the most part, traditional Korean houses did
not survive the period of modernization. Instead, three
distinct types of housing took form during the course
of the Japanese occupation: Western-style houses,

Fig. 2.2 Urban housing near Namdaemun in Seoul, ca. 1900
(Gyu-Heon Lee 1996, 18)
Japanese-style houses, and the urban hanok. Each was
a departure from traditional Korean housing schemes.
Missionary and Other Western-Style Houses
The first Western-style houses were seen on the hillsides
of Korea’s open ports. Incheon was the first place where
Westerners settled, following the introduction of an
ocean liner route between Incheon and Shanghai. The
Western-style houses there were built for the employees
of the American, German, and British companies that
had opened branch offices in Incheon, as well as for
foreign diplomats. A photograph of the Incheon foreign
settlement in 1902 shows a stark contrast between the
thatched houses of Korea and a Western-style house
with a veranda surrounding the façade, a sunscreen
device originally developed by the British to adapt to
India’s sultry weather. This device had made its way
to Chinese ports such as Shanghai and Hong Kong
via Yokohama and Nagasaki, and finally to Incheon.10
At that time, Incheon was also popular among for-
eigners looking to build a summerhouse. The seaside
villa of James Johnston, who worked in Incheon as
chief of maritime customs, stood out on the hill and
became a prominent landmark for local and foreign
mariners.11 But by 1905, when the Johnston house was
built, Incheon’s importance as an international city
had already begun to fade with Japan’s increasing con-
solidation of its supremacy in Korea. As the number of
Westerners inhabiting Incheon went into decline, dip-
lomats and businessmen slipped away first, leaving the
missionaries behind. According to statistical data from
1912, missionaries in Incheon accounted for fourteen
of the fifty-five foreigners still residing there.12
The Genesis of Urban Housing 25
A comparable scenario unfolded in other Korean
cities. After the opening of Korea’s ports in 1876,
Christian missionaries had rushed into Korean cities to
establish schools and hospitals to further their evangeli-
cal work. By 1910, approximately 800 schools accom-
modating 41,000 students had been opened.13 The
missionaries had come from the United States, United
Kingdom, Canada, and Australia, and approximately 70
percent were American, almost all of them Protestants.14
Unlike Catholic priests, Protestant missionaries came
to Korea with their families in tow and built their
own houses in mission compounds usually located on
stretches of land overlooking a city or bay. They built
picturesque houses or thoroughly renovated native
houses, filling the interiors with Western furniture,
utensils, and other household items shipped directly
from America.15 By 1916, when the last missionary
station was founded in Cheolwon, a total of thirty such
stations had been built on the Korean peninsula.16
Little is known about the designers of these houses.
A review of documents recording the construction
process shows that architect-cum-missionaries who
worked in Japan, China, and the Philippines helped to
build some of the missionary houses in Korea. William
Merrell Vories, who practiced in Japan, is a prime
example.17 He produced fifteen house sketches and
forty detailed design drawings in Korea, the majority of
which appear to be for missionary houses. In addition,
we know that the Underwood House built to the west of
Yonsei University’s Sinchon campus was planned when
missionary H. G. Underwood asked an architect named
Gray to design it during his sabbatical year in the United
States.18 But there were also many cases where local
artisans were in charge of construction based on plans
drawn up by the missionaries themselves. In a descrip-
tion of a construction project that started in Daegu in
1899, the missionaries wrote: “Timbers were cut and
transported along the river during the rainy season.
Chinese bricklayers were hired in Seoul and Japanese
carpenters were brought via Busan. Doors came from
Chicago and ironware came from San Francisco. All
cargoes were transported by river and in order to move
the first piano from the river to the house, 20 workers
were mobilized over two days.”19
The missionary houses that have been preserved
were built in diverse styles. Some adopted to varying
degrees the traditional tile roof of Korean housing,
while others were built in a purely American style that
used shingle roofing and clapboards exclusively. One
26 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
commonality shared by all these houses was that the
floor layout strictly followed the Western style. The
Robert M. Wilson residence in Gwangju and the Martha
Switzer residence in Daegu are exemplary in this regard
(figures 2.3, 2.4). Both were two-story houses featur-
ing communal spaces on the ground floor and private
rooms on the second floor. Most of the kitchen and
sanitary fittings in missionary houses were imported
from the United States, and these may have contributed
to the sense of awe and mystery felt by Koreans who
until then had no experience of modern amenities. As
the number of Christian converts in Korea grew—to as
many as 500,000 before liberation—it was inevitable
that missionary residences would heavily influence
their idea of modernity and their way of life. From this
standpoint, it can be seen that the missionary com-
pounds provided a window onto the Western world for
many Koreans, one that remained relatively undistorted
by the ideology of the Japanese colonial regime.
Fig. 2.3 Robert M. Wilson’s house in Gwangju, 1909 (Redrawn
from 99 Geonchuk munhwauihae jojikwiwonhoe 1999, 219)
Fig. 2.4 Martha Switzer’s house in Daegu, ca. 1910 (Redrawn from measurements
by Jae-Woong Yoon)
Japanese-Style Houses
Japanese-style houses built for Japanese settlers in
Korea formed the second housing type to emerge
during the colonial period. In 1910, there were fewer
than 20,000 Japanese living in Korea. By 1945, that
number had expanded to more than 700,000. To meet
their needs, a variety of housing formats was intro-
duced. According to a survey of Japanese-style housing
conducted in 1990,20 there were four types of floor plans
in use, called successive rooms (tsuzukima),21 entry
hall (genkanhiroma),22 passageway (doritoma), and
middle corridor (nakaroka) (figure 2.5). Among them,
the middle-corridor type of residence and a variant of
the passageway type called machiya became predomi-
nant in the colonial period.23 The German architect
Bruno Taut, who wrote an intriguing book on Japanese
housing and lifestyle during his stay in Japan from 1936
to 1938, sharply contrasted these two housing types.24
The machiya was a combination of dwelling and
shop. Dating from the Heian period (792–1185) when
some dwellings in Kyoto, the ancient capital, had part of
their interior space set aside for the selling of goods,25
these buildings were rectangular, with the short side
facing the street, and filled the sites from front to back,
resulting in a long and narrow housing unit. Because
of its adaptability to high population density, this tradi-
tional housing type survived into the Meiji period and
was transferred en masse to the colonies. Since these
row houses were mainly built by artisans, their layout
and building methods can be characterized collectively.
They basically consisted of a working area and a living
area. Next to the store or workshop facing the street was
a long corridor leading to the store and to
a living room (chanoma), reception area
(zashiki), and inner garden (uraniwa) fol-
lowing in succession.26 Privacy was grad-
ually enshrined as one moved inward.
The very narrow and long shape allowed
a great number of such units to be built
in a small area if they were placed next
to one another, making it a housing type
suitable for the high population density
of urban areas.
Typically the homes of merchants
and artisans in Japan, these row houses
were transplanted to Korean cities such
as Gunsan, Jinhae, Mokpo, Daejeon,
and Tongyeong, where large Japanese

Fig. 2.5 Four Japanese-style house types (counterclockwise from top left): successive room, entry hall, passageway, and middle
corridor (Chousen soutokuhu dobokukyoku 1927, 52–54)
settlements were established in the early twentieth
century. In particular, when several fishing ports were
formed to serve the massive Japanese migration, the
Japanese government subsidized those who were
willing to settle down in a Korean fishing port and con-
structed clusters of machiya for them.27 In Tongyeong,
a fishing port in South Gyeongsang province, a typical
building would contain four to seven machiya units
with an average size of 3.9 m x 12.5–16.2 m. They
normally had two bays in front and four bays on the
sides, as did the machiya in other Korean cities.28 As an
adaptable housing unit, the machiya has been continu-
ously transformed over time. A survey of Japanese-style
houses in Oinarodo, for example, shows how a new
composite housing type was made by enlarging rooms
and merging two typical machiya.
The Genesis of Urban Housing 27
The second predominant housing type in the
colonial period consisted of detached houses built
on relatively spacious sites for the ruling class of the
colony. Soon after colonizing Korea in 1910, Japan dis-
patched administrative personnel to Korea to establish
a viable colonial government. To provide housing for
them, the governor-general established an independ-
ent organization that assumed full responsibility for
the construction of official residences. In addition, the
monopoly bureau, post bureau, and railway service
agency ran their own operations to build residences
for their officials.29 These houses came in a variety of
sizes as determined by the rank of the occupant. Low-
ranking officials in the Government-General of Joseon
lived in residences of 66 to 95 sq m on average, while
their middle-ranking counterparts had residences of
28 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

Fig. 2.6 Typical samurai house in Japan (Kashiwagi et al. 2001,

18)

100 to 130 sq  m. High-ranking officials enjoyed resi-

dences that were larger than 165 sq  m, the minimum
standard.30 Floor plans varied with the size of the
residence, but highly standardized plans were used in
some residential complexes. Most official residences
were variants of the middle-corridor type of house. This
format represents a typical Japanese living arrange-
ment, as is attested in several studies dealing with
official residences and company houses of the colonial
period.31 Chousen to Kenchiku, written in Japanese and
published by the Architectural Association of Joseon as
Korea’s only architectural magazine from 1922 to 1945,
highlighted various plans for Japanese detached houses,
most of them variants of the middle-corridor format.32
Originating in the samurai residences of the Edo
period, this type of dwelling became the most common
type of housing for the Japanese middle class until the
Second World War (figure 2.6). The evolution from
samurai to middle-corridor houses occurred as part
of the modernization of Japanese dwellings. Samurai
houses showed a clear distinction between guest space
and family space, the former enjoying supremacy in
layout.33 The arrangement was characterized by a suc-
cession of rooms called tzuzukima where the walls
defining a room are made of movable partitions called
fusuma. When they are fully open, there are no divi-
sions between the living room, dining room, and
bedroom. The sequence of spaces or path through the
interior depends on the arrangement of these movable Fig. 2.7 Five housing units established by the Joseon Housing
partitions. When Western ideas were introduced in Agency (Daehan jutaek gongsa 1992, 60)

Japan, this feature of the traditional house
became a target of criticism. First, the difficulty
of passing through several spaces to reach the
entrance to a room was pointed out. This con-
flicted with Western notions that gave priority
to the independence of individual rooms.
Furthermore, the movable partitions made it
difficult to secure privacy, regarded as one of
modern housing’s most important concepts.34
In addition, the reception area used for over-
night guests and as a study and reading room
for the head of the family posed its own dif-
TYPE A
ficulty during the modernization of the tradi-
tional Japanese house, having lost its original Fig. 2.8 Site plannning, Munrae-dong housing complex, Joseon Housing
function as a space for a samurai’s reception Agency (Tomii 1996, 498)
ritual.35 To solve these difficulties, the Japanese
invented a middle corridor placed at the center
of the house, directly linking to an entry hall. The living
room, bedrooms, and reception room were placed to
the south, and a kitchen and bathroom to the north.
This arrangement was a compromise between modern
and traditional housing formats, but with its emergence
in the Taisho period (1912–1926), a family-oriented
housing style was established for the first time in Japan.
Most of the Japanese-style houses built as official resi-
dences in colonial Korea adopted this new arrangement.
The significance of middle-corridor housing in
Korea lies in the fact that it provided a basic model for
the collective housing of the Joseon Housing Agency,
which the Government-General of Joseon established
in 1941 to address Korea’s housing shortage. The
creation of the agency was closely related to a policy
shift by the colonial regime. Although it had attempted
to accelerate the development of the munitions industry
in Korea so as to supply the war in China, Korean cities
did not have the required infrastructure, especially in
the housing sector. Even as the urban population grew,
the number of newly supplied housing units decreased
owing to a shortage of building materials and rising
building and construction costs. To ease the housing
shortage, the Government-General of Joseon was
obliged to intervene by establishing the housing agency,
which marked the beginning of Korea’s public housing.
First capitalized at 2 million yen, the agency issued
55.3 million yen in bonds to finance housing projects
over a period of five years. Until the end of the war,
12,064 units across the country were constructed
using this method. The construction took place in the
large cities of Seoul (4,472 units), Busan (1,010 units),
The Genesis of Urban Housing 29
TYPE B TYPE C TYPE D
Incheon (1,302 units), and Pyongyang (1,087 units), as
well as new industrial cities such as Cheongjin (1,688
units). The agency housing was normally planned as a
complex of detached houses and row houses set in the
suburbs of the cities. The basic scheme followed guide-
lines established by Japanese scholars and technocrats
for site planning, structural considerations, materials,
construction methods, unit plans, and other design
criteria.36 Five types of housing units were proposed,
ranging from 23 to 73 sq m in size (figure 2.7). Among
them, type A and type B were detached houses while
the others were row houses planned for workers. All five
types were standardized forms of the Japanese middle-
corridor type of house except for the replacement of a
tatami-matted room with an ondol-heated room. In the
site planning, designers adopted the Japanese standard.
Twelve detached houses formed a residential row, and
two rows made a residential block. A survey of the
agency housing complexes built in the colonial period
shows that the size of residential blocks fell within the
range of 30–45 m x 70–110 m with an average of 94.4 m
x 35.6 m.37 Four blocks clustered together with an open
space composed a site planning unit (figure 2.8).
Urban Hanok
The urban hanok, which first appeared in the 1920s,
became the primary type of urban housing built in
Korea, especially in large cities, until the late 1960s.38
They emerged as a response to the growing housing
shortages caused by the urbanization already underway
30 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

in Korea. Faced with these shortages, Korean housing

companies set out to construct urban dwellings that
would blend a modern way of life with traditional
forms. These companies had usually begun as small
artisan groups or master-carpenter workshops that had
a potential to grow.39 Realizing that the housing sector
was ripe for investment, Korean business owners incor-
porated these smaller organizations and used them to
build twenty to a hundred houses each in downtown
Seoul and eventually in newly planned urban fringe
areas as well.40 Although these homebuilders were not
trained as professional architects, they succeeded in
creating a new type of urban housing, modifying the
traditional hanok in response to market demand and
the urban setting. As a result, the urban hanok became Fig. 2.9 Typical plan of an urban hanok
the most representative type of urban housing in Korea.
We can point out several reasons for the entry of
Korean builders into the housing market. First, they
were blocked from bidding in the public sector by the
Japanese colonial regime, so they had to search for a
niche market that Japanese companies could not easily
access. Second, most Koreans, at that time, still pre-
ferred traditional houses to Western-style houses or
Japanese-style houses.41 Third, the hanok was usually
less expensive than other types of housing. Compared
to a brick house, the modified hanok could be built at
half the price, and it had higher marketing potential.42
The urban hanok constructed by Korean builders in
the colonial period differed from traditional Korean
Fig. 2.10 Axonometric drawing of an urban hanok
houses in that they were primarily intended to yield
a profit. They used a compact plan so they could fit
in narrow plots, and this led to the aggregation of the plan was the U-shape. Here the fence is formed by the
several courtyards of a traditional house into a single building itself, which was built to the edge of the site.
courtyard at the center of the dwelling. Looking for low Its layout originated in the L-shaped house used by
costs and easy exchangeability, Korean builders also commoners in the central region of Korea, which typi-
sought the standardization of essential building compo- cally included a kitchen, a master bedroom, a second
nents and introduced new materials such as glass, gal- bedroom, and a daecheong (figures 2.9, 2.10). The dae-
vanized iron, and bricks. But while some new materials cheong was a wooden-floored hall placed between the
were incorporated, a traditional wooden frame based on two bedrooms as an intermediate space, half inside and
the kan system still formed the framework of the urban half outside, that protected residents from extremely
hanok. The basic design unit was one kan, formed by hot weather during the Korean summer when two
four columns supporting a heavy roof structure, and the sides were normally opened to provide natural ventila-
module was 0.9 m on each side. Based on this module, tion. Even though urban hanok could vary according
the master bedroom measured 2.7 m x 3.6 m, while the to region, these four elements were always included. In
other rooms were 2.7 m x 2.7 m on average. addition, an I-shaped annex, created as a rental space,
The plan of the urban hanok varied regionally. In was attached to the main building during the later
Seoul, a U-shaped plan was favored, but in the southern urbanization of the typical commoner’s house. This
regions of Korea, I-shapes and L-shapes were popular.43 annex usually contained a separate room with a small
In the history of Korean architecture, the most influential kitchen, an ordinary room, and a gate. Depending on

Fig. 2.11 Four types of urban hanok according to orientation—B: bedroom, D: daecheong, K: kitchen, M: master bedroom
the orientation of the entrance, there could be four
ways of combining the L-shaped main building with the
I-shaped annex (figure 2.11). Two rules were adhered
to in every case, however: first, the daecheong had to
face in a north-south direction; second, the master
bedroom had to be placed in the area farthest from the
entrance. These rules, intended to protect the owner’s
privacy from any intrusions by the tenants who lived in
the annex, were closely associated with the Confucian
tradition that placed a master bedroom, generally a
female space during the Joseon dynasty, in the most
recessed and closed area. Finally, in the U-shaped plan
characterizing most urban hanok, the toilet and storage
area were located between the main building and the
annex. Needless to say, this basic layout was trans-
formed many times with the passage of time. The most
common change was to move the exterior wall up to the
demarcation of the site to acquire more interior space.
Another was to install a multifunctional space at one
side of the courtyard as a place to store soy sauce crocks.
These urban hanok were steadily built from the 1930s
until the end of the 1960s. A striking aerial photograph
of Bukchon in 1962 shows large lots and former hill
areas filled with hanok.44 Their sizes averaged between
82.5 sq m and 115 sq m, with the space of the courtyard
making up about 20 to 30 percent of the total area. In
Bomun-dong, the urban hanok were around 85 sq  m
with 50 sq m devoted to buildings. There was a variety
of plans and sizes in different regions, however, which
made it difficult to construct hanok in a completely
standardized way. This was perhaps a disadvantage
compared to the five standard unit plans of the agency
housing. Moreover, since the urban hanok rarely shared
a wall with neighboring houses, they cannot really be
described as townhouses.
The uniqueness of the urban hanok was based on
several things. First was the presence of the courtyard,
The Genesis of Urban Housing 31
or madang. In the hanok, lines of rooms surrounded the
madang at the center, like a donut.45 This arrangement
made it possible for different domestic functions such as
circulating from room to room, taking a bath, washing
clothes, putting things into storage, and taking a rest
to be conducted at the same time in a limited space.
The spatial configuration is interconnected and creates
close relationships between the several rooms and their
constituents. It also offers a central multifunctional
space for various events. In these respects, the madang
is essentially different from the type of courtyard that
is found in Mediterranean houses. Even though it was
placed at the center of the dwelling, it functioned as an
extended interior space in which there was no clear dis-
tinction between the interior and the exterior, so that
everyday living did not occur only inside a sheltered
structure (figure 2.12). “Simply put, the madang was a
room without a roof, a domain set aside for the gainful
activity of the entire household that was well adapted
to complicated environmental, practical, and socio-
cultural situations.”46 Thanks to its existence, the urban
hanok could contain the complementary dualities of
void and solid, exterior and interior, as a reflection of
traditional Korean ideas about space. Compared to the
lilong housing of Shanghai, the spatial feeling of the
madang is very different from that of the light well in
a lilong house in that the former gives an easy skyward
glance enclosed by a one-story building whereas the
latter feels like a narrow and deep hole.
Another notable characteristic of the urban hanok is
that it created a unique street pattern. It could be grid-
like, as in the Donam district of Seoul, where many
urban hanok were constructed after the completion
of a land readjustment project in 1939, or it could be
irregular, as in the Bukchon district. Of the two, it was
the street pattern of Bukchon that has inspired many
contemporary architects. In this district, the alleyways
32 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 2.12 The daecheong of an urban hanok with a view of the
madang (Photo by Wan-Soon Park)
Fig. 2.13 Village of urban hanok in Donam-dong, Seoul (Photo
by Jae-Kyeong Kim)
connecting the houses had different meanings than
modern roads. It was not simply a passageway but a
semi-private place, formed by the interpenetration of
alleyway and courtyard, where villagers could gather
for conversation. The sequence of alleyway-madang-
daecheong formed an integrated space that steadily dis-
solved inner and outer boundaries. Moreover, since the
alleys led to a dead end on one side, offering no incen-
tive to sightseers or visitors, no one but residents would
normally pass through them. As a result, the alleys of
Bukchon were a unique means of organically connect-
ing housing units to their urban setting, inspiring later
Korean architects to discover a hidden potential in the
urban voids conceived by contemporary landscaped
architecture at the turn of the century (figure 2.13).
A Contest of Housing Types
Clashes between advocates of the three housing
types described above reflected the conflicting values
held by members of a culture that was undergoing
deep change. In the 1920s, housing issues appeared
as part of the enlightenment campaign as we can see
in a housing improvement movement. It began in
earnest when colonial intellectuals returning to Korea
after studying in Japan attempted to edify the entire
society through the reformation of traditional food,
clothing, and the housing system. Initially associated
with the lifestyle improvement movement in Japan,47
this movement aimed to overcome Japanese colonial-
ism by fostering national pride and strength. Housing
improvement, in particular, was cast as a far-reaching
social agenda in new magazines that had just recently
been cleared for publication. In the eyes of these intel-
lectuals, traditional housing was unclean and stood for
ineffectiveness. In its place, they promoted Western-
style housing, especially the bungalow, as a model for
Koreans to follow. Yu-Bang Kim was a representative
intellectual who insisted on the bungalow as the most
appropriate housing model.48 Unsurprisingly, this
approach to the housing issue was strongly criticized
by some Korean house builders, who thought it had
little basis in reality.
The American bungalow-style houses that began to
appear in the 1920s in the suburbs of large Korean cities
were labeled munhwa jutaek, or “cultural houses.” The
name first surfaced in Japan where the rapid growth of
the urban population had encouraged full-scale sub-
urbanization by the 1920s. Shinsuke Hashiguchi, who
had emigrated to Seattle but returned to Japan because
of anti-Japanese sentiments in the United States, dis-
played various American bungalow-style houses that
could be set up as a prefab.49 Although the bungalow
was originally a simple colonial house invented by
an American southerner, the prefabricated house
imported by Shinsuke Hashiguchi was closer in spirit to
the American cottage house that appeared in the early
twentieth century. Hashiguchi believed that this form
of housing could bring a Western domestic lifestyle to
a broad Japanese public beyond the bourgeois elite.50 It
was designed to facilitate a family-centered way of life
that reflected the pragmatic values of the American
middle class, which held that a housewife could take
care of household affairs without employing servants.
Its design coalesced around a living room, discarding

Fig. 2.14 Cultural house plans sketched by Yu-Bang Kim—B: bedroom, K: kitchen,
L: living room, M: master bedroom, S: study (Yu-Bang Kim 1923c)
the reception space that had been highlighted until
that time.51 The reason this idea created a great sensa-
tion in Japan was that its acceptance was regarded as
part of an enlightened movement toward a better form
of traditional housing, in effect liquidating the duality
associated with the coexistence of Japanese-style and
Western-style housing. Two housing fairs held in Tokyo
and Osaka in 1922 delivered this message to visitors
through actual exhibitions of the house. From that time
on, new spaces, including a living room, family room,
housewife’s room, and children’s room, began to be
introduced as major components of the Japanese house
(figure 2.14).52
The sites of the early cultural house villages were
located in the foothills of the mountains around Seoul,
which could offer a scenic view and decent downtown
accessibility via tram. The site planning was done fol-
lowing the contour of the site, with wide-open streets
for vehicles. The majority of the residents of these
houses were Japanese colonial elites, joined, in rare
cases, by wealthy Koreans who had studied in Japan.
Nan-Pa Hong’s residence in Seoul is a good example
of this type of house. In general, however, the cultural
house did not enjoy wide acceptance because it followed
an unfamiliar Western style and was too expensive for
most Koreans.
In the 1930s, the cultural conflict between what the
urban hanok and Western-style houses represented
began to register with the first generation of Korean
architects. The person who grasped this issue with
more insight than most was the first Korean architect,
Gil-Ryong Park. While working for the Government-
General of Joseon, he had traveled across the country to
The Genesis of Urban Housing 33
survey folk housing with Japanese offi-
cials, an experience that sensitized him
to housing problems in general. At an
early stage, Park claimed that solutions
could be found through partial reno-
vations of traditional houses but soon
realized that more dramatic steps had
to be taken. Park began to compare the
courtyard-style house to more concen-
trated housing types to highlight the
relevant issues (figure 2.15). According
to his analysis, proper solutions for
Korean housing problems could be
found more readily in the missionary
houses. Considering the fundamental
differences between Western-style
houses and urban hanok, Park argued for the adoption
of the more compact plan of Western houses. Of course,
this would have meant a tectonic shift in the traditional
way of life, altering spatial hierarchies, heating systems,
building materials, and construction methods, among
other things.
Park’s consideration of the spatial issues in a shift from
a courtyard-style house to a Western-style house adum-
brates the essential aspects of one of the major achieve-
ments of Korean domesticity in the twentieth century.
A similar attempt was made in the Joseon housing
design competition held under the joint auspices of
the Chosun Daily Newspaper and Geonyangsa in 1929.
What the promoters requested was a middle-class
house for six family members, fit for the Korean way
of life and able to accommodate a modern lifestyle.53
The four jurors, including architect Gil-Ryong Park and
developer Jong-Ryang Kim, selected three prizewin-
ners and two works of substantial merit from around
six hundred entries. The plans of these works reflected
diverse trends, but the third prizewinner hinted at the
Fig. 2.15 Gil-Ryong Park’s diagram comparing traditional and
Western-style housing models (Sun-Ae Choi 1981, 129)
34 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

coming of a new form of domesticity: a shrewd

compromise between the Western-style house
and the traditional. That is to say, the plan
suggested the conversion of the madang and
daecheong, the two public spaces in a tradi-
tional hanok, to create a hall-like living room
around which other rooms were arranged.54 In
addition, the positions of the kitchen and the
master bedroom were changed to better accord
with the new living room, and the bathroom
was moved inside the house. Yet, however
promising, it took over three decades for these
ideas to materialize in any significant way. As
long as the way of life remained fundamentally
unchanged, it was impossible to eliminate the
madang from the traditional house. This is why
a more concentrated type of house, as proposed
by Park in the 1930s, was not adopted, and the
urban hanok remained, for decades, the major
Korean form of housing. Eventually, however,
the situation did change, with concentrated
styles dominating Korean housing since the
1960s. Nevertheless, what is noteworthy is
that the madang still did not disappear but Fig. 2.16 The standard design for official residences of the Joseon Siksan
was internalized into a unique form of the Bank show the adaptation of a Japanese-style house to Korea’s harsh winters:
living room, reflecting a fundamentally Korean the room layout is still middle corridor, but the walls have become thicker
preference for the space of the madang even and the windows are smaller. (Nakamura, 1927, 65)
after the dominant housing style shifted into a
Western mode.
In earlier decades, a clash between Japanese-style in both the machiya and the middle-corridor housing
housing and Korean traditional housing was also widely types. The Japanese architect Fumihiko Maki describes
observed. Compared to Japanese-style housing, the this spatial feature with the word oku, or inner space,
hanok includes two differentiated elements—namely, which, according to him, has long been a part of the
a madang, or courtyard, and the underfloor heating vocabulary of daily life, expressing a distinctively
system called the ondol. The ondol is one of the most Japanese sense of space.55 The Japanese in Korea reacted
basic elements in Korean housing, as essential as tatami to these differences in various ways. Some incorporated
are in Japanese housing. As a unique heating system the ondol into their houses, creating a mutant housing
that has existed on the Korean peninsula since the Three type. At the same time, many refused to adopt a Korean-
Kingdoms era (108 BCE–AD 676), it continues to be style inner courtyard, preferring to retain their corridor
used today in modern forms. The most difficult chal- style of housing.
lenge for the Japanese who moved to Korea was to live The renovation of a Japanese-style official residence,
in a tatami room through the cold winter. Succumbing built as a middle-corridor type of house in Euichang
to practical sense, many Japanese introduced ondol and in 1938, clearly illustrates these differences. When the
thick walls into their houses to make their lives more house was renovated in the 1980s, the most remarkable
comfortable (figure 2.16). Another difference was the change was the introduction of a hall-like living room
courtyard. In urban hanok, the function of an inner and ondol, as opposed to a middle corridor and tatami
courtyard was, like that of a hall, to distribute inner room (figure 2.17). In his house, the living room plays a
circulation. Japanese-style housing, however, has a similar role to that of the madang in an urban hanok. A
corridor to fulfill this function. This feature is apparent parallel can also be found in the two types of collective

Fig. 2.17 Official residence in Euichang county: before remod-
eling, 1938 (top); after remodeling, 1987 (bottom) (Tai-Young
Kim 2003, 173)
housing developed by the Joseon Housing Agency.
According to a survey conducted in 1990, most of the
agency housing units that began as a middle-corridor
house type have been transformed for greater compat-
ibility with the Korean lifestyle. Again, the change was
from a tatami to an ondol room, and from a middle
corridor to a hall-like living room.56 These trends were
reaffirmed in the Sangok-dong housing complex in
Bucheon (figure 2.18). In contrast to the Sangdo-dong
The Genesis of Urban Housing 35
Fig. 2.18 Unit plans for the Sangok-dong housing complex in
Bucheon (Tomii 1996, 511)
housing complex in Seoul, madang were inserted at the
center of these dwelling units by a Korean designer who
was well aware of their importance for a Korean life-
style. After liberation, 70–80 percent of the middle cor-
ridors in agency housing units were transformed into
living rooms, while the madang in the second housing
complex remained almost intact.57 In these facts one can
discover an unchanging essence in Korean domestic
culture. Beyond a simple courtyard, the madang means
something special to Koreans who need a virtual space
open to the varied events of daily life and shared by
all the family members. It is not a coincidence that
numerous Korean architects have drawn on Korea’s tra-
ditional urban housing as one of their main generative
diagrams since 1990. Although the urban hanok was
discarded as a dominant housing type after the 1960s,
it keeps providing inspiration to contemporary Korean
architects and deserves to be called one of the major
generative diagrams of twentieth-century Korean
architecture.
 Chapter
Architecture and the Introduction
3 of New Materials
During the Japanese occupation of Korea, architec-
ture rose in esteem as one of the principal spatial
embodiments of modern life. Yet it failed to deliver
meaningful outcomes. There were several reasons for
this. First, there were no architects who could generate
forms in a convincing modern idiom. Colonial archi-
tecture in Korea aspired to the condition of moder-
nity but executed it without any real subjectivity.
Mostly reliant on eclectic styles imported from the
West, colonial buildings never attempted to come to
terms with the sociocultural context in which they
were embedded. Local needs were ignored because
there were no educational institutions that could train
architects to address them. Architects did not even
discuss whether their buildings were consistent with
a regional identity. When a new generation of Korean
architects began to emerge in the 1930s, they turned
their backs on Korea’s long architectural tradition and
embraced modernism as their top priority. At that
time, colonial intellectuals were overwhelmed by what
they could see of the Western way of life, so it is hardly
surprising that few of the buildings from this period
have retained any generative potential. They are
merely relics, unlike the urban hanok that still inspire
Korean architects today.
Most of the colonial buildings from this period
followed the Beaux-Arts style. Although some young
architects from Japan had gone to Europe to study
modern architecture at the feet of masters like Walter
Gropius and Le Corbusier,1 colonial architects did
not pursue any radical departures from the prevailing
historicist style. Beaux-Arts architecture was severely
criticized by modern architects for three reasons: first,
the availability of new materials had made it impera-
tive that architects seek to exploit the properties and
tectonic nature of those materials, prompting the
invention of abstract and geometrical forms to replace
decorative forms. Second, with the introduction of new
structural methods, architects were able to freely design
interior space, creating continuous and open spaces.
This was a complete departure from the architecture
of the past, which used load-bearing walls to create
enclosures. Third, to contribute to the urbanization of
the great cities of the world, modern architecture had
to be designed not only for efficiency but for mass
production. If these characteristics are the hallmark of
modern architecture, one can search in vain for build-
ings that encompass all of them in colonial Korea.
Although formal imitation of modernism was tried in
a few cases, those attempts lacked something essential.
The subjection of Korea to a Japanese colonial regime
caused opportunities for direct contact with modern
architecture to be missed. Only in the 1960s did Korea
directly encounter the postmodern architecture already
underway in the West.
Ironically, it was a resurgence of Beaux-Arts archi-
tecture that inspired many Western architects in the
postwar era. Postmodern architects and theorists, in
particular, have led the reevaluation of the Beaux-Arts
style, turning a spotlight on its modern aspects as well
as its antimodern prejudices. Where did the colonial
architecture of Korea fit in this reevaluation? Since the
1960s, many Korean architects have sought to explore
the historicity of their country’s architecture, but they
have turned not to the Beaux-Arts style of the colonial
period for inspiration, but to their own traditional
architecture. This can only be because the historical
meaning of colonial architecture is inextricably tied to
the statelessness of its time, and this meant that it no
longer possessed any generative potential.
Despite this limitation, it should be noted that the
architecture of the colonial period brought new mate-
rials and construction methods to Korea, and these
changes led to the dissolution of traditional formal
systems. Furthermore, new structural systems made it
possible for builders to acquire large spaces and eventu-
ally to house modern functions, which led to the for-
mation of a new spatial order. But these developments
could not be implemented simultaneously. For this
reason, the availability of new construction methods
led to the imitation of nineteenth-century building
types that had flourished in the West,2 including the

adoption of eclectic ornamentation used to camouflage
new materials. Although Beaux-Arts architecture was
widely accepted as modern architecture in Korea, there
is no doubt that it was the new technologies more than
particular stylistic tenets that played the decisive role in
forming Korea’s new built environment.
Colonial Architects
The most prolific architects during the colonial period
were technocrats working in the Japanese colonial
government. The issues of the Chousen to Kenchiku
magazine published from 1922 to 1945 contain plans
and photographs of about 2,000 buildings built in the
colonial period.3 These documents show several new
types of buildings, with educational buildings the most
numerous, followed by public buildings and transpor-
tation facilities—evidently, the tools for solidifying
colonial rule. We can identify the architect’s signature
in 224 buildings: technocrats like Satsukimaro Iwada,
Chozaburo Iwai, Hiroshi Kunieda, and Setsu Watanabe
were major players among them. These architects
had arrived in Korea right after graduation from the
University of Tokyo, between 1905 and 1907,4 and were
initially employed by the Takjibu Architectural Bureau,
established in 1906 to carry out the construction of
hospitals, schools, and police stations. Construction of
harbor facilities such as piers, warehouses, and breakwa-
ters was the responsibility of the Customs Construction
Agency, but the two organizations merged in 1908 and
were absorbed into the building and repairs depart-
ment of the Government-General of Joseon after the
annexation of Korea in 1910.
The architecture department of the government con-
sisted of three sections: one for public buildings; another
for customs house and school buildings; and the last
for construction of a prison and sanatorium. Each was
charged with maintaining design guidelines, including
materials, estimates, and construction methods, and
these developed into templates for successive building
types. For landmark buildings, it was the department’s
custom to commission designs from distinguished
architects practicing in Japan, chief among them pro-
fessors of architecture from Tokyo University such as
Kingo Tatsuno, who designed the former headquarters
of the Bank of Korea, Ichiro Nomura, who designed the
government’s headquarters building, and Tsukamoto
Yasushi, who designed Seoul Station.
Architecture and the Introduction of New Materials 37
Apart from these Japanese architects, two Americans
actively participated in architectural projects during this
period. One of them was Henry K. Murphy, who was
born in Connecticut and studied architecture at Yale
University. Before moving to China in 1914, he appears
to have been immersed in Beaux-Arts style architec-
ture, having worked for architectural firms whose chief
architects were products of the École des Beaux-Arts in
France.5 Murphy designed the campus plans and build-
ings of seven universities in China, including Yenching
University and Qinghua University, between 1914 and
1923. He used an adaptive approach in China, render-
ing architectural components in a traditional Chinese
style, but in Korea, where he devised the campus plan
of Chosun Christian College (now Yonsei University)
and designed several buildings in a neo-Gothic style, he
maintained his initial stance: “Western functions and
ideas should be housed in a Western manner.”6
William Merrel Vories was responsible for as many
as 160 architectural works in Korea.7 Born in Kansas,
Vories arrived in Japan as a missionary and later estab-
lished his architectural firm in Omi, which soon had
branches in Tokyo, Osaka, and Seoul. In Korea, his most
noted works are buildings at Ewha Woman’s University
in Seoul and Gyeseong High School in Daegu. Deeply
influenced by the neo-Gothic style then popular at
American universities, the buildings are also character-
ized by a functional pragmatism in their interior spaces.
Vories admitted that many of his building designs were
synthetic, and he adopted Gothic, English colonial,
Tudor, and Arts Nouveaux styles whenever it suited
him.8 As a pragmatic architect, he also made it clear
that the goal of his design was to provide the maximum
possible satisfaction to clients at minimal expense.9
Korean architects did not emerge as a distinct group
within the profession until the 1930s. The Gyeongseong
Engineering College (GEC), established in 1916, was
the first institution to provide an architectural education
in Korea. Since its purpose was to educate technocrats
for employment by the colonial regime, the number of
Korean students it admitted was severely limited. Gil-
Ryong Park, the first Korean student admitted to the
architecture department of the college, and Dong-Jin
Park, admitted the following year, became Korea’s
first architects. Others followed. Having graduated
from GEC, these architects typically worked for the
colonial government for a time and then opened their
own offices. For this reason, their design methods did
not usually depart from those of the technocrats they
38 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
had formerly worked under. When they went on their
own, their principal clients were Korean capitalists who
had amassed large fortunes by cooperating with the
Japanese rulers.
New Methods and Materials
The advent of new materials—chief among them,
steel and reinforced concrete—had a profound impact
on the formation of modern Western architecture.
In Korea, their introduction transformed construc-
tion methods and made possible the creation of new
architectural forms and spaces. A survey of the build-
ings constructed during the colonial period shows that
wooden, masonry, and reinforced concrete structures
were created in turn as new materials were brought into
play to meet the changing requirements of society.
Wooden Structures and Western Truss
In the sixty-year period from the port openings in
Korea to the 1930s, wooden structures were widely
used for schools, houses, offices, and public buildings.
Representative examples include the Jeonggwanheon
Hall at Deoksugung Palace (1900), the Industrial
Training Center (1907–1908), and the Jinhae Post
Office (1912).
The introduction of siding-clad walls in the wooden
structures built in Korea’s open ports marked a fun-
damental departure from Korean building traditions.
The siding wall provided good protection against
tough weather, created a pleasing appearance, and was
well adapted for use in housing, schools, and public
buildings. Originally developed in New England, the
siding-wall technique was initially carried to Japan
by American merchants. In fact, when Western-style
buildings finished with white siding walls first appeared
in the foreign settlements of the open ports in Japan,
Japanese carpenters were shocked.10 But from that time
on, the technique took root as a major construction
method in Japan, incorporating a number of traditional
Japanese timber skills. What is particularly interesting
about the development of siding-wall construction
in Japan is the coexistence of two different types: an
American style that partially overlaps panel edges and
a German style that puts an upper plate on a lower plate
to form a horizontal channel.
Taken to the open ports of Korea, the siding wall
became the dominant form of construction in short
order. The Japanese consulate, police station, hospital,
and commercial chambers in Incheon were all built
using this method, as was the Japanese legation
building in Seoul. This building became the Residency
General building when Korea was obliged to become
a Japanese protectorate in 1905 and housed Joseon’s
Governor-General from 1910 on.11 A two-story, sym-
metrical building, it combines a variety of historical
motifs, including two Byzantine domes on the front and
Baroque oval roofs at the edges. This unusual appear-
ance was derived from a pseudo-Western style of archi-
tecture that had developed in Japan by 1880, typically
combining Western designs with Japanese elements.12
Several factors account for the popularity of this style.
First, Japan already possessed highly advanced tech-
niques for using timber as a construction material, so
well-trained Japanese carpenters could easily learn the
new techniques and apply them in a new environment.
In addition, wooden wall decorations were favored by
the Japanese government, which needed to construct
many public buildings as quickly and as cheaply as
possible. For these reasons, the public buildings erected
in this manner in Japan following the opening of the
ports later became influential in Japan’s colonial cities.
The Industrial Training Center (1907–1909) in Seoul
was constructed using the German siding technique,
with upper plates joined to a lower plate (figures 3.1,
3.2). Built in the pseudo-Western style popular in
Japan, the two-story wooden building was designed
by architects in the Takjibu Architectural Bureau.13
The front has a Palladian five-part profile decorated
with an accurate imitation of classical motifs rendered
in wood. The horizontal channel in the siding evokes
Renaissance rustication.
The Jinhae Post Office (1912), designed by tech-
nocrats in the Post and Telegraphic Bureau, uses a
different finishing technique but otherwise shares the
pseudo-Western style. Here the architects did not finish
the wall of the post office with siding but plastered on
a plain wall with a horizontal channel. Studs measur-
ing 12 mm x 30 mm were inserted at 37 mm intervals
between two posts, using wire meshes to improve the
adhesion of plaster.14 The most impressive feature is a
protruded portico at the center, which emphasizes the
building’s frontality with the use of Mannerist orna-
ments. The building stands on a round rotary, causing
its plan to assume a more complicated shape. To cover
this plan, the architects used a wooden truss with metal
connectors.

Fig. 3.1 Industrial Training Center, Seoul, 1907–1909 (Redrawn from Hanguk bangsong tongsin daehak 2005, 110)
Fig. 3.2 Detail, Industrial Training Center (Photo by Inha
Jung)
The introduction of a Western-style wooden truss
would have a huge impact on the development of archi-
tectural form and space in Korea. Indeed, the transition
from traditional to modern architecture came to be
symbolized by roof form. A comparison of Beonsachang
(1883–1884), one of the first modern buildings in
Korea, with traditional architectural forms can clarify
this point. Beonsachang’s roof is in the form of a truss
and covers 8.5 m x 33 m of space without any supports
(figures 3.3, 3.4). With traditional wooden roofs, it was
Architecture and the Introduction of New Materials 39
difficult for the span to exceed 6  m. Expansion of the
internal space, then, was the first notable effect of using
the truss structure. The same phenomenon could be
observed throughout East Asian architecture, entirely
as the result of a change in materials and structural
system. In traditional architecture, the wider the span,
the thicker the beams had to be; and in construction,
connection was made by gravity, not through external
connector pieces. In contrast, truss members are
arranged through an accurate calculation of dynamics,
and steel connectors are partially used in joints to
prevent distortion and support long spans. A second
effect of using the truss structure derived from the
diverse forms that wooden trusses could be shaped into.
Traditional East Asian wooden roofs were not easily
responsive to irregular forms, as the structural systems
were designed on a rectangular plan. The flexibility of
the Western truss allowed for large-span coverage of
irregular plans. Third, the truss structure had a critical
impact on the diversification of roof heights, by facili-
tating adjustment of the proportions of the roofs. The
roof height in traditional buildings occupied up to half
of the entire façade, creating a serious design problem.
The Western truss gave Korean architects the latitude
to design diverse forms and spaces to fit each building’s
function.
40 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 3.3 Section of a traditional temple
Fig. 3.4 Section of Beonsachang, 1883–1884
Most wooden roofs followed a similar construction
process in colonial Korea: wooden plates were com-
pactly put on the wooden truss, then waterproof sheets
were laid in several layers, and finally asbestos cement
slates were used as finishing materials. The asbestos
cement slates came in small and large sizes. In the case
of the Industrial Training Center, the architects used a
small size measuring 400 mm x 400 mm.15
Together with these dramatic changes in the roof
structure, the walls and floor structure also changed.
Approximately four construction methods were
employed in turn during the period of Japanese colonial
rule as the structural system changed from a wooden
structure to masonry walls and a wooden floor struc-
ture, then to masonry walls and a reinforced concrete
slab structure, and finally to a completely reinforced
concrete structure. Some buildings, like the green-
house at Changgyeonggung Palace (1909), were built
with wood using a cast-iron structure, but that was an
exception.
Masonry Construction
Most of the masonry buildings built in the port-
opening period were religious buildings or diplomatic
missions. As Il-Joo Yoon, a historian of modern Korean
architecture, observes: “After the opening of the ports
in 1876, the major pipelines to Western civilization ran
through diplomacy and religion. Their architectural
styles embodied their tenets.”16
Christianity was brought to Korea by Protestant
missionaries from Anglo-Saxon countries and Roman
Catholic priests from the Society of Foreign Missions
of Paris. Each used a different approach to inculcate
their religion. The Protestants emphasized medical and
educational missionary work while the Catholics con-
centrated on building stable parishes with churches at
their center. Father Eugène Coste (1842–1896), who was
trained in Hong Kong and Macao, laid the groundwork
for the Korean Catholic church with the construction of
Myeongdong Cathedral—one of the earliest examples of
Gothic Revival architecture in Korea and a landmark in
Seoul.17 Characterized by a unique masonry structure,
the cathedral is a notable example of the style of church
building initiated by the Catholic priests. It was built with
locally fired red and gray bricks and timbers instead of
cut stones.18 The exterior is relatively simple because the
structural system did not need robust buttresses. Gray
bricks were used for major constituents such as piers,
ribs, and opening frames, and red bricks filled in the
remaining parts of the walls. These materials introduced
a sharp contrast into the skeleton of the building, high-
lighting its tectonics. The ceiling was covered by filling
well-woven timbers between gray brick ribs, a method
derived from European boat-making techniques intro-
duced into the colonial ports of China and Southeast
Asia. Timbers were used because it was the only way
the French priests could erect Gothic-style churches
without employing skilled masons. Yet the method they
chose bore a resemblance to the trabeated system of tra-
ditional wooden structures, and the brick churches they
built in Korea could be seen as materially advancing the
indigenization of Christianity in Korean society.
 Architecture and the Introduction of New Materials 41

Worth mentioning here was the emergence of an

eclectic style that combined the spatial conceptions of
Western churches with the formal system of Korean
traditional buildings. The Nabawi Catholic church and
Ganghwa Anglican church are the best examples. Both
adopted a long axis from gate to altar by turning the
main approach into the short side of the building, and
used a raised roof to differentiate the heights of nave
and aisle. In spite of the use of traditional roof tiles,
their walls were constructed of bricks, showing that
brick buildings could actually complement Korean tra-
ditional architecture in both an aesthetic and tectonic
sense (figure 3.5). Fig. 3.5 Nabawi Catholic church, Iksan, 1906–1907 (Photo by
The masonry structures used for diplomatic missions Nils Clauss)
were on the whole more ambitious and had a greater
impact on the development of architectural forms and
spaces in Korea. Most of the foreign legations in Korea
were situated in Jeongdong, a neighborhood to the west
of Deoksugung Palace in Seoul where foreign mission-
aries were permitted to live. The first foreign legations,
schools, churches, and hotel were built here in the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Of the old
foreign legations, two buildings—the British legation
(1892) and the Belgian consulate (1903–1905)—and the
tower of the Russian legation (1890) have survived. The
Belgian consulate, which was removed from its former
site and reconstructed in the southern area of Seoul in
1981, now serves as a branch of the Seoul Museum of
Art (figure 3.6). The most remarkable elements of this
building are the loggias on both sides of the façade, sup-
ported by classical columns, which create the ambience
Fig. 3.6 Belgian consulate building, 1903–1905, reconstructed
of Tuscan order on the ground floor and Ionic order
1981 (Photo by Nils Clauss)
on the second floor, a subtle modulation that stands in
contrast to the solid brick wall. Other details are con-
sistent with the neoclassical style of similar buildings
constructed of granite and red bricks.
With the influence of these impressive brick
masonry structures, the use of load-bearing brick walls
and wooden flooring became a typical construction
method in the early twentieth century. There were com-
pelling reasons for the diffusion of the new building
material. Along with its incombustibility and insulation
capacity, it was relatively cheap. The problem that had
to be overcome was how to mass produce high-quality
bricks. In 1907, the Residence-General of the protector-
ate established the Takjibu Brick Manufacturing Factory
(Yeonwa Jejakso), which started with one Hoffman-
style pot and added another pot the next year. With
that, the combined output soon rose to approximately Fig. 3.7 Gunsan Customs House, 1908 (Photo by Nils Clauss)
42 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
12.6 million bricks per year.19 Gunsan Customs House
(1908), Seobuk Academy’s Society Hall (1908), and
Baejae School (1916) are representative of the public
buildings with wooden flooring and brick walls built at
that time (figure 3.7). The construction of these build-
ings involved the compilation of bricks or stone to a
certain thickness to form bearing walls, with a deck
placed on top. The flooring materials were all made of
wood or reinforced concrete. Only after 1915, when the
colonial government relaxed its monopoly and allowed
private companies to produce bricks, was this type of
masonry construction used for ordinary commercial
buildings.20
In the early stages of construction, brick masonry
structures shared several common techniques. First,
horizontal stone strips were inserted in the brick wall
to improve its durability. In the Belgian consulate,
the ground-floor wall contains three strips, and the
second-floor wall, two. In the main hall of the Daehan
Medical Center, projected cornices were installed on
each floor (figures 3.10, 3.11). These strips not only
strengthen the brick wall structurally, but also reinforce
the horizontality of the building visually. Second, stones
were attached at the wall corners, the weakest area in
a masonry structure, to emphasize the outline in the
structure’s appearance and reinforce the corner. Third,
the openings in the load-bearing walls were reinforced
with arches or upper lintels, often decorated with clas-
sical motifs. In this respect, the wall ornamentation in
these buildings have fundamentally different reasons
than those of Seoul Station, whose walls are made of
reinforced concrete finished with bricks.
Some common features can be also found in the
interior of the buildings. The thickness of the load-
bearing walls decreases as they extend to higher floors.
In the main hall of the Daehan Medical Center, the
exterior wall of the ground floor was laid with a thick-
ness of 2.5B (582  mm) to 3B (700  mm), whereas the
second-floor wall is 2B (464 mm) thick, with partitions
1.5B (345  mm) thick.21 The underfloor support beams
are suspended on the reduced part of the wall. The
masonry structure was limited by its narrow interior
space, however, which could not span more than 5  m
owing to the material’s properties. Partition walls there-
fore had to join in support of the beams, which inevita-
bly led to the adoption of a middle-corridor type of plan.
Around the 1920s, the deck-flooring materials used
in masonry structures changed from wood to reinforced
concrete. Three stone-masonry buildings at Yonsei
University—Stimson Hall (1919–1920), Appenzeller
Hall (1921–1924), Underwood Hall (1921–1924)—
display the typical construction technique of the 1920s.
Designed by Henry K. Murphy, these buildings secured
larger spaces for classrooms and laboratories by using
Korean stones for the bearing walls and reinforced
concrete for the flooring. The master plan of Chosun
Christian College (the old name of Yonsei University),
established in December 1917 by Murphy and Dana
Architects, New York, bears witness to the initial
U-shaped layout of the three buildings, a plan inspired
by the design of American universities (figure 3.14).
The buildings themselves were conceived in accord-
ance with the Collegiate Gothic style then prevailing,
including a symmetrical, rectangular ground plan, bay
windows at the front, simple stonewalls and lintels, a
gabled roof, and an ogee arch at the main entrance.22
The Speer Girls’ High School, a typical mission
school in Gwangju, shows an evolutionary shift in
flooring materials. The school still has several build-
ings built by the missionaries. Winsbourgh Hall, built
in 1927, was constructed with brick walls and wooden
flooring. Its annex building, built seven years later, laid
reinforced concrete slab over brick walls. Other mis-
sionary school buildings, including Gyeseong High
School (1931), the main hall of Korea University and
Pfeiffer Hall of Ewha Woman’s University (1935) also
used reinforced concrete instead of wooden floors.
Pfeiffer Hall, designed by William Merrell Vories
(1880–1964),23 retains characteristics of the Collegiate
Gothic style mixed with Tudor. Chinese masons ran
the actual construction, while the Korean architect Yun
Kang, an employee of the Vories Company, handled site
supervision. “The hall shows the elaborate craftsman-
ship of works in ashlar masonry. In particular, the stone
tracery, placed centrally on the third floor, exemplifies
the delicate details of the style.”24
The Collegiate Gothic style introduced by American
missionaries was soon established as an important
building type in Korea. Early in the colonial period,
public schools designed by the government had not
displayed any distinctive architectural features, concen-
trating instead on finding solutions for technical and
functional issues. In contrast, the Collegiate Gothic style
was rooted in the belief that an educational institution
should not only instill high moral behavior, but be a
cathedral of learning. Drawing on this style were build-
ings designed for Korea University (1933–1934) and
other universities that constructed new campuses after
 Architecture and the Introduction of New Materials 43

Fig. 3.8 Jinhae post office, 1912 (Photo by Inha Jung) Fig. 3.9 Wall section, Jinhae post office

Fig. 3.10 Daehan Medical Center, Genkichi Yabashi, 1907 Fig. 3.11 Wall section, Daehan Medical Center
(Photo by Young-Chae Park)

Fig. 3.12 Gyeseong High School, William M. Vories, 1931 Fig. 3.13 Wall section, Gyeseong High School
(Photo by Inha Jung)
44 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

liberation. Jungang High School (1935–1937),

designed by Dong-Jin Park, also embraced the
style (figure 3.15).
The change of flooring material from wood
to reinforced concrete had a significant impact
on architectural form and space. Above all,
the outstanding motifs on the exterior wall,
such as horizontal strips and cornerstones, lost
their structural raison d’être since there was
no longer any need to reinforce brick walls. In
addition, solid lintels in windows began to be
simplified or disappeared altogether, leading
to the enlargement of windows and eventually
the emergence of bay windows. This change
became possible when the concrete slab began
to provide support for vertical loads, relieving
the wall. Consequently, simplified fenestration
designs began to appear in the 1920s.
The new factor that masonry structures
could not respond to adequately was a demand
for larger and higher spaces. Seoul Station,
which marked the last step in the development
of masonry structures in the colonial period,
clearly demonstrates the limitations that had
been reached. Opened in 1925, the building is
a beautiful piece of Palladian-style architecture
with an ornate Byzantine dome, Diocletian
windows, and a rusticated façade (figure 3.16).
The internal structure is a composite system
utilizing masonry (exterior walls), reinforced
concrete (slab, concourse, columns, and
basement), and a steel truss for the roof.25 This
Fig. 3.14 Master plan of Chosen Christian College, Murphy and Dana
complicated scheme was necessitated by the
Architects, New York, 1917
program for the building, which required a

Fig. 3.15 Examples of the Collegiate Gothic style in Korea (left to right): Ehwa Women’s University, William M. Vories, 1933–1935;
Jungang High School, Dong-Jin Park, 1935–1937 (Photos by Young-Chae Park)

Fig. 3.16 Seoul Station, Yasushi Tsukamoto, 1925 (Photo from
Newsbank)
larger and higher space than a typical masonry struc-
ture can provide. The central hall with its sumptuous
Ionic columns measures 13 m x 29 m, and its height
is over 15 m. Waiting rooms, conference rooms, and a
ballroom also needed a span as long as the central hall.
To create this amplitude, a new method of construction
had to be devised. In addition, as the central railway
station in Korea, the building had to express monumen-
tality. The architect was Yasushi Tsukamoto, a student
of Kingo Tatsuno, who had designed Tokyo Station, and
he took full advantage of the opportunity to provide
varied decorations. Impressive as it is, the building
stands as a prime example of a transitional moment in
architecture—from brick masonry structures to a more
capable method of construction.
Reinforced Concrete
Several factors combined to bring about the replace-
ment of brick masonry construction with reinforced
concrete structures. First, an expansion of production
facilities in Korea had begun to increase supply of the
new materials. Portland cement, the principal ingredi-
ent of reinforced concrete, was produced in bulk after
1919 when Onoda Cement, which had been based in
Dalian, began operations near Pyongyang on a large
scale. The production of steel also was growing after
the establishment by Mitsubishi of a steel foundry in
Gyeomipo in 1918.26 Adding steel products manu-
factured domestically to those imported from Japan
meant that reinforced concrete structures could now
be fabricated in Korea without great difficulty. Second,
the Kanto Earthquake of 1923 provided decisive
momentum for the diffusion of reinforced concrete
structures in Japan. Once its superior safety had been
demonstrated, the Japanese government recommended
Architecture and the Introduction of New Materials 45
the use of reinforced concrete in most buildings, and
the impact of this change was felt in Korea from the
late 1920s on. Finally, urban expansion combined with
rising land prices in Korea increased pressure on archi-
tects to create larger spaces under roof, a requirement
that led them beyond the limits of masonry structures.
Reinforced concrete was first used in Korea around
1910,27 about five years after its introduction in Japan.28
The method used in the Seokjojeon (1900–1910),
one of three Western-style buildings in Deoksugung
Palace, called for pouring concrete after the installa-
tion of cast iron beams at 60–90 cm intervals to create
a fireproof slab. According to a 1989 research report
on the safety of Seokjojeon, small beams were found to
have been installed at intervals of 75 cm with concrete
filling the gaps. Another method was to place small
I-beams, made of wrought iron, in parallel at intervals
of 60–90 cm and to install the lower flange bent in the
shape of an arch and pour concrete on it. This method
was adopted in the former headquarters of the Bank of
Korea (1907–1912) (figure 3.17).
The headquarters building of the Government-
General of Joseon, built from 1912 to 1926, was the first
building in Korea to go beyond the concrete slab to the
construction of a monolithic structure of reinforced
concrete. As a way to underline the fact of Japanese
rule, the building was deliberately placed in front of
Gyeongbokgung Palace—the former Korean royal
palace—to obstruct the view of the palace from a central
boulevard in Seoul. According to the building log, the
method to be used for wall construction was a subject
of controversy at the initial design stage, prompting
Japanese technocrats to research and compare various
structural systems.29 Masonry structures were relatively
Fig. 3.17 Bank of Joseon, Kingo Tatsuno, 1907–1912 (Photo by
Young-Chae Park)
46 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

inexpensive, and skilled builders were avail-

able. But if the building needed to be five
stories high, the thickness of the walls on the
lowest floor had to exceed 90 cm, causing
a sharp increase in the weight of the walls.
Geological survey results, moreover, had
indicated that construction costs would sky-
rocket if heavy walls were placed at the site.
Ichiro Nomura, who succeeded the initial
designer, George de Lalande, who had died
in 1914 before the building’s completion,
finally decided that a reinforced concrete
structure was the best solution but stipulated
that the whole structure needed to be faced
with grey granite. After its opening in 1926,
the imposing neo-Renaissance monument
with a shining copper-plate dome became Fig. 3.18 Headquarters building, Government-General of Joseon, George de
a primary symbol of Japan’s colonial rule. Lalande and Ichiro Nomura, 1912–1926 (Photo by Chung-Eui Lim)
Even after liberation, the building continued
to serve the military regimes that governed the country, the main street, which determined the major part of
sparking intense public debate over whether it was its arrangement. What is particularly notable in this
worthy of preservation because of what it had symbol- instance is that the architect added a lysine coating to
ized. Eventually, it was decided that the building should the brick curtain wall, a finishing technique that gave it
be demolished on the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the appearance of artificial stone.30 Sasa had been intro-
Japanese colonial rule (figure 3.18). duced to this technique while visiting a lysine factory
In the late 1920s, the availability of new materials in Germany, and the finish was subsequently applied to
moved colonial architects in a new direction as rein- other buildings as well.
forced concrete, in particular, gained acceptance as the The use of reinforced concrete also became the norm
most efficient structural system for large-scale build- in Korea’s private sector. The Donga Daily Newspaper
ings. Of the nineteen city and provincial government building (1925–1926), the Korea Electric Power
buildings built during the colonial period, the four built Corporation building on Namdaemunno Street (1928),
prior to 1925 all used a two-story masonry structure. the Shinsegae Department Store building (1928), and
Beginning with the construction of Seoul City Hall in the Daegu (1931) and Daejon (1937) branch office
1926, reinforced concrete soon became the material buildings of the Joseon Siksan Bank all used reinforced
of choice for most government office buildings. The concrete structures. In these buildings, however, almost
city government buildings of Gunsan (1928), Sinuiju no attempt was made to elevate the aesthetic properties
(1931), Incheon (1932), and Gaeseong (1937) were all of the concrete structure. The only change was to adopt
given a reinforced concrete structure. As a result, the tiles as a finishing material more often than decorative
interior of these buildings tended to be integrated into stones or bricks.
a single space, a capability afforded by the new material. The recent publication of architectural drawings pos-
Decorative motifs were removed from the walls, so that sessed by the National Archives of Korea has made it
the building featured a simple geometrical composi- possible to systematically research the technological arc
tion, and a flat roof replaced the pitched roof. Long, of building construction during the colonial period.31 In
projected porticos were the only element displaying particular, school buildings, the focus of the bibliograph-
monumentality, with the central dome on Seoul City ical introduction to the archive’s holdings, show striking
Hall the exception rather than the rule. similarities in use of materials, structural systems and
Seoul City Hall was designed by Keichi Sasa, an architectural forms in a given period, making it easy to
architectural engineer employed by the Government- suppose that they were designed according to standard
General of Joseon. The four-story building stands along guidelines. This comparison, for example, highlights
 Architecture and the Introduction of New Materials 47

the changes over time: “While the 1918 drawings of

Gyeongseong High School portray a typically wooden
structured building type, Gyeongseong Women’s High
School, built four years later, was constructed of bricks.
In contrast, the buildings of Pyongyang Normal School,
designed in 1931, combine a reinforced concrete
structure with brick finishing.”32 As the buildings last
mentioned show, school buildings could be configured
with curvilinear walls by the 1930s, thanks to the new
structure.
One of the biggest projects in the second half of the
colonial period was the construction of Gyeongseong
Imperial University (Gyeongseong Jeguk Daehak)
in Seoul. Founded as the sixth imperial university of
Japan, the new university admitted its first students
in 1924. Campus construction was undertaken by the
Government-General of Joseon at a site near Dongsung- Fig. 3.19 Layout of Gyeongseong Imperial University (Gukga
dong and Yeongeon-dong, and several buildings, includ- girokwon 2008, 64)
ing the central administrative building, library, lecture
rooms, and student hall were constructed in two stages,
beginning in 1924. The architecture department of the
Government-General of Joseon took charge of the entire
design process,33 using a modernized Romanesque style
as a dominant motif to soften the strict, symmetrical
arrangement of buildings. Reinforced concrete was
the predominant material used, clad with yellow tiles.
Since a similar approach was used in other public
buildings constructed around the same time, such as
Gyeongseong Courthouse (the old Supreme Court,
1927) and the South Jeolla provincial office (1930),
the architects appear to have been following the same
design guidelines. In this respect, the buildings of the
new university may be taken as a fair representation of
the architectural discourse running through the second
half of the colonial period (figures 3.19–3.21).
In 1941, Gyeongseong Imperial University expanded
with the creation of a new campus on the outskirts of Fig. 3.20 Administrative building, Gyeongseong Imperial
Seoul to accommodate the faculty of science and engi- University, 1930–1931 (Photo by Nils Clauss)
neering. The buildings on this campus were constructed
in a different way than those on the original campus.
Most remarkable of all was the administrative building
(figure 3.22), a typical example of German neoclassical
architecture, the preferred style of the Third Reich. Most
regimes, especially new ones, wish to make their mark,
both physically and emotionally, on the places they
rule, and the most tangible way to do so is by construct-
ing buildings and monuments. Hitler had commanded Fig. 3.21 Façade of the Faculty of Letters and Law,
his favorite architect, Albert Speer, to redesign Berlin as Gyeongseong Imperial University, 1933 (Gukga girokwon 2008,
a city of imposing neoclassical structures. When Japan 90)
48 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 3.22 Gyeongseong Engineering College (present-day Seoul
National University of Science and Technology), 1942 (Courtesy
of Seoul National University of Science and Technology)
consolidated its relationship with Germany and Italy
after the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese War in 1937, this
style of architecture was imported to Korea via Japan.
The paradox, though, is that Japanese architects who
were sure of their identity did not actually adopt this
style for their own monuments. The competition entries
for the Japanese Cultural Center in Bangkok (1943)
from Kunio Maekawa and Kenzo Tange show how two
Japanese modern masters responded to the Japanese
militarism of the 1940s. Each design was modeled on
Japanese historical architecture such as Ise Jingu, Kyoto
Imperial Palace, and Katsura Imperial Villa.34 What the
administration building of the new engineering college
makes clear is the intent of the Japanese colonizers to
achieve dual goals: the suppression of modern Korean
identity and the consolidation of colonial rule.
 Part
Searching for Identity in the
Developmental Period
2

Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom
On August 15, 1945, the Japanese emperor announced
on the radio the surrender of Japan and the end of the
Pacific War. In Korea, this ushered in a total collapse of
the discourse of the colonial period and a fundamental
rupture with the colonial modernism then prevailing.
But liberation from the Japanese empire did not spell the
end of Korea’s misfortunes. In its aftermath, the Korean
peninsula was divided into two occupation zones, which
became two separate nations that suffered mightily in
the civil war that ensued. Reconstruction of the two
nations only commenced with the ceasefire of 1953.
In South Korea, economic conditions in the 1950s
were abysmal, and the reconstruction was heavily
dependent on foreign aid. Korea’s economic growth
spurt began after a military government seized power
in 1961 and announced that the country would build a
self-reliant economy by adopting an “outward-looking
strategy.” This meant that Korea’s overriding goal would
be the development of an export-oriented industrial
economy, and that all policies would be dictated from
the top down in order to secure the country’s indus-
trialization and economic growth. Thus began the
period of developmental dictatorship, one of the most
dynamic in Korea’s history, when the value of its gross
domestic product grew by more than 8 percent each
year on average. Over several decades, the transfor-
mation of the country from an agrarian economy to
a newly industrialized one sparked an unprecedented
increase in the urban population, bringing forth a
large-scale expansion of urban space, and this urban
expansion led inevitably to radical changes in Korean
ways of living and thinking. Urban design necessarily
played an instrumental role in the transformation, and
the remarkable shaping of urban space it set in motion
was a literal remaking comparable in scope to that of
Paris in the mid-nineteenth century and of New York in
the early twentieth century.
The large-scale expansion of urban space from the
early 1960s to the early 1990s resulted in a completely
different cityscape from that of the colonial period.
The elites of the military regime had focused on two
Chapter
4
priorities: to build up the urban environment to house
an overflowing urban population, and to implement a
decentralization policy that would prevent excessive
concentration in the large cities. In the process, new
planning methods were introduced, and the scope
of development grew substantially—to more than
500 hectares per project on average. This was a direct
outcome of the government’s push toward high-density
development—in other words, amid deepening housing
shortages, the building of new, large-scale apartment
complexes became the order of the day.
In this situation, Korean planners faced another
daunting challenge—a more mobile society predi-
cated on the use of motor vehicles. The advent of this
mobility became a major factor in large-scale urban
development, changing how infrastructure expansion
could be organized. Innovations in circulation systems
were needed to give drivers maximum efficiency in
movement, and this required an expansion of the
scale of planning to the regional level, so that planners
had to confront the issue of how to interconnect the
larger cities. For these planners, the upsizing of system
requirements necessitated a much more intensive and
effective planning process than in the past.
In the main, three methods were employed to
develop Korea’s urban space: concentric expansion of
urban boundaries, subdivision of urban space based
on the neighborhood-unit theory, and construction of
large apartment complexes on the subdivided lands.
These methods were not formulated simultaneously
but came about in a three-step sequence. First came the
initial period in the 1960s when urban experts searched
for coping strategies to deal with a series of difficult
urban problems. This was followed by a period in the
1970s when new legislation provided a legal basis for
going forward with those strategies, based on the expe-
riences of the previous decade. The third step came in
the 1980s when large-scale apartment complexes and
homogenous urban space were mass produced, cul-
minating in the five new towns that were developed
around Seoul.
52 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

Urban Realities and Utopian Schemes

Korea’s miraculous economic growth from the 1960s

through the 1980s fueled one of the most dynamic
periods in its history. The surge in urban population
shot to its highest rate ever, with Seoul’s population
nearly tripling from 2.24 million inhabitants in 1960 to
6.88 million in 1975. Incredibly, it rose even higher in
the next decade (figure 4.1). Other large cities also saw
remarkable increases: Busan’s population tripled from
1.16 million to 3.16 million, and Daegu’s went from 0.67
million to 1.16 million. As a result, housing shortages
in these cities became a major concern to the military
regime. During this period, the ratio of housing supply
in urban areas continued to drop, going from 84.2
percent in 1960 to 69.8 percent in 1985. The situation
in Seoul was even worse, plummeting to 59.7 percent
in 1985. Squatter settlements sprang up in vacant sites
downtown and on the precarious hillsides surround-
ing the city. Without any supporting infrastructure, the
denizens of these shantytowns eked out a precarious
existence. To concerned residents, the situation was a
ticking time bomb, evocative of Le Corbusier’s famous
motto “Architecture or Revolution.”
Riots in the Seongnam slum (an area originally
known as Gwangju Daedanji) in 1971 gave sudden Fig. 4.1 Population growth in Korea’s seven largest cities
expression to the social tensions and contradictions
caused by the “growth first” policies of the military they had no chance to make a living. To make matters
regime. Seongnam, a hurriedly built new city adjacent worse, Seoul’s government reversed its original policy
to Seoul, had been created as part of the government’s and made it mandatory for settlers to buy the rights to
effort to solve the contradictions. Seoul’s municipal their temporary housing at market rates or face eviction.
government had wanted to demolish approximately In the riots that erupted, the furious residents took
50,000 out of 180,000 illegally built shacks and resettle over the new city and burned cars and police stations.1
the occupants to a vacant site at the periphery of the They demanded price reductions, postponements
city. As soon as the plan was announced, squatters in tax payments, and the creation of a job placement
flocked to the new city with dreams of possessing their system. The riot was only dispersed when the mayor of
own house, and their migration was assisted at first with Seoul agreed to accept their demands and upgrade the
the construction of large numbers of makeshift housing housing stock and infrastructure of Seongnam.
units. Soon a construction boom was underway, fed To grapple with the pressures engulfing Korea’s large
with government subsidies, and land prices began cities, the military regime used all the measures at its
to escalate rapidly as the illegal resale of temporary disposal. It expanded the borders of existing cities and
housing fueled a run of speculative investments in the created new industrial cities such as Ansan, Gumi,
real estate market. The deepening scandal brought slum Masan, Changwon, and Ulsan. Ulsan, in particular,
clearance and urban renewal to the surface as major leapfrogged from an idyllic fishing village to become
political issues in the presidential election of 1971, but the Mecca of the Korean automobile industry and one
when the real estate bubble burst after the election, the of the seven largest cities in Korea within a thirty-year
settlers’ hopes turned to despair. There were no jobs period. These developments were set in train because
available in the new city, and there was no public trans- President Chung-Hee Park had made it his top priority
portation into Seoul, making it clear to the settlers that to implement policies that would reorganize the nation’s

territory in support of industrial and economic growth.
The construction of the Gyeongbu Expressway, the
planning of Yeouido Square, Seoul Children’s Grand
Park, and Gwacheon New Town, and the designa-
tion of a greenbelt around large cities all originated in
Park’s own ideas. Greatly impressed by an expressway
system he saw during a visit to West Germany in 1964,
he had ordered the construction of a similar expressway
to connect Seoul and Busan in 1968. The planning of
Gwacheon as a new administrative city came from his
awareness of the danger that North Korea represented.
Seoul was only thirty miles from the demilitarized zone,
and it lay within reach of North Korea’s long-range artil-
lery, whereas Gwacheon was located behind Gwanaksan
Mountain, whose 629 m height shielded it from imme-
diate danger. The planned relocation of administrative
offices to Gwacheon testified to its strategic advantage.
The president’s urban policies had the support of
military personnel and of planners who generally lacked
sufficient grounding in urban design. At that time,
there were only a few experts in Korea who understood
the discipline. The first department of urban studies in
a Korean university was formed in 1967, and this late
emergence contributed to the relative vacuum in urban
discourse that prevailed during the rapid urbanization
of the 1960s. During that period, there were three main
groups of Korean planners. The first group consisted of
technocrats and academics, represented by Won Zew,
Byung-Joo Park,2 Jung-Sub Yoon, and Jung-Mok Sohn,
among others. They were involved in many urban
projects and founded the Korea Planners Association,
which played a central role in providing a theoretical
framework for the policies of the military elites. Among
this first group, Byung-Joo Park can be credited as the
key figure in the planning of Ulsan, Gumi, Yeouido, and
Jamsil, which greatly influenced the urban discourse of
the time. The second group of planners was based in the
Korea Engineering Consultants Corporation (KECC),
headed by architect Swoo-Geun Kim. Supported
by close personal relationships with the elite of the
military regime, KECC commissioned nationwide
projects such as the planning of Yeouido, the renova-
tion of Namdaemun Markets, and the construction of
the Sewoon Commercial Complex.3 The third group
that influenced planning doctrines during the develop-
mental period was based in the Housing, Urban, and
Regional Planning Institute (HURPI) masterminded
by Oswald Nagler, the first student of Jose Luis Sert
at Harvard University. On an invitation from the Asia
Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom 53
Foundation, he had come to Korea in 1964 to conduct
a survey on Korean urbanism. His report prompted the
foundation to underwrite his appointment as the head
of a research institute in the Ministry of Construction
with a view to addressing the urban problems in
Korean cities.4 Although this institute was unable to
realize all of its objectives, it made great contributions
by introducing Western urban theories, including the
linear system and the neighborhood unit, to young
Korean architects and planners.5 Nagler’s approach to
city planning was humanistic, rooting urban design
in the smallest unit, a minimal house. Abstracting the
space that would be required by this unit, he taught
standardization techniques and extended the scale to
derive minimum requirements for collective housing.
At the same time, Nagler was sensitive to the regional
context and emphasized the importance of engaging
a wide range of people in town planning. All of these
were points driven home in HURPI’s urban design
exposition held in May 1967.6
Concentric vs. Linear:Two Ways to Expand
During the developmental period, Seoul was the
prime arena for experimentation with new planning
methods that could address Korea’s urban problems. In
1966, the first attempt was laid out in a comprehensive
twenty-year plan, drawn up by the Korean Planners
Association, entitled Basic Urban Planning for Seoul
(Dosi Gibon Gyehoek). It presented guidelines for the
development of Seoul and became the pivotal textbook
for urban design in Korea.7 Highly influenced by Sir
Patrick Abercrombie’s 1944 Greater London Plan, the
Seoul plan contained three important elements: first, by
defining Seoul as a concentric city, planners identified
the historic nucleus of the city as well as the subcent-
ers at its periphery.8 This analysis led to the division
of Seoul into three concentric circles: the first, with
a radius of 5 km, was designated the daily zone; the
second, with a radius of 15 km, was called the weekly
zone; and the third, with a radius of 45 km, represented
the monthly zone.9 The plan proposed four ring roads
radiating out from the city center, with thirteen bisect-
ing arteries, the intersections of which were to become
subcenters for community development in the sur-
rounding area (figure 4.2). The second element took
the form of a proposal to decentralize government
functions that were clustered at the city center into the
new subcenters, thus dispersing certain administra-
tive offices to Yongsan, Yeongdeungpo, and Gangnam,
54 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 4.2 Four ring roads, proposed in the 1966 Basic Urban
Planning for Seoul (Seoul teukbyeolsi 1966, 240)
Fig. 4.3 Master plan for Seoul, Tai Soo Kim, 1969 (Tai Soo Kim
1969)
while preserving major government functions, such as
the president’s estate, in central Seoul. The third element
consisted of plans for the development of Gangnam, the
region south of the Hangang River that had been incor-
porated into the Seoul metropolis in 1963.
When the twenty-year plan was announced, debates
over how to organize the newly incorporated areas were
immediately ignited. Aron B. Horwitz, a professor at
the University of California at Berkeley, was invited
to consult on the plan, and his report, drafted during
an eight-month stay in Seoul, criticized the ring-radial
roadway circulation system. According to Horwitz,
such a plan would be unable to keep up with the rapid
growth of automobile ownership forecast for Korea.10
He also expressed concern that the plan was ignoring
the basic pattern of human settlement and asserted the
need to adopt a linear development model for Seoul.
This linear model had caught on in the architectural
community during the 1960s and was championed
by Constantinos Doxiadis, who argued that if city
planners made inadequate provisions for urban growth,
cities would grow like cancers, the inner core eating
into surrounding neighborhoods and the outer edges
gobbling up the natural landscape. He proposed several
solutions for rapidly growing cities, one of which was
to create new self-contained urban centers within the
urban sprawl with improved communication and
transportation links between them.11 Oswald Nagler,
head of HURPI, agreed that a linear system would be
more capable of responding flexibly to the uncertain
dimensions of Seoul’s future economic and popula-
tion growth. Tai Soo Kim, then a graduate student at
Seoul National University also found the twenty-year
plan inadequate, because of its failure to allocate space
for expansion of the central city.12 Kim, too, proposed
development of a linear system consisting of sections,
called city core units, to be located along the express-
way linking Seoul to Incheon, to absorb the growing
population (figure 4.3).
Yeouido Island
The plans drawn up for Yeouido Island illustrate
the urban discourse of Korean architects during the
developmental period. There were three versions, two
drafted by Swoo-Geun Kim (1968–1969) and the last by
Byung-Joo Park (1971). Swoo-Geun Kim’s plan, in par-
ticular, is of great interest because it directly opposed
the expansion model of the Seoul twenty-year plan and
proposed an alternative. The plan had three prominent
features. First, greatly influenced by Kenzo Tange’s
1960 Plan for Tokyo, which described linear growth
as the evolution of a living organism as it learns and
expands from its previous stage of development, Kim
created a linear axis for Seoul’s expansion by propos-
ing the development of a self-contained urban center
on Yeouido Island, a large, mostly uninhabited island
in the Hangang River that had not yet been connected
to downtown Seoul.13 Second, the urban center was to
consist of residential, retail, educational, health, and
cultural buildings, along with open spaces, which,
although easily accessible, were not to be traversed
by vehicles. The variety of the different sectors would
guarantee dynamic growth while maintaining both
 Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom 55

a desirable lifestyle and economic sustainability.14

Third, Kim designed an innovative bi-level transporta-
tion system to segregate the pedestrian path from the
roadway and create a hierarchy of streets based on speed
levels. He had already applied this idea to the design of
the Sewoon Commercial Complex in downtown Seoul,
a kilometer-long megastructure eight to ten stories
high. The artificial pedestrian deck, located on the
second floor, attempts to create a continuous green axis
from Jongmyo to Namsan in Seoul. In Yeouido, Kim
broadened this idea, elevating all roads for automobiles
to create a continuous pedestrian flow at the ground
level (figure 4.4).
Swoo-Geun Kim’s innovative plan for Yeouido was
not realized for two reasons. First, by order of President
Park, a large asphalt-paved square, about 36,000 sq m
in area, was created at the center of the island as a
site for large ceremonial gatherings. Kim’s plan was
not compatible with this huge square. Second, and a
more serious issue, the developer of the project and Fig. 4.4 Plan for Yeouido Island, KECC, 1969 (Hanguk gisul
the construction companies were uncertain whether gaebal gongsa, 1969, 32)
the elevated highway would depreciate the value of Fig. 4.5 Present-day Yeouido Island (Courtesy of Sunjin
the surrounding land. In essence, the city government, Engineering)
concerned with the financial results, had little interest
in creating a gigantic megastructure. The reality of the ordinary people were not part of the process. Much as
Korean economy, where per capita income was approx- Rem Koolhaas was later to reveal in Delirious New York,
imately 278 dollars, made Swoo-Geun Kim’s plan form followed finance in Yeouido.16 Not surprisingly,
untenable. The island could not remain abandoned for this pattern was to be repeated many times over in the
long, however. In 1971, Jung-Mok Sohn, commissioner planning of other urban spaces in Korea.
of Seoul’s Urban Planning Bureau, appointed Byung-
Joo Park to create a new, financially feasible plan for
Yeouido Island. Park’s plan was basically to maintain Developing Gangnam
Kim’s original scheme except for the removal of the
elevated highway. Furthermore, all residential and The failure of Swoo-Geun Kim’s plan for Yeouido made
commercial sites were carefully subdivided for easy sale it apparent that Korean society could not waste time
to redevelopers (figure 4.5). experimenting with futuristic plans. Urban experts
The decade of the 1960s was a tumultuous tran- were only concerned with adopting efficient planning
sitional period, and the ideas that sprang up, some of methods imported from the West to solve the substan-
them utopian, were effectively filtered by the political tial problems they faced. In this process, the develop-
ideology of the time and by capitalist market mecha- ment of the Gangnam area became an important model
nisms. As David Harvey puts it, “since urbanization for the planning of new towns in Korea. The Gangnam
depends on the mobilization of a surplus product, an area encompasses the southern region of the Hangang
intimate connection emerges between the development River and includes four present-day wards of the city
of capitalism and urbanization.”15 The urbanization of of Seoul: Seocho, Gangnam, Songpa, and Gangdong
the developmental period was undertaken for reasons Gu. When urban development first began in this area
somewhat removed from the goal of ensuring com- in 1968, it was called the Yeongdong district, which
fortable human habitation; its stated purpose was to means the area east of Yeongdeungpo. This vast empty
provide the necessary physical infrastructure for pro- region was successively developed through the land
duction, exchange, and consumption. The concerns of readjustment projects of Yeongdong I and II (1968,
56 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

1971) and of the Cheonho (1972), Jamsil (1974), Amsa

(1975), and Gaepo (1981) districts. The methods intro-
duced by Korean planners during this lengthy process
largely determined the present-day urban structure of
Gangnam. For this reason, it is worth examining the
planning process. It not only highlighted the major
features of urban development after the 1960s in Korea,
but also clearly disclosed its limitations (figure 4.6).
The plan for the Gangnam area was first unveiled
at a Special Exhibition on Urbanism held in City Hall
Square on August 15, 1966. The military regime had
fast-tracked its development planning in a desire to
ease population pressures in the capital and to facilitate
construction of the Gyeongbu Expressway that would
run through the area. When Hyun-Ok Kim, nicknamed
“the Bulldozer,” took office as mayor of Seoul in 1966,
the planning was assigned to the Korean Planners
Association and progressed even more quickly. The
main framework of Gangnam, including the street
network and block partitioning, was roughly deter-
mined at that time.
How were the block sizes in Gangnam determined?
According to an interview with the administrators
in charge of the planning, the size was determined by
what would make it easiest to develop the area.17 As this
claim seems dubious, it’s possible that the officials might
not have been aware of precedents in earlier planning
schemes. The most likely is the twenty-year plan for
Seoul issued in 1966, which identified Gangnam as one
of the three subcenters of Seoul slated for development.
In the subcenter layout plan of this document, there
are several indications suggesting that a traditional
approach to existing urban tissue was blended into
the planning, so that the block size in the layout corre-
sponds to the distance from Jongno, a major east-west
thoroughfare in downtown Seoul, to Gwanghwamun,
the main gate of the royal palace. This distance is
approximately 570 m, close to the average block size of
Fig. 4.6 Expansion of Seoul (from top down): Seoul in the
Gangnam.
Joseon dynasty, Seoul in the 1910s (city ward improvement
Another hypothesis concerns Byung-Joo Park’s New
plan), Seoul in the 1930s (land readjustment plan), Seoul in the
Seoul Plan, also issued in 1966. Although the plan had
1970s (city planning in the developmental period), five new
nothing to do with the planning of Gangnam, it rep-
towns around Seoul in the 1990s
resented the urban discourse of the time which was
thoroughly considered in relation to the Gangnam
plan, as Park has acknowledged.18 The pending issue
at that time was to determine the site of the National
Assembly, so the city directed the planner to envision
an ideal city and to come up with sites suitable for the
legislature, the judiciary, and the administration. The

Fig. 4.7 New Seoul Plan, Byung-Joo Park, 1966 (Byung-Joo Park 1966, 8)
stated condition was to design a Mugunghwa or rose
of Sharon–shaped city to accommodate one million
inhabitants within 13,200 ha. The rest was left to the
planner. The outcome was unveiled at the 1966 Urban
Planning Exhibition. The New Seoul Plan was the first
theoretical urban scheme devised in Korea, and Byung-
Joo Park attempted to put all of his thinking about
urbanism into it. The plan combined a Mugunghwa-
rimmed outline with a grid-patterned structure. The
central area linking the four vertexes of the rhombus
Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom 57
was intended to house high-rise offices for the legisla-
ture, the judiciary, and the administration—a scheme
that integrated aspects of Le Corbusier’s Ville Radieuse
with the urban structure of Washington, DC (figures
4.7, 4.8).
There is no doubt that the planners who participated
in the establishment of the Gangnam plan shared a
similar idea. Several similarities between the Gangnam
plan and Park’s plan support this assertion. For example,
the central area of Gangnam was planned as the most
58 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 4.8 Aerial view of the central district, New Seoul Plan
important section around which many public buildings
were to be concentrated, a deployment aimed at amassing
urban space at the city center through the accentuation
of height. This plan was clearly different from prior pro-
posals that had intended to develop the area as a garden
suburb.19 In addition, the street system in Park’s plan—
the ring road and grid-patterned artery—was similar to
the one adopted in the Gangnam plan.
After completion of the basic plan, the project for
Yeongdong District 1 (roughly, the current Seocho-gu)
proceeded with great speed, interlocking with the con-
struction of the Gyeongbu Expressway. The twenty-year
plan for Seoul, issued in 1966, had envisaged thirteen
radiant roads, one of which ran through the center of
the Gangnam area. A year later, President Chung-Hee
Park, running for a second term, announced construc-
tion of the Gyeongbu Expressway as one of his main
election pledges.20 Following his election, he launched
the project, and the first section from Seoul to Suwon
roughly coincided with the radiant road planned
earlier. Then, by hastily implementing the Yeongdong
District 1 Land Readjustment Project, the government
sought to minimize the compensation it would have to
pay to existing estates that would be affected by con-
struction of the expressway, believing that the land
readjustment method would facilitate free acquisition
of the land needed for the project. The first stages of the
Gangnam planning must be understood in this context.
Another constraint the planners had to take into con-
sideration was the two southern beltways to Seoul that
were planned to cross the area.
In 1967, the Seoul government defined the bounda-
ries of Yeongdong District 1 so as to enclose the area
under construction, expecting easy acquisition of
sufficient land for the project. However, the initial
area turned out to be too small, and the only way to
acquire all the lots necessary for the construction
was to expand the scope of the project to include the
current Apgujeong-dong. For this reason, the project
was enlarged to 1,273 ha without in-depth analysis of
the possible repercussions, leading to the creation of a
freakish urban space. In this respect, the planning of
Gangnam in 1967 was hampered by the lack of consist-
ent principles and the backwardness of the planning
technique as compared to the land readjustment prac-
tices of the colonial period.
Gangnam’s street system followed the subcenter
layout of the Seoul twenty-year plan, as modified
during the realization phase in 1968. The location of
Gangnamdaero Boulevard, which runs north and south
though the central part of the area, shifted westward.
Even though it had been drawn as a straight line from
the Hannam Bridge to Yangjaedong, it was impossible
to clear such a line topographically. The modification
resulted in successive changes to the block layout and
street system. Instead of the five block layers contem-
plated in the original plan, the district was divided
into six block layers from the riverside to the southern
boundary. Similarly, only four block layers from
Gangnamdaero Boulevard to the western boundary
were needed instead of the original six. This was due
to the configuration of the ground, which had not been
sufficiently examined for the Seoul twenty-year plan
(figure 4.9a). To economize on construction costs, the
roads were now planned to run between hilly lands in
the district, sheering away from them. In the process,
the arterial streets bent in a curved shape, and one of two
beltways was abolished. This change led to a reduction in
block size, which continued to affect the planning of the
Yeongdong District 2 project. A 1970 map of Seoul in
the Seoul Museum of History includes an outline of the
planned Yeongdong street network, showing a strong
connection between Districts 1 and 2.21 It is apparent
that the overall street network was organized to secure
a large green space around Seolleung. For this reason,
a grid-patterned circulation system was not applied to
Gangnam yet, nor was it planned for Teheranro to run
through its heart (figure 4.9b).
After the plan for Yeongdong District 1 was pub-
lished, the Seoul city government faced severe criticism
for the plan’s arbitrary contents and insufficiency, both
seen as the result of a far-fetched idea about free acquisi-
tion of the land needed for the project. The planning of
District 2 was seen as a way to overcome these problems.
Officials in the Seoul city government took control of
the planning and introduced two noteworthy features:

Fig. 4.9 Four stages in the development of the circulation network of Gangnam: (a) Seoul twenty-year plan (1966); (b) circulation
network in 1970 (Seoul yeoksa bakmulgwan 2006, 124); (c) circulation network in 1970 (Seoul teukbyeolsi, 1988, annex) (d) present-
day circulation network
a riverside road and a thoroughly grid-patterned cir-
culation system. Both features had their origin in the
strong impression of Manhattan retained by Mayor
Hyun-Ok Kim following a tour of Western cities that
had been recommended by President Park as a prelude
to the planning of Yeongdong District 2 (figure 4.9c).
The patterning of urban blocks and the creation of
boulevards over 50 m in width in Yeongdong District 2
are reflections of the urbanism of New York. The blocks
are 600 m wide on average, a size largely determined by
the connections that needed to be made to the existing
blocks and streets of District 1. Again, Kim’s plan
slightly changed when it began to be elaborated, owing
to the natural topography. To avoid the 100-m-high
hill in Nonhyeon-dong, two vertical streets were bent
(figure 4.9d). The southern beltway also curves, because
of the Maebong mountain. Today, the traffic arteries of
Gangnam still maintain this configuration.
Superblocks
The completion of block partitioning in 1971 produced
a distinctive form of urbanism in Gangnam: super-
blocks. Like other Western cities, Gangnam consists
of a grid of city blocks surrounded by arterial roads.
Each block, however, is much larger than its counter-
parts in the West. The standard block size in Manhattan
is about 80 m x 271 m, or slightly over 2 ha, while in
other American cities, standard blocks are generally no
wider than about 200 m. In Melbourne’s central grid,
the blocks are similar, around 100 m x 200 m.22 Arnis
Siksna’s comparative study of block size distinguishes
three categories: small (10,000 sq m), medium (10,000–
20,000 sq m), and large (over 20,000 sq m).23 By this
scheme, both the Manhattan and Melbourne block
sizes would qualify as large. In Gangnam, the average
Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom 59
block size of 670 m x 680 m reaches another order of
magnitude. In fact, the blocks in Gangnam are some of
the largest in Korea’s history. As we saw in Chapter 1,
urban blocks in the open ports measured 60 m x 80 m
or 90 m x 90 m in Mokpo and 40 m x 60 m in Gunsan.
In the colonial period, the block size in land adjustment
projects grew to around 300 m on a side; a typical block
in the Yeongdeungpo district measures 377 m x 275 m.
Interestingly, after Gangnam, the block size in the five
new towns developed around Seoul shrank to 415 m x
538 m, because of their high density (figure 4.10).
The size of Gangnam’s superblocks spawned a unique
urban morphology in two respects. Siksna’s finding was
that “large blocks, over 20,000 sq m, will be broken
down, over time, into smaller blocks or sub-blocks, and
will develop irregular patterns within the block.”24 This
is indeed what happened with Gangnam’s superblocks.
A glance at the plot division plan of 1971 shows that
residential blocks were not partitioned in a regular
manner. The partitioning that did occur mostly con-
formed to the plot exchange method, which maximally
maintains the size and location of plots as they are, in
contrast to the land evaluation method, which deter-
mines lots according to appraised value. In addition, the
disorganized partitioning that resulted was aggravated
by the actions of owners who wanted to subdivide large
plots to raise their merchantable value without any con-
sideration of the urban environment.25 Furthermore,
the design of Gangnam’s superblocks had the effect of
allowing sharp contrasts to develop between the block
edge and interior. In Manhattan, while two or three tall
buildings can occupy a whole block, the block edge and
interior remain consistently perceived. In Gangnam,
the edge and interior have spawned completely distinc-
tive cityscapes, because they followed different rules for
60 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Gunsan (1897) Yeongdeungpo (1937) Gangnam (1971)
Fig. 4.10 Comparison of block sizes: Gunsan, Yeongdeungpo,
Gangnam, Bundang (Drawn by Mina Kim)
Fig. 4.11 Present-day Teheranro (Photo by Yong-Kwan Kim)
density and zoning. The remarkable urban character of
Gangnam derives from the way grid-like major streets
suddenly turn into labyrinthine interior streets carved
through the superblocks. The planners of Gangnam do
not seem to have anticipated, however, the problems
that can be caused by imbalances of density and height
(figure 4.11).
The Neighborhood-Unit Theory
Following Gangnam’s success, a second round of devel-
opment was initiated in the Jamsil district of Seoul.
Here conditions were different, for three reasons. First,
the district had been formed on reclaimed land between
an islet of the Hangang River and the riverfront, making
it possible for the city government to acquire a large
amount of land for public use at an early stage. Second,
the entire planning process was orchestrated by the
architect Byung-Joo Park, enabling him to maintain
design consistency in the shaping of urban space.
Third, the planning method used by Byung-Joo Park
was based on the neighborhood-unit theory, and this
proved to be the most fundamental difference. Having
already applied this theory to the city planning of Ulsan,
Byung-Joo Park judged that the deficiencies revealed in
the Gangnam planning derived from a faulty applica-
tion of the neighborhood-unit theory.26 In Jamsil, he
would attempt a rigorous application of the theory.
The neighborhood-unit theory was originally devel-
oped in the early twentieth century as a way to resolve
problems associated with the decentralization of popu-
lation from major urban centers. Following Ebenezer
Howard’s late nineteenth century concept of the
Bundang (1989)
Garden City, particularly the idea of “wards” within the
city,27 Clarence Perry attempted to transfer the idea to
the American suburb by defining the scale, boundaries,
open spaces, institution sites, local shops, and internal
street system of an entity called the neighborhood
unit. Perry’s ideal size for a neighborhood unit was
based on the population that one elementary school
could sustain. This theory gained acceptance both in
the United States and across the world because the
concept of a neighborhood included both spatial and
social meanings. That is to say, application of the theory
denoted a simultaneous manipulation of the local built
environment and the social interactions entertained
within it.28 Its purpose was not only to secure an aus-
picious environment by combining suburban comfort
with the conveniences of the city, but ultimately to
build community spirit. These two aspects, the techni-
cal and the social, were treated differently in different
places and societies. In Korea, the technical aspect was
accepted as a useful tool for city planning, but less so
the social. The reason was that Korean cities changed so
rapidly that the idea of creating neighbors did not mean
a great deal to Korean planners.
Byung-Joo Park applied the neighborhood-unit
theory to the development of Jamsil to solve problems
that had cropped up in the planning of the Gangam
area. In his eyes, Gangnam’s major failing was its com-
mingling of diverse building types in the same residen-
tial area. While such a mixture could facilitate a variety
of activities in a small space, it created a discordance
in the residential environment. To avoid this disorder,
Park separated residential units into three densities—
detached houses (low), low-rise apartments (middle),
and high-rise apartments (high)—and created resi-
dential areas devoted to each. Overall, the district was
divided into twenty neighborhood units and included
a lake, parks, and space for a stadium (the majority of
the stadiums for the 1988 Seoul Olympics were built in
this district). Each neighborhood unit corresponded
to a block 500–800 m in width, and each was defined
as a self-contained unit according to Perry’s theory,

Master Plan
CBD and Community Center
High-Density Residential Area
Middle-Density Residential Area
Low-Density Residential Area
School
Park
Fig. 4.12 Master plan of Jamsil district (present-day Songpa
ward), 1974 (Seoul teukbyeolsi 1974, 3)
containing an elementary school, offices, shops, a play-
ground, and a neighborhood park.29 Interior streets
were designed as dead ends to discourage through-
traffic, and arterial streets were sufficiently wide to
facilitate the movement of automobiles (figure 4.12).30
The neighborhood-unit theory has proven suc-
cessful in Korean city planning because it provides a
powerful theoretical base for calculating the size of
urban boundaries. It is a holistic approach that relates
neighborhood units to the whole city, and it can accom-
modate apartment buildings, the dominant housing
type in Korea during the developmental period. Even
though Perry’s theory was initially fashioned for single-
family detached houses in the suburbs, its methodol-
ogy was flexible enough to be adapted to the high-rise
residential complexes of Korea. Once that methodology
was recognized as an important tool for urban design,
it was applied to a wide range of urban projects. The
Seoul city government, for example, has used it to effec-
tively manage existing urban spaces.
Three-Dimensional Regulations
The lessons drawn from the development of Gangnam
were in three areas. First, Korean planners found that
the land readjustment method of acquiring land was
unsuitable for large-scale urban development. Second,
although the initial planning for Gangnam had been
aimed at the creation of an American-style suburb filled
with detached single-family houses, the severe housing
shortage in Seoul soon forced the government to shift
to the building of high-density apartments, which
Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom 61
became the most common housing type. Third, Korean
planners were encountering situations that were not
covered under the existing Building Code and Town
Planning Act, making them realize there was a need for
new legislation that could regulate urban design in a
three-dimensional way, including all aspects of housing
construction.
To respond to these concerns, the government
began to revise the Building Code and Town Planning
Act, first enacted in 1961, by appending new articles
to them—for example, an article regulating construc-
tion in districts designated for apartment housing was
added to the Town Planning Act in 1976, and an article
regulating urban design was added to the Building
Code in 1980. It also issued several new measures: the
Urban Renovation Act and the Promotion of Housing
Construction Act of 1977 and the Promotion of
Housing Site Development Act of 1981. The massive
developments undertaken in the 1980s were already
shaping up as a test of what could be made to work in
an increasingly difficult situation. The 1976 revision of
the Town Planning Act made it mandatory for devel-
opers and construction companies to build apartment
housing in the sites designated as an apartment-house
district. In accordance with this law, the Seoul city gov-
ernment designated sixteen out of the sixty-nine blocks
in the Gangnam area as apartment-house districts,
expecting them to accommodate 260,000 inhabitants
while occupying 536.7 ha, or 17 percent of the total
area.31 High-rise apartment complexes soon began to
mushroom along the Hangang River and Gyeongbu
Expressway, eventually transforming Gangnam into a
bustling mixture of tall buildings, luxurious stores, and
apartment buildings.
The Promotion of Housing Construction Act (Jutaek
Geonseol Chokjin Beop) of 1977 sought to regulate all
matters concerning fund-raising and the use of funds,
as well as the production and supply of materials for
the housing industry. Two years later, a provision was
appended to this law that strictly regulated development
planning for apartment-house districts. The provision
mandated that the planning of all high-density apart-
ment complexes should be based on the neighborhood-
unit theory. It further stipulated that “the physical size
of a neighborhood unit must be defined within a 400 m
radius on the basis of 1,000–3,000 households. The
neighborhood unit must be bounded by arterial streets
and highways, allowing cars to move quickly around
the residential area, while internal streets should be
62 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
narrow, impeding cars from passing through the unit.
A neighborhood park must be established in every unit
whose size is greater than 10,000 sq m.”32
Through the enactment of new laws, the neighbor-
hood-unit theory was established as a cornerstone of
postwar urban design in Korea. As a legislative standard,
its attractiveness was rooted in its power to facilitate the
planning and mass production of urban space in Korean
cities. In 1979, the Provision for Amenities in Urban
Planning was enacted, specifying road width, block
size, and standards for a variety of public facilities. The
provision further stipulated that an “elementary school
must be established in every unit, located at its center.
Walking distance within a block should be less than
1,000 m. There must be one junior high school for every
two or three neighborhood units, and one high school
for every three or four neighborhood units. The popula-
tion of a neighborhood unit should be limited to around
2,500 households.”33 The Urban Park Act, enacted in
October 1980, required that neighborhood parks be
created at 500 m intervals and be over 10,000 sq m in
size. Through the 1980s, the neighborhood-unit theory
informed other legislation as well.
Urban Islands and Corridors
Through the development of Yeongdong and Jamsil,
a singular form of urbanism emerged in Korea. It is
totally distinct from both the European city model,
consisting of perimeter blocks with buildings located
along streets, entrances facing toward the street, and
semi-private courtyards to the rear of the buildings,34
and the American city model, where residential
suburbs for the middle class stand in sharp contrast
to commercial downtown areas pocked with lower
class and immigrant housing.35 As can be seen in
Gangnam, Korea’s new cityscape features a regular
pattern of even, square, or rectangular superblocks.
But because of rapid densification, the Korean super-
blocks display a morphology that combines aspects of
both the American suburban block and the European
perimeter block. In other words, while the perimeter of
Gangnam’s 600–700 m superblocks filled with high-rise
commercial buildings by the 1990s, the interior of the
blocks remained densely packed with low-rise housing.
The two contrasting aspects have spawned a distinctive
form of urbanism. Discovering a similar atmosphere
in Tokyo, the Japanese architect Yoshiharu Tsukamoto
described its mixed aspect as that of an “urban village”
(figure 4.13).36
Looked at more closely, the morphology of Gangnam’s
cityscape can be seen to contain three variants: first, the
closed, monotonous enclaves engendered by large-scale
apartment complexes; second, the mixed-use strips
along arterial streets; and third, the highly fluid and
flexible areas filled with multihousehold dwellings and
various neighborhood facilities in the interior of the
blocks. Of these, apartment complexes and mixed-use
strips, in particular, provide a sharp contrast in terms of
visual configuration, territoriality, and urban functions.
Apartment complexes are like islands in a city. They
can range in size from buildings housing several tens
of households to large-scale estates occupying an entire
block. Their inhabitants share common entrances and
public spaces, security system, and parking facilities.
Visually, a concrete apartment building is perceived
as an independent object, contrary to the perception
of cities as “a solid and continuous matrix or texture
giving energy to its reciprocal conditions.”37 Usually the
individual units and buildings in an apartment complex
are identified only by numbers, another reason they can
feel so anonymous as compared to traditional cities.
In contrast, the arterial streets in Gangnam, espe-
cially Teheranro, are mixed-use strips lined with a
mixture of office buildings, retail establishments,
automobile dealerships, parking lots, a few residential
buildings, and sometimes-vacant spaces. These strips
are built up in several layers stemming from a series of
land-use frameworks, zoning regulations, and design
guidelines introduced to regulate urban design in the
1980s. The regulated, glass-clad structures standing
along the arterial streets form corridors in a city. They
provide strong directionality, hiding the disorderly
interior space within each block. Along the front edge of
the corridor, the headquarters of business tycoons make
a fine appearance, while in the evening inhabitants
fleeing from cramped residences flock to Starbucks-like
cafés that can offer a stylish interior and convenient
internet service. In this respect, the mixed-use urban
corridor may be regarded as an extension of the public
space provided in apartment houses (figure 4.14).
The rest of Gangnam’s urban area—the interior
space of the blocks—is packed with detached, three-or
four-story multihousehold dwellings and neighbor-
hood facilities such as convenience stores, clinics,
cafés, restaurants, laundries, beauty shops, real estate
agencies, and small private institutes offering classes
outside of school hours. Because of the overflow of
commercial activities into residential areas, the border
 A block where
commercial
streets function as
catalysts in the
transformation

A block where
public facilities
(such as large
churches,
schools, and
parks) function as
catalysts in the
transformation

A block where
mixed-use strips
are influential in
the transformation

A block
consisting of
large-scale
apartment
complexes

Fig. 4.13 The transformation of Gangnam’s blocks since 1978 (Drawn by Su-Jung Kang based on aerial photos and the building
register)
64 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 4.14 Present-day Gangnam (Courtesy of www.geopis.co.kr)
between commercial and residential has been blurred.38
This chaotic mixture buffers the sharp division between
urban islands and urban corridors and fosters a more
complicated urban ecology. Without a strict zoning
system, these areas have been able to adapt to the
changes rolling through modern cities with great flex-
ibility, and as the locus of urban fragments such as
the COEX, along with schools, parks, and religious
buildings, including Buddhist temples and Christian
churches, they have played an important role in com-
pleting the microcosm of urban life, helping to make
Gangnam a self-contained urban area.
Initially developed as two separate phases of the
Yeongdong District project, Seocho and Gangnam
wards represent an amalgam of diverse urban func-
tions. Since there was no single master plan determin-
ing their development, the urban space in each was
formed in response to contingencies, the immediate
social and political demands of the time. As a result,
residents of the Seocho and Gangnam wards have been
able to find in the texture of their city the unpredictable
complexity that enlivens urban life. In contrast, Jamsil’s
urban structure was formed through a strict application
of the neighborhood unit theory, and it shows the lack
of complexity typical of cities built according to a single
master plan. Indeed, it was this aspect of the plan that
drew criticism from many planners and architects. The
flaws in the plan were such that it was difficult to create
any sense of community, since the planned blocks were
so detached from each other.39 Moreover, the width of
the arterial streets separated the blocks even further, so
that they tended to be seen as separate entities rather
than integral parts of the same district.
When a new generation of planners looked at the
development models represented by Gangnam and
Jamsil in the 1980s, they chose to follow the Jamsil
model because it offered, in their eyes, a more effi-
cient way to complete the construction of new towns
in the short term. The choice they made set the course
of development for the first five new towns to be built
around Seoul.

Living Zones and New Towns
Following the development of Jamsil, the neighbor-
hood-unit theory began to undergo modification.
Although it had proved essential for determining block
size and layout of a street system, a common criticism
was that the neighborhood unit was a closed concept
that could not easily be scaled up to meet the needs
of Korea’s exploding urban population. In response,
the government’s Promotion of Housing Construction
Act of 1979 introduced the concept of living zones
(saenghwalgwon) as a basic planning principle. Korean
planners were now obliged to use four hierarchical units
in the partitioning of urban space: the neighborhood
unit and three living zones—small, medium, and large.
All urban design projects, including land use plans, cir-
culation systems, and the allocation of public facilities,
had to be proportioned using four scalar levels. Adding
the concept of living zones to the neighborhood-unit
theory both expanded it and allowed it to act as a
generative diagram for shaping urban space during
the developmental period. The five new towns around
Seoul were among the first examples of the adoption of
this partitioning method.
Living Zones
Living zones have two aspects that set them apart from
the original neighborhood-unit theory. One differ-
ence is that neighborhood-unit theory contemplates a
nonhierarchical clustering of subunits, whereas living
zones fit into a hierarchical framework that can accom-
modate levels ranging from a simple neighborhood
unit to a huge metropolis.40 Within this framework,
the attempt by Korean planners to allow for a mix of
urban functions and to be open minded about organic
change was consistent with the direction taken by the
second generation of new towns that had sprung up in
England since the 1950s. These towns aimed at devel-
oping a high-density urban space while still connect-
ing neighbors to one another, hoping in that way to
overcome the limitations of the earlier new towns that
had been developed following a strict application of the
neighborhood-unit theory. Second, neighborhood-unit
theory aims at strengthening communities, whereas
the concept of living zones prioritizes the conveni-
ence of urban amenities. “This theory is a method that
calibrates urban planning on the basis of the amenities
required for a convenient lifestyle. Urban amenities can
be classified according to their frequency of use, and
Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom 65
this classification eventually functions as an important
criterion for establishing the hierarchy of living zones.
This is why it is so important to measure the exact rela-
tions among human behaviors, urban facilities, and
spatial organization in this theory.”41 Living zones have
nothing to do with administrative divisions, but rather
the spheres of activity for a daily commute, shopping,
and leisure.42 As an extension of the neighborhood-unit
theory, living zones try to expand its scope of applica-
tion into a larger living space (figure 4.15).
Korea’s urban legislation established three living
zones. A small living zone includes administrative,
cultural, and commercial facilities that can provide
a basic standard of living. The most important factor
demarcating the size of this zone is walking distance.
Residents of a small living zone normally share a
subway station and a bus stop. The zone may corre-
spond to a neighborhood unit or include two to three
neighborhood units depending on density. A medium
living zone refers to an urban space in which people
can easily get around by using public transport. In
size, it corresponds to a small city where high school
students can commute to their schools on a daily basis.
Commercial facilities including large supermarkets and
department stores should be available within the zone
as long as they are affordable.43 The large living zone is
defined as “a self-contained urban system, equivalent
to a large city, which can accommodate all economic
Fig. 4.15 Living zones as an extension of the neighborhood-
unit theory
66 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

Table 4.1 Classification of living zones

Living Population size Planning points Urban facilities and amenities

zone Administrative Educational Social and cultural Commercial

Small 20,000–30,000 Priority placed on Neighborhood Kindergarten, Public nursery,

living Walkable protection of residential office, post office, elementary school, pharmacy, home for Store, bank
zone distances areas police box (junior high school) the aged, clinic, town
hall, playground
100,000
Medium Variable Zone contains urban Ward office, Junior high school, Youth center, library,
living distances center and 2–3 land use police station, high school welfare center, public Shopping center
zone using public options fire station health center
transportation
Large 500,000 Zone includes General hospital, Department
living Self-contained residences, plus City hall University, research nursing home, store, large
zone urban system commercial and institute museum, cultural logistics center
production facilities center

activities from production to consumption.”44 A break-
down of the three zones and their amenities appears in
Table 4.1.
Application of the Theory
A remarkable change that took place in the 1980s was
that the government opened the way to the legitimate
purchase of all lands needed for urban development
without resorting to land readjustment. The legal
measures behind this change were closely tied to the
development of Gwacheon in 1978, when some land-
owners in the planned area refused to sell their lands.
In 1981, the military regime enacted the Promotion of
Housing Site Development Act to facilitate future land
acquisition. This legalized the government’s ability to
designate a district for housing site development, to fix
a standard price for the area, and to forcibly purchase all
lands within the designated district. Given a powerful
mechanism for land acquisition, Korean planners now
set out to apply the living-zone theory to massive urban
developments.
The planning of Gwacheon, which would house
30,000 inhabitants on a site 230 ha in size, used the
neighborhood-unit theory as a basic methodology and
applied the new concept of living zones to the whole
city.45 The plan was significant because it responded
to the issue of interconnecting separated units by
making a systematic effort to link neighborhood units
to larger living zones throughout the entire district. An
innovative system was employed to create pedestrian
roads that passed through individual neighborhood
units, thereby stringing them together into a larger
community.46 These attempts certainly reflected some
lessons that were learned from the planning of Jamsil
(figures 4.16–4.18).
The application of living-zone theory to the planning
of Gwacheon was successful, but the methodology
invited further elaboration. In the development of
Mokdong, in the southwestern region of Seoul, a similar
approach was taken, but it displayed aspects that were
more advanced. This area, almost abandoned after its
integration into Seoul in 1963, consisted almost entirely
of squatter settlements. The planning for its revitali-
zation began in 1983 with the intention of fostering
the long-term development of the area and curbing
frenzied speculation in real estate. At the outset,
Mokdong was planned as a medium living zone that
would house 25,000 households and 120,000 inhabit-
ants. It was subdivided into three small living zones, six
neighborhood units, and twenty subunits, and a variety
of amenities were deployed according to this hierarchy.
The planning process was totally dependent on the liv-
ing-zone theory.47 In practice, however, the shape of the
site required another solution to integrate the various
units. The most striking feature of the plan was a linear
axis that provided pedestrian connections to public
offices, commercial buildings, and a park (figure 4.19).
Generated by the constraints of the long and narrow

Fig. 4.16 Master plan of Gwacheon, 1980 (Courtesy of LH
Corporation)
Fig. 4.17 Diagram of the urban design of Gwacheon (Daehan
jutaek gongsa 1984)
Fig. 4.18 Aerial view of Gwacheon (Courtesy of LH
Corporation)
Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom 67
Fig. 4.19 Master plan of Mokdong, 1986 (Seoul teukbyeolsi
1984a, 12)
shape of the site, this linear system created a central
living core that linked together the various neighbor-
hood units and rationally distributed urban amenities
to the area.
Shortly after the planning of Mokdong, the govern-
ment initiated anther urban project at Sanggye, located
in the northeastern region of Seoul. The first plan,
drawn up in August 1984, shows the initial goal of
the project: the construction of 30,000 households for
130,000 inhabitants. The key point in the planning was
a two-step hierarchy in the spatial organization of the
urban blocks. In the first step, blocks were designated
measuring 600 m x 900 m in size, making them larger
than the blocks in Gangnam, and they were bounded
by arterial streets. Each block contained 3,000 to 4,000
households, two elementary schools, one junior high
school, and one high school. In the second step, the
blocks were subdivided into three 600 m x 300 m sub-
blocks where schools and commercial amenities could
overlap to provide flexibility and openness.48 Through
this hierarchy, residents would find improved access to
convenience stores within apartment complexes, as well
as to larger commercial facilities in the central area.
68 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

Five New Towns for Seoul

Planning for five new towns around Seoul began in
1989 as a response to the worst housing shortage in
memory. Seoul’s population had already exceeded 10
million by 1988, and in the city the ratio of housing
supply to demand was only 50.6 percent, as compared
to 69.2 percent nationwide. Massive urban projects in
outlying areas like Mokdong, Godeok, and Sanggye
had gone only part of the way in meeting the demand.
In addition, widespread speculation in the real estate
market was fueling an upsurge in housing prices,
aggravating the feeling of deprivation that gripped
non-homeowners. Responding to the volatility of the
situation, the newly elected government announced it
would construct 2 million habitations by 1993. Many
new towns were actually built during the ensuing years,
including the first five new towns around Seoul and
Haeundae in Busan, Suseong in Daegu, Yuseong in
Daejeon, and Yeonsu in Incheon. The rapid construc-
tion of large-scale apartment complexes in these towns
forever changed the urban landscape of Korea.
The five new towns around Seoul—Bundang, Ilsan,
Sanbon, Jungdong, and Pyeongchon—could not help
taking on all the attributes of bedroom communities.
They are located within an hour’s ride from downtown
Seoul and were meant to absorb the pent-up demand
for housing of long-suffering workers in the capital.
The planners who took the lead role in their design
were Hong-Bin Kang, Kun-Hyuck Ahn, and Jinai Kim,
representing the second generation of Korean planners,
and their elevation signaled a generational shift in the
urban design community. These new planners had
mostly studied in the United States and then spent
time at state-run urban research institutes such as the
Korean Research Institute for Human Settlement and
the Housing and Urban Research Institute. As a group,
they were more sensitive to cityscape, the organiza-
tion of green space, and urban historicity, and they
were willing to accept existing methods of partitioning
urban space. The design of the new towns would reflect
those differences (figures 4.20, 4.21).
Although the living-zone theory was used to
organize the urban space of the new towns, block size
and population density changed considerably because
of the concentrated use of high-rise apartment build-
ings. In Gwacheon, where five-story apartment build- Fig. 4.20 Master plan of Budang, 1989 (Courtesy of LH
ings dominated the cityscape, the population density Corporation)
was no more than 149.9 persons per hectare. A decade Fig. 4.21 Aerial view of Budang, 1991 (Courtesy of LH
later, the density in the new towns climbed to 312 Corporation)
 Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom 69

Table 4.2 Living zones in four new towns 14.1 percent in Sanbon. The planners also placed a lake
and park at the center of the new towns to serve as a
New Number of living zones Number of backbone for the greenbelt, with distinctive landmarks
towns elementary placed around them to provide each of the new towns
schools with its own identity.
In the circulation system, the highest priority was
Large living zones 1 given to the organization of arterial streets over 40 m
Bundang Medium living zones 3 26 wide, which served as connections to the metropoli-
Small living zones 6 tan area. Major streets 25–30 m wide were placed at
Neighborhood units 26 350–400 m intervals to integrate and partition each
Large living zones 1 living zone. These streets were normally combined with
Ilsan Medium living zones 2 21 open space and parks so that high-rise apartment com-
Small living zones 9 plexes would seem located at the center of the woods
Neighborhood units 21 to drivers going past them in cars, an odd realization of
Large living zones – Le Corbusier’s vision of placing sixty-story cruciform
Sanbon Medium living zones 1 13 towers in an orthogonal street grid amid park-like green
Small living zones 6 spaces. Common roads 15–20 m wide were designed
Neighborhood units 13 to carry the traffic emanating from the apartment
Large living zones 1 complexes to the arterial streets. Finally, a pedestrian
Jungdong Medium living zones 4 14 roadway was planned to improve the interconnection
Small living zones 7 of blocks.
Neighborhood units 14 An important tool in the planning of the new towns
in Korea, especially the five around Seoul, was the
urban design system already established in the building
code. The legislation was originally intended to
persons/ha in Ilsan and 480.46 persons/ha in Bundang. improve the street appearance of the various buildings
This is because the new towns largely consisted of high- lining them, and it was extended and applied in earnest
rise apartments, with the ratio of apartment housing to the new towns. The major objectives were to foster
units to total housing units reaching its highest levels development strategies that would integrate the private
at this time: 92 percent in Pyeongchon, 87.4 percent and public sectors, and to prepare detailed, consistent
in Sanbon, 76 percent in Bundang, and 63.6 percent in design guidelines for a variety of buildings and public
Ilsan.49 Along with the increasing population density, facilities. In the case of Bundang, the urban design
block size decreased from 33.2 ha on average in Jamsil predetermined the arrangement, height, façade width,
to 19.4 ha in Bundang and 19.7 ha in Ilsan.50 and exterior wall color of all buildings in order to create
Perhaps to offset this condensation of urban space, a harmonious skyline, and it controlled the size and
the planners devoted a high proportion of the total location of neighborhood shops.51 The garden suburb
area to green space and parks in the hope that the new around Jeongbal Mountain in Ilsan, consisting of sin-
towns could be apprehended as vertical garden cities. gle-family houses, is generally considered a successful
In Gangnam, the lack of green space had been severely residential complex. To maintain its consistency, the
criticized. In Mokdong and Sanggye, green space and urban design for the development issued detailed rules
parks took up 6.8 percent and 6.9 percent of the total in advance, including the fencing, planting, and paving
area, respectively. In the new town, the figure increased of each residence. By codifying those instructions, the
to 14.6 percent (including 6 percent river) in Bundang, planners hoped to prevent their original design from
22.5 percent in Ilsan, 12.7 percent in Pyeongchon, and being deformed in later stages of realization.
 Chapter
New Urban Housing
5
In the 1960s, it became clear that the dominant housing still to come. Moreover, the high-density construction
type of the colonial period, the urban hanok, would going on in the downtown areas of large cities put the
be incompatible with the urban development already old neighborhoods of urban hanok under increasing
underway in Korea. In response to the overcrowding of pressure and made it difficult for their occupants to
Korea’s large cities, new forms of housing that could be sustain a comfortable environment. With decreasing
built to higher densities began to appear—apartment activity in the conventional construction trade, hanok
houses and multihousehold dwellings, as well as a new artisans capable of building the traditional wooden
type of detached house known as jipjangsajip, or spec structures began to disappear, and the areas where the
house. Building new housing would become the focus urban hanok had once flourished were increasingly
of the urban expansion of the developmental period. targeted for renewal.
With the decline of the urban hanok, apartment
houses gradually became the dominant form of middle-
Decline of the Urban Hanok class housing in the developmental period. Nowadays,
over 50 percent of all Koreans live in apartment houses,
Beginning in 1957, the Korean government began to irrespective of whether they live in the city or the
build more durable public housing than the makeshift country. At 476 persons per sq km, Korea ranks third
adobe houses and cement block houses it had previ- in the world in population density, and congestion has
ously constructed for homeless refugees and victims of been a constant factor in its urbanization. Since there
the Korean War. Entrusted with the supply of thousands has never been enough land to build large housing
of houses, the Korea National Housing Corporation
developed several standard plans ranging in size from
44 to 66 sq m. The most prominent characteristic of
each standard plan was the interiorization of the tradi-
tional madang, or courtyard, which was replaced with
a living room. Although the kitchen could not be sepa-
rated from the master bedroom, because the traditional
underfloor heating system, or ondol, was still the main
source of heat, these houses were a clear departure from
the urban hanok of the colonial period, and as such
they provided a basis for the development of the spec
house in the 1960s and 1970s.
While urban hanok continued to be constructed
until the end of the 1960s, they eventually gave way
to new housing types because they were regarded as
unsuitable for contemporary lifestyles based on new
standards of hygiene, new ideas about respecting the
privacy of individual family members, and convenient
access to vehicles. Younger Koreans, having imbibed
foreign ideals, aspired to Westernized housing because
it symbolized their escape from an impoverished past Fig. 5.1 Number of permits for housing construction in Korea
and was a promise of an enhanced social standing (Census of Statistics Korea)

estates filled with detached houses, Korean planners
sought to make high-rise apartments an attractive alter-
native by surrounding them with urban amenities and
the open spaces that are rarely found in cramped cities.
The provision of those amenities has greatly influenced
housing preferences,1 especially with the decline in
number and quality of detached houses after the gov-
ernment’s 1985 revision of the Building Act, which
allowed owners of single-family homes to convert their
property and build multihousehold dwellings on the
same site (figure 5.1).
Spec Houses
Before the 1970s, detached houses of many types were
available in Korean cities. But they were eventually
replaced, for the most part, by jipjangsajip, or spec
houses, which first entered the scene in the 1960s. A spec
house is a single-family detached unit, built on specula-
tion, in the hope that a buyer will turn up. It accounted
for a great portion of the housing construction of the
postwar era until large numbers of apartment houses
and multihousehold dwellings began to be built. Since
small-scale developers were mainly responsible for the
spec houses, their design and construction method
were usually dictated by the real estate market. The size
varied according to the site but typically followed the
maximum ratios allowed under the building code. Spec
houses were built for the middle class; they appealed
Urban hanok Spec house in Gwanak (1970)
Fig. 5.2 Transformation of dwelling space in Korea between the 1950s and 1980s
New Urban Housing 71
to popular taste rather than the refined notions of the
wealthy. Throughout the 1960s, approximately 22,000
spec houses were built in Seoul each year, increasing to
approximately 36,000 annually from 1970 to 1975.2 Yet
after the mid-1970s, when the government’s housing
policy clearly shifted in favor of high-density develop-
ment, their numbers were sharply reduced.
The change in taste that allowed spec houses to
supersede the urban hanok in Korean cities took time
because it involved a fundamental alteration in the
organization of domestic space. Chang-Bok Yim, an
architecture professor at Sungkyunkwan University,
examined building permit applications in Seoul from
1964 to 1985 to trace the size, structure, and elevation of
551 spec houses submitted for approval; analysis showed
that in the houses constructed from the 1960s to the
early 1970s, the hanok’s central courtyard and wooden-
floored living room, or daecheong, were gradually
replaced by a Western-style living room. Furthermore,
the watershed moment came in the mid-1970s when
modern equipment became widely available for use in
the interior of Korean houses. The introduction of a
boiler, a sink, and a toilet had a decisive impact on the
formation of new dwelling spaces, and the change in
heating system was the most remarkable of these inno-
vations. Yim’s study found that over 90 percent of the
houses surveyed were equipped with a traditional ondol
system fueled by firewood, charcoal, and briquettes
until 1972, when 60 percent of the houses switched
to a boiler heating system. That trend continued, and
Spec house in Donghak (1969) Spec house in Gangnam (1978)
72 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
more than 70 percent of the houses were so equipped
by 1977.3 Similarly, the provision of a flush toilet in
an interior bathroom suddenly increased in 1973, and
nearly all houses were furnished with this equipment
by 1978. Another change that began to appear in the
spec house at the same time was that the height of the
building increased from one to two stories, leading to
new arrangements of the dwelling space within.
The spec house was, in essence, a substitution for the
urban hanok in an evolving market. It differed from the
urban hanok in four respects. The first difference was the
absence of the central courtyard or madang. In the spec
house, the new space represented by the living room
combined the functions of the madang with those of
the daecheong, and a pistol-shaped house plan appeared
for the first time. The pistol shape was made by adding a
living room at the corner of the L-shaped plan, so that it
distributed all circulation within the interior. When the
living room moved into the central part of the home,
it performed a very different function than that of its
Western counterpart, which usually is defined as an
independent space. Instead, it assumed a hall-like role,
because spec houses still needed something to fulfill
the function of the madang. This reconfiguration of the
living room in the spec house is a unique aspect of the
modernization of the urban hanok (figure 5.2).
Accompanying the internalization of the madang,
the master bedroom was positioned differently. In the
urban hanok, the master bedroom was secluded from
other domestic functions because of the traditional
Confucian belief that it was a female domain and must
be hidden from public view. Nevertheless, in a large
family the master bedroom could still be used for
other purposes, such as dining together and meeting
family members in the winter season. In spec houses,
the master bedroom was brought to the front of the
house and became an independent, private space. This
made its relationship to the kitchen a big challenge to
developers. In a traditional house, cooking and heating
Gwanak (1975) Yeongdeungpo (1976)
Fig. 5.3 Spec house elevations (Chang-Bok Yim 1989, 58–64)
occurred in the same place, namely, the fire hole of the
kitchen. The introduction of the boiler heating system
in spec houses in the mid-1970s separated the two func-
tions. It meant that the master bedroom and kitchen no
longer needed to be bonded together. Once the kitchen
was detached from the master bedroom, it began to
be pushed toward the living room. Accordingly, a new
living-dining (LD) and living-dining-kitchen (LDK)
axis was created in the spec house.
The third difference was in the arrangement of
dwelling functions. The space of the urban hanok was
organized along a single wing, mainly because of the
extant structural system. That is to say, in a traditional
wooden structure, one module (kan) composed of four
columns served as a basic cell of all the spatial arrange-
ments. Connecting the modules meant organizing the
various rooms in a single layer around the madang.
When reinforced concrete began to replace the wooden
structure, there was no longer a need for the traditional
spatial organization. Thanks to the new structural
system, a large interior space could be divided into
two or three layers. In particular, the emergence of the
living room at the center of the traditional domestic
space encouraged the adoption of a double layer in the
spatial organization of the dwelling. This change was
inevitable given the need to accommodate modern
dwelling functions.
The fourth difference lay in the introduction of new
materials, which brought about changes in the façade
and roof form. The developers of spec houses preferred
a front-gabled façade rather than a traditional tiled
roof, probably because the roof form derived from the
bungalow houses of the colonial period, which had
been known as “cultural houses” (munhwa jutaek).
These houses were characterized by a steep gable roof
with a front door under the gable. The spec houses did
not use a wooden truss to cover the roof but rather a
reinforced concrete slab, on which the roof tile was
finished (figure 5.3).
Gangnam (1978)

In spite of its historical importance, the spec house
did not survive very long in a rapidly changing urban
environment. An exploding population obliged the
Korean government to adopt high-density development
policies that favored highly integrated housing. When
the government revised the building code to allow con-
struction of multihousehold dwellings on sites formerly
occupied by a detached house, spec houses gave way to
multihousehold dwellings. Yet, in the history of Korean
housing, they were a significant step in the moderni-
zation of traditional houses. The spec houses left clear
traces that showed how dwelling functions could be
reconfigured to better suit contemporary lifestyles, and
those interior plans served as a common platform for
the housing types that would become the most preva-
lent forms of housing after the 1980s.
Multihousehold Dwellings
In the mid-1980s, two new forms of urban housing—
multihousehold dwellings (dasedae jutaek) and multi-
family dwellings (dagagu jutaek)4—were introduced as
replacements for single-family houses, and they soon
became the second most prevalent type of housing con-
struction. In Korean housing history, their position is
distinctive because their sudden emergence was wholly
dependent on the legal system, unlike other housing
types that evolved over a long period. The concept
of multihousehold dwellings was first suggested in
1981 when the Regional Development Institute of the
Korea Institute of Science and Technology published
A Study of the Practical Uses of Single-Family Buildings
Fig. 5.4 Aerial views of Donam-dong, Seoul, illustrating the rise of multihousehold dwellings in a village of urban hanok (left to right):
1966, 1981, 1995 (Courtesy of National Geographic Information Institute)
New Urban Housing 73
with Multiple Occupancy. Since an ongoing housing
shortage was already anticipated and multiple occu-
pancy had become a de facto practice in dense urban
areas, the study inspired policy makers to revise the
building code to create a legal basis for the construc-
tion of multihousehold dwellings. The enforcement
ordinance, announced in August 1985, referred to the
new accommodation as collective housing and par-
tially mitigated restrictions on the width of roads, the
height of buildings, the distance between buildings,
and the ratio of building area to site area. The rationale
behind the initiative was that the massive construc-
tion of apartment complexes since the 1970s had still
not done enough to improve the housing shortage, so
there was a need to make the most of the existing inven-
tory of detached houses. In addition, the government
expected the revision of the building code to improve
tenants’ living environment. It was common knowledge
that many owners of detached houses were illegally
leasing or renting rooms, and by bringing this practice
under regulation, the government hoped to address the
housing concerns of ordinary people. Soon enough, the
prediction that small pieces of land in downtown areas
could be made better use of seemed to come true. In the
1990s, collective housing formed about 30 percent of
the housing market and joined apartment houses as the
most representative type of urban housing in Korea. Yet
the rapid conversion of single-family housing to collec-
tive housing had undesirable side effects—in particular,
the demolition of most of the detached houses in urban
areas and a steep increase in housing density without
a corresponding expansion of urban infrastructure
(figure 5.4).
74 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

Like the terraced bye-law housing built in England

between the 1870s and 1914 and the garden apartments
built in New York in the 1930s, collective housing in
Korea was created by means of a special dispensation
in the legal system. For that reason, its development
was largely determined by successive changes in the
regulations governing its form and spatial arrange-
ments. Multihousehold dwellings were first defined as
collective housing that was two stories high, contained
a maximum of nine households, and occupied a total
area under 330 sq m. In time, those limits were effec-
tively doubled, and the ratio of building area to site area
also increased.5
Most of the buildings developed as collective housing
are nearly identical in form and spatial composition,
emulating a small apartment building. A box-like form
was preferred to secure the maximum area on a given
site, and a staircase for access to each unit was located
at the center of the building. Three building features—
exterior stairs, a semi-basement, and pilotis—appeared
irregularly according to the current state of the building
code. Exterior stairwells had become popular after
1985 because the building code initially excluded it
from the calculation of the floor area; however, all stairs
were internalized with the revision of the code in 1993.
Construction of a semi-basement was also popular
because the building code did not include it in the total
number of floors. Pilotis, or supporting columns, were
used to raise the building above ground level and create
parking spaces underneath. Legally, the parking area
has not been included in the calculation of the gross
floor area since 1990 in the hope that this mitigation
would help to solve the parking problems of multi-
household dwellings.6
Mitigations like these have greatly facilitated the
spread of multihousehold dwellings and also given
rise to serious urban problems, including a disruption
of the visual harmony and comfortable ambience of
urban residential areas (figure 5.5). As detached houses
disappeared from the market, their residents tended
to migrate to apartments. Open land and green space
disappeared as well: multihousehold dwellings were
allowed to occupy the entirety of their site, with exterior
walls as little as 50 cm from the edges of adjacent lots.
In traditional villages, alleyways and courtyards served
as communal spaces, but in neighborhoods overrun
with multihousehold dwellings, vacant spaces had only
one use—as parking lots. According to a recent survey,
the number of cars in neighborhoods given over to
Fig. 5.5 Multihousehold
dwellings in Donam-dong,
2010 (Photo by Nils
Clauss)
Fig. 5.6 Multihousehold
dwellings in Ahyeon-dong,
Seoul (Photo by Jae-
Kyeong Kim)
collective housing is two to three times higher than the
number of available spaces in established parking lots.7
It can hardly be surprising that this situation has led to
frequent disputes between residents and outsiders. The
increase in building density has also made it more diffi-
cult for residents to access sunshine. In the worst cases,
parts of some buildings remain shaded throughout the
entire day. This deterioration of the living environment
explains why multihousehold dwellings have devolved
into low-income housing while apartment houses
continue to gain in popularity (figure 5.6).
Apartment Houses
Apartments are indisputably the most popular form of
housing in Korea. According to a 2008 survey, more
than half of the entire population lives in apartment
houses, and this ratio is still increasing.8 Although most
mass-produced apartments built in the postwar era in
the West later devolved into slums, apartments remain
the preferred option among the Korean middle class,
in response to a changing urban environment. Train
travelers may be surprised to see that apartment houses
 New Urban Housing 75

are omnipresent in both urban and rural areas. For this

reason, apartment houses are placed at the center of
many strands of scholarly discourse. Real estate policy
is such a sensitive issue to Koreans that it is a kind of
litmus test of whether a regime is progressive or con-
servative, market centered or social-welfare centered.
In this vein, as Joon Mann Kang, a Korean journalism
scholar, concisely expressed it, Korea deserves to be
called “the republic of the apartment.”9 Because they
are a source of wealth, symbolize status differences,
and foster a unique community culture in overcrowded
cities, apartments have been the preferred housing
option of the middle class since the 1970s.
After liberation, the development of mass-produced
housing was understandably hindered by the social
chaos engendered in the civil war. One of the first
successful attempts was the building of the Jongam Fig. 5.7 Jongam Apartments unit plans (Jang and Park 2009,
Apartments in 1958, a revival of a Western style of apart- 106)
ment building that had first come to Korea via Japan.
The so-called Zeilenbau style encompassed housing empty space formerly used as a jail. The complex con-
flats several stories high that were arranged in parallel sisted of four long slabs and six Y-shaped blocks with
rows oriented to the sun rather than the street pattern. apartments in four sizes: 30, 40, 50, and 53 sq m. Of
German architects had suggested its basic principles in these, the first three were connected with single-loaded
the 1920s—that all occupants should benefit from the corridors providing access to the units, while the fourth
same sun, street, façade, and ground—and there was a used staircases. The Mapo complex attempted to inte-
massive expansion across German cities in the 1930s. grate diverse units in a unified way but did little to har-
The Jongam apartment complex was composed of three monize with its surroundings. Even though the Mapo
long, four- or five-story slabs placed along a sloping site. area had been planned as one of ten land readjustment
The building forms recapitulated the basic features of districts in the colonial period, it had become sprawl-
the modern aesthetic: a flat roof and windows and walls ing suburbs by this time, filled with a jumble of urban
in geometrical patterns. One hundred fifty-two units— hanok. From photographs taken at the time of the com-
each was 56 sq m—were connected by a single-loaded plex’s completion, it’s easy to see the contrast between
corridor on every floor, accessed through a staircase.10 apartment blocks and urban hanok, a major transition
Components were standardized to facilitate mass pro- in urban housing (figure 5.8).
duction, but the most difficult problem to resolve was
how to install a heating system in the apartment block.
Most Koreans were accustomed to using the ondol
system fueled by charcoal and briquettes, but this would
require the kitchen floor to be lower than that of other
rooms, obstructing free circulation within the dwelling
unit. The Jongam Apartments solved this problem in
an innovative way. Each unit was equipped with an
ondol system by building in a 1 m difference in height
between the kitchen and the other rooms (figure 5.7).
The military government’s expansion of urban space
began immediately after its seizure of power in 1961.
The first massive apartment complex undertaken by the
Korea National Housing Corporation was the Mapo
Apartments, begun that same year. The site was an Fig. 5.8 Mapo Apartments (Courtesy of LH Corporation)
76 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

After the Mapo Apartments, the Hangang

Apartments complex in Ichondong, Seoul, represented a
step forward in apartment design, becoming the model
for numerous five-story walk-up apartment buildings in
Banpo, Yeongdong, and Jamsil districts in the 1970s. In
1966, the Government Employee Pension Service com-
missioned the Korea National Housing Corporation to
construct thirty-four apartment blocks for 1,313 house- Fig. 5.9 Layout of apartment complexes in Ichondong
holds on land reclaimed from the Hangang River. In (Redrawn from Gongdong jutaek yeonguhoe 1999, 218)
1970, the corporation itself erected twenty-three apart-
ment blocks for the Hangang Mansion Apartments
development and eighteen for the Foreigners’
Apartments. In 1971, other construction companies
built an additional 2,500 units, making Ichondong a
self-contained district. Communal facilities including
schools, stores, clinics, and religious buildings were
comprehensively planned through an application of the
neighborhood-unit theory, and a two-story commercial
center along the central road in the district made urban
functions commonly available. These apartment com- Fig. 5.10 Five-story apartment buildings in Ichondong,
plexes were full of five-story walk-up buildings oriented dwarfed by later developments (Photo by Nils Clauss)
toward the south to optimize the amount of sunshine
each would receive. The most important change from
the Mapo Apartments was in the size of the dwelling
units, which increased up to 180 sq m, so that apart-
ments began to be recognized as comfortable habita-
tion for middle-class families. Central heating systems
were also introduced, replacing the briquette boilers in
Mapo and contributing to a new spatial composition
inside the units. The Ichondong apartments show a
clear separation between bedrooms and service spaces,
a plan strongly influenced by Western-style apartment
design (figures 5.9–5.12).
The first high-rise apartments in Korea were built
at the southeastern end of Yeouido Island in 1970.
Planned as a showcase apartment complex, the Fig. 5.11 A two-story commercial center along the central road
Sibeom Apartments were furnished with up-to-date in Ichondong (Photo by Nils Clauss)

Fig. 5.12 Unit plans of

Ichondong apartments (left
to right): 89 sq m, 106 sq m
(Daehan jutaek gongsa
1992, 256)
 New Urban Housing 77

equipment such as elevators, radiators for heating,

and a hot water supply, and were used to promote the
development of Yeouido Island. The apartments came
in four sizes—50, 66, 100, and 135 sq m—and accom-
modated 1,584 households. Interior layouts derived
from spec house plans were offered for the first time
and promoted as being better suited to a Korean way
of life than Western-style plans. For access, the Sibeom
Apartments employed a single-loaded corridor usually
shared by four households; staircases in front of the
entrance of each unit were also installed for increased
privacy.11 Here, too, the use of two access systems was
novel at the time (figures 5.13, 5.14). Fig. 5.13 Sibeom Apartments on Yeouido Island (Photo by Nils
When the government enacted legislation compel- Clauss)
ling developers to build high-density apartments in
districts designated for apartment housing, apart-
ment houses soon became the predominant form of
housing for Korea’s middle class. This requirement
was first brought to bear in the Gangnam area, and
the Apgujeong Apartment complex at the north end of
Gangnam, which Hyundai Construction built between
1979 and 1982, attracted nationwide attention. Other
construction companies rushed into the apartment
market, too, and crowds flocked to venues where lotter-
ies for apartments were held. A winning lottery ticket
was soon an object of communal wonder—and specula-
tive investment. Although the monotony of many of the
early apartment blocks inspired criticism from Western
architects, that opinion did not matter to the many
Koreans who had experienced the hardships of the
housing shortage. To them, the apartment complexes
provided convenience, a hygienic environment, and a
chance to enjoy pleasant open spaces.
Fig. 5.14 Sibeom Apartments unit plan, 100 sq m (Sung-Soo
In addition to its own activities in housing construc-
Zchang 1994, 118)
tion, the government supported the efforts of private
companies to increase the housing supply nation-
wide. Apartments were now regarded as profit centers
rather than public works, and all of their components
were configured to meet buyers’ demands. Unpopular
items in the real estate market, such as duplex units,
staggered plans, and terrace housing, were eliminated
from the design stage regardless of their architectural
or social value. In that environment, it was practically
impossible for architects to pursue the kind of innova-
tive experiment Le Corbusier had accomplished in the
Unité d’habitation. Except for rare cases, such as the
Athletes’ Village designed by Kyu Sung Woo for the
1988 Seoul Olympics (figure 5.15), prominent archi- Fig. 5.15 Athletes’ Village, Seoul Olympics, Kyu Sung
tects did not have the opportunity to develop original Woo+Ilkun Architects, 1984–1988 (Photo by Sang-Soon Shin)
78 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
ideas for large-scale apartment projects. The market
determined all choices—everything from building site,
orientation, height, and so on to unit types, circulation
options, and interior finish. Perhaps inevitably, the
apartment complexes named after construction com-
panies became urban islands isolated from other urban
spaces. Functioning as self-sustained developments,
large-scale apartment complexes containing over 1,000
households became the common coin of the develop-
mental period, and the choices they represented were
reflected in their prices.
A closer look at the evolution of Korean apart-
ment houses during the developmental period can
provide insights into Korean domesticity. The most
noticeable aspect was the significance of the apart-
ment complex as an independent community. Article
48 of the Housing Act defines an apartment complex
as collective housing with 300 households or more, or,
in cases where an elevator or a central heating system
is installed, collective housing with 150 households or
more. According to a survey from 2003, 651 out of 823
apartment complexes in Seoul, or 79 percent, are under
1,000 households, and 70 percent consist of fewer than
10 buildings. Only 12 complexes contain more than 100
buildings.12 While variable in size, apartment complexes
usually share the same urban amenities, such as shops,
parking lots, open spaces, and management agency. The
latter plays an important role in defining the apartment
complex. Even though apartment complexes may share
the same name, if their management agencies are differ-
ent, they are not regarded as the same.
Culturally, apartment complexes took on a totally
different aspect compared to tra-
ditional villages. The primary fear
associated with large-scale apart-
ment complexes was the loss of a
familiar community-based neigh-
borhood, and of the dwelling place
as part of something coherent and
comprehensive. Instead, apart-
ments were like mosaic islands in
a city, each unit a perfectly isolated
cell when viewed from outside.
Residents no longer feel the same
community spirit. Indeed, they are
ready to move out at a moment’s
notice. Korean apartments, then, Fig. 5.16 The evolution of Korean apartment houses (left to right): five-story walk-up
are a form of housing thoroughly apartments in the 1970s, sixteen-story apartments in the 1980s, twenty-three-story apart-
fit for nomadic life. ments in the 1990s, high-rise residential and commercial complexes in the 2000s
Apartments were mass produced through the
workings of a powerful mechanism after the1980s.
The mechanism depended on the overlapping interests
of a government that wanted to eliminate a housing
shortage; developers and construction companies
pursuing maximal profits through the sale of apart-
ments; and individual buyers who expected to realize
some profit from rising house prices. For profits to be
gained, the sale and resale of apartments had to continue
without check. And for this to happen, the government
had to provide an incentive to developers who wanted
to rebuild aging apartment complexes. So it eased
restrictions governing the density, distance between
buildings, and height of apartment buildings. Low-rise
buildings at least twenty years old were snapped up
by real estate investors, adding to the congestion as
larger replacement buildings began to be added to the
pool. In the early 1970s, five-story apartment buildings
accounted for the majority of apartment construction.
By the late 1970s, the average height was more than
ten stories. Then the height restriction limiting apart-
ment buildings to twelve to fifteen stories, dating from
1977, was abolished. Together with an increase in the
ratio of building area to site area in apartment districts,
from 200 percent in 1977 to 250 percent in 1985, the
ratio of the distance between buildings and their height
dropped from 1.25 to 0.8, creating even denser apart-
ment complexes.13 Nowadays, skyscrapers of more than
fifty stories constitute the majority of Korean urban
housing (figure 5.16).
In layout, the orientation of the apartments con-
tinued to be emphasized more than the view. In many

apartment blocks standing in rows along the Hangang
River, the major openings did not face the river. This
orientation would be unimaginable in the West, where
preserving a wonderful view over a river can totally
dominate site planning. The traditional Korean ideal
regarding the layout of houses is to make the openings
face the south as much as possible to gain maximal
sunshine during the long winters. Following this tradi-
tion, most apartment blocks were laid out in parallel
rows, with the major openings facing south. In another
departure, most of the outdoor space was occupied
by parking lots, contrary to modernist rhetoric about
filling outdoor spaces with green fields. Interestingly,
another layout change occurred in the 1990s when the
need for high-density development claimed the outdoor
parking spaces as well. From that time on, all parking
lots went underground, and the remaining outdoor
space was used for playgrounds or courtyards without
cars. Paradoxically, the perfect separation of cars and
pedestrians was achieved by increasing the density of
development.
The building forms were closely tied to the access
systems of each unit.14 Koreans have typically pre-
ferred a staircase access system with two open-ended,
double-orientation units per floor over a single-loaded
corridor or hall. Initially used only for luxury apart-
ment units, staircase entries gradually spread to smaller
dwelling units as well, a direct outcome of the desire
for maximum privacy in congested urban settings.
Until 2003, staircase entries were used in 70 percent
of all the apartments built in Korea.15 Some Korean
architects, influenced by Team X, explored the possibil-
ity of creating communal spaces by inserting interior
courtyards and street-like corridors within buildings,
but the attempts have not met with market success. In
the apartment culture of Korea, segregating family unit
takes precedence over community interests, as reflected
in the preference for staircase access. Hence the appear-
ance of a unique form: the bar-shaped blocks articu-
lated by water tanks, which crown each staircase.
In the real estate market, popular preference has
governed the evolution of dwelling units. In the 1970s,
layouts derived from spec house plans featured a hall-
like living room, a descendant of the outdoor court-
yard, or madang, of the urban hanok. It was located at
the center of the units and serviced a variety of rooms.
While the spatial arrangement varied according to
the size of the units, there was a gradual convergence
on three basic types: a 66 sq m unit consisting of two
New Urban Housing 79
rooms and a bathroom; an 85 sq m unit consisting of
three rooms and two bathrooms; and a 110 sq m unit
consisting of four rooms and two bathrooms. Of these,
the 85 sq m unit was the most popular, so the govern-
ment set it up as a national standard for size of dwelling
unit in the housing subscription system. Along with the
hall-like living room, a remarkable feature of Korean
apartments is the large balconies at the front and rear of
each unit. They have been popular because the building
code excluded them from the calculation of the total
area Koreans needed, and they have been turned into
storage spaces. Many occupants enclosed the balconies
to extend the interior space as soon as they moved in,
and construction companies routinely made allowance
for this renovation in their plans. The existence of large
balconies thus had a great impact on the façade and
visual appearance of apartment buildings.
It is worth noting that all reinforced concrete walls
and slabs in Korean apartments have been constructed
in a monolith form, making it impossible to alter the
interior of dwelling units. All partition walls bear
vertical loads without the use of columns, and the
floor slab obviates the use of beams in supporting hori-
zontal loads. Since the 1970s, a structural wall system
has been in wide use across the country, replacing the
prefabricated panels used in the late 1960s. Unlike the
prefabricated panels, which were crudely made and
caused many maintenance problems, the structural wall
system simplified construction, reducing floor heights
and construction costs, and it became popular in spite
of a decisive defect: the difficulty of altering the interior
space. This problem began to be resolved when devel-
opers opted for the use of steel structures in high-rise
apartment buildings.
Fig. 5.17 Layout of the Dogok Rexle apartment complex,
Aum+Lee Architects and Associates, 2007
80 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

Fig. 5.18 Dogok Rexle unit plans (left to right): 66 sq m, 85 sq m, 110 sq m

Most Korean apartment buildings had structural

Fig. 5.19 Central courtyard of the Dogok Rexle apartment
complex (Photo by Inha Jung)
limitations that prevented remodeling, so their life
cycle usually did not exceed thirty years. The five-
story walk-up apartment houses of the developmental
period were replaced by high-rise buildings in the
1990s, a lucrative opportunity for investors, and when
that inventory was nearly exhausted, developers turned
their attention to the high-rise apartments built in the
1980s. As the density of apartment complexes increased,
original land-use plans no longer meant much to urban
administrators, who were intent on moving the popula-
tion into tower-style apartments. In the case of Seoul,
the municipal government enacted an ordinance in
2006 that mandated the capacity of at least 30 percent of
all blocks in the same apartment complex; they had to
contain more than 1,000 dwelling units and consist of
more than 10 buildings. This regulation brought about
a fundamental change in the design method of apart-
ment complexes. Recent large-scale complexes such
as Dogok Rexle (2007) and Banpo Raemian Firstige
(2009) contain tower-style buildings and underground
parking lots with the ground level assigned to gardens
and other facilities for common use. Complexes like
these are growing up across the country and adding
to the diversity of Korea’s urban landscape (figures
5.17–5.19).

The Quest for Architectural Identity
With the division between North and South an inescap-
able reality in the 1960s, a competitive pursuit of national
identity led to the formation of a unique cultural topog-
raphy on the Korean peninsula. Architecture espoused
regionalism, with talented architects looking to their
own culture for the first time to find an identity predi-
cated on a thorough rupture from the modernism of the
colonial period. In their major works, these architects
drew on classic examples from traditional Korean archi-
tecture, finding in them spatial ideals for the expression
of Korean cultural identity and generative diagrams that
continue to influence the design activities of Korean
architects to this day. In the architectural discourse
of the period, attention was given at various points to
the diverse aspects of regionalism, the transformation
of traditional formal systems, the utilization of evoca-
tive architectural languages in the service of national
identity, and the derivation of useful spatial patterns
from the urban tissue of traditional villages.
Tradition, Identity, and Modernity
Regionalism, as a key term in the architectural discourse
of the developmental period, covered a wide range of
attitudes, so our first task is to define the relationship
between modernism and regionalism. Modernism
in architecture has usually been seen as a form that
claimed universality and the worldwide application of
certain values; its enemy was regional differentiation.1
Regionalism, in its turn, was regarded as a form of
resistance to modernism’s cultural dominance.2 Today
this opposition perpetuates a nostalgic paradigm and
fails to reflect the globalization that has fundamentally
altered the world. Nowadays, locality does not stand
in opposition to the global but is merely one aspect of
globalization. Global culture actually consists of the
increasing interconnectedness of many local cultures,
both large and small.3 Furthermore, a close look at
the development of modern architecture reveals that
“even in 20th century architecture, with its emphasis on
Chapter
6
international movement, much of the truest and most
seminal invention has had regional roots.”4
Instead, regionalism can be defined from a different
angle—that is, from both sides of the modern. If the
modern, as Hegel put it, represents a newly emerged
present time,5 it should have the following two aspects:
the present arising out of the future, and the present
fading into the past. The avant-garde is composed of
intellectuals who dedicate their artistic and intellectual
energy to embodying the as-yet-unidentified realities
arising out of the future. In contrast, regionalist archi-
tects take on the challenge of establishing connections
with preexisting local and regional characteristics.
Thus, avant-garde and regionalist architects work as
an integrated machine emerging out of the present
context. If we accept this supposition, the regionalism
of modern times does not refer to something stagnant
and immovable, but is closely bound to an incessantly
changing, contemporaneous reality. Today’s archi-
tects feel burdened when dealing with the question of
regional and national identity because it forces them to
confront the challenge of transmuting changing reali-
ties into a fixed center.
The second issue in clarifying regionalism is the
sharp line drawn between East Asia and the West. For
the most part, the various adjectives that congregate
around the concept of regionalism—regional, local,
provincial, vernacular, and traditional—have delicate
shadings of meaning. The relationship between “local”
and “traditional” is particularly controversial. It is
notable that the two words refer to the same phenome-
non, yet imply opposite ways of perceiving it. Anything
“local” is perceived as such from the standpoint of a
value or culture that is dominant in a number of regions;
calling that same phenomenon “traditional,” however,
is a sign that a dominant value or culture has adjusted
to regional specificity. In East Asia, there was origi-
nally no equivalent for the English word “tradition.” To
render it, the Japanese scholars who translated unfa-
miliar Western concepts into Japanese during the Meiji
period invented the term “dentou,” referring to each
82 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
region’s identity and sense of its own cultural continu-
ity when confronting Western culture. This term spread
throughout East Asia, but its meaning has changed over
time. In architectural discourse, while the concept of
locality, or what is “local,” still expresses the perspective
of Westerners who wish to diffuse modern architecture
in non-Western regions, invoking “tradition” represents
the values of non-Westerners who not only accept
modern culture but seek to localize it. Architectural
discourse during the developmental period was shaped
by the intersection of these two perspectives.
Le Corbusier’s Regionalism
In the 1950s and 1960s, regionalism surfaced as an
important issue in architecture in the West. Among
others, Le Corbusier addressed modern architecture’s
most troublesome problem—its conflict with local
architecture. He had clearly recognized the limitations
of modern architecture while participating in the urban
planning for Algiers and Brasilia, and had attempted to
merge modernism with local traditions when planning
public buildings in Chandigarh in the 1950s. His later
works, in particular, are significant touchstones for the
concept of regionalism in architecture. Le Corbusier
addressed the issue of locality by using rough materi-
als and organic forms rather than the abstract and
mechanical forms characteristic of modern archi-
tecture. This choice had a profound impact on young
architects, particularly in East Asia. It can be argued
that the main reason for Le Corbusier’s strong influence
on East Asian architects is that his work suggested ways
to combine local traditions with modern architecture.
In the late 1950s and 1960s, Le Corbusier’s architec-
ture had a far-reaching impact on Korean architects.
His work was introduced to Korea via two channels.
One was the architect Chung-Up Kim, who worked in
Le Corbusier’s office from October 1952 to December
1955. Le Corbusier’s influence was conveyed through
the prolific work of Kim, establishing a new lineage
in twentieth-century Korean architecture. The second
channel was Swoo-Geun Kim, who studied architecture
in Japan. At that time, leading Japanese architects such
as Kunio Maekawa and Kenzo Tange were transmut-
ing Le Corbusier’s architecture into a Japanese idiom.
Kenzo Tange, in particular, attempted to find common
ground between Le Corbusier’s modernism and
Japanese traditions.6 Inspired by Kenzo Tange, Swoo-
Geun Kim completed influential works that embodied
the modernist legacy.
Kenzo Tange’s ideas about tradition had a great
impact on the development of regionalism in Korean
architecture. Constantly seeking new forms of expres-
sion, he stood at the crossroads of the debate about tra-
dition in Japan and presented three main points. First,
architects should infuse tradition with a new vitality.
Although tradition exists outside the architect’s mind,
how an architect interprets precedents can lead not to
stagnation, but to the creation of new forms and a living
lineage.7 “Tradition always has a decadent tendency
to promote formalization and repetition,” he wrote.
“What is needed to direct it into a creative channel is a
fresh energy that prevents living ones from becoming
static. Therefore in order for a tradition to live, it must
constantly be destroyed.”8 Second, tradition should not
exist merely as an abstract idea, but should be expressed
in concrete form. Numerous Japanese architects had
indiscriminately accepted the dogma of Modern
Functionalism while completely excluding traditional
forms. Kenzo Tange criticized such trends, looking
instead for the convergence of modern and traditional
architecture. Third, the means of creating a new tra-
dition was typification. Tange believed something
invariable and timeless could be found amid the variant
forms of traditional architecture. How typicality is con-
ceived varies according to the individual architect, but
in the process of defining it, architects manifest their
worldview. The same quest can be seen in the Korean
architects who attempted to modernize traditional
architecture.9
Debating Tradition
Korean architects adopted many ideas from Le
Corbusier and Kenzo Tange during the developmen-
tal period. However, since Korea’s circumstances
were unique, debates over what could be considered
traditionally Korean were inevitably linked to the
ideology of the military regime. In cultural policy, the
government’s slogan was “Creating new national arts
based on traditional culture.” To achieve that goal, the
policymakers implemented several measures in the
architectural domain. The restoration of historic works,
mainly on ancient sites, was carried out energetically,
and systematic studies of traditional architecture were
conducted. Furthermore, traditional forms, in any
style, were required to be the basis of the design of new
public buildings. This requirement became an impor-
tant criterion in architectural competitions held at the
time, sparking heated debates.
 The Quest for Architectural Identity 83

In 1966, a design competition for the National

Museum of Korea (the present-day National Folk
Museum) recommended the imitation of traditional
motifs in its guidelines, igniting a particularly passionate
debate (figure 6.1). When the winner was announced,
many of Korea’s most preeminent architects, includ-
ing Chung-Up Kim and Swoo-Geun Kim, opposed the
design.10 They pointed out that it was a mere collage
of leitmotifs from two famous temples, the stylobate
of Bulguksa Temple and the multistoried pagoda of
Beopjusa Temple, without any spark of invention by
the architects themselves. Instead of seeking sources
of inspiration, the architects had simply copied tradi-
tion. At the heart of the debate were issues of imitation Fig. 6.1 National Folk Museum of Korea, Bong-Jin Kang, 1966
and creation. Yet, in a telling irony, Korean architects (Photo by Inha Chung)
remained silent on the design of the Samilro Building,
which appeared to directly imitate Mies van der Rohe’s
Seagram Building. Indeed, the Samilro Building was
hailed as a symbol of economic growth and a lesson
in how advanced technologies could be successfully
adapted. The contrast indicates that a double standard
seems to have prevailed in the architectural discourse
of the developmental period. While stringent criteria
prohibiting imitation came into play with examples of
regional architecture, imitation of “modern” architec-
ture was apparently sanctioned.
Another issue in the debate over tradition was the Fig. 6.2 Buyeo Museum, Swoo-Geun Kim, 1967 (Photo by
definition of the original source. When Swoo-Geun Chung-Eui Lim)
Kim designed the Buyeo Museum, his most ambitious
work, a fierce debate over the issue of imitation arose National Identity
again (figure 6.2). As architect Jong-Soo Kim pointed National identity accounted for an essential part of
out, “This building is just an imitation of Kenzo Tange’s the debate over tradition because traditional forms
modern version of a Japanese shrine.”11 But what can provide the most powerful frames for embodying
actually seemed to outrage many Korean architects and the “imagined community” at the heart of the modern
intellectuals was the origin of the architect’s inspiration. nation-state.13 In Korea, the military government
Chung-Up Kim echoed this point when he declared that proposed that traditional styles be used to instill a sense
the style of the building was Japanese: “Even the layman of national identity. When the Ministry of Culture asked
can feel it. The architect modeled the main gate after architects to find ways to infuse the national identity
the torii of a Japanese shrine and deformed the main into their works, this meant they should borrow forms
building along the lines of the shrine itself.”12 Surfacing from historic buildings and monuments. In 1972, the
in that debate was an important rule of exclusion in the Yushin Constitution was drawn up, making it possible
discourse of the developmental period: Korean archi- for President Jung-Hee Park to remain in office indefi-
tects, although acclaimed when using Western architec- nitely through a series of well-controlled electoral
ture as direct precedents for their work, were forbidden maneuvers. In the period that followed, nationalism
to imitate Japanese architecture. Even though practical moved to the extreme forefront of the government’s
and theoretical influences from Japan still ran deep in cultural policies, and Korean architects designing
Korean architecture, any attempt to hint at a Japanese large-scale cultural facilities were required to borrow
origin was strictly prohibited. motifs from traditional buildings rather than draw on
84 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 6.3 Sejong Cultural Center, Duck-Moon Aum, 1971
(Photo by Nils Clauss)
Fig. 6.4 Independence Hall, Kee-Woong Kim 1987 (Photo by
Young-Chae Park)
Fig. 6.5 Freedom Center, Swoo-Geun Kim, 1962–1964 (Photo
by Young-Chae Park)
any modernist works or theories. The National Theater
(1973), Sejong Cultural Center (1978), Seoul Art
Center (1985), and Independence Hall (1987) were all
designed and built during this period. They share the
same bluntly exaggerated formal systems borrowed
from traditional architecture, and display them without
an ounce of individual creativity (figures 6.3, 6.4).
Another source of monumentality in the develop-
mental period came from Le Corbusier’s Chandigarh
projects. The Freedom Center and the National
Assembly Building were important public buildings
constructed in this manner. Entries in the competition
for the Freedom Center were asked to aim at symbol-
izing Korea as the stronghold of the anticommunist
movement in Asia. The winner of the competition was
a young Swoo-Geun Kim, who had proposed building
a large complex, including an international conven-
tion hall and administrative and residential buildings,
in the foothills of Namsan in Seoul. Kim’s design for
the Freedom Center was influenced by Le Corbusier’s
Parliament building in Chandigarh, whose monumen-
tality had a great impact on many East Asian archi-
tects. Kim’s building attempted to forge links between
regional elements and modernist ideas, rejecting
past styles (figure 6.5). But the monumentality of the
Freedom Center differs from that of its model in that
its function was to legitimate the military regime. Thus,
there are elements like the long stairway that dead-ends
at a raised central podium—a typical way to highlight a
central authority figure. The influence of Le Corbusier’s
public buildings at Chandigarh is also found in the
National Assembly Building. The winner of the com-
petition, a Le Corbusier-style scheme, was determined
after many twists and turns, but the building was not
realized in accordance with the initial design because the
government required the architects to cap the building
with a huge dome. Today, the National Assembly
Building ranks as a monstrous edifice born out of the
twisted desires of politicians for glory—emblematic of
the period of developmental dictatorship.
The Metamorphosis of Traditional Architecture
In the 1960s, many Korean architects explored the
formal system of traditional architecture—the way it
organizes the relationship of parts, not only to each
other, but also to the whole of the building form. They
did this in search of the essence of Korean architecture.
 The Quest for Architectural Identity 85

While exploring tradition, they also sought to imbue

their designs with a modern edge, and that experimen-
tation was inherently risky because it meant that the
success of their projects depended on striking a balance
between tradition and innovation. Only a few talented
architects were able to achieve that balance. Chung-Up
Kim used abstraction, simplification, and articula-
tion, the cardinal principles of Gestaltism. Hee-Tai
Lee devised elaborate proportional systems to achieve
a new formality, while Swoo-Geun Kim modernized
the clustered forms of traditional architecture. Each of
these architects dug at the roots of traditional architec-
ture but opted for his own distinctive way to interiorize
regionalist tenets. Fig. 6.6 Layout of the French embassy

Visual Perception of Architectural Forms

After returning to Korea in 1955, Chung-Up Kim
focused his attention on exploring the formal systems
of traditional Korean architecture so that he could
define their prominent features and express them in
simplified ways. In the modernization of traditional
forms, he is said to have been the most successful of
the Korean architects of the developmental period, and
his design for the French embassy in Seoul is ranked
as a classic of modern Korean architecture. The French
embassy was conceived as three separate buildings:
the consulate, the ambassador’s office, and the ambas-
sador’s residence. From the initial stages of the design,
the architect’s attention was focused on the relationship
between these three elements and the surrounding
landscape (figure 6.6). To organize the outdoor spaces
from the entrance gate to the ambassador’s residence,
he developed a linear sequence that effectively linked
the three buildings in a close relationship. This was a
Fig. 6.7 View of the French embassy, Chung-Up Kim,
transference to the exterior of Le Corbusier’s “architec-
1959–1961
tural promenade,” a concept he had used to organize
the circulation of interior space. As a result, the totality
of these buildings cannot be captured from any single
viewpoint, and visitors receive a variety of visual sensa-
tions as they move through the promenade (figure 6.7).
Together with the layout of the buildings, this work
is famous for the way Chung-Up Kim has made tradi-
tional architecture undergo a metamorphosis. A com-
parison of the elevation of Muryangsujeon temple, the
second oldest wooden structure in Korea,14 with that
of the ambassador’s residence will help to clarify Kim’s
perceptions of architectural form (figure 6.8). The two
buildings are similar in size, but their formal systems Fig. 6.8 Façades of Muryangsujeon temple and the ambas-
are very different. For Kim, it is obvious that visual sador’s residence
86 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
characteristics worked as morphogenetic factors. The
abstract box, flat roof, and supple roofline of the ambas-
sador’s residence simplify the composition and form
of the large roof structure of the traditional building.
Complicated elements such as rafters, extended eaves,
and roof tiles have been transformed into simple lines.
In addition, the ambassador’s residence is clearly articu-
lated into three parts: the roof, living area, and podium.
Kim believed that traditional Korean architecture did
not show such clear articulations, so he singled out
those elements and fully articulated them, enhancing
their visual clarity.
Chung-Up Kim was particularly drawn to the unique
architectural grammar of the traditional system—the
roofline, bracketing sets, and eave rafters—and it was the
15
roofline that drew the bulk of his attention. The hardest
task for Korean architects to accomplish was the trans-
formation of the traditional roof, the scale of which was
considered far too big for modern use. The main reason
this large roof remained in use for such a long period
was due to the structural system, consisting of columns,
bracketing sets, and a roof-frame. For the roof-frame,
instead of using a wooden truss, East Asian builders
combined beams, tie beams, struts, and purlins in a
unique fashion. The length of the transverse tie beams
gradually diminished to create a roof with a triangular
section: “A large space can be achieved by manipulating
the dimensions of the skeleton or by expanding it with
the addition of structural elements either at the front
or the back, or both.”16 The main purpose of this roof
structure was to eliminate the use of interior columns
as much as possible, so as to allow for flexibility in
the manipulation of large spaces.17 Roof forms of this
type adapted well to the heavy seasonal rainfall and
strong winds of Korea’s climate. In addition, the rafter
and eaves cantilevered out from the wall structure as
far as possible, giving the roof
form a more exaggerated look.
While this was originally done
to prevent deformation and cor-
rosion of the wooden structure
from the rain, snow, and hot sun,
these architectural features soon
became the most attractive and
compelling element of traditional
Korean architecture.
The ambassador’s office in
the French embassy represents Fig. 6.9 Elevations (left to right) of the governor’s residence at Chandigarh, Dongsipjakak,
Chung-Up Kim’s attempt to and the ambassador’s office
elaborate upon the traditional roof form. The building
has two primary references: one is Le Corbusier’s design
for the governor’s residence at Chandigarh; the other
is the classical watchtower Dongsipjakak (figure 6.9).
It is the shape of Kim’s roof, in particular, that evokes
both these buildings. According to William Curtis,
the unifying theme of the Chandigarh buildings is the
parasol-like, protective, overhanging roof, supported
by arches, piers, or pilotis: “This technique shelters the
buildings from the sun and rain, while remaining open
at the edges to catch cool breezes.”18 The governor’s resi-
dence at Chandigarh was a design project that Kim had
worked on during his tenure in Le Corbusier’s office;
for the embassy, he modified that idea with a distinc-
tively Korean flair by emphasizing the flowing curves in
the configuration of his roof.
As the most prominent visual feature of traditional
Korean buildings, the roofline can be regarded as an
essential expression of regional identity. The traditional
Korean roofline is the result of three things. First, and
most distinctive, is the upturned corner (guisoseum)
that was originally devised to solve structural problems.
Second, the traditional roof forms a concave curve
(anheorigok) moving inward to the central bay. In
Muryangsujeon, the central bay bends inward 54 cm
from the corner.19 Third, the roofline soars sharply
upward to the corners in order to prevent deflection of
the jack rafters. Korean builders attempted to retain the
shape of the roofline—a splendid three-dimensional
curve—by inserting laths between the rafters and a
lean-to.
Kim’s designs for the French embassy converted
complicated elements into simple rooflines. But the
method of transformation varied according to the size
and type of building. In the ambassador’s residence, the
lower edge of the rectilinear roof is curved. Yet, because
 The Quest for Architectural Identity 87

Kim abstained from using the anheorigok, the roof lost

a great deal of its charm and presses down upon the
structure like a heavy blanket. The roof of the ambas-
sador’s office, in contrast, soars like the roofline of a tra-
ditional building, and the feeling arises through the use
of the anheorigok. This building has been considered
an exemplar of how the formal system of a traditional
building can be transformed through the use of modern
materials, and similar forms have appeared repeatedly
in other major buildings because of it. Fig. 6.10 Daehanmun, the gate of Deoksugung Palace (Photo
Kim’s transformation of another element of the tradi- by Inha Jung)
tional formal system, the bracketing set, can be seen in
the main gate of the UN memorial cemetery in Busan,
one of his chief works. As exemplified by Daehanmun,
the gate of Deoksugung Palace, Korea’s traditional
architecture has bracketing sets of varying complexity
where the purlins and transverse beams are joined at the
top of columns. They support the beams on the inside
of buildings and the overhanging eaves at the exterior.
Structurally, they connect the column-network and Fig. 6.11 Gate of the UN memorial cemetery in Busan,
roof-frame, and act as a ring beam to ensure that no part Chung-Up Kim, 1966 (Photo by In-Mi Lee)
will go slack.20 They also give the exterior of the building
a splendid appearance, relieving the enormous pressure
from the heavy roof.21 Intercolumnar bracketing sets, in
particular, have several decorative bracket sets between
the column-top bracketing sets, which play an aes-
thetic, rather than structural, role. Although Kim did
not use bracketing sets in the French embassy in order
to articulate the roof from the main body, he used this
motif extensively in the main gate of the UN memorial
cemetery. Converting them into a peculiar form evoking
the shape of stalactites found in caves, Kim exploited
two of the principles of visual perception in Gestalt psy-
chology: simplification and articulation. He simplified Fig. 6.12 Lee residence, Chung-Up Kim, 1967 (Photo by Nils
the complicated bracket set into one curve and articu- Clauss)
lated them in four directions (figures 6.10, 6.11).
In the Lee residence, Kim proposed a new image In the mid-1960s, Kim’s designs for the headquarters
for the rafters. Le Corbusier’s Villa Shodhan evidently building at Jeju National University and Seo Obstetrics
influenced this building. The composition of both and Gynecology Clinic further developed the aesthetic
buildings is capped by a flat roof that is supported on of dynamic lines he had extracted from the traditional
slender concrete piers rising through the structure. Kim roofline, demonstrating that his architecture was aimed
did not need a splendid roofline in this building and at the creation of organic forms to embody a lyrical
exposed the two-way waffle beam and slab in order to sensibility. The headquarters building at Jeju National
create the visual effect of traditional rafters (figure 6.12). University was a prime example. The site was located
In contrast, Le Corbusier used a reversed waffle slab in near Yongduam Rock, a group of strangely shaped rocks
Villa Shodhan so that the horizontal roof clearly hovers rising 10 m high on the western coastline of Jeju City
over the building. He wanted the pier and roof to meet and one of Jeju Island’s major attractions. On his initial
without any decorative elements, whereas Kim saw to it visit to the site, Kim experienced an epiphany that led
that the roof refers back to the traditional rafters. him to conceive the image of a ship disembarking from
88 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 6.13 Headquarters building, Jeju National University,
Chung-Up Kim, 1964 (Courtesy of Chung-Up Kim Archives)
a port. The modern-day ocean liner as a floating city
and a machine that supports life and fosters interaction
had also fascinated Le Corbusier. Several motifs asso-
ciated with funnels, portholes, and decks did appear
in Kim’s building in Jeju, which featured a cabin-like
balcony on the third floor (figure 6.13).
In designing the building, Kim had to solve the
problem of how to house a variety of functions, includ-
ing faculty offices, a library, a faculty restaurant, a student
restaurant, a student hall, and a university museum,
in a single structure. His solution was to place the
main functions on separate floors: the restaurants and
students hall were located on the lowest floor, under-
ground; the library occupied the entire second floor;
the faculty and dean’s offices were on the third floor;
and the museum was put on the top floor, where visitors
could enjoy a picturesque view. The remaining problem
was how to organize a circulation system to access each
floor without entanglement. Kim addressed this issue
by building separate access ramps, seizing the opportu-
nity to realize the vision that had formed in his mind
in his epiphany. Unfortunately, he was too far ahead of
his time. Inadequate construction techniques caused
his masterpiece in Jeju to encounter many difficulties,
and the salt wind blowing in from the sea accelerated
the corrosion of the metal in the building, leading to its
abandonment and eventual demolition in the 1990s.
Proportional Systems
Hee-Tai Lee also studied the formal systems of tradi-
tional architecture but approached their transforma-
tion from an entirely different perspective. Lee did not
receive a formal education in architecture or accumu-
late working experience under the guidance of a great
master. He graduated from a vocational school and
worked at the Joseon Housing Agency for a few years,
then opened his own office quite early in his career,
learning architecture through hands-on experience.
The influence of Le Corbusier, seen so readily in Kim’s
work, was rarely evident in Lee’s. Rather than appropri-
ate Western ideas, Lee approached architecture through
long years of introspection. The diverse architectural
language he developed was based on his own sensibil-
ity, and his designs convey an exquisite atmosphere that
is difficult to explain.
Lee believed that the typicality of Korean architec-
ture is discernible in the Gyeonghoeru Pavilion, on
the grounds of the royal palace. A comparison of this
building with his chief work, the Catholic Church of
the Martyrs on Mt. Jeoldusan, lets us see how Lee inter-
preted the formal system of traditional architecture.
Both buildings consist of three parts—the roof, main
body, and stylobate—but the proportions differ greatly.
Like Chung-Up Kim, Lee shrank the large roof, but he
did this from a different perspective. What he wanted
to express was not the roof form itself, but the image it
had left, deeply imprinted, in his mind. With this idea,
he sought to preserve regional identity and a sense of
history without resorting to direct imitation of particu-
lar forms. His centerpieces like the National Theater of
Korea and National Museum of Gyeongju well display
his approach (figures 6.14, 6.15).
The subtlety of Lee’s work is discernible in the elabo-
rate arrangement of the columns. He regarded them as
essential elements in the formal system of traditional
architecture and used them to rhythmically accentu-
ate the façade. For the exterior columns of the Catholic
Church of the Martyrs on Mt. Jeoldusan, he even
used decorative columns that play only a small role in
the structural system (figure 6.16). For the National
Theater of Korea, he added decorative wings around the
columns, so that they taper toward the lower side. This
was a modification he introduced in the course of con-
struction, because the columns appeared too slender.
These decorative elements became targets of severe
criticism, but Lee persisted in his methods. Generally
speaking, he had three ways of presenting columns in
his works. First, he distributed columns at even inter-
vals in large buildings to emphasize monumentality. In
these cases, the span of the columns was designed at
lengths between 4.5 m and 5 m, depending on building
size, in order to create a one-to-one proportion between
the ceiling-to-floor height and the bay of the façade.
The proportions Lee favored are the simple relations
of 1:1 and 1:3—the elemental proportions of musical
harmony that Alberti found in classical buildings.22 A

Fig. 6.14 National Theater of Korea, Hee-Tai Lee, 1967 (Photo
by Inha Jung)
Fig. 6.15 National Museum of Gyeongju, Hee-Tai Lee, 1972
(Photo by Inha Jung)
Fig. 6.16 Catholic Church of the Martyrs on Mt. Jeoldusan,
Hee-Tai Lee, 1966–1967 (Photo by Chung-Eui Lim)
second method appears in smaller buildings, where
Lee used 2 m double columns. Even though the double
columns affect the clarity of visual perception, they
activate a subtle rhythmic change along the building’s
elevation. The third method was to intertwine the first
and second to articulate a longer façade.
The Quest for Architectural Identity 89
A sophisticated proportional system for façade
articulation, mainly based on the unit of the square,
appeared regularly in Hee-Tai Lee’s architecture. In
the case of the Hyehwadong Church, the proportion
between the height and width of the entire façade is
approximately 1:2, a ratio often used by Renaissance
architects. The façade is segmented horizontally, and
the height of the walls sitting on top of the colonnades
corresponds exactly to the trisection of the building’s
width. Thus the height and width of the upper walls
maintain a ratio of 1:3. Finally, the height of the bell
tower is also dependent on a square equal to the width
of the building, and almost forms a square. Thanks to
these relationships, the main façade is a display of mar-
velously harmonious proportions. Similar proportions
are found at the Jesuit Hall of Sogang University. The
horizontally divided façade is composed of two 12 m
x12 m squares with a ratio of 1:2. The height of the
upper part is proportionally trisected by the width of
the building façade and is determined by the width of
these three parts. Thus the height and width maintain
an accurate ratio of 1:3. The Church of the Martyrs on
Mt. Jeoldusan represents another use of the same pro-
portional system. Its entire façade, including columns
and loggia, is divided into two 15 m x 15 m squares
(more accurately, 14.4 m by 15.1 m). The upper part
of the building is divided so that the height and width
maintain a ratio of 1:3. The strictly trisected propor-
tional system hovering above the pilotis displays the
most distinctive characteristic of Lee’s architecture.
The ceiling-to-floor height was designed at 5.1 m,
which is similar to the span between columns, thereby
maintaining the proportions of a square. The biggest
challenge for Lee’s proportional system was the loggia,
which protrudes out of the dimensional ratios by 2.4 m.
The loggia had to be included in the entire proportional
system to maintain the façade’s ratio at 10 m:10 m:10m
(figure 6.17).
Clustered Forms
Although Hee-Tai Lee and Chung-Up Kim looked at
traditional architecture from different perspectives,
they had one trait in common: both tended to treat their
buildings as independent objects, almost as sculptures.
Swoo-Geun Kim opposed this approach and asserted
that traditional Korean architecture is actually an
assemblage of several buildings, and not a single object.
He argued that formal perfection or strictly propor-
tional systems had little significance in understanding
90 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 6.17 Proportional system of the Catholic Church of the
Martyrs
the essence of Korean architecture and its lineage. To
him, the relationships of proximity, repetition, harmo-
nious alignment, and unified material textures played
greater roles, as can be seen in his principal works,
including the Cheongju Museum and Jinju Museum.
One feature seen in both museums is a transfor-
mation of the traditional Korean roof. Swoo-Geun
Kim had conducted extensive research on traditional
architecture in the 1970s, paying particular attention
to its inherent spatial concepts. The research was a
critical catalog, however, without any attempt to update
traditional formal systems for the modern era. In his
designs for the two museums, the limitations imposed
on architects working for the military government can
readily be seen in the extensive use of traditional forms.
After being instructed to use traditional tiled roofs
when he received the commission for the two designs,
Kim agonized over the challenge of how he could meet
the government’s guidelines without sacrificing the
“creation of tradition” he sought to achieve.
In spatial layout and organization, the two museums
stand in sharp contrast, owing to the differences in
their sites. Cheongju Museum is set on an expansive
site in the foothills on the outskirts of the city. The
plan consists of repeated clusters of buildings punctu-
ated with outdoor courtyards. Kim was confident that
clustered forms would be perceived as an integral whole
if they were unified through similarity and proxim-
ity.23 The repetition of roof forms, in particular, creates
a unique experience. Here, equal size, similar shape,
unified wall textures, and directionality all play a role
(figure 6.18). The same unifying effect is discernible
in the protruding exterior walls of the museum build-
ings, the strong horizontality of which unites the many
diverse elements and stands in stark contrast to the ver-
ticality of the roof.
The Jinju Museum, located in the confined space
of the historical Jinju fortress, has an entirely different
layout. Here there is a large open sky-lit space at the
center of the building, around which the exhibition
rooms organically intertwine. Since the interior space is
organized rather simply, the problem Kim had to solve
was how to determine the exterior form. Wanting to
express the single block as a cluster of forms, he split
the roof into many different pieces, creating an array
of traditional tiled roofs and a holistic effect similar to
the one at the Cheongju Museum (figure 6.19). Despite
the modern preference for continuous multifunctional
spaces, Kim found his own way of combining precedents
from traditional Korean architecture with modernity.
Exploring New Spaces
In the 1970s, the question of regionalism remained at
the center of architectural discourse in Korea, but the
locus of attention began to shift from formal concerns
to spatial ones. The leader of the movement empha-
sizing the unique spatiality of Korean architecture
was Swoo-Geun Kim. In the previous decade, Kim’s

Fig. 6.18 National Museum of Cheongju, Swoo-Geun Kim,
1979–1989 (Photo by Inha Jung)
Fig. 6.19 National Museum of Jinju, Swoo-Geun Kim,
1979–1985 (Photo by Jung-Woong Jung )
designs had been greatly influenced by Le Corbusier
and Kenzo Tange and were characterized by a search
for monumentality through exaggerated forms of
exposed concrete. After this period of experimentation,
a sweeping overhaul of approach appeared in his works,
coinciding with research into new ways of perceiving
ancient buildings. Traveling with Soon-Woo Choi, a
distinguished scholar, Kim visited ancient houses and
famous temples throughout the region in order to
discover for himself the spatial concepts and hidden
potential of traditional Korean architecture. This
phase marked a fundamental shift in Kim’s career and
an important step forward in the search for a modern
identity for Korean architecture.
The Space Group Building
In 1971, Swoo-Geun Kim designed the Space Group
building (Gonggansaok) in Seoul. At first glance,
this building appears to be a simple conglomerate of
The Quest for Architectural Identity 91
boxes, clad with black bricks. Yet its spatial structure is
complex, and its historical significance lies in the ways
it sublimates traditional spatial concepts into those of
a modern building. This refinement was not an easy
task to accomplish, since the compactness of most
urban sites had already led many Korean architects to
abandon interest in exploring traditional ways of con-
figuring space. Swoo-Geun Kim found two methods
to try. The first was the transformation of a traditional
two-dimensional layout into vertically segregated
spaces. The second was to squeeze several courtyards
into the internal space while maintaining their topo-
logical singularity.
The Space Group building is located in Bukchon,
a neighborhood in Seoul directly neighboring the
Changdeokgung Palace and filled with urban hanok.
Culturally, it was a propitious area in which to explore
traditional spatial concepts. More important, the
building itself was Kim’s own office and home. He could
repeatedly construct and deconstruct his work until he
was satisfied with the result. The design process was
divided into two phases: the first was executed in 1971,
and the second in 1976. Kim conceived the original
building as a brick structure in a small plot in one
corner of the site, and later created the extension using
a reinforced concrete system in response to a dramatic
increase in the number of office employees. He devel-
oped his ideas and continuously experimented with
them through the building of the two phases.
The chief characteristic of the building is its loci-
centrism, an innovative concept with dual implications
for the treatment of space. First, it drew on the classi-
cal dichotomy of solid versus void, and emphasized the
void—a fundamentally different perception from that of
the West. Where Western thought gives priority to the
solid over the void, one can also imagine an aesthetic
where the opposite is true, and the hierarchy reversed.
Korean paintings, which emphasize negative space, or
the void, demonstrate this, and the same is true in other
genres of Korean art as well, including architecture. Of
the Korean architects who have adhered to the concept
of loci-centrism, it was Swoo-Geun Kim, in particular,
who not only promoted it as a practical alternative for
architecture, but also understood it as the underlying
essence of East Asian thought (figures 6.20).24 The Space
Group building clearly reflects this understanding,
especially in the courtyard at the center of the building,
which reminds us of the fact that intangible space has
been prioritized over architecture. The second meaning
92 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 6.20 Courtyard of the Unjoru, exemplifying the concept
of loci-centrism, were priority is given to the void over the solid
(Photo by Nils Clauss)
Fig. 6.21 Omidong gado, ca. 1800, illustrating a piece of
residential architecture called the Unjoru
of loci-centrism is found in its unique definition of
place. Old Korean architectural paintings that express
a premodern spatial consciousness help one to see that
a traditional landscape, including the buildings con-
tained within it, was not organized by a subjective logic,
but by the logic of place (figure 6.21). In it, articulated
places are not seen or rendered from a single point of
view, but compose a blurred milieu in which one can
transcend the inadequacy of subject-object distinctions
(figure 6.22).25
In designing the Space Group building, Swoo-Geun
Kim gave priority to the creation of four singular places,
each scaled differently to meet differing needs: Kim’s
private residence, office space, an exhibition room,
and a small performance hall. Kim wanted to keep
these places as separate as possible while connecting
them through intermediary spaces to form a continu-
ous sequence. This is the essential diagram that guided
the whole design process for the building, the totality
of which Kim referred to as his “enclosed but endless
space.” Each of the four loci encompasses a different
sense of place drawn from Kim’s visits to ancient build-
ings and refined through his conversations with other
scholars. They are all contained in one building, yet
perform individually in terms of space and function.
Visitors who move through the building can therefore
experience the depth of space that comes from the over-
lapping of images in the mind. Kim believed that the
same spatial depth—and the understanding of it as an
integral whole—could be found in traditional Korean
buildings even though the organization of the overall
sequence varied in individual cases (figures 6.23–6.25).
Fig. 6.22 Sosaewon Garden, organized by the logic of place
(Photo by Nils Clauss)
 The Quest for Architectural Identity 93

The concept of loci-centrism prioritizes three effects

in architectural experience: the overlapping of multi-
layered scenes, an emphasis on intermediate space, and
a long sequence connecting separate places. The Space
Group building accomplished the first effect through a
vertical aggregation of a variety of spaces that had tra-
ditionally been parts of a horizontal plan. The spatial
order of the building is defined by the arrangement of
its walls and openings. All the walls stand in one direc-
tion, are incomplete, or perhaps even fragmented, but
create a layered stratification of the interior spaces. In
addition, the architect left an explicit indication of his
intentions in respect to the southern elevation, where Fig. 6.23 Section model of the Space Group building, Swoo-
three walls protrude outside the envelope as signals of Geun Kim, 1971–1976 (Photo by Nils Clauss)
the spatial order inside the building. As can be corrobo-
rated by a comparison of the wall layout of the Space
Group building with the Omidong gado, the stratifi-
cation of the walls was an attempt to encapsulate the
multilayered scenes of traditional Korean architecture
through vertical planes.
In a Confucian household, living spaces were sharply
segregated in accordance with social status, gender, and
age, creating a need for intermediary spaces such as the
daecheong and madang to link the disconnected spaces.
In designing the Space Group building, Swoo-Geun
Kim employed unique intermediary spaces to serve a
similar function: an external courtyard at the entrance
of the building and a reception hall. When approaching
the entrance, a small interstitial courtyard holds the old
and the new buildings together. In front of this leisurely,
multipurpose courtyard, there are three bars represent-
ing the gateway to Jeju Island. This space acts as a buffer Fig. 6.24 Workspace in the Space Group building (Photo by
to the street, gathering pedestrians and redistributing Jung-Woong Jung)
circulation to the Konggan small theater, cafeteria, and
backyard. The scale of the space is also large enough
that it can accommodate a crowd of visitors to the small
theater, turning the space into a meeting spot (figure
6.26). The reception hall, which one encounters upon
entering the building, plays a similar role. Located in
the middle of the building, it connects the old and new
wings and serves as a reception area for the offices.
Taking inspiration from the Yeongyeongdang, which
was itself inspired by the Korean gentry residences of
1828, Kim saw the reception hall’s potential as a flexible
space with no divisions between interior and exterior.
A glass bay window in the curtain wall substituting
for a hanging paper wall characteristic of the summer
months is a vivid reminder that traditional intermedi- Fig. 6.25 Small theater in the basement of the Space Group
ary spaces can be revived in a modern way (figure 6.27). building (Photo by Jung-Woong Jung)
94 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

The complex circulation system is a

third refinement of traditional spatial
concepts. The Space Group building
deploys a number of stairways and corri-
dors to create a long, complicated circula-
tion system, replete with a variety of views
and scenes, that recalls the intermittent
sequence experienced in traditional
buildings and sites. Kim’s technique hides
most of the stairways behind and between
narrow walls, providing a level of psycho-
logical suspense when climbing up and
down the stairways. The experience can
be sudden and exciting—for example, one
may be climbing a tight, compact stair-
case that suddenly opens out onto a vast
empty space, creating a dramatic surprise.
This type of experience is especially remi-
niscent of traditional Korean buildings
Fig. 6.26 Entrance and a small interstitial courtyard of the Space Group building where spaces, completely closed by walls,
(Photo by Jung-Woong Jung) suddenly open onto a spacious courtyard.

Impact of the Space Group Building

The Space Group building is a masterly
example of how to breathe life into spatial
concepts drawn from traditional archi-
tecture. Yet the building is exceptional,
because it was designed as Kim’s own
office and residence, and he had consider-
able latitude to experiment with a variety
of spatial concepts over the long period of
its construction. Could this way of organ-
izing space be transferred to other circum-
stances? The Arko Gallery, designed by
Kim, offers a clear answer. Built a year later,
the building reveals a similar approach to
spatial organization. The courtyard at the
front is both internal and external. Major
functions such as the exhibition hall,
offices, and restaurants are separated, yet
connected by a single continuous circula-
tion path, into which unique intermediary
spaces have been inserted.
Nevertheless, the notion that the spatial
concepts of the Space Group building can
Fig. 6.27 Plans of the Yeongyeongdang in Changdeokgung Palace (top) (Joo be universally applied to the building
1994, 99) and the Space Group building (bottom) (Swoo-Geun Kim 1980, 113). A types of our time remains question-
comparison of the two plans shows how much Kim’s design for the Space Group able. This would require more functional
building was influenced by traditional houses. design attitudes. Kim appeared to wrestle

with this problem while designing office buildings.
When he designed the Saemteo building, he approached
the task with the same concept he had developed in the
Space Group building but soon realized the limitations
of its method. Since then, that spatial configuration has
not been repeated, at least in his office buildings. In the
design of two buildings, the new Space Group building
in Gongneung and the headquarters of the Korean
Overseas Development Corporation, which he under-
took in the 1980s, he used a different spatial concept.
The primary changes in these buildings are that their
forms are not perceived as layers but as volumes, and
their spaces are no longer suggestive of a sharp contrast
between singular places. Instead, they are incorporated
into one central space. Accordingly, the overlapping of
multilayered scenes and the sequence of intermediary
spaces, which constitute the essential aspects of Kim’s
spatial concept, cannot be experienced in these build-
ings. In the Gongneung Building, Swoo-Geun Kim did
not try to establish singular places within the building
because it seemed to him that those places caused many
functional problems in an office setting. The building
was therefore conceived as one unified space without
strong spatial contrasts. What this means is that while
Kim’s innovations in the Space Group building had
great significance in the quest for a modern identity
in Korean architecture, they also had limited practical
application.
In spite of this partial success, it is evident that
Kim’s research opened up new horizons in Korean
architectural discourse. In the 1960s, discussions of
tradition were limited to formal systems. Most of the
attention was lavished on the transformations of par-
ticular forms that could be wrought by using modern
materials. The essential elements in Korean architecture
remained obscured. Kim’s example opened the way to
a study of the key processes involved in reinterpret-
ing traditional architectural space. Furthermore, Kim’s
Fig. 6.28 Diagram of Heryoojae Hospital, Young-Joon Kim, 2004 (Courtesy of yo2 Architects Ltd)
The Quest for Architectural Identity 95
search for an alternative to the modernist architecture
that was facing great challenges in the 1970s inspired
many young Korean architects. By placing traditional
spatial concepts at the heart of architectural design, he
proposed a new way of overcoming many of modern
architecture’s inherent problems. These are Kim’s major
contributions to architectural history. Many Korean
architects who debuted in the 1990s were heavily
influenced by his ideas and expanded upon them in
numerous ways. Although much time has gone by since
his death, Kim’s ideas still dominate architectural dis-
course in Korea.
Hyo-Sang Seung and Young-Joon Kim, who founded
their own offices after working for Swoo-Geun Kim in
the 1970s and 1980s, extended their mentor’s ideas by
combining them with Western trends. Given the fact
that they both brought the cityscape into the interior of
their buildings, activated the potentialities inherent in
the void, and put the inside of their buildings on display,
we can say they were indebted to Dutch architects, espe-
cially MVRDV.26 However, what we must keep in mind
is that most of those design methods had already been
explored in Swoo-Geun Kim’s Space Group building.
The Heryoojae Hospital designed by Young-Joon Kim
in 2004 shows how Swoo-Geun Kim’s spatial concepts
have evolved into a twenty-first-century design tech-
nique. Like the Space Group building, this building
shows a strong contrast between a simple cubic form
and the complicated inner space of a hospital. The
difference here is that the young architect has more
actively stressed the building’s interconnections with its
urban setting (figures 6.28, 6.29). This approach reflects
a changing view of how architecture can be defined in
a globalizing era. In other words, as younger architects
confronted the challenges of working in a high-density
environment, they found they had to take more seri-
ously the impact of the urban surroundings on their
design process.
96 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 6.29 Heryoojae Hospital, Young-Joon Kim, 2004 (Photo
by Jae-Kyeong Kim)
Fig. 6.30 Model of the Humax Village, Hyo-Sang Seung, 2006
(Courtesy of Iroje Architects and Planners)
With that in mind, Young-Joon Kim started the
project with the idea of a stratification of layers in
which various hospital functions could be stacked
in high density. As he observed, “Hospital buildings
include business, commercial, and residential facili-
ties with equal values. In this situation, the main key
is how to link each function and how to integrate indi-
vidual programs.”27 Developing the initial concept, he
came up with an important notion: that of the void. In
this building, a variety of void spaces were created to
mediate the functions of different areas, much as Swoo-
Geun Kim’s intermediary spaces connected separate
places. “As open spaces disperse in every direction in
cities, they do the same, on artificial ground, in the
hospital. Only these spaces function as open and lively
places rather than a contemplative garden.”
Hyo-Sang Seung employed a similar approach in his
design for Humax Village in 2006. When the founder
of Humax, one of the most prosperous venture enter-
prises in Korea, commissioned Seung to design a new
workspace for young start-up companies, the architect
could not resist the opportunity to explore innovative
spatial concepts in an office building. The site is located
on the border of Bundang, one of the five new towns
developed around Seoul in the 1990s. Seung wanted to
design a new type of office space, premised on the idea
of reflecting the values of an open society in a unique
interior space—in this case, uncovered courtyards
soaring into the sky (figure 6.30). The vertical spaces
cut through thirteen floors and connect the building’s
major functions with devices such as stairs, elevators,
and escalators. They also reveal the enriched potential
of the void, which, the architect believes, constitutes the
major strength of the Humax community.28 With these
spaces, he wanted to carve out an ideal community, one
that occupies the “in-between” spaces in today’s “absurd
towers,” and relocate the small alleyways and court-
yards of traditional Korean villages into a modern office
building. In the spatial concepts of these two buildings,
Swoo-Geun Kim’s legacy can be seen writ large.

The Semantics of Technology
The impressive office buildings lined up along boule-
vards in the newly built areas of Korea stand as a testa-
ment to the technological achievements of the modern
era. But in the early stages, Korean architects found it
difficult to grasp the full significance of the technology
they were using. There are several explanations for this.
First, the term technology had been narrowly construed
as a concept pertaining to the tools and techniques
used in the construction process, a short-sightedness
that prevented Korean architects from arriving at any
understanding of how the meanings of buildings and
the values they embodied could be redefined through
technological innovation. Second, since the level of
Korean technology was still some two to three decades
behind that of industrial countries in the West, the
topic had not yet arisen as a matter for attention. Until
the 1980s, architectural discourse in Korea had been
dominated by the question of regionalism. The archi-
tects who imitated the glass skyscrapers of Mies van der
Rohe in the 1960s had done so without delving very far
into the relationship between architecture and technol-
ogy. But during the 1980s, questions arising from the
domain of technology arrived at the center of debate.
The Limits of Technology in the Sixties
The architect who taught that tectonics was the most
important theme of architectural discourse in the twen-
tieth century was Mies van der Rohe. Among Korean
architects, it was Jong-Soo Kim who introduced Mies’
principles to Korea and realized them in his own work.
He is also said to have been the first Korean architect to
have sought to comprehend the semantics of technol-
ogy. Kim opened his own firm in 1953 after graduating
from the Gyeongseong Superior School of Engineering.
In 1957, he took the opportunity to study for a year at
the University of Minnesota, where he came face to face
with the latest architectural technologies.1 Shocked by
Mies van der Rohe’s glass skyscrapers, Kim devoted
himself to studying the great architect’s work.2 Mies was
Chapter
7
then at the zenith of his career. The apartment towers
on Lake Shore Drive had just been completed, and the
Seagram building was under construction. The sky-
scrapers associated with Mies’ techniques had become a
powerful diagram, and his construction methods were
in wide use among other American architectural firms.
Jong-Soo Kim was particularly drawn to the tech-
nology of the curtain wall. After returning to Korea, he
adapted it in the design of St. Mary’s Hospital in Seoul,
employing an aluminum curtain-wall system, which
had not previously been seen in Korea (figure 7.1). The
nine-story hospital building fulfilled Kim’s ambition
to bring Mies’ principles to Korea, but in comparison
with contemporary buildings produced in the West, it
revealed several defects. The structural span was only
5.4 m x 4.8 m, because of the low strength of domesti-
cally produced concrete, and this necessitated the use of
frequent, large pillars, between which the curtain wall
was inserted. Unfortunately, the effect negated Mies’
precept that the curtain wall should enhance the inter-
play of reflecting light. The building materials available
at the time had made it impossible to fully realize Mies’
glass skyscraper in Korea.
Ki-Hyung Bae was another Korean architect who
pushed against the limits of technology in the 1960s.
Bae, who had been employed at Yahada Steel in Japan,
Fig. 7.1 St. Mary’s Hospital, Jong-Soo Kim, 1958–1963 (Photo
by Young-Chae Park)
98 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
was the only structural expert in Korea who could
design steel structures after the liberation. He thus took
charge of many factory designs for companies such as
Cheil Industries and Cheil Sugar Manufacturing, which
were affiliates of the Samsung Group. In particular, the
extension of the TOP factory for Cheil Industries, in
1965, used a 16 m wide cylindrical folded shell struc-
ture. A major issue in the construction of concrete shell
structures is the difficulty of casting concrete in an even
thickness to balance structural loads. In Korea, this
problem was exponentially compounded by the lack
of skilled experience in the work force. The building
faced even further difficulties when the asphalt insula-
tion melted, causing problems in waterproofing, which
required the addition of another roof on top of the shell
structure, negating its original purpose. Bae’s design for
the UNESCO building in Seoul featured an aluminum
curtain wall, but instead of the pillars Kim had used
to stiffen his curtain wall, Bae used cantilevered slabs,
from which he hung the curtain wall. The rounded
corners of the building, accentuated by the peculiar
detail of the spandrel, reveal Bae’s efforts to develop his
own architectural idiom, but the complicated plan, with
its fragmented elevation, was far removed from Mies’
principles (figure 7.2).
The headquarters building of the Choheung Bank
clearly displayed the technological limitations that
Korean architects faced in the 1960s. In large part,
the design mimicked the famed Lever House, the first
building to be clad with a curtain wall in New York
City. Like the New York office tower, the tower of the
bank building was offset from its horizontal base and
clad with glimmering glass and a metal curtain wall.
Fig. 7.2 UNESCO
building, Ki-Hyung Bae,
1959–1966 (Photo by
Young-Chae Park)
Fig. 7.3 Student Hall, Yonsei University, Jong-Soo Kim, 1968.
(Photo by Young-Chae Park)
The building’s proportions, however, were a distinct
disappointment compared to its glorious predeces-
sor, for the fifteen-story building lacked loft. Another
crucial difference could be found in the curtain wall
itself. The architect used a domestically produced
aluminum panel for the curtain wall.3 This venture-
some experiment resulted in disaster. Shortly after the
building was completed, exfoliation of the aluminum
colorant surrounded the building with a noxious odor.
A mere twenty years after its completion, the dete-
riorated aluminum subframe had to be replaced with
concealed aluminum glazing channels, a state-of-the-
art solution in curtain wall technology at the time.
Through the entire process, Korean architects learned
painful lessons about the coloration of aluminum and
the insulation of glass in the building of an aluminum
curtain wall.
Brought short by the deficiencies in Korean con-
struction techniques, architects focused on seeking
an alternative that would reconcile advanced technol-
ogy with aesthetic principles. Precast concrete (PC)
curtain walls, introduced to Korea by Jong-Soo Kim,
soon became an alternative to the aluminum curtain
wall. Kim’s first experiment with a PC curtain wall
occurred in the design of his own three-story house in
Seoul, where he used the technique to clad two sides of
the reinforced concrete building. Liking the result, he
began to use it in his large-scale projects. The Student
Hall of Yonsei University exemplifies his desire to
create artistic forms using the new technique (figure
7.3). Here the PC curtain wall has a unique pattern,
abstracted from Gothic windows, which underscores
the missionary origins of the university. What Kim
and other architects recognized was twofold: although
 The Semantics of Technology 99

a PC curtain wall did not have the same impact as a

light and transparent aluminum structure, building one
was well within the capability of Korean construction
companies. As a consequence, most of the high-rise
buildings constructed in the 1970s in Korea used a PC
curtain wall as an outer skin. It was not until the early
1980s that the technological capacity to build curtain
walls with high levels of transparency was attained in
Korea, and once that technology became available, PC
curtain walls were effectively abandoned.

The Samilro Building Fig 7.4 Administrative building, Busan National University,
The architect who came closest to fulfilling Mies’ 1956 (renovated in 2005) (Photo by Inha Jung)
ideals in Korea was Chung-Up Kim. After returning
to Korea, his first attempt to achieve the transparency
of a curtain wall was the design of the administrative
building of Busan National University in 1956 (figure
7.4). It was not until 1969, when he was commissioned
to design a headquarters building for Sammi Steel, that
he was able to return to that experiment. The client
had requested a building made simply of steel and
glass in order to showcase its own product, and Kim
now realized that the new building could be modeled
after Mies’ Seagram building. Yet, in spite of its seeming
mimicry of the Seagram building, Kim’s design for the
Samilro building differs in many respects. The most
conspicuous differences can be found in the structural
modules and the details of the curtain wall system. In
comparison with the Seagram module, which has an
8.4 m x 8.4 m structural bay with mullions spaced every
Fig. 7.5 Samilro building, plan
1.4 m, the structural bay of the Samilro module is 9 m
x 9 m with a mullion spacing of 0.9 m. In other words,
each Samilro module contains four more I-beams than
its counterpart in the Seagram building. According to
Jong-Soung Kimm, the great researcher of Mies’ work,
the tighter intervals of the I-beams in the Samilro
building function as decorative elements rather than as
a tectonic language (figures 7.5, 7.6).4
Another noteworthy difference is the thinner fascia
of the Samilro building. The initial design was for
a building 140 m high, but the wind pressure at the
height of 120 m was already too great, so the tower was
pushed down to 115 m. To make the adjustment, Kim
had to puncture holes in the steel structure to accom-
modate the difference in height, and thin out the fascia.
The last major difference between the two buildings
is the thickness of the columns. The Samilro building
has disproportionately thick columns compared to its
height, due to a last-minute client-driven change that Fig. 7.6 Seagram building, plan
100 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 7.7 Samilro
building, Chung-Up
Kim, 1969–1971
(Photo by Young-
Chae Park)
heightened the building from twenty-six to thirty-one
stories.5 The steel order had already been issued to a
Japanese manufacturer, so the architect improvised by
adding concrete reinforcements, which thickened the
columns and cramped the interior. Yet, despite these
defects and the criticism that it is merely a clone of
the Seagram building, the Samilro building should be
credited with realizing Mies’ vision to near perfection,
even with the shortcomings of Korean construction
technology at the time. As the tallest building in Korea
until the 1980s, the Samilro building was a landmark at
the center of Seoul, and it remains iconic of the nation’s
developmental period (figure 7.7).
The Emergence of Technological Discourse
By the outset of the 1980s, economic growth had
brought advancements in construction techniques and
increased production of industrial materials, but it
still was not possible to build steel structures without
importing H-beams and I-beams from Japan. The
exorbitant cost of doing so inhibited many architects
from considering it a feasible option. Buildings made
of steel like the Samilro building and the head office of
Korean Airlines were exceptional and had only come
about through a strong commitment on the part of the
client. But starting in the 1980s, several steel companies
equipped themselves with large equipment for welding
and related apparatus, and their increased capacity
boosted production of steel materials for construction.
Incheon Steel began manufacturing H- and I-beams in
1982, and the addition of this capability made it possible
for domestic production of steel structures to take place
from that point on. These changes in the Korean steel
industry facilitated the emergence of technology as a
major topic of architectural discourse.
Another significant factor was the hosting of inter-
national events in Korea, most notably the 1988 Seoul
Olympics. The organization of these events required that
international standards be met, not only in stadiums
but in all public facilities. Eager to show off the coun-
try’s economic progress, the Korean government made
massive investments in urban architecture. Never before
had Korean architects been allowed so much freedom to
work. Through these developments, cutting-edge tech-
nologies gained new relevance, and many were intro-
duced in the public facilities built at the time, including
the centerpiece Seoul Olympic Stadium. Structural
experts from abroad proved to be of immense assistance
in these endeavors, particularly David H. Geiger from
the United States and Germany’s Jörg Schlaich. The
Seoul Olympics brought about the rapid construction
not just of stadiums, but of a wide range of other facili-
ties, including cultural centers, transportation hubs,
and convention centers. And the end of the Olympics
did not impede the continuing intake of new technolo-
gies—the 1992 Daejeon Expo and the 2002 Korea-Japan
World Cup helped maintain the momentum.
The last factor that brought awareness of technol-
ogy to the fore was the influx of large international
architectural offices. Starting in the 1980s, major con-
glomerates in Korea began hiring foreign architectural
firms for their projects, and, once in Korea, the inter-
national architects used sophisticated techniques that
were not yet available to local architects. In particular,
large American offices like SOM, KPF, HOK, and CRS,
and Japan’s Nikken Sekkei participated in the design
of high-rise buildings and had an enormous influence
in the Korean architectural scene. Until that point,
Korean architects had mostly been working within a
limited environment. Seeing the latest technologies at
work proved a shock—so much so that it prompted a
questioning of the existing discourse. There was a new
awareness at hand, a desire to look beyond the narrow
boundaries of Korea and join contemporary trends in
global architecture. Attempts to apply new materials
and techniques to local projects soon followed. Together
with the factors mentioned previously, this proved to be
the catalyst that moved the meaning of technology to
the center of the debate.

Faced with the sudden change in their profession,
Korean architects responded by increasing the size of
their offices and prioritizing the use of advanced tech-
nologies in their work. Until the 1970s, there were few
firms with more than one hundred employees, because
of the scale of the projects. But as the projects became
larger and more demanding in their requirements,
the atelier-style firms had to expand to survive in the
new environment. The first Korean architectural firm
to expand was Swoo-Geun Kim’s Space Group, which
increased from twenty to about one hundred practi-
tioners within ten years. In addition, large firms such
as Junglim, Wondoshi, SAC, and Samoo began to be
established. As firms scaled up, the buildings that used
advanced technologies became the natural focus of
architectural discourse in Korea.
Exploring the Tectonics of Space
Chung-Up Kim’s Samilro building, although a near-
perfect replica of Mies’ architecture, showed its limi-
tations in two ways. First, since most of the materials
had been imported from Japan, it demonstrated that
Korean manufacturing was not yet advanced enough to
support similar constructions. Second, having followed
the Seagram building by a decade, the Samilro building
failed to offer any new insight into, or advance on, Mies’
work. Jong-Soung Kimm, on the other hand, was a
student of Mies van der Rohe who attempted to realize
his ideas about tectonics in Korea and was able to create
new variations on his work. Through his understanding
of the underlying issues related to the use of technology,
Kimm played an influential role in shaping the archi-
tectural discourse of the 1980s and, in so doing, became
the preeminent architect in Korea.
The Inuence of Mies
By the time Jong-Soung Kimm entered the Illinois
Institute of Technology (IIT) in 1956, Mies van der Rohe
had already stopped teaching undergraduate courses in
architecture. Nevertheless, his presence could be felt
across the campus. Kimm followed the elaborate cur-
riculum that had been planned by Mies and began to
develop his own architectural ideas. When he entered
Mies’s office in 1961, he felt it was a pivotal moment in
his career. Over the next eleven years, he took part in
large projects such as the Toronto-Dominion Centre,
the Chicago Federal Center, the Krupp administration
The Semantics of Technology 101
building in Essen, and the Museum of Fine Arts in
Houston. Under the guidance of the master, Kimm
learned to transform Mies’ ideas into reality. At the
same time, he observed the activities of “Miesians” such
as Myron Goldsmith and Jacques Brownson, who were
at their peak in the architectural world of Chicago in
the 1960s.
In 1972, Kimm left Mies’ office to take up a profes-
sorship at IIT. In 1978, he resigned from that position
and returned to Korea to establish an architectural
design consultancy, SAC International. His representa-
tive works, such as the Seoul Hilton Hotel, the Korea
Military Academy library, the weightlifting gymnasium
for the 1988 Seoul Olympics, the Art Sonjae Center,
and the SK headquarters building were designed and
built in the 1980s and early 1990s. Through this body
of work, Jong-Soung Kimm established a tectonic logic
based on technology while continuing to develop his
abundant spatial imagination.
Kimm’s Concept of Technology
Searching for an accurate understanding of Jong-Soung
Kimm’s architecture starts with an exploration of his
concept of technology, for it supports the constructiv-
ist logic which he consistently maintained throughout
his designs. Kimm’s concept was applied in his work
in several different ways. First, like Mies, Jong-Soung
Kimm accepted technology as the spirit of the time.
As he once stated, “We must accept that the spirit of
science and technology dominates all aspects of our
life. Therefore, returning to a pure sense of value and
making progress toward the goal that modernism has
set out for itself are the architect’s mission.”6 Kimm was
able to maintain a consistent attitude toward architec-
ture throughout his career because of the historical
awareness he brought to his role. He saw himself within
a continuum of technological progress and attempted
to express its dynamic forces.7
Second, technology was nothing less than an impor-
tant aesthetic element in Kimm’s architecture. Kimm
not only saw technology conjoined with materials,
structure, and detail, but also let it play a key role in
raising his projects to a poetic level. He believed internal
truth should not be altered for external expression.
In that sense, his concept of technology differed from
that of the high-tech architects. According to Kimm,
beautiful architecture reveals internal structural truth.
This notion of “internal truth” is well illustrated in the
weightlifting gymnasium designed for the 1988 Seoul
102 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

Olympics. Strongly influenced by Mies van der Rohe’s the paramount architectural beauty is attained when
Chicago Convention Center and National Theater in aesthetics can reveal inner truth. Kimm’s ideas can be
Mannheim, Kimm adopted the Takenaka skewed-chord clearly understood if we compare two tall buildings that
space truss system that David H. Geiger, the eminent were built simultaneously in downtown Seoul in the
American structural engineer, had recommended. By mid-1990s: Kimm’s SK building and the Samsung Tower
using this structural system, Kimm was able to reduce designed by Rafael Vinoly. Although the two buildings
construction costs by prefabricating the entire frame- have a similar program and were built on about the
work, even down to the skylight. Although the struc- same scale, the perspectives on the use of technology
tural elements are clad with aluminum panels, Kimm in architecture that they embody are entirely different.
was clear about his intention to articulate the complex The building by Vinoly reacts to its setting in a way that
structural system at the project’s exterior (figure 7.8). overpowers its neighbors, attempting to impose a new
Third, technology acted as an important means to order on the city (figure 11). The SK building, in sharp
achieve efficient optimization, an aspect of construc- contrast, is simply shaped like a box. The gridded form
tion that was highly esteemed in American pragmatism. reflects Kimm’s minimalist values in deemphasizing the
Jong-Soung Kimm used technology to find optimal intentions of the architect so that only the fundamental
solutions to the problems posed by differing elements, aspects of the architecture are expressed.
including functionality, spatial area, economics, the sat-
isfaction of users, urban context, and form. The head-
quarters building for the SK Corporation, constructed
recently in downtown Seoul, demonstrates these
optimizations (figures 7.9, 7.10). Despite its evident
similarity to Myron Goldsmith’s Brunswick building
(1965), the natural, social, and urban contexts of the
SK building were entirely different. Accordingly, Kimm
adopted different mechanical systems, elevations, and
exterior cladding details. Although not used in the SK
building, Kimm’s use of the operable projected window
elsewhere in his work also is an example of innovation
due to context. Kimm believed natural ventilation in
an office building could be suitable for Korea’s mild
climate, and that its presence would change the eleva-
tion of the buildings. For Jong-Soung Kimm, the reali- Fig. 7.9 SK corporate
ties of the surrounding context were crucial elements headquarters, Jong-Soung
in forming the regional identity of Korean architecture. Kimm, 1986–1999 (Photo
Finally, Jong Soung Kimm’s ideas about technology by Ho-Kwan Park)
had moral and ethical implications. According to him,

Fig. 7.8 Weight-lifting gymnasium, 1988 Seoul Olympics, Fig. 7.10 Detail, SK building’s exterior wall (Photo by
Jong-Soung Kimm, 1984–1986 (Photo by Ho-Kwan Park) Ho-Kwan Park)

Fig. 7.11 Samsung Tower, Rafael Vinoly, 1999 (Photo by Inha
Jung)
A Tectonic Space
The major features of Jong-Soung Kimm’s buildings
in the 1980s emerged from intensive efforts to realize
his vision of a “space full of light.” His concern with
the interaction of light and space opened opportuni-
ties for exploring directionality and centrality in space,
and these experiments led him to a unique architec-
tural world of his own making. When new structural
methods had to be devised to support these spatial
concepts, Kimm reexamined the role the composition
of columns and walls played in creating new spaces. In
this work, his initial inspirations had come from three
different sources—Mies van der Rohe, Louis Kahn, and
Western medieval religious architecture.
Although the greatest influence on Jong-Soung
Kimm was undoubtedly Mies van der Rohe, Kimm had
found the architectural and social atmosphere at IIT
radically changed when he joined the faculty there in
1972. During that tumultuous period, young students
and architects refused to accept preexisting tenets, and
postmodern architects blamed Mies van der Rohe for
the shortcomings of modern architecture. In these
circumstances, Kimm agonized over the direction of
his career and began to see the 1970s as a transitional
The Semantics of Technology 103
period. He felt he needed a breakthrough to resolve the
problems associated with Mies’ architecture, and to that
end he began to study the techniques of Le Corbusier
and Louis Kahn in relation to the use of light and
space. In 1968, he had visited Le Corbusier’s Ronchamp
Chapel and the Convent of La Tourette, but his true
inspiration was found in the work of Louis Kahn, which
he extensively researched for a design studio at IIT. The
Kimbell Art Museum and the Yale Center for British
Art, in particular, held special meaning for Kimm as
they both demonstrated a dramatic spatial manipula-
tion of natural light.
Louis Kahn’s gift was different from that of Mies,
and the spatial differences between their works can
be described in several ways. First, their architectural
origins were very different. Mies’s architecture had
developed under the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright
and the European avant-garde, whose works sought to
render time and space in purely geometric forms, visu-
alized as continuous and floating flexible spaces. Kahn’s
spatial ideas came from precedents in the Beaux-Arts
tradition. Paul P. Cret, a strict adherent of the Beaux-
Arts movement, was Kahn’s most influential mentor.
An assemblage of various chambers, clearly defined
as “rooms,” characterized his architecture. Under this
influence, Kahn rejected Mies’ idea of a continuous
flowing space and chose instead to develop relation-
ships between individual rooms as his foremost spatial
concept. “Room is the beginning of architecture,” he
wrote. “It is the place of the mind. You in the room
with its dimensions, its structure, its light respond to its
character, its spiritual aura, recognizing that whatever
the human proposes and makes becomes a life.”8 For
Kahn, natural light brought architecture to life. Light
is not only an instrument of our perception of things,
but is the very source of matter itself. Therefore, he said,
“To design space is to design light.” He devised various
devices to draw light into the buildings: in the Kimbell
Art Museum, Kahn used reflectors to help light pass
through long slits at the zenith of the vault structures,
and in the Yale Center for British Art, natural light
passes through deep gridded beams. If the most impor-
tant element in Kahn’s architecture is the quality of
light in architectural space, it can be argued that Mies’
architecture was insufficiently attentive to the impor-
tance of light. The glass windows that characterized
Mies’ buildings in Germany were conceived in relation
to the transparency of space, the interpenetrations of
internal and external spaces, and perception-related
104 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

movements; they were not situated in relation to light.

Mies’ buildings in the United States created anony-
mous and uniform spaces; hence the manipulation of
light was used only as a means to provide a universal
space, and the inflow of light was evenly restrained to
disperse hierarchies. Indeed, while designing Crown
Hall, Mies punched a hole in the center of the roof to
create a machine room, which initially might have been
misconstrued as a skylight. However, the hole is purely
functional, used for ventilation, and had Mies been able
to, he would have eliminated it entirely to create a per-
fectly uniform space.
As Louis Kahn had done before him, Jong-Soung
Kimm turned his attention to Western medieval archi- Fig. 7.12 Korea Military Academy library, Jong-Soung Kimm,
tecture in order to explore its spacial effects. In par- 1980–1982 (Photo by Ho-Kwan Park)
ticular, the light streaming in through the clerestory at
the Mausoleum of Santa Costanza that he accidentally
visited while traveling in Rome affected him greatly. He
found the light breaking into the sides of the church,
brightening the secret interior of the building. Kimm
was also inspired by the rhythmic structural systems
of Romanesque cathedrals, and he carefully studied
the subtle manipulations of piers in Gothic cathedrals
to integrate the internal spaces through their form and
movement. Kimm attempted to reflect these experi- Fig. 7.13 Art Sonje Museum, Gyeongju, Jong-Soung Kimm,
ences in the buildings he designed, making natural light 1987–1991 (Photo by Ho-Kwan Park)
the driving force of his architectural concept. This also
became a recurring motif in several of the exhibition
facilities and hotels he would later design.
The spaces Kimm created in his explorations differ
from the works of Louis Kahn in some important ways.
Kahn’s manipulations of light were ultimately aimed at
creating an inwardly contemplative, sacred experience,
whereas Kimm experimented with light in order to give
a spatial direction within unfolded space as seen in his
design for the Korea Military Academy library (figure
7.12). Following his own compass, Kimm’s work had
led him to something new: a tectonic space.9 Unlike
Kahn, who attempted to create a monumental space
consisting of walls, floors, and ceilings, Kimm clearly
revealed columns, structural members, and the skylight
to determine the nature of the space. In Kimm’s build-
ings, the arrangement of columns, the intervals among
columns, the relationships between walls and columns,
and the relationship between columns and the ceiling
were all determined with reference to visual and struc-
tural considerations. Light is transmitted as rhythmical
waves rather than a mystical substance, as in Kahn’s
architecture. This turned out to be Kimm’s method of Fig. 7.14 Art Sonje Museum (Photo by Ho-Kwan Park)

reconciling Mies’ techniques for spatial transformation
with Kahn’s techniques for transforming light. Through
this method, he expressed the interplay between light
and space in his own distinctive way, and this quality
has characterized Kimm’s architecture since the 1980s
(figures 7.13, 7.14).
New Expressions of Technology
In the 1980s, important innovations that stimulated
the architectural discourse of technology were seen
in the tubular structural system, new curtain wall
technologies, and membrane structures. The tubular
system appeared in several thirty-to-forty-story build-
ings that were constructed in Korea during this period.
The system came from Chicago, during the golden
age of the 1960s, when exterior structural frames were
being developed. Major issues involved stiffening the
members into continuous tubes, to eliminate shearing,
racking, and distortions of the outer wall.10 SOM first
introduced this system in the design of the LG Twin
Towers, and the architects of the SK building and ASEM
tower followed suit.
Together with this structural system, innovations
in curtain wall systems were adopted to clad high-
rise buildings in Korea. In the past, curtain walls had
employed the stick method, where long members were
sandwiched vertically between floors and horizontally
between columnar members. Framing members were
prefabricated off site, but all installation of the glazing
was performed on site. This process caused adjustment
issues in a variety of environmental factors, such as the
control of natural light and heat insulation. Moreover,
as buildings rose ever higher, more elaborate curtain
wall systems were required. A new curtain wall system
appeared in the 1970s in the United States where the
entire panels, including glazing, were fabricated off site.
The completed units were then hung from the building
structure to form the building enclosure. This pan-
elized curtain wall system had the advantages of speed,
lower site-installation costs, and quality control. It also
provided a continuous facade of reflective glass, finally
realizing the Miesian diagram of the glass skyscraper,
and this change has been very evident in the evolving
appearance of Korean cities.
Emblematic of such change is the Daehan Life
building, designed by Choon-Myeong Park. Modeled
after the Chicago First Bank building, the Daehan Life
The Semantics of Technology 105
Fig. 7.15 Daehan Life building, Choon-Myung Park+SOM,
1978–1985 (Photo by Young-Chae Park)
building was the tallest structure at the time in Korea,
and it became a new landmark for the nation’s capital.
The elegant structure protrudes out of the middle of
the Hangang riverbank, creating an engaging relation-
ship with its setting. What was shocking to Korean
architects was the surface technology of this building.
It was totally different from the I-beam mullions of
the Samilro building or the PC panels of the Samsung
headquarters building. The glazing used is a reflective
double-insulated glass with a golden tint, and the color
of the curtain wall changes depending on the angle of
the sunlight, enlivening the urban atmosphere. Due
to the temperature-control properties of the material
itself, there is less need for loud and clunky mechanical
systems, which helps to create a pleasant office environ-
ment. The popular and critical success of the Daehan
Life building affirmed its place in Korean architectural
history as the predecessor of the many high-rise glass
skyscrapers that were to follow (figure 7.15).
The curtain wall system has since evolved to empha-
size the transparency of glass while maintaining the
same climate-control levels of opaque facades. This
change was the result of progress in glass technology.
The development of low-emissivity glass in the late
1980s made it possible to improve transparency and
thermal efficiency simultaneously. Moreover, while
traditional window systems obstruct the visual appeal
106 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 7.16 POSCO center, Gansam Architects, 1995 (Photo by
Inha Jung)
of large openings with framing members, a structural
glass wall system has been developed that overcomes
the restrictions of conventional frames, creating the
ultimate all-glass façade. These systems maximize the
view and draw light deep into the interior. In order for
this system to work, individual panes are fixed to a sup-
porting structure, such as the space frame, structural
metalwork, or brackets.
The POSCO center made use of this new curtain wall
technology. Located in the center of Gangnam, Seoul’s
busiest commercial district, two twenty-story and
thirty-story towers rise from the site. The two build-
ings and their surroundings are joined by a transparent
atrium, which instantly became a major public attrac-
tion, symbolizing the achievement of state-of-the-art
technology.11 To create maximum transparency at street
level, the architects introduced a structural glass wall
system, supporting the glazing with a space frame and
structural metalwork. The POSCO center successfully
achieved a new technological aesthetic. Along with the
POSCO center, Chung-Soo Won and Soon Ji, architects
of the Gansam Group, designed the high-tech aesthetic
of the Kolon building in Gwacheon. Here machine-
like steel louvers were wrapped around the building to
develop a strong sense of plasticity (figure 7.16).
Membrane Structures
Together with high-rise office buildings, many large-
scale structures such as public stadiums and gymna-
siums contributed to the ongoing exploration of the
semantics of technology in architecture. For the struc-
tures erected for pan-national events such as the 1988
Seoul Olympics and the 2002 World Cup, Korean archi-
tects contributed to the development of several new
structural systems. The steel structures of the 1960s
gave way to the space truss, space frame, and membrane
structures of the 1980s. Among these systems, the space
frame and space truss were favored because of their
efficient conveyance of the flow of forces through the
combination of linear members, using connectors. The
telling difference was the joint method of the linear
members. In other words, the space frame refers to a
structure whose linear members are connected as a
rigid frame, whereas a space truss is defined as a struc-
tural system whose linear members are jointed by pins.
Thus, the space truss breaks down into several types,
depending on the connector’s form and details. The
most common type was the ‘Mero’ structure, consisting
of pre-fabricated nodes and members. Many ordinary
buildings partially introduced it due to its ability to
cover a large space in a convenient way.
The Takenaka system applied to Jong-Soung Kimm’s
weightlifting gymnasium for the 1988 Seoul Olympics
was also a kind of space truss (figure 7.17). David
Geiger had recommended the system, based on its use
in the American Museum of Natural History in New
York. The advantages of this structural system are that
it is economical compared to space frames in general,
as less structural frame per unit space is consumed, and
at the same time its structural system can be produced
very efficiently.12 Moreover, it has the spatial advantage
that “lower chords can be located relatively sparsely
without visual impediment, and for the upper chords,
structural members can be placed in the same direction
as the roof.”13 If the two-way trusses had been used as
intended initially, the lower chords would have formed
a thick layer, undermining visual openness, thereby
failing to create the space Kimm had intended. Because
of these structural characteristics, Kimm installed sky-
lights in the middle of the weightlifting gymnasium to
draw light to the interior, and this was in keeping with
the spatial concept Kimm was absorbed in at the time.
(figure 7.18).
When the membrane structure was first introduced,
it was used only in large-scale structures, but it soon
 The Semantics of Technology 107

Fig. 7.18 Seoul Hilton Hotel, Jong-Soung Kimm, 1977–1983

(Photo by Young-Chae Park)

found further use in playgrounds, outdoor music stages,

exhibition halls, and even common houses. The system
consists of extruded posts, beams, tension rods, and a
variety of utilitarian structural components such as
bolts, screws, and a membrane for the cover. The parts
snap together to reduce the number of fasteners required
and to facilitate the construction process. The exposi-
tion of the precise assembly of the diverse components
in composing the curvilinear membrane form defines
the technological aesthetic. There are two types of
membrane structures. The first is the “air-support type,”
in which the membrane is made to swell by increasing
the air pressure at the interior by 0.3 percent relative to
the exterior. The second is the “suspension membrane
type,” where the structural components are incorporated
into the membrane like an umbrella. Korean architects
mostly employ the latter. Both methods were based
on the ideas of David H. Geiger, who has made great
contributions to the development of membrane struc-
tures. In particular, he debuted the tensegrity structure
Fig. 7.17 Structural systems of Korean gymnasiums (from top
in the Seoul Olympics gymnastic stadium with Korean
down): space truss in Hilton Hotel, Jong-Soung Kimm; tenseg-
architects Swoo-Geun Kim and Choon-Soo Ryu.14 This
rity structure in the Olympic gymnastic stadium, Swoo-Geun
cable dome achieves its great span by using continuous
Kim; Takenaka system in the Olympic weightlifting gymnasium,
tension cables and discreet compression posts. Loads
Jong-Soung Kimm; steel pipe truss structure in the Pohang
are carried from a central tension ring through a series
University of Science and Technology gymnasium, Wondoshi
of radial ridge cables, tension hoops, and intermediate
Architects
diagonals, resolving in a compression ring at its perim-
eter. Using this configuration, the dome behaves like a
series of paired cantilever trusses not quite touching at
its center (figure 7.19).15
108 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Korean architects once again identified the poten-
tial of membrane structures in the 1993 Daejeon
Exposition. In particular, the International Pavilion,
designed by Kwan-Young Choi, provided a template
to explore its applicability to diverse constructs. The
temporary pavilion, located at the center of the interna-
tional exposition area, was erected for the Korean gov-
ernment to lease to those participating countries that
did not have their own exhibition pavilion. The architect
adopted a Union Jack-shaped plan to provide a flexible
combination of seventy-two 18 m x 18 m units, as well
as to accommodate more convenient circulation. The
2 m basic module was applied to the whole of the con-
struction, including the space truss and external wall
panels. The most impressive feature of its appearance
was the tent roof suspended from the space truss. The
attempts in this building opened a new possibility: the
membrane structure was applicable to diverse building
types with intricate functions. Architect Choon-Soo
Ryu actually proved this possibility by introducing the
membrane structure into the design of his own office
and home.
The 2002 Korea-Japan World Cup offered another
opportunity to develop membrane structures. Mem-
branes covered the roofs of the stadiums except at
Daejeon and Suwon. However, diverse structures were
suggested to suspend the membranes. The roof struc-
tures were of four types. First, as in the Seoul, Jeonju
and Jeju stadiums, tube masts and sets of tensile cables
Fig. 7.19 Olympic gymnastic stadium, Swoo-Geun Kim,
1983–1986 (Photo by Jung-Woong Jung)
Fig. 7.20 World Cup stadium, Jeju, Il-In Hwang, 1999 (Photo
by Jeong-Sik Moon)
supported a roof frame composed of steel-framed
trusses, on which the membrane panels were formed.16
Second, the roofs of the Busan and Incheon stadiums
were constructed with a cable truss membrane struc-
ture, which was considered an appropriate structural
type to minimize the number of structural members
required for stability and support, and to keep the total
weight of the roof structure to a minimum. The third
type was used in the Daegu and Gwangju stadiums,
whose roof structures were designed as a long-span
arch system with a membrane. In Daegu, two struc-
tural arches were used for each roof. One spanned the
leading edge of the roof, creating a completely free span
opening to the field, and the second arch spanned the
rear edge of the roof. A system of secondary trusses
connected the front-edge arch with the rear-edge arch,
supporting a membrane roof covering. Finally, the roof
structure of Ulsan Stadium used backstays supported
by inclined masts secured to the stand structure.
Despite the differences in the structural system, the
Korean architects participating in the design of these
stadiums attempted to use the structures to symbolize
traditional culture and the identity they felt between it
and their high-tech creations. From the air, for example,
the roof of the Seoul stadium assumes the shape of a
traditional shield kite. The Jeju stadium was conceived
as an abstract representation of regional artifacts, and
offers a spectacular view to spectators. Each may be
considered an effort by a Korean architect to express for
his own time the meaning of technology (figure 7.20).
 Part
From Modernization to Globalization
3

Discovering Reality
From the late 1980s to the mid-1990s, Korean society
underwent a fundamental change. Politically, the end of
the military dictatorship allowed democratic systems to
take root, bringing to a close the developmental period
that had been controlled by military regimes for close
to thirty years. Instead of an export-oriented growth
policy, economic priority was now given to a balanced
distribution of economic gains. No longer could the
demands of the middle class, which had begun to share
wealth and power in the 1990s, be repressed. Socially, as
the pressure from population growth came virtually to
a halt, administrators no longer sought ways to develop
new urban spaces, shifting focus to discovering inno-
vative methods for renovating existing areas and reha-
bilitating the urban ecology destroyed in the postwar
development. The harbingers of economic globaliza-
tion, moreover, were beginning to be felt. The demise
of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War had
marked the advent of a new world order aligned toward
Western financial centers. Accordingly, Korean society
scrambled for a new formula to preserve stability and
ensure growth.
From this standpoint, the period from the late 1980s
to the mid-1990s can be considered a transitional
epoch. Korean society had achieved a fair level of mod-
ernization by this time.1 Yet, as seems always the case,
whenever a historical era is recognized and labeled as
such, the trajectory has already shifted. In the mid-
1990s, the full force of globalization arrived, and Korean
society, together with the rest of the world, is still expe-
riencing its repercussions. Nowadays, all economic and
cultural zones of Korean society have been integrated
into global systems. As a result, the theme of globaliza-
tion has come to dominate architectural and urban dis-
course. This is a huge change, for globalization radically
redefines the modernization process. Faced with these
challenges, Korean architects addressed the tasks of
critically examining the achievements of the twentieth
century and formulating a new discourse to accommo-
date a newly emerging world order.
Chapter
8
Reality in Architecture
Modern Korean architecture followed its own distinc-
tive path in the twentieth century. The differences
between its trajectory and the path followed by modern
architecture in the West can mostly be attributed to
Korea’s belated modernization.2 Indeed, recognition of
a temporal lag of almost one hundred years is crucial
for understanding modern Korean architecture and
the entire modernization process. That is to say, Korea’s
modernization can be defined as the realization of a
discursive system imported from the West. This process
could not resemble the way Western modernization
began and ran its course. In the West, a certain set of
sociopolitical circumstances ran into severe difficul-
ties, producing a succession of events that changed
not only the political order but the built environment
as well. Following the Industrial Revolution, radical
social change heralded the emergence of a new archi-
tecture, and the developing tenets of modern architec-
ture directly reflected, as well as challenged, the social
context that gave it birth. The resulting discourse was
the product of intellectual efforts to transform those
challenges into intelligible solutions. When, decades
later, this discursive system was transferred to Korea,
it already included within it hegemonic relationships
built on Western power and dominance. As a discur-
sive system, its primary function, to use Foucault’s
terminology, was not to communicate information but
to enforce a social order by categorizing, organizing,
structuring, and coding the world. However, since the
most appropriate architectural ideas were imported to
Korea in a piecemeal fashion according to need, the
discursive system they belonged to began to be seen
as transcendental. Many Korean architects attempted
to alter their social reality to match this ideal model
and looked at modernization as a process of realizing
Western values. Accordingly, Korean architects expe-
rienced a period of so-called orientalism—a pattern
wherein Koreans, searching for established principles
112 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
to define their own identity, filtered their perceptions
through a preestablished, and in this case Western, lens.
This meant that Korean architects lost the common
ground on which they stood. For example, Chung-Up
Kim’s Samilro building and Jong-Soung Kimm’s
Hyosung building were both modeled on Mies van der
Rohe’s glass skyscrapers, but the frame of reference for
each project was not the same. The Samilro building
was constructed using materials and methods imported
from Japan, whereas the Hyosung building relied on
Korean construction technologies and materials. The
two projects reflected entirely different socioeconomic
situations. So attempts to find a common value in the
two buildings, despite the fact that they originated from
the same diagram, are bound to be frustrated. Although
both buildings are located within easy reach of
downtown Seoul, they do not refer to the same things.
Another striking difficulty is apparent in attitudes
toward architectural tradition. In the West, a long archi-
tectural lineage had developed well before the advent of
modernization. However, those antiquated concepts and
methods of construction could not meet the challenges
that emerged after the Industrial Revolution. Modern
architects began to categorically reject traditional
building methods and experimented with new ones
based on mass-produced materials and industrialized
methods. In contrast, Korean architects sought to inte-
grate their designs with local building traditions rather
than rejecting them completely. This is because modern
architecture, as an imported ideology, had very little
to do with the socioeconomic reality of most Koreans,
including their lifestyle and thought patterns. As a result,
traditional architecture became a constitutive element of
an oppositional Korean identity formed with respect to
modern Western architecture. This delusion arose from
an inverse relationship between idea and reality, leading
Korean architects to believe, and thus realize, a whole-
sale division—Koreanness and tradition on one side,
representing a true national identity; modernism and
the West on the other side, albeit conceptually defined
and detached from realistic precepts.
Finally, this inversion was advanced as part of the
official ideology of the state during the developmen-
tal period when all architectural and urban policies
were dictated from the top down.3 That is, once it was
determined that modernization was a political goal,
the most important task for the military regime was to
accomplish it as effectively as possible. This imperative
led the government to establish a highly centralized
planning system and an “all at once” pattern of devel-
opment irrespective of the factual basis of any objec-
tions. Therefore, Korea’s modernization took place in a
way largely removed from the Western liberal pluralist
paradigm.4
Why, then, did the emphasis in architectural dis-
course shift to a more realistic appraisal of conditions
in the 1990s? After witnessing three decades of unprec-
edented economic growth, with a corresponding rise
in socioeconomic standards, the discipline of Korean
architecture had advanced and diversified. The advances
had created a platform where architectural discourse,
instead of promoting a single party line of progress as
it had in the past, was able to support multiple narra-
tives based on an increasing social diversity. As a result,
while Western architectural trends continued to flow
into Korea during the 1990s, they failed to dominate
the Korean situation as they had previously, and were
considered just one element, or sector, in a wide range
of architectural trends. For this reason, methodologies
devised to deal with real conditions began to dominate
the architectural discourse of the period in contrast to
the transcendental conceptual ideologies of the past. By
providing a common platform for different architectural
approaches, this new realism began to emerge as Korea
entered the 1990s and enabled Korean architectural dis-
course to attain a remarkable level of consistency.
Emergence of a New Discourse
Four factors determined the emergence of a new archi-
tectural discourse in Korea. The first was the sheer
number of projects that began construction during the
1980s and after, including new town developments that
aimed at 2 million units of housing and large infrastruc-
ture projects that created an unprecedented demand
for heavy and medium construction. With large inter-
national events being staged in Korea—including the
1988 Seoul Olympics, the 1992 Daejeon Expo, the 2000
ASEM Summit Meeting, the 2002 Korea-Japan World
Cup, and the Busan Asian Games—not only were con-
vention centers and stadium facilities needed, but auxil-
iary facilities such as airports, high-speed train stations,
and large cultural centers as well. In the process, the
construction industry expanded to assume a generous
30 percent of Korea’s economic activities. This con-
struction boom provided tremendous opportunities for
Korean architects but also produced a situation where
architects’ ideas were required to adhere to technologi-
cal, sociological, and economic realities (figure 8.1).

Fig. 8.1 Olympic Stadium, Seoul, Swoo-Geun Kim, 1983–1986
(Photo by Young-Chae Park)
Second, as the homeowners’ market began to reach
significant size, the influence of the urban middle
class guided architecture toward pragmatism. They
demanded functionally and economically efficient
projects, and greatly emphasized safety. In addition,
architecture as a profession was changing from within,
especially with the advent of blind competitions
and juries, so that architects could no longer rely on
nepotism but had to design according to context and
secure situational approval. In addition to these changes,
the disasters caused by the structural failures of Seongsu
Bridge and the Sampoong department store had been
seared into public awareness, resulting in demands for
higher safety standards in the building industry.
Third, production and construction technologies
that dated from the 1970s were updated, and Korean
architects began to experiment with newer techniques.
In particular, the Korean construction companies that
had participated in the Middle Eastern projects of the
1970s contributed significantly to the evolution of con-
struction technology. In sum, greater exchange with
foreign countries and the introduction of advanced
technologies in materials, structures, and construction
changed Korea’s building industry.
The final contributing factor to the emergence of a
new architectural discourse was the changing beliefs
of the architects themselves. Swoo-Geun Kim and
Chung-Up Kim, who were the pioneers of the previous
generation, passed away in the 1980s, leaving a vacuum
in architectural leadership. As a new group of archi-
tects began to emerge, they set about to infuse their
training in modernist tenets into their projects. During
this decade, large architectural firms employing over
one hundred designers arose to meet the needs of the
Discovering Reality 113
construction boom. Rather than exploring abstract
architectural ideas, these mega-offices focused on
resolving real problems, addressing the technological,
social, and economic questions arising for each project.
In fact, they designed a tremendous number of build-
ings within a short period.
From the combination of these factors evolved a
new architectural discourse in Korea, determined by
the necessity of dealing with a great diversity of new
conditions. In turn, this discourse generated a variety
of different architectural approaches. An analogy might
be made to kneaded dough. If one were to knead the
material of “modernity” into a flat surface and take a
side view of the surface, it would be seen to converge
into a single line. However, when viewed from above,
it would show distinguishable regions and imperfec-
tions, exhibiting the diversity inherent in the material.
Similarly, Korean architecture of the 1990s was as
uniform as it was diverse. The reason it remained
homogenous, despite the great number of buildings
in which a variety of experimentations occurred, is
that the discourse of the time lacked the thickness to
generate a new potential.
Dening Architectural Reality
Design approaches based on a realistic appraisal of
relevant conditions opened up a variety of ways to
define architecture. This largely explains why it is diffi-
cult to evaluate the architectural activities of the 1990s.
Although the polar concepts of modernity and locality
had defined Korean architecture during the develop-
mental period, the degree and nature of their relation-
ship changed beginning in the late 1980s, so that in
some contexts the concepts were seen to be comple-
mentary rather than confrontational. The most impor-
tant question architects began to address was whether
a solution was realistically optimal and efficient, not
whether it could be identified as uniquely Korean.
Thus attention was focused on discovering solutions
that met functional and programmatic requirements
with respect to their impact on the urban scene. Local
traditions and advanced technologies were equally
regarded as elements one could use to pursue the end
goals of efficiency and optimization: “Locality was not
the ultimate goal of architecture any longer, but rather
something achieved along the way.”5 The architects
pursuing this vision of architecture were indifferent to
114 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 8.2 National Museum of Korea, Junglim Architects, 1995
(Photo by Yong-Kwan Kim)
the latest trends. They stepped away from the postmod-
ern, high-tech, and deconstructivist movements that
dominated the international architectural community,
focusing only on reality-based problem solving. Instead
of basing architectural projects on theoretical concepts,
they embraced situational constraints and viewed
architecture not as a transcendental ideal, but as an
expression of the “here and now.”
These ideas were most prominently expressed in the
design competition for the National Museum of Korea.
A building that would symbolically embody the essence
of Korean culture had the potential to create intense
controversy over national identity, as had previously
been the case with the Independence Hall of Korea.
However, such a controversy did not arise. The focus
instead was on the qualitative value of the building
(figure 8.2). Commenting on its “Koreanness,” Chang-Il
Kim, an architect with the firm that had won the com-
petition, stated that “his team emphasized unique expe-
riences associated with traditional architecture rather
than particular styles and forms.”6 In fact, Korean archi-
tects were more entranced with the surprising schemes
to express regional identity devised by the competition’s
second prizewinner, Christian de Portzamparc. This
response implies that the architectural discourse had
already been fundamentally transformed by this time.
Listening to Reality
Guyon Chung was an architect who took the issue of
defining architectural reality most seriously. During a
stay in Paris in the 1970s, he had been greatly stimulated
by the engagement of French intellectuals in political
and social affairs. Paying special attention to the Russian
Constructivist concept of the role of architecture as a
social condenser, he actively supported Henri Lefebvre’s
idea that space is a social product essential for organ-
izing everyday reality.7 After returning to Korea in 1986,
he felt inspired to put this idea into practice. Translating
Hassan Fathy’s Gourna, a Tale of Two Villages into
Korean taught Chung precious lessons about the role
architects could play to change human society. In his
search for low-cost building solutions, Fathy had relied
on natural materials to enhance the living conditions of
the Gournis fellahs while also preserving their cultural
traditions. Following this example, Chung observed
the functioning of small Korean villages and compiled
a meticulous ethnography. Through this process, he
began to elaborate his insights. When he became
director of the Seoul Association of Architects, founded
for the reform of Korean architectural education, Chung
offered the diagnosis that Korean students majoring in
architecture were suffering from three serious diseases:
first, a “cultural” disease, namely, the illusion that every
student majoring in architecture was likely to become
a cultured gentleman; second, a “mastership” disease
that only regarded the work of established masters as
genuine architecture; and third, a “utopian” disease,
which believes that architects alone can redeem the
world. He suggested a specific cure for these diseases:
reality. He claimed that “the solution does not lie in the
work of Western masters but in the real concreteness of
the ‘here and now’.”8 This assertion reflected the state of
Korean society, which was entering a period of upheaval
at the time. He also mentioned the notion of tradition:
“It can hardly be said that any nation’s architecture
would make progress if only if they could discover
Japaneseness, Frenchness, Egyptianness, and so forth.
It’s more urgent to provide architectural diversity, listen-
ing to the ardent demands coming from our country’s
reality, than to cling to the notion of progress.”9
The thirty works that Chung conceived from 1996
to 2005 in Muju, a small southern county 250 km from
Seoul, mirrored his perceptions of architectural reality.
Due to rapid urbanization, most rural villages in Korea,
including those in Muju, were suffering from declining
populations and the dilapidation of the living environ-
ment. Chung attempted to overcome those difficulties
by using his buildings to experiment with various ways
of organizing urban space and to plant the seeds of revi-
talization. The establishment of the Local Autonomy
Law in 1995 had opened the door to this kind of
engagement. Chung’s aspirations in Muju did not lie
in the pursuit of aesthetic excellence, but rather in the

provision of governance frames flexible enough to allow
the villagers to actively participate in the organization
of their own urban spaces. This attempt is reminiscent
of Lucien Kroll’s achievement in France’s new towns.10
Like the Belgian architect who favored group participa-
tion in his projects, Chung negated his position as the
“expert authority figure” in order to generate ideas and
solutions in the belief that architecture can ultimately
change society. To him, “architecture represents the
organization of people’s lives. That is to say, the impor-
tance of architecture lies in materializing the forms of
life that society and its people want. Architecture is not
a matter of function, but of the thoughtful consideration
required to take care of people through close observa-
tion.”11 This telling statement reveals the perceptions of
architectural communality that many Korean architects
shared in the 1990s.
Critical Regionalism
The reality-based architecture in Korea that emerged
after the late 1980s can be defined as a “practical archi-
tecture” for two reasons. First, architectural design was
determined by real conditions rather than transcen-
dental ideas. The architects of this period focused on
satisfying material constraints, and this determined the
overall topography of architectural discourse. A search
for diverse methodologies emerged during this process.
Second, architectural design was no longer understood
as an arbitrary formal system; contra postmodern
architecture, it was defined by situational complexities.
In this respect, the practical architecture of the time
had an affinity with the concept of “critical regionalism”
as defined in the West during the 1980s. The inherent
nature of critical regionalism was to engage com-
plexities in their immediate context, and it included a
number of concepts that helped to define its meaning
for architectural discourse. For example, advanced
technologies that carried great weight in the measure-
ment of sociocultural progress at the time were readily
adopted by architects championing critical regional-
ism. Those architects infused regional tendencies into
progressive techniques, and their projects were praised
highly for their ability to create haptic senses of tradi-
tional comfort using innovative architectural processes.
In fact, the reality-based architecture of Korea
had much in common with critical regionalism. To
Korean architects, site, climate, regional materials, and
other specificities of the concrete situation were of the
utmost importance in determining the design process.
Discovering Reality 115
Fig. 8.3 Korean Gallery, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New
York, Kyu Sung Woo, 1997 (Photo by Inha Jung)
Regional identity was regarded as relative, comparable,
and sometimes exchangeable, and not, as believed by
Korean architects during the developmental period,
fixed in a region. Based on such ideas, the concept of
regionalism was transformed. These ideas were clearly
manifested in the Korean Gallery designed for New
York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. The goal of this
project, designed by Korean-American architect Kyu
Sung Woo, was to express Korea’s cultural identity
within the confines of a small 12 m by 12 m space within
the colossal museum (figure 8.3). The scale of the room,
humble in relation to the grandeur of the neighboring
Chinese and Japanese galleries, drove many of Kyu
Sung Woo’s design decisions. He deliberately refrained
from using symbolic motifs, choosing instead to appeal
to the senses, reinforcing a feeling of airiness and mini-
malism. Thus, says a reviewer, “the room’s modest size
and minimal finishes set it apart from its surroundings,
hinting at the distinctive nature of Korea’s indigenous
traditions.”12 The design of the room signified a shift in
the understanding of regional identity, where identity
is no longer tied to a fixed place of origin but must be
considered within the global context of today’s world.
Korean architects who claimed allegiance to the real-
ity-based architecture movement regarded regional
identity as only one signifier of “reality.” Such ideals
were not used as crutches to fall back on, but as chal-
lenges to the notion of a national identity at the global
level. The Korean National Museum of Contemporary
Art, the Whanki Museum, and the Miral School all
shared this common thread despite their various ways
of addressing the associated challenges.
116 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Reality-Based Architecture
Buildings designed to respond to real conditions are
difficult to lump under a single term or definition
because the architects who designed them resist stylis-
tic labeling. These architects believe instead that their
solutions have been called forth by specific situations.
Nevertheless, Kenneth Frampton, a major promoter
of the concept of critical regionalism, has suggested a
number of issues that can provide points of reference.13
The issues congregate around three main concerns
involving the significance of (1) a sense of place, (2)
the architectural program, and (3) building tectonics,
especially the integration of new technologies into the
craft of construction. The many projects designed by
Korean architects committed to developing a practical
approach to architecture demonstrate the importance
of these concerns to varying degrees. Of course, while
the concepts developed to express their solutions do
not constitute particular axioms for design, as did Le
Corbusier’s five principles of modern architecture,
they do provide a method for categorizing some vastly
differing approaches to engaging the complexity of
concrete situations.
A Sense of Place
Nature has been always an essential element in the
determination of building location and layout in Korea.
Depending on the particular topological disposition,
building sites were determined by reference to physical
features such as terrain, bodies of water, compass
points, or stars. However, this long tradition was
eclipsed during the developmental period as the natural
environment was consumed in the process of urbaniza-
tion. Several large-scale buildings around Mt. Namsan
in Seoul clearly show traces of the ravages of develop-
ment. This situation proved no longer sustainable by
the 1980s, when Korean architects began to have a new
awareness of urbanism and the natural environment,
leading to an active exploration of place and its urban
context in architecture. Of these, the most successful
architect was Tai Soo Kim, who conceived excellent
designs in Korea while running a Hartford-based archi-
tectural firm in the United States.
His buildings can be described as successful when
measured against the three tenets of critical regional-
ism: a sense of place, programmatics, and tectonics.
They commonly possess a great sense of place through
rational arrangements of programmed space and
a healthy preoccupation with construction details.
Placeness in this architecture is created not only by
focusing on visual elements, but also by attempt-
ing to satisfy the other senses of hearing, smell, and
touch. This concreteness was generated by the belief
that nature, humans, and architecture are inextricably
bound to each other. Tai Soo Kim physically mani-
fested this belief by pursuing research into the topogra-
phy of each site and creating an architectural massing
that sensitively responded to the natural landscape.
Kim also introduced long sequences of framed views
across the surrounding landscape in a bid to create
visual connections between the user and the physical
context. These attempts embodied Kim’s desire to
connect and unify the building and nature, as is clearly
discernible in Tai Soo Kim’s two works in Korea, the
National Museum of Contemporary Art and the Kyobo
Corporate Training Center.
Tai Soo Kim gained mastery of this method by
working in Hartford from 1968 on. His wide-ranging
projects in the United States were informed by two
major factors. The first was his understanding of the
urban context of the project based on the time he had
spent in New England. Kim clearly grasped how the
design of a building is thoroughly dependent on its
urban context: “His buildings strike visitors as fitting
almost effortlessly in their context. While they never
mimic what stands around them, the buildings often
refer to the form or scale of their surroundings, making
them good neighbors that create a greater sense of the
whole.”14 Along with a sturdy contextualism, impres-
sions of the brick-wrapped minimalist white boxes of
the New England vernacular style left their mark on
Kim’s works.15 In order to achieve a geometric purity,
his designs began with simple boxes and experimented
with the structural systems that would sustain his
massing. This approach came from his initial archi-
tectural education at Yale under Paul Rudolph and
Louis Kahn, and his six-year apprenticeship in Philip
Johnson’s office until 1969. In particular, Paul Rudolph
encouraged Kim to trust his own design instincts rather
than adopting a deferential attitude to prevailing styles
or trends. Kim was encouraged to approach designs in
a manner that “displays a systematic linkage of elemen-
tary form into a combination of ever greater complexity
and refinement.”16 These influences led to a search for
simplicity in form and clarity in spatial organization.
Moreover, his buildings do not seek to dominate their
surrounding areas. Rather, he sometimes resorted to
 Discovering Reality 117

outer walls and screens to separate the main body of

a building from its context, doing so when the urban
environment clashed violently with his geometric
forms. The particularly oversized separating elements
in his work, as prominently featured in projects such
as the Middlebury Elementary School and the Harry
Jack Gray Center at the University of Hartford, were
informed by these considerations.
Yet, when working in Korea, Kim shifted focus onto
retaining a sense of place, mainly due to the differing
conditions of the site and the natural environment.
The two projects he designed in Korea were located in
remote areas, so Kim’s sensitivity to landscape played a
major role in the arrangement of his design. The site of
the National Museum of Contemporary Art was chosen
in 1981 by governmental officials who were largely
ignorant of the museum’s role and its design objectives,
and was again championed by President Doo-Whan
Chun as the proper site for a national outdoor museum
to be built in time for the 1988 Seoul Olympics. After his
Fig. 8.4 Sketch for the National Museum of Contemporary Art,
selection as architect for the museum, Kim wandered
Tai Soo Kim (Courtesy of Tai Soo Kim Partners)
the site to understand the potential of the surround-
Fig. 8.5 National Museum of Contemporary Art, Tai Soo Kim,
ing landscape, which consisted of small foothills sur-
1983–1987 (Photo by Chung-Eui Lim)
rounded by a dramatic mountain range, overlooking a
scenic lake. Surveying the prospect, Kim began asking
himself what type of building would be most appropri- a series of varied masses on the platforms and terraces
ate for the site (figures 8.4, 8.5).17 that rest upon the rising landscape.”19
During the first phase of the design work, scalar Along with this massing, great attention was paid to
issues took precedence, especially in relation to the the edge where building and nature meet, identifying,
magnificence of the mountain range. Kim began in particular, Kim’s sense of place. The museum consists
exploring images from his past in order to discover a of stepped layers of walls, creating a feeling of ascension
suitable massing. Through this process, his designs that reflects the surrounding topography. Furthermore,
in Korea were affected by deep-rooted memories and the edge of the main gallery harmoniously joins the hill
mental images of traditional Korean architecture. In the through sectional experimentation that mitigates the
National Museum of Contemporary Art, Kim drew on changes in height between the building and the topog-
these memories for inspiration. The first was of a small raphy. The museum achieves a consistent visual flow
village in the South Gyeongsang province of Korea, from the mountains to the building, creating a continu-
where he had stayed before the 1945 liberation.18 It ous vista connecting landscape and architecture within
was a typical village, comprised of scattered thatched- the project.
roof houses within a mountainous landscape. A more To encourage visitors to experience the richness
direct source of inspiration was the beacon structures of the surrounding landscape, Kim organized a long
at Suwon fortress, which rise above a platform on the sequence that starts from the bridge and continues
hill (figure 8.6). These images appeared consistently through the water gardens, surrounded by walls of
in Kim’s sketches from the beginning all the way to pink granite, to the central rotunda, from which
the final design. In particular, the beacons dictated visitors are redistributed to different sites. The Buseok
the arrangement of the three volumes of the museum: Temple in Yeongju, a three-hour drive south of Seoul,
rotunda, main gallery, and permanent collection hall. inspired this linear organization and deeply affected
By means of these fragmented images from his past Kim’s notions of traditional architecture. In particular,
experiences in Korea, “the architect conceived them as the organization of its exterior spaces in conjunction
118 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 8.6 The beacon mound at Suwon fortress (Photo by Inha
Jung)
Fig. 8.7 Long sequence of Buseok Temple in Youngju
Fig. 8.8 Model, National Museum of Contemporary Art
(Courtesy of Tai-Soo Kim Partners)
with the building masses made a lasting impression on
Kim’s work. As in many examples of traditional Korean
architecture, this blending of boundaries between
interior and exterior spaces redefined the building
mass as a secondary element that supports the activity-
filled spaces of the exterior. In traditional temples,
a linear axis from the entrance gate (iljumun) to the
main worship building (daeungjeon) organizes the
complex of buildings and outdoor spaces (figures 8.7,
8.8). Kim, who was greatly influenced by the strength
of the linear axis at Buseok Temple, attempted to use
this technique in the museum by creating a stretched-
out path from the bridge into the building, ending at
the central rotunda. The sky-lit rotunda, reminiscent
of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum in New
York, plays the major function of redistributing circula-
tion and frames a dramatic view of the lake through a
single small window. The ramp continues to the apex of
the museum that is housed in a horseshoe-shaped main
gallery, naturally drenched in light by a dramatic series
of section cuts.
Kim’s attempt to merge building masses with the
surrounding landscape can also be seen in the Kyobo
Corporate Training Center. Since this building had
a distinctive program quite different from that of the
National Museum of Contemporary Art, the articula-
tion of masses varied greatly despite similar site condi-
tions. In contrast to the museum’s long linear sequence,
Kim employed a bulky massing strategy to house the
dormitories. He divided the building into two masses:
the dormitories and the public spaces. For the dormi-
tories, he drew on the imagery of an ancient fortress
wall, constructed along the contours of the mountain.
He attempted to infuse a contemporary program into
this traditional type, creating a serpentine curved wall
for the dormitories that hug the mountain. Within this
wall, a large rectangular opening is punched into the
central axis of the dormitory to house various public
spaces, creating a continuous procession from the land-
scape to the building.20 Said one astute observer: “To
minimize the building’s mass and link it as closely as
possible to its site, Kim fit the center’s two major parts
neatly into the terrain.”21
Program and Type
For Korean architects, a common approach to design
in the 1980s involved considerations of program and
type, since one of the largest challenges in the field was
the search for architectural types to accompany the
 Discovering Reality 119

rapidly developing building programs of the indus- European cities. Woo instead used typology to create
trial age. Many of these programs were integrated with new relationships between architectural program and
newly introduced manufacturing systems for indus- regional identity.
trial products that lent themselves to architectural In the course of his research, Woo began to compare
design, prompting architects to attempt to integrate the urban hanok to vernacular houses in New England,
the programs into the production process. As a result, the respective prototypes for spatial organization in the
architects began to manage the process through which two regions. He discovered that the major difference
architectural forms were determined. The large-scale was the introversion of the hanok, due to the central
firms emerging at that time, in particular, employed courtyard or madang, as compared to the extroverted
this method to effectively conceive a large number of spaces of the New England house. This spatial contrast
buildings. However, this methodology came under had a remarkable influence on the design of Woo’s
severe attack: since architectural programs were gen- major works, such as the Whanki Museum, Stone
erated independently—that is, in conjunction with a Cloud House, and the Kim residence in Seoul, as well
manufacturing process—they could only lead to the as his own house in Cambridge, Massachusetts. In these
destruction of regional identity. Without contextual projects, the urban hanok acted as a generative diagram
support, they failed to come to terms with the city as for defining a type of organization. At their center was
a historical construction embodying a collective con- the madang, creating an introverted space (figure 8.9).
sciousness. Practitioners of critical regionalism stood at
the forefront of this criticism, asserting that site-based,
rather than program-based, architecture was the only
mode capable of reflecting a regional identity.
Kyu Sung Woo saw value in the notion of an architec-
tural program, stating that “unlike painting and sculp-
ture, architecture has a program.”22 His concern was
how to organize the program—the layout of rooms and
circulation pattern—within a building. This concern
found expression in many of his major works. The dif-
ference, in Woo’s case, is that the ideas governing his
sense of program were not based on concepts related to a
modernist universality, but rather on the comparison of
two contrasting regions. By comparing Korea’s architec-
ture to that of New England, Woo identified the critical
differences between the architectures of two disparate
regions, finding in turn what makes each unique. As he
stated, “The presence of zoning guidelines combined
with the active participation of community groups
has preserved a strong New England vernacular.”23 In
Korea, he saw a quite different situation: “In Seoul, the
essential relationship of the parts to the whole and parts
to parts have yet to be clearly established because of
the tremendous changes in economy, social structures
and life style.”24 The situational differences led him to
adopt contrasting approaches to projects in the two
areas: “Different from his work in New England, the
challenge of his work in Seoul has been to establish a
typology within a void of convention.”25 In this respect, Fig. 8.9 Diagrams of the Kim residence, Stone Cloud house,
Woo’s efforts to find new building types differ from and Woo residence: (a) transformation of the urban hanok and
Aldo Rossi’s notions of typology, which placed a greater madang; (b) meandering sequence of circulation; (c) central
emphasis on the existing collective consciousness of spaces
120 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
The Kim residence illustrates how the architect’s
generative diagram interacted with the real needs of
the project. This house has two programs: a studio for
painter Tschang-Yeul Kim, who resided primarily in
France and stopped over in Seoul for brief visits during
the summer, and a house for his brother. Of the two,
there is no doubt that the design of the brother’s house
started from a type of urban hanok: a central courtyard
surrounded by a U-shaped building. In the central
courtyard, one’s attention is drawn to an object similar
to a well, which actually is the skylight for the painter’s
studio. Designed for a painter fond of dark cave-like
spaces, the studio skylight provides the only opening to
the exterior. Stone Cloud House, Woo’s other residential
work in Seoul, also adopted the urban hanok as a gener-
ative diagram. Here, however, the architect downplayed
the central courtyard by emphasizing a long sequence
along which diverse rooms are clustered. This sequence
culminates in a spacious living room, located at the rear
of the courtyard. In his own residence in Cambridge,
Woo experimented with ways to transform the dichoto-
mous relationship between introverted and extroverted
spaces: “This house explores the introverted organiza-
tion in the context of the New England building tradi-
tion.”26 The most challenging issue was how to create an
interior space like the central courtyard of the urban
hanok. Woo’s response to this challenge was to place
a sky-lit living room at the heart of the project. The
design of this space reflects the two concerns informing
Woo’s architectural identity: how to adjust traditional
Korean ideals to the New England context and how to
create building types dependent on their program.
Another important feature found in Kyu Sung Woo’s
works is long, meandering sequences that connect dis-
parate internal functions. Whereas Tai Soo Kim found
his inspiration for circulation sequences in traditional
temples, Kyu Sung Woo took his ideas for circulation
from traditional shanty villages. He even employed
these notions in projects for the Housing, Urban and
Regional Planning Institute, where he began his career
as an architect. Taking part in the project for Geumhwa
Park in Seoul, Woo intensively studied informal public
spaces, sketching the alleyways between houses along
with the liminal spaces created by irregular landforms.
Oswald Nagler, head of the institute, had already intro-
duced him to informal settlements and the subsequent
urban fabric they create. Complicated, meandering, and
long circulation sequences began to appear in Woo’s
work at this time, and were further developed in his
work at Jose Luis Sert’s office. Sert’s work influenced Woo
insofar as he approached architectural design through
the perspective of urban design. Particularly notable in
this respect are his housing projects, ranging from the
Roosevelt Island Housing Competition to his Athletes’
Village for the 1988 Seoul Olympics. Close attention
must be paid to the Roosevelt Island Housing project,
which features a 60-foot-wide enclosed Community
Street that acts as a longitudinal spine, serving towers
and low-rise units.27 The immense scale of the street
defines it as not simply a conduit for traffic but a space
for neighborhood interaction, providing varied spatial
experiences as well as another interlocking community
structure.28 Lessons from these experiments were later
put to use in smaller projects and transformed into
elaborate circulation systems. The Whanki Museum is
a representative example of how these techniques were
used. The street type is transformed here into a series
of stairs that spiral upward through an exhibition hall,
guiding the visitor to a gallery. Walking up the stairs,
visitors can enjoy a lyrical sequence of views created by
a series of openings that frame unexpected scenes of
the surrounding landscape.
The Whanki Museum, designed to exhibit works
by Whanki Kim, a prolific painter from Korea’s first
modern art movement, is the culmination of Kyu Sung
Woo’s extensive architectural research. First, he was able
to exploit his concept of program-based building types.
Woo summarized the program of a museum under
three rubrics: “To provide a suitable environment for
the exhibition and preservation of artwork; create a
place for education and assembly; generate a contem-
plative space for contemporary society.”29 Subsequently,
the museum was articulated into three formally and
spatially different parts: an entrance hall, an exhibition
hall, and a gallery for the permanent collection (figure
8.10). This division was also a response to the small
scale of the site. Among the three parts, the two-story
exhibition hall with a round skylight carried exceptional
weight, for this central hall encapsulated two spatial
concepts—those of the microcosm and the introverted
courtyard. Victor F. Christ-Janer, whose classes in
architecture at Columbia University Woo attended after
arriving in the United States, later defined the sense
of microcosm that Woo adopted: “His work always
restated the relationship of man; to the earth, the sky,
the cave and the totem. These were the central images
he felt the human psyche responded to in relation to our
sense of place.”30 In the cubic exhibition hall, a mere 8

Fig. 8.10 Whanki Museum, Seoul, Kyu Sung Woo, 1993 (Photo
by Young-Chae Park)
Fig. 8.11 Exhibition hall, Whanki Museum (Courtesy of
Whanki Museum)
cubic meters in volume, Woo was able to create an ideal
microcosm (figure 8.11). In addition, the space created
by the roof of the exhibition hall recalls the introverted
space of the madang in the urban hanok. The skylight
at the center of this space completes the analogy, and
its formal resolution is reminiscent of typical wells
found in a madang. The gallery housing the permanent
Discovering Reality 121
collection in the museum is separated from the exhi-
bition hall by two parallel barrel vaults. Woo adopted
this roof form because of its capacity to allow natural
light into the gallery, having already used a similar roof
form in his own house. Unlike the Kimbell Museum,
which has a thin slit along the keystone of each vault,
the Whanki Museum employs long horizontal sliding
windows that sit just below the edges of the vaults.
A Well-Devised Envelope
As stated in the previous chapter, exploring the seman-
tics of technology appeared as a means of expressing
a new sensibility in architecture after the 1980s. Jong-
Soung Kimm, who explored architectural tectonics, can
be considered a representative architect operating in
this atmosphere. Kerl Yoo also highlighted the potential
of new technologies, but his works resist categoriza-
tion as examples of high-tech architecture or critical
regionalism because of their sculptural tendencies. Yoo
embraced the optimistic belief that a great potential
lay dormant in technology and that the harshness of
industrial products could be elevated to a high aesthetic
plane. The exteriors of his buildings are usually clad
with uncouth industrial materials, such as sandwich
panels, base panels, and extruded aluminum panels,
untamed by familiar colors or textures. However, Yoo’s
use of advanced technology differs greatly from that of
high-tech architects and minimalist architects, because
his interest does not lie in exploring the homogenizing
forces of modern technology, but in the creation of open
spaces within a well-devised, transparent envelope.
Yoo’s ideas about space are closely associated with
his views on traditional Korean architecture, which he
developed while doing comparative research on Korean
and American architectures. Having emigrated to
Denver, Colorado, in the early 1970s, he found himself
eager to begin this research upon his return to Korea
fifteen years later. He later stated: “The primary element
defining Korean architecture is an outer space sur-
rounded by boundary walls. In creating the courtyards
that have played a central role in daily life, boundary
walls proved absolutely necessary. The entire sense
of transition between interior and exterior is only
made possible by the gate in a boundary wall.” This is
because building walls are malleable and changeable
in traditional Korean architecture, as when doors and
windows are hung on the ceiling, at times dissolving
the wall itself. “What is left of the interior is nothing
but the floor.”31 That is to say, the interior spaces divided
122 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
by these walls are so flexible in terms of function and
size that the floor itself determined the meaning and
use of space. American architecture is quite different.
Here it is building walls that delineate the interior space
of buildings. They provide maximum privacy to the
primary rooms amassed inside the building, leaving
transitional spaces to be relegated to the porch. This
comparison hints at subsequent developments in Yoo’s
work, where he attempts to create a single transparent
surface that envelops a variety of rooms and stairs. This
approach presents a new interpretation of a singular
spatiality in Korean architecture, one that is in line with
a new reality.
Kerl Yoo’s work can be broadly defined as experi-
ments with a free arrangement of rooms, ramps, and
stairs contained within a single envelope. This idea, the
result of his research into Korean and American archi-
tectures, consistently surfaces over the course of his
career—from his early works, such as the Jeongneung
residence, characterized by a single form encompass-
ing a double residency, to the Hongneung residence,
emphasizing a central staircase connecting the two
separate buildings. These concepts culminated in the
Miral School for Autistic Children, completed in Seoul
in 1997. In this building, the architect was able to fulfill
one of his deep-rooted desires for architectural expres-
sion. At first, the client asked him to design a building
that could be used as an educational space during the
week and as a church on the weekend. To meet these
demands, he divided the building into halves: a typical
classroom wing and a special classroom wing. Yoo used
an innovatively large multi-purpose space, previously
Fig. 8.12 Miral School for Autistic Children, Seoul, Kerl Yoo,
1997 (Photo by Young-Chae Park)
unseen in Korea, to separate the two elements (figure
8.12). Animated by natural light, the space is crowned
with an exposed steel truss embodying his desire to use
advanced technology not only as a structural tool, but
as a way of expressing his own aesthetics. These innova-
tive approaches to organizing space allowed the project
to become multiple buildings within one, reminiscent
of his analysis of traditional Korean architecture.
The large multipurpose hall in the school features a
meandering ramp that navigates the space. Functionally,
it provides a way for the disabled constituency to cir-
culate, but the meandering sequence also increases
the phenomenological diversity of the spatial experi-
ence. Together with the ramp, a stair protrudes into
the large hall, again providing a circulation sequence
that enhances the haptic experience of the space. These
techniques are reminiscent of methodologies used by
Tai Soo Kim and Kyu Sung Woo, although derived from
completely different concepts.
Kerl Yoo also designed several churches that allowed
him to expand his approach to creating light-filled
transparent envelopes. Indeed, with an understanding
of light derived from his Christian faith, Yoo’s ideas
became platonic. Speaking as an architect, he felt that
the “fullness of light in the open modern worship hall
is an expression of the fullness of God’s grace.”32 He
has tried to express this idea in his church buildings as
often as he can. Kangbyeon Church is a good example.
This church has a glass-roofed worship hall. To make it
possible, he adopted a roof truss system consisting of
steel tension rods, above which lay double-tempered
glass, demonstrating his conviction that church build-
ings should be built with the best technologies (figures
8.13, 8.14). All glass-roof structures, however, present
technical problems related to direct sunlight, cooling
and heating, and acoustics. To meet these challenges
in Kangbyeon Church, Yoo devised an innovative
envelope with integrated climate control systems in the
belief that new technologies could allow the interior of
a building to attain a fluid circulation.
Yoo’s pursuit of a transparent envelope reappeared in
the new city hall in Seoul, a building with a monumen-
tal mass. When the old building, completed in 1926,
proved incapable of meeting present-day requirements,
calls to overhaul the building clashed with the insist-
ence of some that it should be demolished, because it
represents the legacy of Japanese colonial rule. Korea’s
Cultural Heritage Administration was clearly against
this idea. Accordingly, the municipal government held

Fig. 8.13 Model, Kangbyeon Church (Courtesy of iArc
Architects)
Fig. 8.14 Interior, Kangbyeon Church, Seoul, Kerl Yoo, 1998
(Photo by Young-Chae Park)
Fig. 8.15 New city hall, Seoul, Kerl Yoo, 2008 (Courtesy of iArc
Architects)
Discovering Reality 123
an architectural competition premised on the idea of
conserving the main building while removing certain
extensions to make way for a new city hall. In 2008,
Kerl Yoo was appointed the designer of Seoul’s new
landmark. He explained that “the horizontality of the
proposed scheme is based on Seoul’s new motto, Soft
Seoul, which calls for an airy, integrated, collective,
and sustainable architecture. The undulated eleva-
tion in front of Seoul Plaza signifies today’s Soft Seoul.
How to relate the new city hall to Seoul Plaza was the
key design issue from the beginning, and we thought
a vertical form was not the answer. This horizontal
mass with deep shade in the front embodies a tradi-
tional architectural form.”33 In spite of his rhetoric, the
building Yoo designed realizes his long-term aspiration
for a transparent architecture and society. Like Norman
Foster’s new city hall in London, the breathing curtain
wall provides views of the interior of the building, sym-
bolizing civic transparency (figure 8.15).
Reconciling Tradition and Modernity
Along with architects responding to the theme of
adhering to real conditions, an effort to reconcile tradi-
tion and modernity emerged as an important concern
for architects such as Won Kim, Seok-Chul Kim,
Choon-Soo Ryu, and Young-Sub Kim. Their attitude
toward architecture had much in common with the
attempt to sublimate vernacular sentiments into poetic
forms, and they believed restoring locality would rep-
resent an effective countermeasure to the diverse pres-
sures besetting modern architecture. These architects
had come under the influence of two modern Korean
masters, Chung-Up Kim and Swoo-Geun Kim, and
they made full use of symbolic forms to restore the
architectural and urban identity they felt was missing
amid the postwar construction boom. But after select-
ing a few motifs capable of arousing the sympathy of
many Koreans, such as a dolmen, a pagoda, and white
porcelain, they went further to intentionally swell or
distort them. In this regard, they were the successors of
the approach pursued by architects such as Chung-Up
Kim and Hee-Tai Lee in the 1960s. A major difference,
though, is that they actively accepted the technological
achievements that had been attained by Korean archi-
tecture over the previous thirty years. As a result, their
buildings sometimes displayed a strong tension between
use of the latest technologies and indigenous forms.
Seok-Chul Kim’s works amply demonstrate his
attempt to reconcile tradition and modernity. Unlike
124 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Tai Soo Kim or Kyu Sung Woo, Seok-Chul Kim was not
educated abroad. His development as a self-educated
practitioner followed a distinctive trajectory of its own.
The major trait of his architecture can be defined as
the absence of an overarching discipline. To cope with
this situation, he tried to absorb the diverse currents
of his time, making it difficult to establish a consistent
idea. At the beginning of his career, Chung-Up Kim
had inspired him to become an architect. Working in
his office, Seok-Chul Kim became deeply attracted to
Mediterranean architecture, which Le Corbusier had
extensively researched in the latter part of his career.
The dominance of massive, sculptural, and weightily
textured volumes in Kim’s works can be explained by
the influence of these architects.
James Stirling was another great inspiration. In the
1960s, Stirling sought out a mechanical aesthetic influ-
enced by the initial tenets of modernist architecture. By
exposing monumental forms, rather than adapting to
the surrounding context, Stirling championed the New
Brutalist movement. However, he altered his approach
in the 1970s when he moved his practice from England
to Germany. His architecture became more overtly
adaptive to the urban context even while it remained
deeply imbued with a powerful revised modern-
ism. The article he wrote in 1979 for Contemporary
Architects reflected this situation when it said: “I believe
that the shapes of a building should indicate—perhaps
display—the usage and way of life of its occupants, and
it is therefore likely to be rich and varied in appear-
ance, and its expression is unlikely to be as simple as
the building we did at Oxford some years ago.”34 To
express richness and diversity in building types, Stirling
resorted to the formal elements discovered in European
Fig. 8.16 Seoul Art Center, Seok-Chul Kim, 1991 (Photo by
Nils Clauss)
cities and juxtaposed them to provoke a feeling of
tension. These experiments can be seen as an attempt
to reduce architectural design to a kind of syntax. The
contradictory approaches of James Stirling are also dis-
cernible in Seok-Chul Kim’s works: on the one hand,
he pursued a strictly machinist aesthetic as exempli-
fied by Myungbo Cinema and the Korean Pavilion at
the 1995 Venice Biennale; on the other hand, he placed
great importance on tactile materiality and exagger-
ated forms in the Seoul Art Center and the Jeju Cinema
Museum (figure 8.16).35
For this reason, Kim’s works illustrate a broad
spectrum of styles oscillating from high-tech to region-
alism. The recently completed DBEW design center
is typical of such tension. The unique site property of
being attached to the wall of Changdeokgung Palace
led Kim on an intensive search for a new way to rec-
oncile tradition and modernity. The juxtaposition of an
abstract glass surface and a traditional roof form was
his response to the setting. In addition to this juxtapo-
sition, he reinterpreted the formalism of Korean tradi-
tional architecture in a primitive way. This is why his
works have often unfolded in a manner that cannot be
easily assimilated into their surrounding context. Kim
was convinced that the original Korean culture, before
its domination by Chinese culture, developed from a
shamanism native to ancient, land-based cultures.36
Through primitive forms, he attempted to draw out the
shamanistic spirit latent in the deep structure of Korean
culture. Because of these beliefs, many critics compare
his works to a hieroglyph or pictograph of the origins of
Korean architecture (figure 8.17).37
A similar approach can be found in Young-Sub Kim’s
works. After discerning the unique value of Korean tra-
dition, he wanted to demonstrate his ability to incorpo-
rate it within the frame of Western modernism. For this
reason, critics said his works always kept in touch with
essential parts of local tradition. His Samcheong-dong
residence, designed from 1995 to 1997, clearly reveals
this sympathetic attitude toward tradition. The house
is located in Bukchon, where many urban hanok are
clustered. The client who commissioned the house had
frequently visited a renovated hanok where the archi-
tect was living at the time, and became deeply attracted
to its beauty. He requested the creation of a new living
space in which his children could later marry, thereby
preserving the existing hanok. The architect intuitively
understood this request, so the design process went
smoothly. Kim wanted to design a house fit for modern
 Discovering Reality 125

life while also respecting the spatial value of the existing

hanok. To attain this goal, he inserted the new living
space underground and used the ground level for the
courtyard of the hanok. For this design to work, the
questions of adequate sunshine and ventilation in the
underground space had to be addressed. Kim made
clever use of a skylight and a 7-meter difference in levels
between the lowest and highest part of the site. He used
this difference to construct a garage and machinery
room at the entrance level.38 The architect also tried to
downscale the volume of exposed concrete to keep the
new building from screening the existing hanok. As a
result, the roof of the new building has a crystal-like
Fig. 8.17 DBEW design center, Seok-Chul Kim, 1996–2003
form, echoing the rock right across from the house.
(Photo by Young-Chae Park)
 Chapter
New Paradigms for Urban Design
9
The arrival of the new millennium brought home the turned into parks, and slums were cleared for the con-
fact that architectural and urban discourse was now struction of new apartment complexes. The restoration
being shaped by two powerful forces: one was the glo- of the Cheonggyecheon stream provided clear evidence
balization of the discourse, moving the consideration that a profound change was underway: “The project
of design activities beyond the confines of national which removed portions of a grade-level roadway and
boundaries; the other was an interdisciplinary approach a elevated freeway to make way for the re-creation of
emphasizing the interdependence of architecture, land- an underlying stream as the central feature of a roughly
scape design, and urban design. Accordingly, definitions 6-kilometer-long public park, symbolized a major
of architecture and of the city had begun to change in a paradigm shift in urban discourse from a focus on
variety of ways. Until the mid-1990s, the construction relatively functional matters to broader issues about
of new towns and cities in Korea had occurred within lifestyle and livability.”1 It also brought issues of urban
the parameters set down during the developmental ecology to the forefront intermingled with political
period, which meant that government-run institutes agendas (figure 9.1).
were in charge of town planning. They had relied on
three methods to effectively organize new urban spaces:
the concentric expansion of urban boundaries; the
compartmentalization of blocks based on the “neigh-
borhood unit” theory; and the construction of large
complexes of apartments on previously desolate land.
This approach came under greater scrutiny in the
mid-1990s when a sweeping power shift took place in
Korea. Leaders of the pro-democracy movement had
lent their support to the civilian government that took
office following the presidential election of 1992, and
they attempted to create an alternative context for the
theory and practice of city planning. These efforts led to
a full-scale implementation of the Local Autonomy Law
in 1995. Environmental activist groups launched cam-
paigns against the despoliation of the natural environ-
ment and demanded sufficient compensation for any
damage incurred. The sustained momentum toward
democratization convinced the government and corpo-
rate interests that these demands could not be ignored,
and they began negotiations. This marked a turning
point in Korea’s urban discourse. The highest priority
in urban development would now be given to fostering
communication between diverse interest groups rather
than to the unilateral implementation of urban policies.
This shift fostered a wide range of efforts to reha-
bilitate urban environments that had been desolated Fig. 9.1 Restoration of the Cheonggyecheon stream (Photo by
during the developmental period. Vacant land was Young-Chae Park)

This momentum accelerated with the involvement of
architects in the planning of urban projects, bringing
new perspectives to urban design. The urban planners
who had dominated the process until then had based
their calculations on quantifications of density, zoning,
block size, and circulation. In contrast, architects
thought in terms of skylines, access axes, and sequences
of movement in urban space. Urban infrastructure,
they felt, could be designed using comparable criteria.
They regarded streets as places where diverse cultural
activities could occur and argued for the importance of
void spaces to sustain the potential for urban growth
and change. The new themes—bottom-up planning,
environmental concerns, and adaptive urban change—
continued to reverberate throughout the 1990s and
beyond. Songdo New City, Sejong Administrative
City, Paju Book City, and the Heyri Art Valley were all
projects whose planning was carried out under the new
paradigm for urban design.
Fig. 9.2 Collapse of the Sampoong Department Store, 1995
(Courtesy of Yonhap Press)
Fig. 9.3 Samsung Museum of Art, Leeum, Mario Botta, Jean
Nouvel, Rem Koolhaas, 2004 (Courtesy of Young-Chae Park)
New Paradigms for Urban Design 127
Architecturally, many changes were seen during
this period. The successive collapses of Seongsu Bridge
in 1994 and the Sampoong Department Store in 1995
brought forth scathing criticisms of the commerciali-
zation of architecture (figure 9.2), and with architects
themselves gradually acknowledging the negative
impact of this commercialization, the architecture
community began to play a more deliberate role in the
formation of a new discourse. In addition, the onset
of international competition played a major role in
setting the direction of architectural design in Korea,
which had emerged by then as a significant market for
a global architectural community. The buildings of the
Samsung Museum of Art in Leeum, designed by three
European architects, Mario Botta, Jean Nouvel, and Rem
Koolhaas, were a signal example of the participation of
world-renowned architects in Korea-related projects,
stimulating a constructive competition between Korean
architects and those residing elsewhere in the global
community (figure 9.3).
Songdo New City and Sejong Administrative City
Songdo New City and Sejong Administrative City are
representative of the new urban projects conceived
under the globalizing influences then taking hold.
They share common ground insofar as they were not
constrained by the practices of the developmental
period, opting instead for new ways to conduct urban
design. In each case, however, the subject and methods
of development were quite different. Planning for the
Sejong Administrative City was undertaken as part of
a decentralization policy prioritized by the Moo-Hyun
Roh government, which needed to house administra-
tive offices relocated from Seoul. Songdo New City is a
private initiative under development by multinational
companies, with a plan inspired by international cities
like New York, Hong Kong, and Singapore. To maximize
revenue, Songdo will be developed at high density with
imposing tall buildings dominating the skyline. The
initial design directions of the two cities suggest that
they are proceeding on divergent paths and will foster
different forms of urbanity. Nevertheless, a comparison
of the developmental process undertaken for each will
allow us to trace the early stages in the formation of a
new urban discourse in Korea.
128 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Songdo New City
When the Incheon city government first devised
Songdo’s master plan after reclaiming a foreshore in
1979, its concept was not much different from that of
other new towns of the developmental period. In 1992,
when the New Songdo master plan was established, it
was thought that the new city would improve the poor
urban environment of Incheon City by providing needed
housing sites and complementary urban facilities. This
development goal began to change, however, when it
was realized that Songdo’s geographical location could
enable it to assume a larger role by becoming a business
and logistical hub of East Asia. Located 40 miles south
of Seoul, the area is connected to Incheon International
Airport by a seven-mile highway bridge, completed in
2009. Within the radius of a three-hour flight from that
airport are forty-three cities with a population of more
than a million people. The first popularly elected mayor
of Incheon City, Ki-Sun Choi, understood Sondo’s
potential upon taking office and quickly made clear his
vision of developing the city as a hub for international
trade and a site for knowledge-based technologies
and eco-friendly urban living. In 1997, Incheon City
invited three architectural firms, Nikken Sekkei, Gruen
Associates, and Rem Koolhaas’ Office for Metropolitan
Architecture (OMA), to submit proposals for a new
master plan. The jury selected OMA’s proposal and the
city requested that OMA submit a final plan in three
months.2
The approach proposed by OMA differed vastly
from existing urban concepts in Korea. Koolhaas’
design featured programmatic bands that aimed to
make maximum use of the existing infrastructure
and landscape. In contrast to modernist designs that
tended to disregard the historicity and singularity of
urban areas, the programmatic bands revealed a new
way to organize urban functions without resorting to
a zoning system. Koolhaas’ bands proved their adapt-
ability at both the theoretical and the practical levels
by schematizing the separate components of the urban
complex to permit disclosure of the city’s invisible
potential. The bands deconstruct continuous urban
structures to create urban fragments, such as enclaves
and autonomous constructions.3 Empty spaces between
the separate components have a positive meaning. To
encourage comprehension of their role, Rem Koolhaas
had previously suggested the use of a band of linear
voids for the development of Melun-Senart outside
Paris. Throughout the design process, he wanted to
boost programmatic instability so as to allow altera-
tions without a loss of cohesion. He believed that such
instability is necessary in the planning of contemporary
cities because their urban structure inevitably reflects
the diversity of mutant activities. How can an architect
orchestrate the dynamic coexistence of different activi-
ties in a metropolitan field and still generate new events?
OMA’s tactics were to enable maximum permeability by
overlapping each programmatic band. In Songdo New
City, OMA proposed seven bands: a business district in
the north; a media spine through the length of the city;
a university band; a culture band, a convention and
marina band; a band for leisure and outdoor sports; a
band for commercial activities; and a band for research
facilities.4 The overlapping of these bands would form
the overall network of Songdo New City.
OMA’s plan was subsequently and substantially
modified for several reasons. First, the globalizing of
the market economy had already taken hold in Korea.
Recognizing a serious challenge, the Korean govern-
ment designated Songdo New City as a free economic
zone in order to fully exploit its potential. As a result,
the next major step—urban development—would come
through private initiatives. In 2001, Gale International,
an American development company, combined forces
with POSCO E&C, headquartered in Pohang, in a joint
venture to develop the international business district of
Songdo New City. The developers asked the New York-
based architectural firm Kohn Pedersen Fox (KPF) to
develop a new master plan. Whereas OMA had envis-
aged a relatively low-density R&D complex that would
grow slowly, KPF was obliged to respond to a directive
that the new city should be made to work as rapidly as
possible. It did this by revising the plan to include core
urban functions, such as commercial, business, resi-
dential, educational, and recreational facilities, within
the international business district from the start while
keeping the location of urban infrastructure, such as
subways, intact.5 Despite the risk of cutting the district
off from the rest of the city, this plan had the advantage
of making it work around the clock, even before the
completion of the other districts. In addition, the KPF
architects addressed the absence of indigenous or his-
torical urban context by seeking precedents elsewhere:
“KPF’s master planning effort relies on an incremental-
ist method of adapting established, often Western urban
models, and applying them to Korea. For example, its
Central Park is modeled after the original in New York.
A water taxi service apes the canals of Venice, Sydney is

represented by a waterfront cultural center reminiscent
of Jorn Utzon’s Sydney Opera House, and Hong Kong is
reflected in the city’s link to its airport.”6 Another central
feature in KPF’s plan is a strip of commercial office space
running from the northwest to the southeast, bisecting
residential areas to the north and south and working as
Fig. 9.4 Songdo under construction, 2007 (Courtesy of Gale
International Korea)
Fig. 9.5 Songdo master plan, 2011 (Courtesy of Incheon Free Economic Zone)
New Paradigms for Urban Design 129
a spine that gives the city a bilateral symmetry. This strip
is at the crossroads of retail and cultural amenities and
should allow “different identities to attach themselves to
two different sides as the city grows organically,” as has
happened in New York, says KPF lead designer James
von Klemperer (figures 9.4, 9.5).7
Sejong Administrative City
Plans for the construction of Sejong Administrative
City sparked a political controversy at an early stage.
During the 2002 presidential election, Moo-Hyun Roh
had made a policy of “balanced national development” a
key component of his reform agenda, and when he was
elected, his government pushed ahead plans for relocat-
ing the capital to a site on the edge of the small city of
Gongju, 160 km south of Seoul. Activists opposing the
plan filed a petition with Korea’s Constitutional Court,
arguing that the special law enabling the relocation
infringed on property rights and required a national
referendum. The Constitutional Court ruled the law
unconstitutional and rejected the government’s plan.
As a consequence, the project had
to be downsized to such an extent
that only the nation’s administrative
offices were selected to be moved to
the new city.
In 2005, the government held an
international competition for the
design of the new city and selected
five prizewinners. According to
David Harvey, chair of the jury, the
submissions were evaluated accord-
ing to criteria such as flexibility of
layout, environmental awareness,
urban identity, and urban lifestyle
enhancement. Following extensive
consultations, a ring-shaped struc-
ture was selected as the principal
spatial frame for the city. There
were several reasons for the selec-
tion. Not only did two out of the
five prizewinning works employ a
similar form, but it was argued that
a ring-shaped framework symbol-
ized the will of the Roh regime to
achieve a balanced national devel-
opment, since core urban functions
could be juxtaposed along the ring
without imposing a hierarchy.8 In
130 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 9.6 Sejong Administrative City master plan, 2005
(Courtesy of LH Corporation )
Fig. 9.7 Prize-winning proposal for a multifunctional admin-
istrative city in Korea, Balmori Associates+Haeahn Architects,
2007 (Courtesy of Haeahn Architects)
addition, the structure would have the advantage of
minimizing the impact of the new development while
promoting appreciation of the natural environment—
principally, the two 250 m high mountains at the center
of the city and the Geumgang River, an ideal setting for
creating a system of ecological linkages. Once the main
frame of the city was set, major urban functions could
be dispersed along the ring, comprising three to five
living-zone units, each of which would have a popula-
tion of 20–30 and independent community facilities.
This scheme appeared to rely on the neighborhood-unit
planning method that had flourished during the devel-
opmental period (figure 9.6).
Based on this round of planning, an international
competition for the master plan of the new admin-
istrative city was held in December 2006. The project
area would be one of six subcenters of the city and was
scheduled to house approximately 25,000 residents in
total and provide office space for 14,000 government
employees. In 2007, the commission was awarded to
Haeahn Architects and Balmori Associates, whose
design was based on the idea of removing barriers sepa-
rating the city from the natural environment: “Entitled
‘Flat City—Linked City—Zero City,’ our project
proposes a flat city as an alternative to high-density
vertical cities; a linked city, providing opportunities
for all to enjoy a satisfying urban life with physical and
spiritual attributes linked in harmony; and a zero city,
emulating nature’s efficiency in order to save energy and
reduce waste.”9 With this language (and its play on the
ring-shaped framework of the city), the slogan recalled
some of the leading ideas of the landscaped architecture
movement that had gained prominence in the West in
the 1990s (figure 9.7).
Landscaped Architecture in Korea
In the late 1990s, a new theme began to permeate Korea’s
architectural and urban discourse. Landscaped archi-
tecture or architectural landscape—the convergence
of architecture, landscape design, and urban design
on the same discursive plane—had become a focus of
attention and controversy in the West once the rapidly
changing requirements for modern city planning had
made it increasingly difficult for architects to prescribe
appropriate solutions. Moreover, issues of city function,
program, and circulation had become so intermin-
gled that it was nearly impossible for architects, land-
scape architects, and urban designers to conceive of
mounting separate interventions to address the newly
diverse challenges. In this situation, attention turned
to a medium that could serve to integrate elements of
the built environment that had previously been treated
separately—landscape.
As the concepts of landscaped architecture continue
to evolve around the world, any attempt to assess its
influence and historical significance is no doubt prema-
ture. Nevertheless, two points can be made concerning
its reception in Korea. First, among the current trends
in global architecture, including the digital, minimalist,
and high-tech schools, it is landscaped architecture that

has produced the strongest response in Korea. Second,
the major concepts of landscaped architecture as prac-
ticed in the West have been subject to transforma-
tion once imported to Korea. In particular, the strong
“picturesque” tradition in the West has had the effect
of grounding those concepts in the natural settings
and cultural predispositions of Western countries. For
Korean architects, such concepts could not be adopted
without a consideration of the vast differences between
countries, and this meant that they had to reexamine
the Korean specifics underlying their own perceptions
of the relationship between landscape and architecture.
Contemporary developments in landscaped archi-
tecture were important for Koreans to absorb because
of the inherent and intimate relationship with nature
they posited. Prior to modernization, the central issues
in Korean architecture had all revolved around the
integration of buildings into their surrounding context.
This emphasis reflected an innate spatial conscious-
ness shared by a people whose way of life had always
been conditioned by their relationship to the natural
landscape, and who had developed a number of envi-
ronmental theories, such as fengshui, to express this
relationship. When Korean architects looked at land-
scaped nature in the West, it became clear that Western
discourse had taken a different direction than tradi-
tional Korean ideas about nature. Landscaped architec-
ture in the West treats nature as a controllable surface,
and defines buildings as folded surfaces and urban
infrastructure as a hidden surface. Thus, the job of land-
scape architects is to fold the programs into the artifi-
cial surface while allowing for a variety of events and
happenings. This scheme is effectively demonstrated in
the prizewinning Paik Nam-Jun Museum. The inten-
tion of the German architect, Kirsten Schemel, was to
create a matrix, which she called the “lake of light,” to
take advantage of the geographical bends in the site.
Another common practice of Western landscape archi-
tects is to create artificial environments using a variety
of digital technologies. In this respect, their methods
follow the Western tradition of artfully manipulating
nature through the subject’s eyes, a practice that funda-
mentally differs from Eastern sensibilities.10
Indeed, a very different understanding of nature has
informed the unfolding of landscaped architecture in
Korea. Rather than emphasizing an artificial surface,
the tendency is to perceive buildings as part of nature.
Korean architects typically reject attempts to objec-
tify nature, preferring instead to blur the boundaries
New Paradigms for Urban Design 131
between nature and architecture. A comparison of
Dominique Perrault’s Ewha campus complex and Sung-
Yong Joh’s Seonyudo Park well illustrates the difference.
Traditionally, Koreans used many methods to exploit
the natural topography, as can be seen in the external
spaces of old temples in Korea, which strive to maintain
topographical singularity while blending into nature.
The continuous sequence in these temples is not organ-
ized through an artificial circulatory system, but through
a mutual interaction between the seen and the unseen.
The impact of this tradition on Korean practitioners of
landscaped architecture cannot be overlooked.
Another notable feature of landscaped architecture in
Korea is that it has been developed in close association
with the efforts of the architects of the 4.3 Group, who
wanted to realize the form of urbanism exemplified by
Bukchon in modern cities.11 Bukchon is the area located
between Gyeongbokgung Palace and Changdeokgung
Palace at the northern end of the Cheonggyecheon
stream in Seoul. Long recognized as home to the nobility,
the Bukchon area exhibited a great diversity in the kinds
of urban hanok that had been constructed there during
the colonial period. In the 1990s, young Korean archi-
tects began to pay great attention to its urban fabric,
where labyrinthine alleys spontaneously interlocked
with individual houses due to the natural topography
(figure 9.8). The architects of the 4.3 Group were fasci-
nated with the communality of the urban spaces created
Fig. 9.8 One of the alleyways in Bukchon (Photo by Nils
Clauss)
132 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

by the alleyways and madang—the constant blurring

of public and private space, containing the potential to
host a variety of diverse events.
Efforts by the 4.3 Group architects to model the
urbanism of Bukchon bore fruit in the Architectural
Planning for 11, Gahoedong exhibition, held in 1991,
where six proposals offered the clearest evidence of
what Bukchon’s future might hold.12 The 4.3 architects
highlighted the extensive network of courtyards and
alleyways as an urban diagram expressing an essen-
tial part of Korean architecture and urban design.
From this time forward, they continued to focus on
how these spatial features could be incorporated into
modern building types. Monghakjae, an urban resi-
dence designed by Kyung-Kook Woo, incorporates an
empty space caught between two masses, alluding to
the courtyard of an urban hanok. Hyo-Sang Seung used
a similar motif in his Sujoldang, where he attempted Fig. 9.9 Diagram of madang in Sujoldang, Hyo-Sang Seung,
to create a new type of urban housing by introducing 1992–1993 (Courtesy of IROJE architects & planners)
several courtyards inside the house. Sung-Yong Joh,
who designed Hapjeongdong House and the Bundang
row houses, also attempted to revive Bukchon’s spatial
features. He believed that “these spaces can revitalize a
lost communal spirit”13 (figures 9.9, 9.10).
The spatial concepts of Bukchon began to combine
with those of the “urban void” in the late 1990s when
Florian Beigel, a German-born architect and professor
at the University of North London, became involved
in the plan for Paju Book City.14 After studying Hans
Scharoun’s Stadtlandschaften and Rem Koolhaas’s early
works, Beigel asserted that “we are bored with object
fixation, we are interested in what happens between
objects, in the void, in emptiness.”15 He found echoes of
this notion in the works of the 4.3 Group architects. In
the design of Paju Book City, architect Hyo-Sang Seung Fig. 9.10 Layout of Monghakjae, Kyung-Kook Woo, 1993
saw the introduction of indeterminate space as one of (Courtesy of Yekong Architects and Planners)
his major objectives: “The first goal of the design was
to secure empty spaces.”16 This approach was reminis- void, landscaped architecture helped Korean architects
cent of the loci-centrism developed earlier by Swoo- restore traditional spatial concepts to their practice.
Geun Kim, as modified by the urban void concept in For Korean architects, landscaped architecture
contemporary landscaped architecture. As we saw in became a means of connecting the previously separate
Chapter 6, loci-centrism is defined by its emphasis on disciplines of architecture and urban design. During
void spaces, to the point where building masses could the modernization process, the role of architects in
be created purely in service of the voids. This tradi- Korean urban design had been limited. The only excep-
tion nearly disappeared following the introduction of tions were the Yeouido project of the 1960s, led by
modernist architecture to Korea. When the activities Swoo-Geun Kim, and the Mokdong development, led
that the architect had to account for were all conducted by Jong-Soung Kimm, during the 1980s. Since then,
inside the buildings, the traditional courtyard lost its the expansion of major cities and the construction
raison d’être. By returning to the concept of the urban of new towns had been directed for the most part by

state-funded research institutes under the Ministry
of Construction. This scheme differed greatly from
Western models, where architects were major players
in the design of the urban environment. The greatest
reason for the disconnect in Korea was that architects
had failed to present effective solutions to the complex-
ity of Korea’s urban problems. Until the introduction
of landscaped architecture, Korean architects had been
preoccupied with questions of typology and contex-
tualism, both of which had little to do with Korean
urbanism. Although Korean cities have a long history,
most buildings in them were constructed from the
1960s on, making it impossible to understand the urban
setting through typological research.
While a few architects attempted to suggest new
methodologies based on traditional Korean town
planning, they were unable to address the significant
complexities of contemporary urban problems. The
concepts of landscaped architecture provided a frame-
work for Korean architects to address these issues,
because, they believe, there is no differentiation between
architecture, urban design, and landscape design,
or between small and large.17 If typological research
proved inadequate, the strategies to activate void spaces
offered by landscaped architecture could provide direc-
tion. Using layers of traces in time and space, architects
began to concretize these design ideas and were able to
define a system that finally integrated the practice of
architecture to city planning. Projects such as the Paju
Book City and Heyri Art Valley were the result.
Two Urban Projects in Paju
Since the mid-1990s, two urban projects have been
noted for their thoughtful approaches to the complex
problems underlying the relationship between architec-
ture and city planning: Paju Book City and the Heyri
Art Valley. Widely viewed as having opened up new
possibilities in the organization of urban space, these
projects shocked the urban institute planners who
were accustomed to the methods of the developmental
period and now stand as signal accomplishments of
contemporary Korean architecture and urban design.
Paju Book City and Heyri Art Valley share many
qualities. First, the architects of the projects commonly
looked to the concepts of landscaped architecture for
development guidelines, stemming from an ecological
decision to preserve the natural conditions of the site.
New Paradigms for Urban Design 133
Paju and Heyri Art Valley both lie in close proximity
to the demilitarized zone (DMZ) separating North and
South Korea, and to Hangang River. Inaccessible for the
past fifty years, the DMZ has become the Korean penin-
sula’s largest nature reserve. It seems natural, then, that
ecological issues would come to the fore in the design
and development of these cities.
Ironically, it was the failure of the housing exhi-
bition complex in Bundang New Town some years
earlier that provided valuable lessons to the coordina-
tors of Paju Book City and Heyri Art Valley. In 1993,
the Korea Land Corporation decided to construct
a housing exhibition complex to commemorate the
successful development of Bundang New Town. The
organizer invited twenty-one domestic architects to
design twenty-four single-family detached houses and
181 town houses on a 52,400 sq m property subdivided
into 206 lots. The aim of the project was to enhance the
quality of domestic culture by showing how a mono-
lithic approach to housing design could be avoided.
The project failed for two reasons. First, the twenty-one
architects participating in the project worked without
any shared guidelines. Not only did their houses
diverge from each other in a fundamentally confus-
ing way, but it came to be seen that the lack of overall
coordination had foreclosed any possibility of clarity.
The failure could not be forgotten when it came to the
development of subsequent urban projects. In the two
Paju projects, the clients appointed coordinators to
create consistencies in the overall project design, and
they saw to it that instruction manuals were created for
architecture, landscape, and urban design. Importantly,
they also formed a group of domestic and foreign
architects, asking the clients to work together with the
architects and refer all designs to a joint committee for
approval. Through this project, a young generation of
Korean architects who had just returned from study
and practice in Europe and America rose to promi-
nence, along with more established architects. The
most active young architects, such as Young-Joon Kim,
Seung-Hoy Kim, Hun Kim, Jong-Kyu Kim, Moon-Gyu
Choi, and Min-Suk Cho, were given opportunities to
conceive several buildings in Paju. Moreover, foreign
architects such as Florian Beigel, Yung-Ho Chang, Ryue
Nishizawa, SHoP (Sharples Holden Pasquarelli), Alvaro
Siza, and Alejandro Zaera-Polo were included in the
pool of architects given a chance to realize their idea.
In this respect, the two projects in Paju clearly outlined
a new paradigm for urban design in a globalizing era.
134 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Paju Book City
The development of Paju Book City began in earnest in
1994. The aim was to create a city where the publication,
manufacturing, display, and sale of books could occur
in a concentrated area, and the site was chosen because
of its proximity to a highway terminating in central
Seoul. Ki-Won Hwang, the professor of urban planning
at Seoul National University, put together a master plan
that determined land use, circulation, landscape, and
infrastructure. After the appointment of two architects,
Hyo-Sang Seung and Hyun-Sik Min, as project coordi-
nators, however, the initial plan underwent fundamen-
tal changes. Both Seung and Min had been influenced
by the ideas of Florian Beigel, who played an instrumen-
tal role in bringing the tenets of landscaped architecture
to Korea, and they wanted to give prominence to the
concepts of urban voids and indeterminate space. Paju
Book City became the model for a new cityscape that
was neither purely a city nor a landscape but borrowed
features from both (figure 9.11): “The major layout of
the complex was implemented while paying maximum
respect to the given natural environment. More specifi-
cally, the territory of the site is largely characterized by
the water drainage channel and its tributaries.”18 Great
attention was paid to environmental issues, including
the creation of an ecological wetland. Given the config-
uration of the land along a north-south axis, the layout
of the city was divided into four layers, inspired by a
Paul Klee painting, A Leaf from the Book of Cities, which
defines “an evolving city typology.”19 Different types of
buildings are situated within these layers, including a
linear type, called the “highway shadow,” a bookshelf
unit, a spine unit, and canal loft units. Of these, the
bookshelf unit deserves a special mention because it
clearly shows how the major concepts of landscaped
architecture were translated in the Korean context.
The initial intent of this type was to facilitate local
views of the river and mountain. It also generated close
relationships between interior and exterior spaces by
punctuating spaces between building masses. However,
Hyo-Sang Seung, who formulated this type, called these
spaces “urban voids,” relating them to the urban fabric
of the traditional village.
Hyo-Sang Seung stands out among the 4.3 Group
architects for his innovative adaptation of Bukchon’s
spatial features in his buildings. After training under
Swoo-Geun Kim for over ten years, Seung initially
pursued Kim’s concept of loci-centrism as the main
focus of his designs. However, he was not limited
Fig. 9.11 View of Paju Book City (Photo by Heun-Kang Seo)
by Kim’s ideas and was able to take them in a practi-
cal direction in the 1990s. In this respect, the spatial
concepts developed in Seung’s works exemplified the
direction of architectural discourse in the 1990s. His
ideas promoted a commonality of interests by bringing
surrounding streets into the buildings while at the
same time expanding interior spaces to spill out into
the exterior. Here we can trace a common tangent
that intersects the differentiable curve that his works
describe, from the Munhwa Gongkan, Subaekdang, and
Welcomm City to the Humax Village. He believed that
architecture in an urban setting must have the poten-
tial to enhance social interaction and amplify its civic
importance. Most of Seung’s activities revolve around
this theme, explaining why he was fond of calling his
works a “city,” a “village,” or a “commons.”
Seung looked for validation of his ideas in a global
context when he took a one-year sojourn in London
in 1997. While lecturing at North London University,
he began to research landscaped architecture and rec-
ognized that the concept of communality was a major
topic in Western architectural discourse. In particular,
when he encountered the notion of an urban void, he
immediately sensed its strong affinity with the court-
yards and alleyways of Bukchon. By the late 1980s, Rem
Koolhaas had explored the concept of the urban void
to the point where it redefined the density and inten-
sity of urban life, and the concept of encircling urban
voids with a program was echoed in the work of many
other European architects. Korean architects, including
Seung, sympathized with this concept and attempted to
bring it over to Korean projects.
Seung blended the concept of the urban void with
the traditional spatial characteristics of Korean archi-
tecture. He paid particular attention to two elements:
multiple vantage points and the potential of the court-
yard. This approach may have been derived from the
 New Paradigms for Urban Design 135

main concept of Cheongju National Museum, the

design of which was entrusted to Seung while he was
working for Swoo-Geun Kim. There, buildings set
parallel to the topographical contour made several
courtyards, offering splendid views through various
forms of window treatment. The influence of the
project resonated in Seung’s own suburban home:
Subaekdang contains five separate rooms and seven
outdoor spaces within a rectangle (figure 9.12). The
only difference was to turn the building’s direction
by 90 degrees, which allowed the courtyards to be
figured from the front. Likewise, multiple points
of view became the object of intensively experi-
Fig. 9.12 Subaekdang, Hyo-Sang Seung + Florian Beigel, 1998 (Photo
mentation. Each room and courtyard had its own
by Osamu Murai)
program, personality, and spatial charge. As Seung
noted, “whether interior or exterior, every room is
independent, each a world of its own.”20 While a
long corridor interconnects these rooms, a variety
of windows, whose size and position varies accord-
ing to the view, makes it possible for users to move
around to acquire multiple viewpoints.
The explorations of Subaekdang were heightened
in the design of Welcomm City, headquarters of
the South Korean advertising agency, located at the
foothill of Jangchung-dong. Here Seung gave the
rusty corten steel boxes that stand on a concrete
podium a new significance by conceiving the three
voids between them as “a framing device that adds
a new dimension to the usual cityscape” (figure
9.13).21 This unique arrangement activates the inter- Fig. 9.13 Welcomm City, Hyo-Sang Seung, 2000 (Photo by Osamu
connection between the back of the building and Murai)
the street the building faces and enables a variety of
events to occur in the congested area. In two recent
projects, the Clubhouse villa for the Commune by
the Great Wall in China22 and the DMZ Peace-Life
Valley in Korea, Seung has extended the potential
of this idea further, suggesting an intriguing theory
he calls landscript. Having reflected on architecture
for some time, Seung has come to believe that “the
most important clue to deciding what to do about
a project is the land—the location. In other words,
architecture is the outcome of narratives of the land,
and the fruit of its physical as well as human topog-
raphy.”23 In Paju Book City, the shelf unit type of
building continues these explorations (figure 9.14).
Paju Book City was the first urban project in
Korea to realize the concepts of landscaped archi-
tecture. This convergence of architectural and urban Fig. 9.14 Clubhouse model, Commune by the Great Wall, Hyo-Sang
design had a great impact on Korean architects, Seung, 2002 (Courtesy of IROJE architects & planners)
136 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea

furthering the attention landscaped architecture con-

tinues to receive in contemporary Korean discourse.
However, despite this success, Paju Book City still has
some critical flaws. The most glaring fault is that the
master plan of the city had been drawn up before the
architects were able to intervene, creating a conceptual
schism between the overall plan and the architecture.
The master plan contradicted many of landscaped archi-
tecture’s tenets because it bounded the future expansion
of the city without taking into account changes as they
occurred. These boundaries repeatedly problematized
the architects’ design intentions. Furthermore, the strict
rulebook forming the initial design instructions contra- Fig. 9.15 Kim Ok-Gil Memorial Hall, Seoul, In-Cheurl Kim,
vened some key concepts of landscaped architecture, in 1998 (Photo by Young-Chae Park).
particular, notions of indeterminate space.
In addition to shelf-unit buildings, the design
instructions for the new city prescribed other building
types based on linear, spinal, canal, and stone models.
The Woongjin Thinkbig office designed by In-Cheurl
Kim best exemplifies the stone type. As a member of
the 4.3 Group, In-Cheurl Kim had concentrated on
minimalist approaches to the materiality of exposed
concrete when he debuted in the early 1990s. The Kim
Ok-Gil Memorial Hall that he conceived on a small
60 sq m tract of land in Seoul embodies his princi-
pal ideas from that time (figure 9.15). Multilayered
30 cm thick concrete walls that appear identical from
inside characterize the building’s appearance and blur Fig. 9.16 Woongin Thinkbig office, Paju, In-Cheurl Kim, 2007
the lines between the exterior and interior. Through (Photo by Young-Chae Park)
these walls, the architect lets the interior space flow
freely into the surrounding alleys and streets instead circulation elements, such as a transverse stair bound
of trying to contain space that cannot be contained.24 for the rooftop and stepped terraces, contributing to
The Woongjin Thinkbig office in Paju shows a progres- the interconnection of disparate elements of the built
sion of ideas in the materials used and spatial layout. environment. In this respect, this structure illustrates
Accepting the design guidelines for the new city, Kim the transformative process that led from the madang of
sought ways to develop the given building type in a traditional hanok to the urban void of contemporary
his own manner. In an interview in an architectural landscaped architecture (figure 9.16).
magazine, he said, “I imagined a light stone floating on
a reed field rather than a heavy rock stuck solidly. This Heyri Art Valley
made me feel a need to create a transparent appearance When the Heyri Art Valley project initially took shape
to lessen the weight.”25 Of greater importance than the in 1997, the clients had taken on board the precedent of
appearance of the building, however, was a large central Hay-on-Wye, the world’s first book town, lying on the
courtyard. This space is located outside, but its function border between England and Wales. When the number
is closely interlocked with the inside. As in other of artists who wished to participate in the project
works done by 4.3 Group members, it’s evident that increased, however, the program was recast to comprise
the architect designing this place was inspired by the 370 new buildings for artists in a 50,000 sq m area.
courtyard of the hanok. In keeping with the madang’s Unlike in Paju, the initial development team for the
ability to accommodate various domestic functions, project included architects and urban designers from
the courtyard of this building incorporates a number of the start, and they helped produce the master plan. An
 New Paradigms for Urban Design 137

irregular network for circulation was plotted, mimick-

ing topographical contours and creating a landscape
within which buildings were to sit. After the comple-
tion of the master plan, architects Jong-Kyu Kim and
Jun-Sung Kim jointly served as architectural coordina-
tors to produce design guidelines for the project. In the
guidelines, it was proposed that “architecture should be
understood in terms of its relationships to the ground,”
directly citing the fundamental tenet of landscaped
architecture (figure 9.17); moreover, “when interpreted
in this way, it becomes possible to expand external
spaces indefinitely into the realm of internal space.”26
While it is too early to assess the historical signifi-
cance of the Heyri Art Valley, which is still under con-
struction, it’s already clear that these experiments have
had a great impact on Korean architectural discourse.
Made possible through the collaboration of foreign and
domestic architects, Heyri has also received interna-
tional attention, including mention in the foreign press
as “a funky arts colony promoting experimental archi-
tecture and community design.”27 However, despite its
great success, Heyri, as a model of landscaped archi-
tecture, has one critical flaw—the absence of elements
expressing the relationship between interior and Fig. 9.18 Baik Soon Shil Museum, Kyung-Kook Woo, 2005
exterior spaces. Eduard Bru argued that “the division of (Photo by Jong-Oh Kim)
roles to the artificial and the natural, and the notion of
interiority and exteriority have lost its supposed stability to the expressed aim of landscaped architecture to
in the new concept of landscape.”28 In this regard, Heyri endeavor to create connections.
displays an incomplete application of the concept. The Heyri has thus become practically an outdoor
glaring lack of interstitial urban voids creates a discon- museum of architecture, collecting a variety of high-
nected field of single buildings that stands in contrast quality works and blending refined massing, inventive
technology, and subtle details. Two buildings are par-
ticularly noteworthy from the standpoint of following
the activities of the 4.3 Group architects. One is Hangil
Book House, conceived by SHoP, a New York-based
architectural firm; the exterior of this building is
characterized by warped planes formed from molded
and twisted wood. The second is the Baik Soon Shil
Museum, designed by Kyung-Kook Woo (figure 9.18).
The two buildings have much in common in that the
architects inserted a ramp at the center of each, offering
diverse views to visitors, a frequent feature of circula-
tion in landscaped architecture projects. Along with the
ramp, however, Woo’s museum displays a combination
of additional motifs and a courtyard. Unlike Hyo-Sang
Seung, who went back to Bukchon’s labyrinthine alleys
to find inspiration for his vision of architectural com-
Fig. 9.17 Model of the Heyri Art Valley (Courtesy of Jun-Sung munality, Woo has utilized the rich spatial concept of
Kim) the courtyard from his earliest works, and has developed
138 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
it with a modern touch. The Baik Soon Shil Museum
clearly shows how a courtyard alters the overall spatial
system and its sequence of views.
Fragments, Events, and the City
Both Paju Book City and the Heyri Art Valley began as
newly created projects in the suburbs of Seoul, creating
ready opportunities for applying the experimental
concepts of landscaped architecture. When those ideas
are applied to highly agglomerated areas, the methods
used need to differ. In particular, the overcrowding of
large Korean cities has brought about a polarization of
urban space, resulting in fragmentation and hybridiza-
tion. The response of architects to these conditions has
influenced in telling ways the design of major projects
such as the Myeongdong Cathedral complex, the
campus center at Ewha Woman’s University, the Asian
Culture complex in Gwangju, and the Dongdaemun
Design Plaza and Park. All begun in the mid-1990s,
these projects appear as fragments inserted into the
existing urban environment, awakening wonder and
curiosity, but they also seek to redefine the historical
traces underlying their sites. Because of the condensed,
rapid growth of Korean cities, most urban spaces have
become characterized by a hybridization of various
functions and events, leading to an overlapping of
historical layers in those places. In such cases, where
it may be difficult for architects to intervene effectively
using conventional methods, concepts drawn from
landscaped architecture have been useful for integrat-
ing the disparate layers onto a single surface. Designs
espousing a landscaped architecture commonly attempt
to rehabilitate site memories that have lain dormant
over time by generating a structure of urban voids
that can create a public communality in city space and
provide future generations with potential openings for
their own activity.
Myeongdong Cathedral Complex
The competition for the reorganization of the
Myeongdong Cathedral complex in 1996 featured
attempts by architects to create an artificial ground
plane to unify disparate layers of the site. The com-
petition specifically dealt with the Gothic cathe-
dral’s exterior spaces and had the aims of improving
access to the cathedral, providing a large public space
for mass gatherings, and creating a large religious
convention center. The challenge the site presented
was the numerous and complicated layers of historic-
ity that had developed in and around the complex since
the late 1890s. In an isolated location on top of a hill,
the site was not only sacred ground for the Korean
Catholic Church but was surrounded by the increas-
ing density of an ever-growing city. A vast shopping
district surrounds the cathedral, and the edges of the
site are marked by oddly formed plots with a commer-
cial program. Together with the physical and historical
changes in the area, the program of the cathedral itself
has taken on a new meaning, for it provided public
space for pro-democracy rallies, thereby cementing
its place in history as sacred ground for the democra-
tization of Korean society. The complexities of many
events are thus figured in the site of the Myeongdong
Cathedral complex.
Entrants in the architectural competition respected
these historical layers and attempted to integrate
them within schemes designed to unite secular/reli-
gious, temporary/timeless, commercial/ritualistic, and
dynamic/static elements.29 In the process, concepts
drawn from landscaped architecture came to the fore.
Alejandro Zaera-Polo’s proposal, in particular, fully
expressed these ideals through the creation of an
artificial ground plane, under which diverse indoor
spaces would be sheltered. This intervention sought to
integrate and deliberately blur the boundaries between
the cathedral complex and its urban setting. Kerl Yoo
and Jong-Kyu Kim drew on similar concepts in their
proposals, demonstrating that landscaped architecture
could provide a consensus-driven solution to the chal-
lenges of complex historicity found within an urban site
(figure 9.19).
Fig. 9.19 Model of the reorganization of the Myeongdong
Cathedral complex, Kerl Yoo, 1996 (Courtesy of iArc Architects)

Ewha Campus Center
The competition for a new campus center at Ewha
Woman’s University dealt with similar issues. The
campus for Korea’s first women’s university had begun
construction in 1933 with William Merrel Vories’ design
for a major campus center in the neo-Gothic style then
prevalent in American universities. A large number of
buildings had since engulfed the campus, exacerbating
circulation problems. In addition, the boundaries of the
campus had shifted dramatically when the government
covered a railroad that had isolated the campus from
Sinchon, the northwestern subcenter of Seoul. Taking
these problems into consideration, the university
invited the internationally acclaimed architects Zaha
Hadid, Dominique Perrault, and Alejandro Zaera-Polo
and Farshid Moussavi’s firm of Foreign Office Architects
(FOA) to submit proposals for a campus center that
would provide a new face for the university. The center
was to house 20,000 students and include parking areas
above and below ground that had previously been
occupied by Ewha Square and the athletic field.
The winning project, designed by Dominique
Perrault, established a strong axis from the entrance
gate to the main building, creating an artificial valley
covered in vegetation. This artificial ground plane
allowed for direct circulation to the surrounding
buildings. Compared to the plans of Zaha Hadid and
FOA, Perrault’s proposal minimized the architectural
intervention, contrasting geometric masses to organic
surfaces (figure 9.20). This mode of landscaped archi-
tecture diverged greatly from Korean concepts of the
relationship between buildings and landscape, and
arguably derived from traditional French stylistic ideals.
Fig. 9.20 Campus center, Ewha Woman’s University,
Dominique Perrault, 2004–2008 (Courtesy of DPA/Adagp)
New Paradigms for Urban Design 139
Asian Culture Complex
Competition entries for the Asian Culture Complex in
Gwangju in 2006 also featured concepts drawn from
landscaped architecture. The complexity of the site
and its program proved an enticing challenge for many
architects. First, the site is located in the heart of the
city, having served as the backdrop to the Gwangju pro-
democracy movement in 1980. The organizer required
the entrants to preserve the original structures of the
old provincial office, the fountain, and Sangmudae,
all of which had come to symbolize the pro-democ-
racy movement. Second, Gwangju had always been
known for its artistic and cultural productions, and
this defined the project’s program as the creation of
an Asian cultural complex. The question of determin-
ing what Asian culture consists of became an incred-
ible challenge, however, and the jury assembled Asian
architects, including Ken Yeang and Yung Ho Chang, to
help clarify the idea.
After much deliberation, seven out of 124 entries
were selected for honorary mention. The strengths of
the seven works lay in their different approaches to the
urban setting. In particular, Kyu Sung Woo’s winning
design, “Forest of Light,” extended a park throughout
the center of the city, sheltered by a green roof. At the
center of the complex, Woo created an introverted void
space, which he believed represented a core Asian value
for architecture (figure 9.21). In contrast, the design
of Alberto Francini, who won second prize, featured
a park enclosed by surrounding buildings. It can be
argued that this design reflects the traditional features
of European urban morphology. The jury preferred
Woo’s proposal for the creation of negative space over
Francini’s generation of an icon, marking an explicit
distinction between Asian and Western values in archi-
tecture and identifying an essential value of landscaped
architecture in Korea.
Another challenge of the competition involved
the reinterpretation of the old provincial office and
fountain as symbols of the pro-democracy movement.
Hyo-Sang Seung’s proposal dealt with this challenge
by extending the street patterns and surrounding
urban fabric of Gwangju into the site and scattering
small buildings throughout the complex to house its
programmatic elements (figure 9.22). Seung denied
attributions of centrality and monumentality with
this design and embraced the existing urban setting
so as to invite the everyday life of the city into the
project. In contrast, Woo’s design established a strong,
140 Architecture and Urbanism in Modern Korea
Fig. 9.21 Asian Culture Complex model, Kyu Sung Woo, 2005
(Courtesy of Kyu Sung Woo Architects)
Fig. 9.22 Asian Culture Complex model, Hyo-Sang Seung,
2005 (Courtesy of IROJE architects & planners)
transcendental center, as he had done in his architec-
tural works throughout his career. He placed the old
provincial office at the center of the introverted court-
yard and set the surrounding buildings deep into the
ground to highlight its presence.
Seonyudo Park
A defining factor in the consolidation of landscaped
architecture in Korean urban discourse was the emer-
gence of a wide range of efforts to rehabilitate urban
environments that had been destroyed during the
developmental period. By this time in the 1990s, the
growth of the urban population had begun to plateau,
creating an opportune moment to look more deeply
at the urban environment. Deserted lands were reha-
bilitated into parks, and slums were razed for the
building of new apartment complexes. These projects,
including Seonyudo Park and the restoration of the
Cheonggyecheon stream, can be construed as evidence
of a shift in urban discourse. In particular, the resto-
ration of the Cheonggyecheon stream brought issues
of urban ecology to the forefront, intermingled with
political agendas. The project is regarded as a success,
and was due to Myung-Bak Lee, then mayor of Seoul,
who would later be elected president of South Korea.
Cheonggyecheon, a stream flowing through the heart
of Seoul, had become severely polluted during the
developmental period. At that time, the stream was
buried and an elevated highway constructed over the
area. Urban administrators boasted about the benefits
this new infrastructure would bring, and, together
with the Samilro building, it came to symbolize the
economic growth of the developmental period. The
effect of the elevated highway, however, was urban
blight, which destroyed surrounding land prices and
cut through the urban fabric. In 2000, the symbol of
Korea’s investment in infrastructure development was
demolished, to be replaced by an artificial stream. The
success of the project had a positive impact on the
urban ecology of Seoul, and it generated renewed con-
sideration of the relationship between nature and the
urban environment.
Like the restoration of the Cheonggyecheon stream,
Seonyudo Park was also a rehabilitation project.
Formerly a scenic island in the Hangang River, the site
had been barred from public use following the con-
struction of a filtration plant in the 1970s. The filtration
plant eventually fell into disuse, and twenty years after
its construction, the government developed plans to
make the island an urban park. Designing the project
for Seoan Landscape Architects, architect Sung-Yong
Joh created a narrative of the violence inflicted upon the
island by the creations of the industrial age (figure 9.23).
Joh did not attempt to erase its past: “Instead he groped
for a way to reconcile nature and industrial society, to
grow green plants in brutal concrete.”30 He wanted to
preserve the historical narrative of the island to help
future generations understand the dangers of indus-
trial processes, and to demolish barriers separating
architecture from the landscape so as to secure a living
continuity between the interior and exterior spaces.
This stood in direct contrast to Dominique Perrault’s
scheme at the Ewha Woman’s University, which tried to
objectify nature. It can be argued that Joh’s design was
made possible through his understanding of traditional
Korean ideas about architecture and the landscape.

Fig. 9.23 Seonyudo Park, Sung-Yong Joh+Seohan Landscape
Architects, 2002 (Courtesy of Seohan Landscape Architects)
Dongdaemun Design Plaza and Park
Dongdaemun Design Plaza and Park became the major
arena for the realization of an ideal landscaped archi-
tecture in Korea. Located near Dongdaemun, the east
gate of the ancient city wall, the site has been prominent
throughout Seoul’s long history. Prior to moderniza-
tion, an ancient city wall ran across the site. When the
wall was demolished by Japanese colonizers, the gate
was left as an isolated monument. Korea’s first modern
sports facility was completed in this area in 1926, and
the soccer and baseball stadiums hosted a variety of
sporting events during the colonial period. Following
liberation, a series of renovations increased the capabil-
ity of these stadiums, but their role shrank as giant sport
complexes were constructed for the Seoul Olympics
in 1988 and the Korea-Japan World Cup in 2002. The
areas around the stadiums have since become leading
fashion hubs, not only in Seoul but in Asia more gen-
erally. Despite these signs of progress, “the area could
not forsake its old image thanks to its proximity to the
now disused sports stadium. Popular flea markets had
taken over the sports facilities, and the old and shabby
baseball field needed an urgent renovation.”31
Se-Hoon Oh pledged during his mayoral electoral
campaign to demolish the stadiums and turn the site
into a landmark park. After taking office in 2006, he
turned his attention to the stadiums as a springboard
to launch his slogan “Seoul, design capital.” He wanted
to ensure that the design of the park made Seoul a more
attractive city, and this drove the rapid renovation of
the area. In 2007, the Seoul metropolitan government
New Paradigms for Urban Design 141
Fig. 9.24 Dongdaemun Design Plaza and Park, Jaha Hadid,
2007 (Photo by Nils Clauss)
invited four Korean architects (Kerl Yoo, Sung-Yong
Joh, Hyo-Sang Seung, and Moon-Gyu Choi) and four
foreign architects (Jaha Hadid, Steven Holl, FOA,
and the Dutch firm MVRDV) to judge an interna-
tional competition. Each of the entrants had to utilize
a 61,585 sq m site for the design of a park, a plaza, an
event hall and café, a stadium memorial, a history
museum, and a gallery, as well as plan the restoration
of an ancient city wall. The essential challenge was how
to interpret and incorporate the many temporal layers
of the site into a unified design. After a fierce discus-
sion, the jury announced that the design submitted
by the Iraqi-born British architect Zaha Hadid had
won the competition. Her entry, entitled “Metonymic
Landscape,” was deemed a daring and visionary experi-
ment with the relationships of buildings to their urban
surroundings. In her presentation, she had stated that
“this proposal starts by revolving around the ancient
city wall, which forms the central element of the
composition. The wall and terrain become visual ori-
entation devices from all access points to the site. This
continuous landscape physically links together the park
and the design center. The proposal attempts to create a
park through a re-shaped site topography.”32 Excited by
the potential of a site surrounded by a variety of fashion
shops and buildings, she wanted her design to actively
interact with the urban setting to create a new environ-
ment. This approach was in clear pursuit of the same
goals as landscaped architecture (figure 9.24).
Epilogue
A Correlative Architecture between the Void and the Solid

This book has presented a comprehensive overview of architectural and urban development in Korea
within the broad framework of modernization. A meaningful conclusion can only be drawn if we begin
with an understanding of the modernization process. Korea’s modernization cannot be explained by any
single widely accepted theory. It followed its own distinctive trajectory in several respects, leaving two
daunting tasks to the observer. The first is to answer the question whether Western-centric concepts of
modernity can encompass the particularity of its manifestation in Korea. Like many nations emerging
in the wake of World War II, Korea managed to achieve modernity in two to three generations, or
sixty or so years. The nation soon reached a critical threshold, and this can be largely attributed to the
supercharged growth of Korea’s economy. Such a case is extraordinary. Accordingly, the story of Korea’s
modernization has aspects that cannot be accounted for by Western standards or by theories pertaining
to underdeveloped third-world nations. The second task is to draw out the implications of the colonial
introduction of modernism for the entire modernization process, which was of longer duration. It is true
that the colonial experience determined the social, political, and economic development of twentieth-
century Korea in irreversible ways. However, Korea’s experience stemmed from a singular fact: the
colonizing power was not composed of Westerners seeking control over resources or to expand their
territory. It was neighboring Japan. The modernization of Korea therefore needs to be described from its
own unique perspective, and recent theories about globalization can help in formulating this approach.
Modernization is usually regarded as a bundle of cumulative processes that mutually reinforce the
formation of capital through the mobilization of resources, development of production forces and
labor productivity, establishment of centralized political power, proliferation of political rights and
participation, secularization of values and norms, and so on.1 In defining the concept of modernization,
Western scholars have typically shared several assumptions: (1) “traditional” and “modern” societies are
separate and dichotomous; (2) social, political, and economic changes are integrated and interdependent;
(3) the path of development toward modernity is linear and shared; and (4) contact with developed
societies can dramatically accelerate the progress of developing ones.2 Oddly, when studying the
modernization of Korea, these assumptions prove false owing to the unique trajectory of Korean history
and culture. Contact with the so-called developed countries of the West, for example, did not result in
the acceleration of material progress but rather in colonial rule, exploitation, and civil wars.
In a globalizing era when regional economies, cultures, and societies are becoming integrated through
a global network of communication and exchange, attitudes toward modernization are undergoing great
change. According to Arjun Appadurai, “the new global cultural economy has to be seen as a complex,
overlapping, disjunctive order that cannot any longer be understood in terms of existing center-
periphery models. Nor is it susceptible to simple models of pull-push, or of surpluses and deficits, or of
consumers and producers.”3 Appadurai suggests that a unilateral flow from the West to other countries
is actually rare and that the process is a two-way street, with give and take on both sides. In this view, all
localities in a globalized field are politically, economically and culturally interconnected while retaining
distinct identities. As a result, there has been increasing recognition that several strains of modernity
can coexist. “Theriborn identifies three major sites, other than Europe, where modernity developed
relatively autonomously: the New World, where modernity developed as the result of the decimation of
existing peoples; East Asia, where modernity arose as a response to a threatening external challenge; and
much of Africa, where modernity was largely imposed through colonization or imperialism.”4
 Epilogue 143

Globalization embraces the intermingling of these diversities and the creation of hybridized cultures.
If the modernization of Korea can be seen through this lens, it will not be positioned at the fringe of any
discourse of modernity but will be an important link in comprehending the process of modernization
and a new modernity. To acknowledge that Korean architecture and culture have the potential to affect
other advanced countries is to take a manifestly postcolonial approach to today’s global arena, and
this opens up two new possibilities for understanding the Korean modern. The first is that the Korean
modern can more accurately be understood within the broader frame of East Asia. This perception
gets us beyond any narrow-minded nationalism and restores to view the fractured history of modern
architecture in East Asia. The second is that the Korean modern can be seen as a hybridized merging
of Korean locality and Western modernity. Too closely interlocked to be separated, the two binary
constituents have combined to produce new modes of spatiality and architectural expression.5
The spatial attributes of the Korean modern are found in the architecture, housing developments,
and cities built over the past century. Unlike American cities, Korean cities do not show a sharp contrast
between a densely populated downtown area and sparsely settled suburbs. Spatial separation between
different races and ethnic groups rarely exists, too. Instead, Korean cities are characterized by the
intermixture of distinctive urban functions within any given area and the omnipresence of enormous
congestion. As a result, locations within a city comprise a mash-up of historical layers and social events.
Unlike many European cities, an established typology or spatial order is rarely glimpsed in Korean cities
despite their long history. The social definition of an open space or a city square also differs as a result.
For this reason, on visits to Korean cities, many urban experts from Europe have felt them to be full
of clutter. The frenzied signs they saw in buildings no doubt aggravated this feeling. Yet the difference,
however striking, occurred for two reasons: the methods chosen for city planning and the compressed
timespan of urbanization.
Urban space in Korea is the result of a layering over time of a variety of planning idioms and regulatory
regimes. Four distinctive layers of development can easily be identified in Korea’s major cities. The first
was formed before 1934. As seen in the origins of Seoul, Busan, Daegu, and Gwangju, traditional towns
in Korea were constructed within fortresses, forming the nuclei for subsequent urban growth. The
second layer began to be added in 1934 during the Japanese colonial period. In response to the influx
of population to the peripheries of the cities, the colonial regime created the Joseon Urban Planning
Decree, considered the first law to regulate modern urban planning in Korea. It created national
standards for development and zones that transcended the mere revitalization of downtown areas.6 The
new development zones were used to implement land readjustment projects and specified the use of the
growing number of urban spaces during this period. The third layer of development began in 1962 when
the Building Act and the Town Planning Act were enacted, ushering in new methods for shaping urban
space. The neighborhood-unit theory and the living-zone theory came to the forefront at this time. As
the scale of building sites expanded, new apartment complexes were developed in great numbers. The
urban landscape changed substantially. The fourth layer of development began in the 1990s when a new
political regime abandoned the growth-first, top-down planning of the Chung-Hee Park era to embrace
a new model calling for environmentally sustainable growth. Since the 1960s, urban policies had focused
on the immediate problems caused by explosive population growth, but with the slowing of that growth
in the 1990s, attention finally shifted to the inner workings of cities and their long-term outlook.
Architectural trends in Korea have kept in line with the formation of urban space. But amid the
changes in discourse through the decades, we can nevertheless identify a powerful diagram that
remained unchanged in spite of the rise and fall of numerous buildings. It is that of a madang or
courtyard. Even when other core elements of traditional architecture vanished, the madang survived,
constantly undergoing adaptation and modification. During the colonial period, when the traditional
hanok’s deployment of several buildings and courtyards within a fence wall proved incompatible with
the compactness required of modern urban housing, a unique type of housing called the urban hanok,
consisting of a U-shaped building and a central courtyard, came into being. This became the dominant,
144 Epilogue

developer-driven housing type constructed in Korea from the 1930s to the 1960s. Yet the urban hanok,
by failing to adapt to new conditions, also faded away. The most critical issue in the developmental
period was the creation of housing adaptable both to new forms of urban living and to the emergence
of new materials, domestic equipment, and heating systems. In consequence, the madang was absorbed
internally, transforming itself into a hall-like living room in spec houses. The rapidly growing density of
urban spaces in the 1970s became another challenge. Now the madang survived as a feature of certain
high-rise apartment buildings. After the 1990s, many talented architects attempted to resuscitate the
hanok, developing spatial concepts differing from the prevailing Western models. The interpenetration
of alleyways and courtyards in the urban hanok of the Bukchon area in Seoul provided strong inspiration
in forming this new architectural typology. In addition, the madang became associated with the concept
of an urban void proposed by recent developments in landscaped architecture in the West.
The survival of the madang throughout fundamental changes in the built environment of Korea
has occurred because it emanates from the core of the spatial consciousness of the Korean people. For
this reason, it has been a consistently dominant theme for Korean architects. In buildings, its existence
represents a complementary relationship between the void and the solid. Koreans prefer to interlock two
opposing elements rather than divide them clearly. A dynamism in spatial experience is the corollary
of this ambitendency. The madang is characterized by indeterminacy, a quite different concept from
the landscape gardening of Japanese courtyards. The madang is empty space, but one that is full of
potential. Its meaning cannot be fully grasped because of its readiness to entertain untold events in
the future. As such, its ambiguity and potentiality are key to its definition. Above all, the madang is an
in-between space. Interrelated with other dwelling functions, as well as various circulation systems, it
easily permeates into other rooms, creating a seamless connection between inside and outside. Many
Korean architects are continuing to explore the essential aspects of the madang, using it as a powerful
diagram for generating the architectural forms and spaces of modern Korea.
Appendix
Proles of Korean Architects and Planners

Bae, Ki-Hyung ̛ؑ୉ (1917–1979)

Born in Gimhae, Gyeongsangnamdo, Ki-Hyung Bae studied at a vocational school in Busan and learned
architecture through short courses provided by an institute at Kyushu University. Until the 1945 libera-
tion, he worked for the Nishijima Architectural Office in Fukuoka, Japan. During that time, he acquired
considerable experience working with steel structures, enabling him to become Korea’s foremost author-
ity on structural design.
In 1946, Bae founded his own office, Gujosa, together with five architects and structural engineers,
and achieved fame as the designer of a number of factories and offices. In particular, his expertise in
large-span structures was displayed in his designs for the Paramount Cinema and Piccadilly Cinema
in Seoul. He also designed the Jungang building (1965) and the UNESCO building (1966), both still
standing in downtown Seoul.

Chung, Guyon ࢽ̛ࡈ (1943–2011)

Guyon Chung graduated from the Crafts Department at Seoul National University and studied interior
design at the École Nationale Supérieur des Arts Décoratifs before changing his major to architecture at
the École d’Architecture de Paris La Villette. His academic trajectory was not completed, however, until
he studied urbanism at the Université de Paris VIII in 1982 in search of a total human environment
embracing small-scale crafts as well as modern urban life. He ran his own office in Paris until 1985,
when he returned to Korea to open Guyon Architects.
Experiencing the military dictatorship of the 1980s, Chung became interested in the social role of
architects and how they could deepen their engagement in society. He put this idea into practice through
a series of projects in Muju county, consisting of thirty works in total, between 1996 and 2005. His initia-
tive in Muju caused a nationwide stir, attracting the attention of the reform-minded Moo-Hyun Roh
administration. Through his relationship with officials in the new administration, Chung made efforts
to improve the nation’s architectural and urban planning. He also designed a residence for Roh in the
president’s hometown of Bongha, where Roh retired when he left office.

Joh, Sung-Yong ࣏‫۽‬Փ (1944–)

Sung-Yong Joh was born in Tokyo and educated at Inha University. He is the current principal of Joh
Sung-Yong Architects and president of the Seoul School of Architecture. As a member of the 4.3 Group,
he has played a leading role in the articulation of Korean architectural discourse since the 1990s.
His designs have won first prize in several notable competitions, including the Athletes’ Village for
the Asian Games (1983), the Uijae Museum (1999), Seonyudo Park (2000), and the Seoul Olympic
Museum (2000). These buildings were recognized for clearly conveying his major idea: a thorough com-
munication with the surrounding environment. Joh has been invited to a number of national and inter-
national exhibitions, including Notions of Madang: Three Contemporary Korean Architects at Gallery MA
in Tokyo in 1989, Metropolis in Transition at Gallery Inspiration in Tokyo in 1991, 4.3 Group Architecture
in 1992, and The 53 Origins at Gallery Ma in 1995.
146 Appendix

Kim, Chung-Up ̡ࣸ߶ (1922–1988)

Born in Pyongyang as the second eldest son of a country magistrate, Chung-Up Kim spent most of
his early childhood in several counties of the northeastern region. The mountainous landscapes of this
area instilled a romantic sensibility in the artistic child. He was fond of composing poems and drawn
to Fauvist paintings in high school in Pyongyang, and was persuaded by his painting teacher to enroll
at Yokohama National University. There he received a rigorous Beaux-Arts training under the guidance
of Professor Junpei Nakamura, who had studied at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. After working at
the Matsuda-Hirada architectural firm for three years, Kim returned to Korea and became an assistant
professor at Seoul National University.
In 1952, Kim traveled to Venice as one of five Korean delegates to the First International Conference
of Artists sponsored by UNESCO. On this trip, an encounter with Le Corbusier on a coastal passenger
ferry proved fateful. After the conference, Kim headed for Paris to ask for a job in Le Corbusier’s office,
where he remained for three and a half years. Upon his return to Korea, he opened a studio of his own in
Seoul. Initially emulating Le Corbusier, Kim opened a new path with the design of the French embassy
in Seoul (1960), a cluster of three buildings set on a hill exemplifying the unity that can be achieved
through a harmonious arrangement of forms in a natural setting. Subsequent works such as the head-
quarters building of Jeju University (1964) , Seo Obstetrics and Gynecology Clinic (1965), the main gate
of the UN memorial cemetery (1966), and the Lee residence (1967) displayed his ability to transform the
traditional vocabularies of Korean architecture into a modern poetry of shadows and light.
During this period, Kim continued to criticize the urban policies of the military regime, and in 1971
he was forced to leave for Paris without his family. He attempted to carry on his architectural practice in
Europe but was unable to produce meaningful outcomes. He moved to the United States in 1975, where
he continued his private practice and served as a design critic at the University of Rhode Island. In 1978,
he returned to Korea permanently and conceived several projects such as a new building for the Korean
Educational Development Institute (1979), the Korea Military Academy museum (1981), and the World
Peace Gate (1987). These later works show a changed attitude toward architectural design with a new
emphasis on transparency and simplicity.

Kim, In-Cheurl ̡ࢉঋ(1947–)

Born in Jinhae in South Gyeongsang province, In-Cheurl Kim graduated from Hongik University and
began his architectural career as an apprentice in the studio of Duck-Moon Um, where he worked from
1971 to 1985. In 1986, he opened his own practice, renaming it Archium in 1995. As a member of the
4.3 Group that strongly influenced the Korean architectural community, Kim’s career flourished. He
subsequently joined the faculty of the Seoul School of Architecture and currently holds a professorship
at Joongang University.
Kim believes that architecture is not a matter of addition but a process that removes unnecessary
clutter. This tenet is well reflected in major works such as the Kim Ok-Gil Memorial Hall (1998),
Woongjin Thinkbig office (2007), and Urban Hive (2008). His book Shall We Talk about Architecture
(2002) was compiled from talks with students in the webzine Archinude.

Kim, Jong-Soo ̡ࢽܹ(1919–1985)

A native of Pyongyang, Jong-Soo Kim moved to Seoul to study architecture at Gyeongseong Engineering
College and, upon graduation, took a position in the building and repairs department of the Government-
General of Joseon. In 1953, he established Jonghap Architectural Institute with Cheon-Seung Yi, Korea’s
first large-scale architectural firm. During the postwar period, this partnership contributed significantly
to the introduction of advanced Western technologies through projects such as Gukje Cinema (1957),
Saint Mary’s Hospital in Seoul (1959), Jongro YMCA (1960), and Jangchung Gymnasium (1960). In
1957, a year-long stay at the University of Minnesota exposed Kim to the work of Mies van der Rohe,
 Appendix 147

which became an enormous influence on his own designs. He cultivated a mechanical and functionalist
approach to architecture in order to express a candid relationship between structure and appearance.
The metal curtain wall he designed for Saint Mary’s Hospital in Seoul was the first in Korea, and he
subsequently experimented with a precast concrete curtain wall at his own office. After becoming a
professor of architecture at Yonsei University, he became fascinated with the Gothic style and the pos-
sibility of using a modern approach to transform it. For the Students’ Hall at Yonsei University (1963),
he put pointed Gothic arches in a precast concrete curtain wall to complete the façade of the building.
Even though Jong-Soo Kim found it difficult to realize some of his high-tech aspirations for architecture
in Korea, he was able for the most part to overcome the technological limitations of his era.

Kim, Seok-Chul ̡۱ঋ(1943–)

Seok-Chul Kim studied architecture at Seoul National University before working in the offices of two
leading architects, Chung-Up Kim and Swoo-Geun Kim, between 1964 and 1969. In 1972, he estab-
lished Archiban Seok Chul Kim & Associates. In 1983, his firm won an international competition for the
design of the Seoul Arts Center, Korea’s premier arts complex, comprising an opera house, concert hall,
art museum and archives, calligraphy museum, and performance theater. More recent works include the
Jeju Cinema Museum (1991), the Korean Pavilion at the Venice Biennale (1995), and the DBEW Design
Center (2003), in addition to the master plan for the World Ceramic Expo of 2001.
An organizer of the Anywise conferences and Aquapolis series of conferences, Kim has also authored
Millennium Architecture: Millennium City and Seoul: City of Ethics, City of Nature. He is currently
involved in a number of collaborative projects in Europe and China.

Kim, Swoo-Geun ̡ܹ̒(1931–1986)

Swoo-Geun Kim was a prominent Korean architect, educator, publisher, and patron of the arts. He was
born into a family that ran a fishery business in Cheongjin, North Korea, but soon moved to Seoul,
because of his mother’s enthusiasm for education. His interest in architecture was kindled through an
accidental contact with an American soldier when he was a high school student. In 1950, Kim entered
Seoul National University to major in architecture, but the outbreak of the Korean War forced him to
withdraw from the school. He entered Japan surreptitiously and studied modern architecture at Tokyo’s
National University of Fine Arts and Music. In 1960, he received a master’s degree in architecture from
Tokyo University with a research project on the planning of Olympic stadiums. During his stay in Tokyo,
he was greatly influenced by Le Corbusier, Kenzo Tange, and Japanese Metabolism.
In 1959, Kim won the design competition for the National Assembly Building of South Korea, but his
proposal was not realized, due to the political situation at the time. After opening his own office in Seoul,
Kim designed more than two hundred projects both within and outside South Korea. Representative
works include the Space Group building (1978), Arko Art Center (1979), the Masan Yangdeok Catholic
church (1979), Jinju National Museum (1986), and the Olympic Stadium in Seoul (completed in 1987),
all featuring his characteristic style as well as reflecting the ideals of traditional Korean architecture.
In 1966, Kim began publishing the monthly Space Magazine, South Korea’s first general arts journal
and a successful proponent of Korean culture. Kim also built the SPACE Gallery in 1972 and founded
Gonggan Sarang in 1978, a small theater inside the Space Group building; both have played an impor-
tant role in numerous South Korean cultural campaigns. With his influence extending over many genres,
Swoo-Geun Kim is regarded as a seminal cultural activist, one who integrated architecture with other
modes of artistic expression.

Kim, Tai Soo ̡੓ܹ(1937–)

Born in Seoul, Tai Soo Kim chose architecture for his profession as a young man. His father, a profes-
sor at a medical college, had spent his sabbatical year in the United States and sent him architectural
magazines. Inspired by the depiction of Louis Kahn’s works in these magazines, Kim decided to go to the
148 Appendix

United States in 1961 after obtaining his bachelor and master’s degrees from Seoul National University.
He studied at the Yale School of Architecture under its dean, Paul Rudolph, and took a job in Philip
Johnson’s office. In 1970, he cofounded the Hartford Design Group.
Tai Soo Kim’s work has brought him ever-increasing recognition. Designs such as the National
Museum of Contemporary Art in Seoul (1986), the Kyobo Life Insurance training facility (1988), the
Gray Cultural Center at the University of Hartford (1990), and the LG Research and Development Park
(1997) have earned local and national awards and praise in international architectural journals. In these
works, Kim crystallized the core values of critical regionalism—namely, a sense of place, geometric
clarity, and respect for clients’ needs. In 1986, Kim was honored by the American Institute of Architects
for his contributions to architecture and elected to the College of Fellows, FAIA. In 1994, Kim won the
Korean Broadcasting Systems’ Overseas Compatriots Prize for his achievements in his field.

Kimm, Jong-Soung ̡ࣗ‫(۽‬1935–)

Born in Seoul, Jong-Soung Kimm began his architectural education at Seoul National University in 1954
and completed his undergraduate and graduate studies at the Illinois Institute of Technology (IIT) in
Chicago. After graduation, Kimm worked in the office of Mies van der Rohe until 1972, participating
in iconic projects such as the Brown Wing of the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston and the Dominique
Center in Toronto. Concurrent with this work, Kimm taught design studios at IIT and joined its faculty in
1972. He became the interim dean during his last year at IIT’s College of Architecture, Planning & Design.
In 1978, Kimm returned to Seoul to open an architectural design consultancy, SAC International. He
pursued the development of his own concept of space based on a deep understanding of technology and
its role in architecture, and used the play of light to explore directionality and centrality in space. The
fruition of these experiments was the emergence of his own architectural vision, a significant departure
from the precedents of his teachers Mies van der Rohe and Louis Kahn.
Kimm’s architectural activities reached their summit in the 1990s. His masterpieces the Seoul Hilton
Hotel (1983), the Korea Military Academy library (1982), the Seoul National University museum (1991),
Art Sonje Museum in Gyeongju (1991), and the SK Corporation’s headquarters building (1999) were
regarded as heralding the new spirit of the time. His precept that an architect can only explore his spatial
imagination after establishing a tectonic concept of design has had far-reaching implications for Korean
architects.

Lee, Hee-Tai ࢇஜ੓(1925–1981)

Hee-Tai Lee was born into a poor family in Jecheon in North Chungcheong province. Although the
family did move to Seoul to seek a more comfortable life, this did little to improve their situation. Unable
to attend a secondary school, Lee chose a training course at a vocational school and met a Japanese
teacher there who taught architecture. Unlike other Korean architects of the same age, who had studied
at Korean or Japanese universities, Lee was self-taught. He opened his office in 1946, a year after libera-
tion, and began to participate in architectural competitions. With the help of Professor Bal Jang, dean of
the College of Fine Arts at Seoul National University, Lee won commissions to design several religious
buildings, including the Hyehwadong Catholic church (1960), Jesuit Hall at Sogang University (1963),
and the Church of the Martyrs on Mt. Jeoldusan (1967). These projects enabled him to hone his unique
talent.
Lee focused on the transformation of traditional Korean architecture and the development of an
elaborate proportional system in the façade. Adhering to these principles, he went on to design several
cultural centers, including the National Theater (1967), Gyeongju National Museum (1972), Gongju
National Museum (1974), and Busan Municipal Museum (1976). But even with this activity, he found
it difficult to obtain commissions in the late 1970s. To alleviate these difficulties, he formed a joint
office with architect Duck-Moon Um, but this partnership did not succeed in producing any significant
projects. Lee died of cancer in 1981.
 Appendix 149

Min, Hyun-Sik ‫(ݥୃ׷‬1946–)

Hyun-Sik Min was born in the small town of Gyeongnam in South Gyeongsang province and received
his bachelor’s degree from Seoul National University in 1970. After serving as an officer in the Korean
navy, he worked in the office of Swoo-Geun Kim and then for the Archiban Architect’s Group, becoming
a partner in 1980. Since 1992, he has run his own firm, H. Min Architect & Associates.
In 1989, feeling a need to revitalize his practice, Min attended the Architectural Association School
of Architecture in London for a year. In 1992, Min participated in the collaborative exhibition of the 4.3
Group formed by young Korean architects to discover new possibilities for Korean architecture; he also
exhibited his work at the Venice Biennale of 1996 and 2002. He has been a guest lecturer at Seoul City
University and Seoul National University and is currently a professor at the Korea National University
of Arts.
Representative works include the Sungyak Presbyterian Church in Uijeougbu (1996), the headquar-
ters and Seoul factory of Sindo Ricoh (1997), and the Korea National University of Cultural Heritage
(2002).

Park, Byung-Joo ‫(࣯ػ؃‬1925–)

Born in Busan in 1925, Byung-Joo Park studied civil engineering in night school at Kobe Engineering
College between 1941 and 1944 while working for a land surveying company during the day. Returning to
Busan in 1948, he taught engineering in high schools for nearly ten years before moving to Seoul in 1958
to assume a position as vice-chief of the Housing Technology Office of the International Cooperation
Agency (ICA). This gave him the opportunity to learn site planning from American experts. Four years
later, he joined the Site Planning Bureau of the Korean National Housing Corporation, where he partici-
pated in projects including the urban planning of Ulsan (1962) and Masan (1967) and the site planning
of Ichondong (1965).
In 1968, Park became an urban planning professor at Hongik University. From that time on, he took
charge of the planning for Yeouido Island (1971) and the Jamsil district (1974), which marked the begin-
ning of large-scale urban development in Seoul. One of his major contributions was the introduction of
the neighborhood unit as an important principle of urban design. He also helped to consolidate the legal
foundation for urban planning and participated in the planning of several industrial cities in Korea. His
ideas emphasized the communality of urban space, opening the way to the creation of large open spaces.

Park, Dong-Jin ‫؃‬Ѱऑ(1899–1980)

Born in Jeongju, Pyeonganbukdo, Dong-Jin Park graduated from Osan high school and enrolled at
Gyeongseong Engineering College to major in architecture. But he was forced to abandon his studies
when he was charged with involvement in the 1919 independence movement. Following his release
from prison, Park reentered the college. Upon completion of his studies, he was hired as a construction
engineer working for the Government-General of Joseon.
In 1937, Park designed the headquarters building and library of Korea University and the main
building of Jungang high school with the strong support of Seong-Su Kim, the founder of both institu-
tions. These buildings confirmed Park’s ability to deal with stone and classical motifs. In 1938, he began
to build a practice of his own, and in 1951 he became a professor of architecture at Cheonggu University
in Daegu. Among his major works after liberation were Yeongnak Church (1948) and Namdaemun
Church (1954).

Park, Gil-Ryong ‫̟؃‬Փ(1898–1943)

Gil-Ryong Park was the son of a poor rice dealer in Seoul. Despite the hardships he faced during the
colonial period, he became the first Korean graduate of Gyeongseong Engineering College in 1919, and
began his career as a building engineer with the Government-General of Joseon in 1920. Over the next
decade, his investigation of vernacular houses in Korea sensitized him to housing issues and led to his
150 Appendix

participation in the housing improvement movement of the 1930s. In 1932, he resigned from his govern-
ment position and opened his own office in Seoul, registering as the first Korean architect. Among the
projects he designed were the headquarters of Gyeongseong University (1928), Joseon Life Insurance
(1930), the Namdaemun branch office of Dongil Bank (1931), Hwasin Department Store (1937), and
Daedong Engineering College in Pyongyang (1940). In addition to his professional activities, he played
a central role in organizing the Korean Invention Society and published an architectural newspaper,
Geonchuk Joseon, in 1940. He also taught housing theory at Ehwa Women’s University.

Seung, Hyo-Sang ‫ݣ‬୪ۘ(1952–)

Born in Busan, Hyo-Sang Seung received his bachelor’s and master’s degrees from Seoul National
University and continued his studies at the Technische Universität Wien. After working for Swoo-Geun
Kim from 1974 to 1989, he established his own office, Iroje Architects & Planners, in 1989. In the early
1990s, he was a core member of the 4.3 Group and became the managing director of the Seoul School
of Architecture. He has won a number of prizes for works such as Sujoldang (1993), Subaekdang (1998),
and Welcomm City (1999).
A recent large-scale project involves the master plan and coordination for Paju Book City near Seoul.
In 2002, the American Institute of Architects made him an honorary fellow. In the same year, he was
the first architect to be named Artist of the Year by the National Museum of Contemporary Art in
Gwacheon, the occasion for a grand exhibition. Seung’s writings include The Beauty of Poverty (1996),
City of Wisdom, Architecture of Wisdom (1999), Signs of Thought (2004), and Works: 10X2, coauthored
with Yung Ho Chang (2004).

Woo, Kyu Sung ࡉ̍‫(ݣ‬1941–)

Born in Gaeseong, Kyu Sung Woo is a Korean-American architect who received his bachelor of science
and master of science degrees at Seoul National University before moving to the United States in 1967 to
study architecture at Columbia University. He obtained a master of architecture in urban design degree
at Harvard University in 1970 and worked for Jose Luis Sert at Sert, Jackson & Associates from 1970
to 1974. In 1975, he became a senior urban designer in the mayor’s office in New York City and began
his private practice in 1978. He served as principal of Woo and Williams from 1979 to 1990, when he
formed Kyu Sung Woo Architects, Inc.
Woo’s numerous projects in both Korea and the United States include the Athletes’ Village for the
Seoul Olympics (1988), the Whanki Museum (1993), and the Asian Culture Complex in Gwangju (2005).
He has taught at MIT’s School of Architecture and Planning, as well as Harvard’s Graduate School of
Design, and is a fellow of the American Institute of Architects. Recent works in the United States include
the Arts of Korea Gallery at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (1997), Harvard’s Observatory Commons,
combining faculty housing and a city library (2008), and the Nerman Museum of Contemporary Art in
Overland Park, Kansas (2008).

Woo, Kyung-Kook ࡉˁ˲(1946–)

Born in Gwangju in Gyeonggi province, Kyung-Kook Woo graduated from Hanyang University with
a bachelor’s degree in architecture in 1973. A partner in several firms through the 1970s and 1980s, he
has worked on his own under the name of Yekong Architects and Planners since 1989. Woo’s interest
in architectural education led him to assume the role of design director at Kyonggi University’s School
of Architecture in 1992. He is currently an adjunct professor at Hanyang University. His writings have
explored the question of modern identity in Korean architecture, developing a relational theory of
architecture in which a building is seen as a constitutive element in a total network of human, natural,
architectural, and cosmic order.
His representative works include Nam Myung Memorial Hall (1996), Pyeongsimjung House
(1999), Voidium in Heyri (2004), and Baik Soon Shil Museum (2005). His monograph, Aesthetics of
 Appendix 151

the Relational Phenomenon: Building and Projects 1995–2006, effectively illustrates the mature designs
accomplished in his career.

Yi, Sang ࢇۘ(1910–1937)

Born in Seoul, Hae-Gyeong Kim ̡ଥˁ, better known by his pen name Sang Yi, was trained as an archi-
tect at Gyeongseong Engineering College. Although he worked for the Government-General of Joseon
as an engineer for a few years, he resigned from this position in 1933 to devote himself to literature
full time. Yi is considered one of the most innovative writers in modern Korean literature. Reflecting
his training in architecture, his writings, particularly his poetry, frequently employed numbers and
diagrams to extend the boundaries of linguistic expression. In his masterpieces Samchagak seolgyedo
(Design drawing of a cubic corner, 1931), Ogamdo (Crow’s-eye view, 1934), and Nalgae (Wings, 1936),
he explored the urban sensibility of Korean intellectuals during the colonial period. In spite of increasing
fame, he ended his later life in tragedy. He had been suffering from tuberculosis for a long time, and died
young in Tokyo.

Yoo, Kerl ࡪʤ(1940–)

Kerl Yoo was born in Seoul, the son of a sculpture teacher. This heritage appears to have affected his
attitude toward design, which stresses a “will to form” in architecture. Upon graduation from Seoul
National University in 1963, he began his architectural career with Muae Architects and also worked for
Swoo-Geun Kim’s Space Group. He emigrated to the United States in 1971 and was hired as a project
architect at R.N.L. Architects & Engineers in Denver. During this sojourn, he continually revised his
approach. Most notably, he became acutely aware that architecture is not an end but a tool, and its
purpose is to serve human needs.
In 1986, he resumed his work in Korea as a coordinator for the construction of the Athletes’ Village
for the Seoul Olympics (1988). His subsequent creations include masterworks such as the Miral
School (1997), Kangbyun Church (1998), Millennium Community Center (2005), Paichai University’s
International Center (2006), and the new Seoul City Hall (2008). These works illustrate Yoo’s conviction
that a well-devised envelope can provide a comfortable environment for humans to live in. Internationally
recognized, he has received numerous awards, including the AIA Honor award, the Swoo-Geun Kim
Award, and the Korean Institute of Architects Award. He is the founding partner of iARC.
Notes

1 The First Urbanization

1. Rabinow 1984, 20.
2. Yang 2004, 2.
3. Shin and Robinson 1999, 5.
4. Lefebvre 1991, 10–11.
5. Levy 1999, 30.
6. Kwon 1990, 266–267.
7. Hashiya 2004, 58.
8. Kwon 1990, 266–267.
9. Jung-Mok Sohn 1994, 67.
10. The eleven documents showing the planning process for Incheon are as follows (Sang-Ho Yang 1993, 69–75):
1. Map of Chemulpo (Jemulpo) just before the port opening.
2. Incheon Harbor and plan for the settlement reclamation (Sugimura Tanan, December 1880).
3. Map of Chemulpo, scale 1/500.
4. Partitioning map of the settlement.
5. Locations of the harbor, the reclaimed land, and the breakwater.
6. Drawing attached to the report of Kobayashi Tadakazu, Japanese consul at Incheon, sent to Takezoe Sinichi, Japanese
minister to Korea, September 8, 1883.
7. Drawing attached to the Incheon Concession Treaty, signed September 30, 1883.
8. Drawing attached to the report of Yoshida Kiyonari, assistant deputy minister of foreign affairs, sent to the Japanese
consul at Incheon, October 30, 1883.
9. Drawing attached to the report of the assistant deputy minister of foreign affairs, sent to the Japanese consul at Incheon,
December 21, 1883.
10. Drawing attached to the report of the assistant deputy minister of foreign affairs, sent to the Japanese consul at Incheon,
April 8, 1884.
11. Drawing attached to the Land Regulation of Incheon Chemulpo, concluded October 1884.
11. Jinnai 1995, 50–51.
12. William George Ashton (1841–1911), a British consular official in Japan and Korea, worked under the famous British
diplomat Harry Parkes (1828–1885) and made a major contribution to the establishment of diplomatic order in East
Asia.
13. Jung-Mok Sohn 1994, 153.
14. The four categories were (a) the lots situated on the south side of the Chinese settlement; (b) the lots situated on the
north side of the Chinese settlement; (c) the lots east of the Japanese settlement; and (d) hill lots.
The upset prices were ninety dollars per 100 sq m for Class A lots, six dollars per 100 sq m for Class B and C lots,
and three dollars per 100 sq m for Class D lots.
Yearly rentals were twenty dollars per 100 sq m for A lots, six dollars per 100 sq m for B and C lots, and two
dollars per 100 sq m for D lots, of which the Korean government retained thirty cents per 100 sq m for rental costs.
The remainder belonged to the municipal fund. (Land Regulation for the General Foreign Settlement at Chemulpo,
preserved in the files of the Government-General of Joseon in the National Archives of Korea, Gakguk Georyuji
Gwangye Chigeukseo, no. CJA0002274)
154 Notes to Pages 6–15

15. Regulations for the Foreign Settlement at Chinnampo and Mokpo (signed October 16, 1897) and Regulations for the
Foreign Settlement at Kunsan, Masampo, and Songjin (signed June 2, 1899), preserved in the files of the Government-
General of Joseon in the National Archives of Korea, Gakguk Georyuji Gwangye Chigeukseo, no. CJA0002274.
16. Kue-Jin Song 2002, 204.
17. Il-Su Kim 2003, 110.
18. The number of the fortress walls varied from 122 to 146. Heon-Kyu Kim 2006.
19. Hwangbo and Han 2004, 842.
20. Jung Mok Sohn 1994, 334.
21. The South Manchuria Railway Company (Minami Manshū Tetsudō Kabushiki-gaisha, or Mantetsu) was a company
founded in 1906 and operated within China in the Japanese-controlled South Manchuria railway zone. The railway
itself ran from Lüshun Port at the southern tip of the Liaodong peninsula to Harbin, where it connected to the
Chinese Eastern Railway.
22. Koshizawa 2005, 197.
23. Ibid., 185.
24. Ishida 1987, 81.
25. Goto Shimpei, who became the head of civilian affairs in the Government-General of Taiwan after the Sino-Japanese
war, created the City Ward Improvement Committee in 1898, announcing city ward improvement planning for the
115.5  ha area inside the fortress of Taipei. Afterwards, city ward improvement planning was subsequently imple-
mented in Taiwan’s major cities, including Hsinchu, Changhua, Keelung, Kaohsiung, and Tainan, from 1905 to 1911.
Huang and Lee 1994, 299.
26. Miake 1908, 37.
27. Watanabe 1993, 81.
28. In August 1910, Japan formally annexed Korea and established the Government-General of Joseon, headed by the
governor-general. This official commanded the army and navy of Korea and had the right to appoint and remove
other officials and control the courts. Subject only to the Japanese emperor, he exerted administrative, legislative,
judicial, and military power in Korea without the overt control of the Japanese government.
29. Gragert 1994, 3.
30. Chousen soutokuhu 1910–1945, no. 186, April 17, 1911.
31. Ibid., no. 56, October 7, 1912.
32. Ibid., no. 169, February 25, 1913.
33. Song-Soon Lee 2006a, 228.
34. Chousen soutokuhu 1910–1945, no. 369, October 12, 1914.
35. Chousen soutokuhu 1928.
36. Jung-Mok Sohn 1996a, 112.
37. Ki-Ho Kim 1995, 50.
38. Startng with twenty-nine in 1912, the number of renovated roads in Seoul increased by two in 1917. In 1919, three
roads were annulled and fifteen were created. One road was added in 1925, which finally led to the planning of forty-
four roads.
39. Yum 2004, 198.
40. Myeong-Gyoo Lee 1994, 127.
41. Graafland 2012, 5.
42. Hashiya 2004, 82.
43. Baek-Yung Kim 2005, 106.
44. See Kawano 1922, Nakamura 1922, Hagiwara 1922, and Iwai 1923.
45. Jung-Mok Sohn 1996a, 150.
46. Koshizawa 2001, 19.
47. Jin-Song Kim 1999, 254.
48. The term “minor literature” was proposed by the French philosophers Deleuze and Guattari to describe: (1) the deter-
ritorializations of a major language through a minor literature written in the major language from a marginalized
 Notes to Pages 15–19 155

or minoritarian position; (2) the thoroughly political nature of a minor literature; and (3) its collective, enunciative
value. Parr 2005, 136.
49. Benjamin 1969, 211.
50. Translation by Jung-Yul Yu and James Kimbrell, in Yi, Hahm, and Choi 2002, 5–6.
Crow’s-Eye View, Poem No. 1

13 children rush down a street.

(A dead-end alley will suffice.)

The 1st child says it is terrifying.

The 2nd child also says it is terrifying.
The 3rd child also says it is terrifying.
The 4th child also says it is terrifying.
The 5th child also says it is terrifying.
The 6th child also says it is terrifying.
The 7th child also says it is terrifying.
The 8th child also says it is terrifying.
The 9th child also says it is terrifying.
The 10th child also says it is terrifying.

The 11th child says it is terrifying.

The 12th child also says it is terrifying.
The 13th child also says it is terrifying.
13 children have come together and are terrifying or terrified.
(The absence of any other condition would have been preferred.)

If one child amongst them is a terrifying child it’s all right.

If two children amongst them are terrifying children it’s all right.
If two children amongst them are terrified children it’s all right.
If one child amongst them is a terrified child it’s all right.

(An open alley will suffice.)

Though 13 children do not rush down the street everything is all right.
51. Jung-Mok Sohn 1996a, 205.
52. Seong-Jin Park 2007, 237.
53. Song-Soon Lee 2006a, 248.
54. Explanatory Reports on City Planning Decisions were not published for all the cities that conducted city planning.
The reports for eight cities—Seoul, Busan, Daegu, Incheon, Hamheung, Seongjin, Mokpo, and Sinuiju—have been
found so far. This study is based on these reports.
55. Berghauser Pont and Haupt 2010, 48–49.
56. Chousen soutokuhu 1937d, 16–20.
57. Chousen soutokuhu 1937a, 62–65.
58. Jung-Mok Sohn 1996b, 358.
59. According to the annual of Japanese cities surveyed in 1931 and printed in 1932, the median number of cars in
Japanese cities was as follows: Tokyo, 4.60 cars per one thousand persons; Osaka, 2.53; Kyoto, 2.78; Nagoya, 2.17;
Kobe, 2.47. Chousen soutokuhu 1937d, 34–35.
60. Sorensen 2002, 123.
61. Ishida 1987, 125–127.
62. Economic and Social Commission for Asia and the Pacific 1995, 92.
156 Notes to Pages 19–20

63. This theory was first introduced in a report on commoners’ housing published by the Architectural Institute of Japan.
Nihon kenchiku kakkai 1941, 93.
64. Chousen soutokuhu 1937c, 24.
65. Tomii 1996. The eight guidelines are as follows: Toshi keikaku kenkyuukai 1928; Nihon naimushou 1933; Nihon
naimushou 1937; Nihon koseishou sikaikyoku 1940; Nihon koseishou sikaikyoku 1941a; Nihon koseishou sikaikyoku
1941b; Nihon kenchiku kakkai 1941; and Shou juutaku chousa iinkai 1941.
66. There are evident similarities between the standard drawing and the two guidelines. Representative instructions in
the guidelines are as follows:
1. Instructions for the partitioning of residential blocks
a. The plots in a standard residential block are arranged in two rows.
b. The standard residential block is rectangular.
c. The long side of the standard residential block runs east-west.
d. The size of residential blocks varies according to the guidelines.

Table 1.2 Size of residential blocks (Decision Standards and Survey Data for City Planning)
Grade Residential area Commercial area Industrial area
Short side Long side Short side Long side Short side Long side
Super Grade 1 60–80 m 160–200 m
Grade 1 50–60 m 140–160 m 45–55 m 130–140 m 80–120 m 160–200 m
Grade 2 40–50 m 120–140 m 35–45 m 120–130 m 40–80 m 100–160 m
Grade 3 30–40 m 100–120 m 25–35 m 100–120 m
Grade 4 20–30 m 80–100 m 20–25 m 80–100 m

Table 1.3 Size of residential blocks, long side (Design Standards for Land Readjustment)
Grade Residential area Commercial area Industrial area

Super Grade 1 160–200 m

Grade 1 140–160 m 130–140 m 120–200 m
Grade 2 120–140 m 120–130 m 80–120 m
Grade 3 100–120 m 100–120 m
Grade 4 80–100 m 80–100 m

2. Instructions for the planning of street systems, as given in the two guidelines
a. Decision Standards and Survey Data for City Planning
i. The creation of roads within a residential site must be allowed except in special cases.
ii. Road widths must be over 6 m.
iii. The arrangement of roads must obey the following rules: roads more than 8 m wide must be arranged at
intervals under 250 m; the roads intersecting arterial roads must be straight.
b. Design Standards for Land Readjustment
i. Residential areas
– Interior roads must not allow through traffic and must be systematic, taking into consideration traffic points
(stations, bus stops), elementary schools (including children’s parks), and connecting roads to shops.
– Road widths must be over 6 m.
– Dead ends must be restricted to the site securing sufficiently large open space.
ii. Outside residential areas
– In an industrial area, shortcuts to arterial roads, arterial canals, and railway stations must be created, taking
into consideration the convenience of through traffic.
• Shortcuts must be arranged at intervals of more than 200 m.
 Notes to Pages 20–28 157

67. Jung-Mok Sohn 1996b, 294.

68. The document frequently cited by Korean scholars with regard to land readjustment is the eighth chapter in the Korea
section of the Historical Survey of Japanese Overseas Activities (Nihon okurashou 1947). Even though the document
has some problems with numbers, it gives us a relatively accurate picture of the situation because the land readjust-
ment process is marked in percentile bands. According to this document, thirty-seven land readjustment projects
were 100 percent complete, but it is not clear what “complete” means.

2 The Genesis of Urban Housing

1. Schwarzer 1995, 88.
2. Se-Kwan Sohn 2000, 245.
3. Wang 1989, 6.
4. Hur 2001, 21.
5. Ko, Dong-Hwan 1994, 389
6. Hangukhak jungang yeonguwon Jangseogak 2009b, 231. Jangseogak was established by Wang-jik Yi in 1918 as a
library for Korean studies. Since its opening, the library has housed archives of Korean classics and modern works, as
well as the Jangseogak documents that were transferred from the Cultural Heritage Administration of Korea in 1971.
7. Joo 1994, 87.
8. Jung-Mok Sohn 1996b, 232.
9. Yoshida 2009, 128, and Young-Bae Kim 1991. The numbers come from the Gwangmu register (yangan) drawn up by
the Korean government between 1898 and 1903.
10. Fujimori 1993, 1:16.
11. Seong-Yeon Choe 1959, 163.
12. The number of Westerners inhabiting Incheon over a fourteen-year period fluctuated as follows: 1897 (57), 1898 (65),
1899 (67), 1900 (63), 1901 (73), 1902 (75), 1903 (109), 1904 (91), 1905 (88), 1906 (86), 1907 (63), 1908 (60), 1909 (71),
1910 (70). Sang-Ho Yang 1993.
13. The number of schools established by the different denominations was as follows: Presbyterians, 501; Methodists,
158; other Protestants, 91; and Catholics, 46. Eun-Kyung Cho 1999.
14. Seung-Tae Kim 1994.
15. Ryu 2001, 96.
16. Chang-Won Chung 2004, 70.
17. Apart from Vories, C. A. Gunn, in Manila, also assisted in Korea. Rhodes 1934, 416.
18. Seo 2005, 20.
19. Rhodes 1934, 179.
20. Yong-Hwan Park 2010, 181–184.
21. The term tsuzukima literally refers to a “continuous space” or “successive rooms.” The tsuzukima of samurai or
wealthy urbanite homes consisted of a series of rooms of similar width whose fusuma walls could be opened up to
create one large space for ceremonies and festive occasions. The tsuzukima style was adopted in middle-class homes
after the abolition of class restrictions on architecture in the Meiji period.
22. Genkan are traditional Japanese entryways into a house, apartment, or building—a combination of porch and
doormat. Hiroma were large rooms occupying the full-cross section of a building in Edo-period farmhouses.
23. Yong-Hwan Park 1996, 46.
24. Taut 1958.
25. Tingey 1981, 83.
26. Suzuki 1999, 57.
27. Funo et al. 2010, 230–231.
28. Jun Kim 2007.
29. Of the 1,495 houses built in Seoul in 1921, there were 875 Japanese-style houses, half of them official residences.
Donga Ilbo, October 25, 1922.
30. Myung-Suk Kim 2003, 24.
158 Notes to Pages 28–38

31. Yoon and Lee 1997.

32. Ogura 1927, Komada 1927, Kotaka 1927, and Akagi 1927 describe the official residences in several sectors of the
colonial regime and were all published in the May 1927 issue of Chousen to Kenchiku.
33. Aoki, Oka, and Suzuki 2009, 28.
34. Kashiwagi et al. 2001, 27.
35. Kim and Lee 2002.
36. Shou juutaku chousa iinkai 1941.
37. Tomii 1996, 415.
38. Seok Jeong 2006, 14.
39. Ranky Kim and Yoon 1989, 232.
40. Se-Gwon Jeong 1935.
41. Ranky Kim 1992, 110.
42. Cheol-Jin Park and Jeon 2002, 100.
43. Among the sixty-five urban hanok in Pungnamdong, Jeonju, twenty were I-shaped, thirty-four were L-shaped, and
nine were U-shaped. Se-Kwan Sohn et al. 1996, 31.
44. Seoul teukbyeolsi 2001, 28.
45. In-Ho Song 1990, 121.
46. Sang-Hae Lee 1991, 68.
47. The lifestyle improvement movement (seikatsu kaizen undo) that is usually dated to the second decade of the twen-
tieth century carried echoes from a long-running thread of discourse in Japanese society. The growing influence of
home economics as a science, the effects of the postwar recession in 1919–1920 (including the 1918 rice riots), and
the urging of influential women educators convinced bureaucrats in both the home and education ministries that the
application of scientific “rationality” to the sphere of daily life could improve lives without increasing expenses, while
also offering a new role for women as leaders within that limited sphere. Partner 2001.
48. Yu-Bang Kim 1923c.
49. Fujimori 1993, 2:77.
50. Sand 2003, 168.
51. Kashiwagi et al. 2001, 46.
52. Uchida 1992, 118.
53. “Joseon Housing Design Competition,” Chosun Daily Newspaper, March 21, 1929.
54. Kim and Park 2008, 38.
55. Maki 2008, 153.
56. Tomii 1996, 504–507.
57. Ibid., 514.

3 Architecture and the Introduction of New Materials

1. A number of young Japanese architects spent time in Europe, including Iwao Yamawaki, Bunzo Yamaguchi (1902–
1978), and Chikatada Kurata (1895–1966), who studied in Germany with Bauhaus founder Walter Gropius; and
Kunio Maekawa (1901–1986), Junzo Sakakura (1901–1969), and Takamasa Yoshizaka (1917–1980), who worked in
the office of Le Corbusier in France. Steward 2002.
2. Kawabata and Tomii 1985, 231–234.
3. Ryul Song 1993, 51.
4. Nishizawa 2009, 96.
5. Cody 2001, 18–19.
6. Rowe and Kuan 2002, 65.
7. Il-Joo Yoon 1985.
8. Lyon 2003, 46.
9. Yamagata 2002, 13.
10. Fujimori 1993, 1:30.
 Notes to Pages 38–48 159

11. Il-Joo Yoon 1978, 25.

12. Young and Young 2004, 110.
13. Takjibu was one of seven ministries at the end of the Joseon dynasty; it was responsible for managing the govern-
ment’s finances, including accounts, taxation, national bonds, currency, and banking.
14. Munhwajaecheong 2002a, 289.
15. Hanguk bangsong tongsin daehak 2005, 57.
16. Il-Joo Yoon 1978, 16.
17. Jung-Shin Kim 1994, 42.
18. Many problems were faced during construction of the cathedral, particularly the supply of bricks. Domestic indus-
tries were incapable of producing the consistent quality needed to raise a large religious building, and although bricks
had been imported from China, their use was confined to the foreign concessions. The French priests tried to solve
this problem by erecting their own brick factories near the Hangang River (Hong-Seok Cho 2005, 81). Another chal-
lenge was to find skilled bricklayers able to carry out the complicated construction. At first, they employed Chinese
workers, but the work was often interrupted by the frequent need to replace workers and by their lack of technical
ability (Mutel 1986). In the process, they experienced several collapses of the structure. Finally, with the help of
Seredin Sabatin, a Russian architect and engineer who had come to Seoul to design the Russian legation, the French
priests were able to realize their wish, and a new style of church building was established in Korea.
19. Nishizawa 2009, 138.
20. Tai-Young Kim 2003, 29–30.
21. Munhwajaecheong 2002c, 297.
22. Murphy’s design approach changed according to the location of the site. With commissions for college campuses in
Tokyo, Beijing, Changsa, and Seoul, he faced the difficult problem of determining the most appropriate style for these
East Asian countries. For St. Paul’s College in Tokyo, he used a modified Gothic style, partially imitating American
universities (Cody 2001, 30). For the plan of Yale-in-China, he blended progressive American campus planning with
Chinese courtyard configurations (Ibid., 37). The buildings on this campus were also designed with similar features,
as can be seen in the Chinese-influenced roof hovering over Western structures. In the case of Seoul, his buildings
were based on his research into the functional uses of the buildings and are generally characterized as Gothic revival.
In this project, he also placed more emphasis on how best to use the hilly and wooded landscape.
23. Vories was a self-taught American architect who started in Japan as an English teacher but pursued an architectural
career when he was commissioned to design the YMCA building in Kyoto.
24. Munhwajaecheong 2004, 33.
25. Samoo Architects and Engineers et al. 2009.
26. Soung-Won Kang 2008, 46–48.
27. When the Busan Customs Building, completed in 1910, was demolished in December 1973, it was confirmed that the
foundation slab of the internal retaining wall was made of reinforced concrete. It was 64 cm in depth, and reinforcing
rods were placed in the concrete every 9.7 cm. Hanguk concrete hakhoe 2002, 32.
28. Fujimoto 2001, 924.
29. Iwai 1926, 5.
30. Soung-Won Kang 2008, 159.
31. The National Archives of Korea maintains a collection of 26,483 drawings and building documents that were produced
from 1900 to 1945 by the Takjibu Architectural Bureau and the architecture department of the Government-General
of Joseon. The United States Army Military Government in Korea (USAMGIK), the official ruling body of the
southern half of the Korean Peninsula from September 8, 1945, to August 15, 1948, took control of these documents
in 1945 and transferred them to the Korean government in 1948.
32. Gukga girokwon 2008, 21–22.
33. Ibid., 59.
34. Isozaki 2006, 17.
160 Notes to Pages 52–61

4 Urban Expansion and the Construction Boom

1. Ki-Jung Park 1971, 171.
2. Park gained familiarity with town planning concepts from his contact with American consultants. His initial success
came about through a plan for Ulsan, the first industrial city in Korea, which he submitted in 1963. The plan intro-
duced the concept of the neighborhood unit, and he was invited to participate in the actual planning of Ulsan. He
then joined the Korea Housing Agency as a section leader for site planning and designed the Suyuri, Hwagogdong,
Yuchondong, and Gurodong areas of Seoul. His plan for the Jamsil district in Seoul was a rigorous application of the
neighborhood-unit theory.
3. Rowe 2005, 82.
4. Sang-Chul Choe 2003, 531.
5. Gu Yi, who had worked in I. M. Pei’s office after graduating from MIT, Jang-Sup Yoon, and Hong Seong-cheol were
the first three researchers hired at Nagler’s institute. The next to join were Han Kyu-dong, Yu Han, and Woo Kyu-
sung. A year after it opened, the institute moved to permanent quarters in Euljiro, and the number of researchers
increased to 30–40, including Hong-Bin Kang, Jin-Kyoon Kim, and Sin-Kyu Moon.
6. Among the works exhibited were studies by Geumhwa Park of the informal public spaces that had spontaneously
appeared in the shantytowns of Hyeonjeo Dong, Seodaemun Gu, and Seoul.
7. Sang-Chul Choe 2003, 522. The major principles of the plan for Seoul were used in the planning of other cities as
well. For example, the plan for Daejeon, established in 1972, sought balanced development by establishing 1.5 km, 5
km, and 10 km concentric zones with Daejeon rail station and Eunhaengdong at the center (Daejeonsi 1990, 2213).
In Daegu, city officials worried that the irregular city boundaries left by the expansion of 1957 would make further
expansion more difficult, so they returned the city to its circular form with the expansion of 1963, allowing concentric
expansion to continue and implementation of a ring and radial urban planning system (Daegusi 1995, 23).
8. Seoul teukbyeolsi 1966, 165.
9. Jung-Sub Yoon 1970, 20.
10. Horwitz 1967, 25-26.
11. Doxiadis 1968, 15.
12. Tai-Soo Kim 1969,1.
13. Seoul teukbyeolsi 1969, 10.
14. Doxiadis, op.cit.
15. Harvey 2008, 24.
16. Koolhaas 1994, 19.
17. Seoul teukbyeolsi 2010, 222.
18. Interview with Byung-Joo Park, November 7, 2006.
19. Two plans had been suggested for the Gangnam area. In 1962, a Korean businessman, Heing-Sik Park, inspired by the
new town of Tama in Japan, proposed a new town in Gangnam to house more than 300,000 people. In 1966, the Seoul
municipal government suggested a schematic design to rationalize the construction of the Hannam Bridge. Youn
2009.
20. Hanguk gosokdoro gongsa 2000, 35.
21. Seoul yeoksa bakmulgwan 2006, 124.
22. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/City_block.
23. Siksna 1997, 20.
24. Ibid., 25.
25. Jung and Kang 2012, 192.
26. The neighborhood-unit theory was applied to the Gangnam area after 1976 when part of the area was designated as
an apartment-house district. Seoul teukbyeolsi 1990.
27. Hall 1974, 56.
28. Schubert 2000, 118.
29. Jung-Mok Sohn 2003, 3:207.
30. Daehan jutaek gongsa 1992, 224.
 Notes to Pages 61–77 161

31. Seoul teukbyeolsi 1976, 15.

32. Article 13 of the enforcement ordinance of the Promotion of Housing Construction Act (October 1979) delegated
to every mayor and county governor the authority for establishing the basic development planning of apartment-
house districts. In accordance with this legal foundation, the Seoul Metropolitan Government enacted a municipal
ordinance for the Basic Development Planning of Apartment-House Districts. Article 3 of the municipal ordinance
includes the cited regulation.
33. Provision for Amenities in Urban Planning, City Planning Act, section 85, subsections 10–11 (May 21, 1979).
34. Frey 1999.
35. Tafuri 1979, 18.
36. Kitayama, Tsukumoto, and Nishizawa 2010, 34.
37. Rowe and Koetter 2001, 62.
38. Similar phenomena can be found in Tokyo. Kitayama, Tsukukmoto, and Nishizawa 2010.
39. Gongdong jutaek yeonguhoe 1999, 127.
40. The living-zone theory corresponds to a tree structure that Christopher Alexander has identified as a nonoverlapping
structure. Alexander 1965, 58–62.
41. In-Ho Kang 2000, 12.
42. Paik et al. 2006, 3.
43. Lim 1997, 87.
44. Ibid.
45. Paik et al. 2006, 141.
46. Daehan jutaek gongsa 1984, 121.
47. Seoul teukbyeolsi 1984a, 35.
48. Daehan jutaek gongsa 1988, 45.
49. Daehan jutaek gongsa 1997, 65; Hanguk toji gongsa 1997a, 113; Ibid. 1997b, 10.
50. Paik et al. 2006, 179–182.
51. Hanguk toji gongsa 1997a, 307–309.

5 New Urban Housing

1. Gelézeau 2004, 26.
2. The statistics on construction of spec houses in Seoul come from a report issued by the Housing Statistics and Data
Office (Jutaek tonggye jaryosil) in 1983. Choon-Sik Park 1986, 10.
3. Yim 1989, 40.
4. The legal difference between multihousehold and multifamily dwellings must be stated precisely because the two
terms are likely to cause confusion. In spite of very similar regulations on size, height, and number of households,
the essential difference lies in whether the right of ownership is given to each household or not. In a multihousehold
dwelling, each dwelling unit can be separately bought and sold, whereas only renting is possible in a multifamily
dwelling. This means that multihousehold dwellings are treated as collective housing, like apartment houses, whereas
a multifamily dwelling is treated as a single house. For obvious reasons, Koreans prefer multihousehold dwellings on
the real estate market, so we focus on that form of collective housing in this book.
5. The ratio varied between 300 percent and 400 percent, and finally was divided into three levels, at 200, 250, and 300
percent (150, 200, and 250 percent in Seoul), according to the type of residential area. The Enforcement Ordinance of
the current City Planning Act stipulates that the ratio of building area to site area in a Type 1 residential area must be
below 100–200 percent; for Type 2, the limit is 150–250 percent; and for Type 3, it is 200–300 percent.
6. Park and Choi 2003, 76.
7. Gukto haeyangbu 2008, 72–74.
8. Jun 2009, 24.
9. Joon-Mann Kang 2005.
10. Jang and Park 2009, 104.
11. Zchang 1994, 117.
162 Notes to Pages 78–99

12. Daehan jutaek gongsa 2003.

13. Zchang 1994, 180.
14. Sherwood 1978, 17.
15. Daehan jutaek gongsa 2003.

6 The Quest for Architectural Identity

1. Ozhan 2007, 103.
2. Canizaro 2007, 20.
3. Robertson 1995, 30.
4. Speck 2007, 75.
5. Habermas 2000, 5.
6. Fujimori 1999, 191–193.
7. Tange 1970, 120.
8. Tange 1960, 44.
9. Kim was attentive to Tange’s ideas about tradition, as is attested in his newspaper articles, including “Jeontongui
Changjo” (Creation of a tradition) and “Jeontonggwa Minjung grigo Jakgaui Samgakgwangye” (A three-cornered
relationship among architects, people, and tradition). Swoo-Geun Kim 1989, 127–131.
10. Swoo-Geun Kim’s opposition was clearly expressed in a round-table talk with Chung-Up Kim and Gu Yi held on
December 22, 1966. Swoo-Geun Kim 1967, 7.
11. Jong-Soo Kim 1967, 4–27.
12. Chung-Up Kim 1967, 4–27.
13. Anderson 1991, 6.
14. Muryangsujeon was constructed as the main hall of Buseoksa Temple during the reign of King Munmu (661–681) of
the Silla dynasty. The present building was erected in 1373. With its graceful jusimpo (brackets on columns) style, this
hall is regarded as the foremost example of the formality of ancient Buddhist shrines in Korea.
15. Chung-Up Kim 1984, 244.
16. Guo 1999, 23.
17. Win-Hur Lee 2000, 240.
18. Curtis 1987, 192.
19. Guo 1999, 84.
20. Ibid., 40.
21. Joo 1997, 107.
22. Wittkower 1971, 45.
23. Kepes 1995, 47.
24. Kim saw it as a practical alternative to the school of Modern Functionalism, which has continued to ignore environ-
mental issues. Swoo-Geun Kim 1989, 24.
25. A similar idea can be found in Japanese landscape, according to Augustin Berque, whose analysis was greatly influ-
enced by the Japanese philosopher Nishida Kitaro (1870–1945). Berque 2010.
26. Mansilla and Tunon 2003, 14–19.
27. Young-Joon Kim 2004.
28. Seung 2006, 32.

7 The Semantics of Technology

1. In September 1954, Seoul National University, while still suffering from the destruction of the Korean War, agreed
to receive educational and technical support from the University of Minnesota with the support of the International
Cooperation Administration under the State Department of the United States.
2. Jung-Sub Yoon 1995, 53–64.
3. Yu 1967, 61–62.
4. Interview with Jong Soung Kimm, 2001.
 Notes to Pages 100–118 163

5. Daehan geonchuk hakhoe 2006, 98.

6. Kimm 1990, 86–91.
7. Kimm 1985, 90–128.
8. Kahn 2003, 252.
9. Jung 2009, 45.
10. Mainstone 1998, 307.
11. Won 1997, 224.
12. Inha Jung 2009, 97.
13. Jong Soung Kimm 1989, 131 .
14. Ishii 1999, 212–215.
15. Rastorfer 1988, 128–135.
16. Shin, Lim, and Han 2008, 15.

8 Discovering Reality
1. Modernization is generally defined as a bundle of cumulative processes that mutually reinforce the formation of
capital through the mobilization of resources, development of production forces and labor productivity, establish-
ment of centralized political power, proliferation of political rights and participation, and secularization of values and
norms. Habermas 2000, 2.
2. Since modernity itself encompasses all political, economic, social, and cultural experience, it is virtually impossible to
fully specify the consequences of the temporal lag between the modernization process of Korea and that of the West.
Close to one hundred years separates the beginning of the periods of most rapid growth in the urban populations of
London (1861–1941), Tokyo (1901–1961), and Seoul (1960–1990), and comparable gaps can be seen in the enact-
ments of a building code (England, 1844; Japan, 1888; Korea, 1913), the mass production of public housing (England,
1850; Japan, 1923; Korea, 1941), and the planning of new towns (England, 1946; Japan, 1963; Korea, 1989).
3. The term developmental dictatorship came into use with reference to developments in East and Southeast Asia, as
well as Latin America and Eastern Europe. According to Tokyo University scholar Akira Suehiro, it first appeared in
the 1980s in the context of describing economic growth in East and Southeast Asia. The term presents a vivid image
and quickly gained popularity in the Japanese press as a simple way to describe Ferdinand Marcos’ Philippines, Lee
Kuan Yew’s Singapore, and Suharto’s Indonesia—namely, by indicating two leading features of the state so described:
it strives for economic development, and is a dictatorship. Suehiro 2008.
4. Rowe 2005, 68.
5. Hwang 1995, 59.
6. Gukrip jungang bakmulgwan (National Museum of Korea) 1995, 36.
7. Lefebvre 1991, 26.
8. Guyon Chung 2008a, 8.
9. Guyon Chung 1987, 37.
10. The best example is the rehabilitation of the ZUP Perseigne (1978–1982) in Alencon, where Kroll conceived a housing
complex with the urban tissue of traditional villages. Lucan 2001.
11. Guyon Chung 2008b, 79.
12. Slessor 1999, 76.
13. Frampton 2007, 378.
14. Fisher 1999, 9.
15. Tai Soo Kim 1995, 51.
16. Brenner 1981, 72–79.
17. Gukrip hyeondae misulgwan 2006, 8.
18. Ibid., 9.
19. Ibid., 10.
20. Tai Soo Kim 1999, 104.
21. Slatin 1993, 71–77.
164 Notes to Pages 119–134

22. Kyu Sung Woo 1999a, 22.

23. Kyu Sung Woo 1999b, 9.
24. Ibid.
25. Ibid.
26. Ibid.
27. Kyu Sung Woo 1975, 60.
28. Kyu Sung Woo 1976, 51.
29. Kyu Sung Woo 1999a, 22.
30. The key ideas of Christ-Janer’s teachings are well described in Christ-Janer 1980.
31. Kerl Yoo 1998, 28.
32. Ibid., 166.
33. Kerl Yoo 2008, 20–37.
34. Maxwell 1982, 5.
35. Kyong-Soo Kim 1989, 8.
36. Seok-Chul Kim 1997, 341–342.
37. Kyong-Soo Kim 1989, 8.
38. Young-Sub Kim 2003, 28.

9 New Paradigms for Urban Design

1. Rowe 2010, 15–16.
2. Sang-Kyung Lee 2004, 2–4.
3. Koolhaas 1995, 981.
4. OMA 1998.
5. Han 2008, 100–101.
6. Mortice 2008.
7. Ibid.
8. Geonseol gyotongbu 2006, 88.
9. Haeahn architects 2007, 92.
10. Augustin Berque, a French geographer, distinguishes between “a western conception of landscape, pivoted around
the subject, and an eastern conception, which instead focuses on the logic of place” (Brighenti 2011). According to
Berque, “this difference happened because the term and sense of landscape that first appeared in the 16th century
deeply reflected Europeans’ way of thinking at that time. From the beginning of modern time, Europeans made a
clear distinction between the subject and the environment surrounding it, and tried to represent the environment
through the subject’s eyes. This effort led to the discovery of linear perspective by Renaissance artists, which had a
great impact on the organization of the western conception of landscape” (Berque 1990, 54). In contrast, the Eastern
sensibility allowed for the coexistence of the points of view of diverse subjects, contextualized in places. This way of
representing landscape was not linear but planar.
11. The 4.3 Group was formed on April 3, 1990, and consisted of twelve members: Jay-Whan Kwak, Byung-Yoon Kim,
Chang-Whan Do, Jung-Gun Dong, Moon-Ki Baek, Chul-Lin Bang, Hyo-Sang Seung, Kyung-kook Woo, Sung-Gwan
Lee, Il-Hoon E, Jong-Sang Lee, and Sung-Yong Joh. Later that year, In-Cheurl Kim and Hyun-Sik Min joined the
group, bringing the membership to fourteen.
12. The address 11, Gahoidong is located in the Bukchon area. When the regulations governing the Hanok Preservation
District were lifted, Korean architects developed models to suggest how the property might be developed.
13. Sung-Yong Joh 1995, 146–149.
14. Beigel 1996, 119.
15. Beigel 1997, 40.
16. Hyo-Sang Seung 2007.
17. Beigel 1996, 121.
18. Beigel 1999, 58–60.
 Notes to Pages 134–143 165

19. Ibid.
20. Seung 2005, 15.
21. Ibid., 11.
22. The Commune by the Great Wall consists of eleven villas designed by twelve famous Asian architects: Suitcase House
by Gary Chang (Hong Kong); Furniture House by Shigeru Ban (Japan); “See” and “Seen” House by Cui Kai (China);
Distorted Courtyard House by Rocco Yim (Hong Kong); Airport by Chien Hsueh-Yi (Taiwan); Cantilever House by
Antonio Ochoa (China); Bamboo Wall by Kengo Kuma (Japan); Shared House by Kanika R-kul (Thailand); The Twins
by Kay Ngee Tan (Singapore); Forest House by Nobuaki Furuya (Japan); Split House by Yung Ho Chang (China); and
Clubhouse by Hyo-Sang Seung (South Korea).
23. Seung 2010b, 52–55.
24. In-Cheurl Kim 2002, 268.
25. In-Cheurl Kim 2007, 112–121.
26. Kim and Kim 2002.
27. Pinoki 2006.
28. Bru 1997, 6.
29. FOA 2004, 260.
30. Sung-Yong Joh 2002, 94.
31. Design Seoul Foundation 2010.
32. Hadid 2007, 118.

Epilogue
1. Habermas 2000, 2.
2. Latham 2000, 4.
3. Appadurai 1996, 32.
4. Robertson 1995, 27.
5. Nalbantoglu 1997, 8.
6. Bok-Kyu Yum 2005, 23.
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Index

Abercrombie, Sir Patrick, 53 Block parcellation standard drawing, Cho, Min-Suk, 133
Agricultural Land Consolidation Law 19, 20, 22 Choheung Bank, headquarters
(Koshi Seiri Ho), 18 block size, 6, 20, 56, 58, 59, 62, 65, building of, 98
Ahn, Kun-Hyuck, 68 68, 69; standard block size, 59; Choi, Ki-Sun, 128
Ahyeon, 7 superblocks, viii, 59, 60, 62 Choi, Kwan-Young, 108; International
alleyways, 9, 31, 74, 96, 120, 131, 132, Bostwick, Harry Rice, 7 Pavilion of Daejeon Expo, 108
134, 144 Botonggang, 12 Choi, Moon-Gyu, 133, 141
American Museum of Natural Botta, Mario, 127 Choi, Soon-Woo, 91
History, 106 British legation, 41 Chosun Daily Newspaper, 33
Amsa, 56 Brownson, Jacques, 101 Chousen to Kenchiku, 13, 28, 37
Anglo-Japanese Alliance, 7 Building Code, 61, 69, 71, 73, 74, 79; Christ-Janer, Victor F., 120
anheorigok, 86, 87 revision of, 71, 73, 74 Chun, Doo-Whan, 117
Ansan, 52 Bukchon, 31, 32, 131, 132, 134, 137 Chung, Guyon, 114, 145
apartment complexes, 61, 62, 76, 78 Bulguksa Temple, 83 City Planning Act of 1919, 18
apartment housing district, 61 Bundang, 68, 69, 96, 133; row houses, City Planning Committee, 16, 17
Apgujeong apartment complex, 77 132 City Ward Improvement Decree (Sigu
Apgujeong-dong, 58 bungalow houses, 32, 72 Gaejeong Ryeong), 10, 12
Appadurai, Arjun, 142 Burnham, Daniel, 9 city ward improvement planning, 9,
Arts and Crafts movement, 23 Busan, 4, 10, 25, 29, 108, 143; Asian 10, 12, 16
Arts Nouveaux, 37 Games, 112; Haeundae, 68; open COEX, 64
ASEM Summit Meeting, 112 port, 4; Seoul-Busan rail line, 7; cold war, 111
ASEM Tower, 105 urban population, 52 Collbran, Henry, 7
Ashton, William George, 5 Buseok Temple in Yeongju, 117 Collegiate Gothic style, 42
Asia Foundation, 53 Bu system (buje), 10 colonial modernism, xi, 3, 4, 15, 51
Asian value, 139 bye-law housing, 74 colonial modernity, 3
avant-garde, 14, 15, 81, 103 Confucian belief, 72
Cartesian coordinate system, 15 Confucian household, 93
Bae, Ki-Hyung, 97, 98, 145; Cheil Catholic priests, 25, 40 Confucian precepts, 24
Sugar Manufacturing, 98; TOP Cerda, Ildefons, 9 Confucian tradition, 31
factory for Cheil Industries, 98; Chae, Man-Sik, 14, 15 correlative architecture, 142
UNESCO building, 98 Chang, Yung Ho, 133, 139 Coste, Father Eugène, 40
Baejae School, 42 Changchun, 8 Council of Civil Engineering (Tomok
Balmori Associates, 130 Changdeokgung Palace, 91, 124, 131 Hoiui), 16, 17
Bank of Korea, 37, 45 Changgyeonggung Palace, 40 Cret, Paul P., 103
Banpo, 76 Changwon, 52 Critical Regionalism, 115, 116, 119, 121
Banpo Raemian Firstige, 80 Cheolwon, 25 CRS (Caudill Rowlett Scott), 100
Baudelaire, Charles, 15 Cheonggyecheon stream, 126, 131, cultural houses (munhwa jutaek),
Bauhaus, 23 140 32, 72
Beaux-Arts style, 36, 37, 103 Cheongjin, 4, 7, 8, 20–22, 29 Curtis, William, 86
Beigel, Florian, 132–134 Cheongryangri, 7, 17 Customs Construction Agency, 37
Belgian consulate, 41, 42 Cheonho, 56
Benjamin, Walter, 15 Chicago First Bank building, 105 Daegu, 4, 7, 10, 25, 26, 37, 46, 52, 108,
Beonsachang, 39 Chinese settlement, 5 143; Suseong, 68
Beopjusa Temple, 83 Chinnampo, 6 Daehan Empire, 24
186 Index
Daehan Medical Center, 42
Daehyeon, 20, 21, 22
Daejeon, 4, 7, 26, 46, 108; Daejeon
Expo, 100, 108, 112; Yuseong, 68
Daeungjeon, 118
debate over tradition, 83
Decision Standards and Survey Data
for City Planning, 20
de Lalande, George, 46
Delirious New York (Rem Koolhaas),
55
demilitarized zone (DMZ), 133, 153
dentou, 81
Deoksugung Palace, 41,
45; Daehanmun, 87;
Jeonggwanheon Hall, 38;
Seokjojeon, 45
Department of Civil Engineering, 16
de Portzamparc, Christian, 114
Design Standards for Land
Readjustment, 20
Developmental dictatorship, xi, 51, 84
developmental period, viii, 49,
53–55, 61, 65, 70, 78, 81, 82–85,
100–113, 115, 116, 126–128,
130, 133, 140, 144
Dogok Rexle Apartment Complex, 80
Donam, 20, 21, 22, 31
Donga Daily Newspaper building, 46
Dongdaemun, 7
Dongsipjakak, 86
Dongsungdong, 47
Doxiadis, Constantinos, 54
Earthquake Recovery Plan, 14
École des Beaux-Arts, 37
electric streetcar system, 7
Ewha Woman’s University, 37,
138–140; Ewha Campus
Complex (ECC), 131; Pfeiffer
Hall, 42
Explanatory Reports on City Planning
Decisions (Sigaji Gyehoek
Gyeoljeong Iyuseo), 17, 19
Fathy, Hassan, 114
fault line, vii, xi, 3
fengshui, 131
five-story walk-up apartment, 76, 80
foreigners’ apartments, 76
Foreign Office Architects (FOA),
139, 141. See also Zaera-Polo,
Alejandro
foreign settlement, 5, 6, 25, 38
fortress walls, 7, 12
Foster, Norman, 123
Foucault, Michel, vii, 111
4.3 Group, 131, 132, 134, 136, 137
Frampton, Kenneth, 116; Critical
Regionalism, 115, 116, 119, 121
Francini, Alberto, 139
Gaepo, 56
Gaeseong, 46
Gahoedong Exhibition, 132
Gale International, 128
Gangdong Gu, 55
Ganghwa Anglican church, 41
Gangnam, 53–56, 59–62, 64, 67,
69, 77; Maebong Mountain,
59; plan for, 56, 57; planners,
60; planning for, 58, 61; street
system, 58; superblocks, 59
Gangnamdaero Boulevard, 58
Gansam Group, 106; Kolon building
in Gwacheon, 106; POSCO
center, 106
garden city, 13, 60
Geiger, David H., 100, 102, 106, 107
Geonyangsa, 33
German land consolidation, 18
German neoclassical architecture, 47
German siding technique, 38
Gestaltism, 85
Gestalt psychology, 87
Geumgang River, 130
Geumhwa Park in Seoul, 120
Godeok, 68
Gojong, King, 7
Goldsmith, Myron, 101; Brunswick
building, 102
Gongju, 129
Gothic Revival, 40
Gothic-style churches, 40
Goto, Shimpei, 9
Gourna, a Tale of Two Villages
(Hassan Fathy), 114
Government Employee Pension
Service, 76
Government-General of Joseon, 10,
12, 13, 16, 17, 18, 27, 29, 33,
37, 45, 46, 47; headquarters
building, 11, 45
governor-general, 10, 16, 27, 38
Go-Yang Hong residence in
Sogongdong, 24
Graafland, Arie, 12
Gramsci, Antonio, 3
Greater London Plan, 53
Great Kanto Earthquake, 13, 45
Gropius, Walter, 36
Gruen Associates, 128
Guggenheim Museum in New York,
118
guisoseum, 86
Gumi, 52, 53
Gunsan, 4, 6, 14, 26, 46, 59; Customs
House, 42
Gwacheon New Town, 53, 66, 68
Gwanaksan Mountain, 53
Gwanghwamun, 56
Gwangju, 4, 26, 42, 138, 139, 143
Gwangju Daedanji, 52
Gwangju stadiums, 108
Gyeongbokgung Palace, 11, 45, 131;
Gyeonghoeru Pavilion, 88
Gyeongbu Expressway, 53, 56, 58, 61
Gyeongseong Courthouse, 47
Gyeongseong Engineering College
(GEC), 15, 37
Gyeongseong High School, 47
Gyeongseong Imperial University
(Gyeongseong Jeguk Daehak) in
Seoul, 47
Gyeongseong Superior School of
Engineering, 97
Gyeongseong Women’s High School,
47
Hadid, Zaha, 139, 141; Dongdaemun
Design Plaza and Park, 138, 141
Haeahn Architects, 130
hall-like living room, 34, 35, 79, 144
Hangang Mansion Apartments, 76
Hangangri, 17
Hangang River, 8, 13, 54, 55, 60, 61,
76, 79, 105, 133, 140
Hangil Book House, 137
Hannam Bridge, 58
hanok, 30, 31, 34; anchae, 24;
daecheong, 30, 31, 32, 34, 71,
72, 93; haengnangchae, 24;
munganchae, 24; sarangchae, 24,
25. See also urban hanok
Hanseong Electric Company, 7
Hanseong Sinbo, 24
Harry Jack Gray Center, 117
Harvey, David, 55, 129
Hashiguchi, Shinsuke, 32

Haussmann, Georges-Eugène, 9,
12; planning, 12; renovation of
Paris, 12
Hay-on-Wye, 136
Heian period, 26
Heryoojae Hospital, 95
Heyri Art Valley, 127, 133, 136, 137,
138
high-density apartments, 61, 77
high-tech, 101, 106, 108, 114, 121,
124, 130
HOK (Hellmuth, Obata and
Kassabaum), 100
Holl, Steven, 141
Hong, Nan-Pa, 33
Hong Kong, 25, 40, 127, 129
Horwitz, Aron B., 54
housing improvement movement, 32
Housing, Urban, and Regional
Planning Institute (HURPI), 53,
54, 68, 120
Howard, Ebenezer, 13, 17, 60
Hwang, Il-In, 108; Jeju World Cup
stadium, 108
Hwang, Ki-Won, 134
Hyundai Construction, 77
Ichondong, 76
iljumun, 118
Illinois Institute of Technology (IIT),
101, 103
Ilsan, 68, 69; Jeongbal Mountain, 69
Incheon, 4, 5, 6, 25, 29, 38, 46; city
government, 128; Yeonsu, 68
Incheon Steel, 100
Independence Hall of Korea, 84, 114
India, 25
Industrial cities, 29, 52
Industrial Revolution, 4, 23, 111, 112
Industrial Training Center, 38, 40
inland cities, 4, 7
Ise Jingu, 48
Iwada, Satsukimaro, 37
Iwai, Chozaburo, 37
Jamsil, 53, 56, 60, 62, 64, 65, 66, 69, 76
Jangchung-dong, 135
Janseogak of the Academy of Korean
Studies, 24
Japan, 18; annexation, 3; colonial
government, 4; imperialism,
3; jobo system, 5; surrender of
Japan, 51
Japanese Concession, 5
Japanese Cultural Center in Bangkok,
48
Japanese legation building in Seoul,
38
Japanese protectorate, 8, 38
Japanese settlement, 5, 9, 14, 26
Japanese-style house, 25, 26, 27,
29, 30, 33, 34; chanoma, 26;
doritoma, 26; fusuma, 28;
genkanhiroma, 26; nakaroka,
26; tsuzukima, 26; uraniwa, 26;
zashiki, 26
Japanese technocrats, 9, 15, 20, 45
Jeju Island, 87, 93; Jeju City, 87;
Yongduam Rock, 87
Jeolla Province, 6
Jeonju, 108
Ji, Soon. See Gansam Group
Jinhae, 8, 9, 26; Post Office, 38
Jinju Museum, 90
Jinnampo, 4, 6
Jipjangsajip, 70, 71
Joh, Sung-Yong, 131, 132, 140, 141,
145; Seonyudo Park, 131, 140;
Hapjeongdong House, 132
Johnson, Philip, 116
Johnston, James, 25
Johnston house, 25
Jongam apartment complex, 75
Jongmyo, 55
Joseon dynasty, 4, 7, 24, 31
Joseon Housing Agency, 29, 35, 88
Joseon Siksan Bank, 46
Joseon Urban Planning Decree, 143
Jungdong, 68
Junglim Architects, 101; National
Museum of Korea, 114
Kafka, Franz, 15
Kahn, Louis, 103–105, 116; Kimbell
Art Museum, 103, 121; Yale
Center for British Art, 103
Kang, Hong-Bin, 68
Kang, Joon Mann, 75
Kang, Yun, 42
Kangbyeon Church, 122
kan system, 30
Katsura Imperial Villa, 48
Kim, Chang-Il, 114
Kim, Chung-Up, 82, 83, 85, 86, 88,
89, 99, 101, 112, 113, 123, 124,
146; administrative building of
Index 187
Busan National University, 99;
French embassy in Seoul, 85,
86, 87; Jeju National University,
87; Lee residence, 87; roofline,
86, 87; Samilro building, 83,
99, 100, 101, 105, 112, 140; Seo
Obstetrics and Gynecology
Clinic, 87; UN memorial
cemetery in Busan, 87
Kim, Hun, 133
Kim, Hyun-Ok, 59
Kim, In-Cheurl, 136, 146; Kim
Ok-Gil Memorial Hall, 136;
Woongjin Thinkbig office in
Paju, 136
Kim, Jinai, 68
Kim, Jong-Kyu, 133, 137, 138
Kim, Jong-Ryang, 33
Kim, Jong-Soo, 83, 97, 98, 146;
precast concrete (PC) curtain
walls, 98, 99; St. Mary’s hospital
in Seoul, 97; Student Hall of
Yonsei University, 98
Kim, Jun-Sung, 137
Kim, Seok-Chul, 123, 124, 147;
DBEW design center, 124;
Jeju Cinema Museum, 124;
Myungbo Cinema Jeju, 124;
Seoul Art Center, 84, 124
Kim, Seung-Hoy, 133
Kim, Swoo-Geun, 53, 54, 55, 82–85,
89–93, 95, 96, 101, 107, 113,
123, 132, 134, 135, 147; Arko
Gallery, 94; Buyeo Museum, 83;
Cheongju National Museum,
90, 135; Freedom Center, 84;
Gongneung Building, 95;
gymnastic stadium for the
1988 Seoul Olympics, 107;
main stadium for the 1988
Seoul Olympics, 100, 108; plan
for Yeouido, 55, 59; Sewoon
Commercial Complex, 53
Kim, Tai Soo, 54, 116, 120, 122,
124, 147; Kyobo Corporate
Training Center, 116, 118;
Middlebury Elementary School,
117; National Museum of
Contemporary Art, 115, 116,
117, 118
Kim, Tschang-Yeul, 120
Kim, Won, 123
Kim, Young-Joon, 95, 96, 133
188 Index
Kim, Young-Sub, 123, 124;
Samcheong-dong residence, 124
Kim, Yu-Bang, 32; housing
improvement movement, 32
Kimm, Jong-Soung, 99, 101–104,
106, 112, 121, 132, 148; Art
Sonjae Center in Gyeongju, 101;
Hyosung building, 112; Korea
Military Academy Library,
101; SAC (Seoul Architects
Consultants), 101; Seoul Hilton
Hotel, 101; SK Corporation,
Headquarters building of, 102;
weightlifting gymnasium for the
1988 Seoul Olympics, 101, 106
Klee, Paul, 134
Kobe, 5
Kohn Pedersen Fox Associates (KPF),
100, 128, 129
Koolhaas, Rem, 55, 127, 128, 132,
134; Delirious New York, 55;
Leeum, 127; Songdo master
plan, 128
Korea, vii, viii, xi, 3, 4, 8, 9, 24, 29,
36, 41, 48, 51, 74, 83, 84, 97, 98,
99, 117, 142; annexation, 3, 4,
7, 9, 18, 37; civil war, 3, 51, 75,
142; conglomerates, 100; land
survey, 10, 12; liberation, vii, xi,
3, 4, 10, 20, 26, 35, 44, 46, 51, 75;
nationalism, 3, 83, 143; outward-
looking strategy, 51; population,
4; reconstruction, 20, 51; urban
discourse, 126; urban problems,
53
Korea Cultural Heritage
Administration, 122
Korea Electric Power Corporation
building on Namdaemunno
Street, 46
Korea Engineering Consultants
Corporation (KECC), 53
Korea Institute of Science and
Technology (KIST), 73
Korea-Japan World Cup, 100, 106,
108, 112, 141. See also Busan;
Daegu; Daejeon; Gwangju;
Incheon; Jeju Island; Jeonju;
Seoul; Ulsan
Korea Land Corporation, 133
Korea National Housing Corporation,
70, 75, 76
Korean Airlines, head office of, 100
Korean Overseas Development
Corporation, 95
Korean Pavilion in Venice Biennale,
124
Korean planners, 53, 61, 65, 71
Korean Planners Association, 53, 56
Korean Research Institute for Human
Settlement, 68
Korean War, vii, xi, 20, 70
Korea University, 42; main hall, 42
Kroll, Lucien, 115
Kunieda, Hiroshi, 37
Kyoto, 9, 26
Kyoto Imperial Palace, 48
Land distribution policies, 4
Land Expropriation Decree (Toji
Suyong Ryeong), 10
Land readjustment, 14, 16, 18–22, 31,
61, 66
Land Readjustment Project,
Yeongdong District, 1, 2, 55, 58,
59, 64
landscaped architecture, viii, 32,
130–134, 136–141, 144
Le Corbusier, 36, 57, 69, 77, 82,
84–88, 91, 103, 116, 124;
Algiers plan, 82; architectural
promenade, 85; Brasilia plan, 82;
Chandigarh, 82, 84, 86; Convent
of La Tourette, 103; famous
motto, 52; governor’s residence
at Chandigarh, 86; office, 86;
regionalism, 82; Ronchamp
Chapel, 103; urban theory,
13; Villa Shodhan, 87; Ville
radieuse, 57
Lee, Hee-Tai, 85, 88, 89, 123,
148; Catholic Church of the
Martyrs on Mt. Jeoldusan, 88,
89; Hyehwadong Church, 89;
National Museum of Gyeongju,
88; National Theater of Korea,
84, 88; Sogang University Jesuit
Hall, 89
Lee, Myung-Bak, 140
Leeum, 127
Lefebvre, Henri, 114
Lever House, 98
LG Twin Towers, 105
lilong, 23, 24, 31
linear development, 54, 66
living-dining (LD), 72
living-dining-kitchen (LDK), 72
living zones theory, 65, 66, 68, 143;
large living zone, 65; medium
living zone, 65, 66; small living
zone, 65, 66
Local Autonomy Law, 114, 126
loci-centrism, 91–93, 132, 134
Macao, 40
machiya, 6, 26, 27, 34
madang, viii, 24, 31, 34, 35, 70, 72, 79,
93, 119, 121, 132, 136, 143, 144
Maekawa, Kunio, 48, 82
Maki, Fumihiko, 34
Manchuria, 7, 8, 9, 16
Mannerist ornaments, 38
Mantetsu. See South Manchuria
Railway Company
Mapo, 7, 17, 75, 76
Mapo apartments complex, 75, 76
Masampo, 6
Masan, 4, 52
Mediterranean houses, 31
megastructure, 55
Meiji period, 26, 81
Melbourne, 59
Melun-Senart, 128
membrane structure, 105–108
Mero structure, 106
Miake, Iwao, 10
middle-corridor type of house, 26,
28, 29, 34, 35, 42; Euichang, 34
Mies van der Rohe, 83, 97, 99–105,
112; Chicago Convention
Center, 102; Chicago Federal
Center, 101; Crown Hall, 104;
glass skyscraper, 105, 112;
Krupp administration building
in Essen, 101; Lake Shore Drive
apartment, 97; Museum of Fine
Arts in Houston, 101; National
Theater in Mannheim, 102;
Seagram Building, 83, 97, 99,
100, 101; Toronto-Dominion
Center, 101
Min, Hyun-Sik, 134, 149
minimalist, 102, 116, 121, 130, 136
Ministry of Construction, 53
Ministry of Culture, 83
Mitsubishi Steel in Gyeomipo, 45
mixed-use strips, 62
Moholy-Nagy, Laszlo, 15
Mokdong, 66–69, 132

Mokpo, 4, 6, 26, 59
Morse, James R., 7
Moussavi, Farshid, 139
Mt. Namsan, 55, 84, 116
Mt. Seogi, 12
Muddy Stream (Chae, Man-Sik), 14,
15
Mugunghwa-shaped city, 57
Muju, 114
Mukden (Shenyang), 8
multifamily dwellings, 73
multihousehold dwellings, 62, 70, 71,
73, 74
munhwa jutaek, 32. See also cultural
houses
Murphy, Henry K., 37, 42;
Appenzeller Hall, 42; campus
plan of Chosun Christian
College, 37
Murphy and Dana Architects. See
Murphy, Henry K.
Muryangsujeon, 85, 86
MVRDV, 95, 141
Myeongdong Cathedral, 40;
reorganization of, 138
Nabawi Catholic Church, 41
Nagasaki, 25
Nagler, Oswald, 53, 54, 120
Nagoya, 18
Najin, 4, 18, 20, 21, 22
nakaroka. See middle-corridor type
of house
Namdaemun Gate, 7
Namdaemun Markets, 53
Namsan Hanok Village in Seoul, 24
Nanam, 8
National Archives of Korea, 46
National Assembly Building, 56, 84
National Museum of Korea, 83, 114
neighborhood park, 61, 62
neighborhood unit theory, 19, 51, 53,
60–62, 64–66, 76, 126, 143
neo-Gothic style, 37
new towns around Seoul, 65, 68;
planning for, 68. See also
Bundang; Ilsan; Jungdong;
Pyeongchon; Sanbon
New York, 42, 51, 59, 74, 98, 106,
118, 127–129; Central Park, 128;
garden apartments, 74
Nikken Sekkei, 100, 128
Nishizawa, Ryue, 133
Nomura, Ichiro, 37, 46
Nonhyeon-dong, 59
North Korea, 11, 53
Nouvel, Jean, 127
Office for Metropolitan Architecture
(OMA). See Koolhaas, Rem
Oh, Se-Hoon, 141
Oinarodo, 27
oku, 34
Omidong gado, 93
ondol, 29, 34, 35, 70, 71, 75
Onoda Cement, 45
open ports, 4, 5, 7, 14, 22, 25, 38,
59. See also Busan; Cheongjin;
Gunsan; Incheon; Jinnampo;
Masan; Mokpo; Seongjin;
Wonsan; Yongampo
Osaka, 5, 9, 37
Pacific War, 51
Paik Nam-Jun Museum, 131
Paju Book City, 127, 132–136, 138
Palladian style, 44
Paris, 9, 12, 15, 40, 51, 114, 128
Park, Byung-Joo, 53–58, 60, 149
Park, Choon-Myung, 105; Daehan
Life building, 105
Park, Chung-Hee, 52, 58, 83, 143
Park, Dong-Jin, 37, 44, 149; Jungang
High School, 44; main hall of
Korea University, 42
Park, Gil-Ryong, 33, 37, 149
Parliament building, 84
Perrault, Dominique, 131, 139, 140;
Ewha campus complex (ECC),
131
Perry, Clarence, 60, 61
Philippines, 7, 25
pilotis, 74, 86, 89
Portland cement, 45
POSCO center, 106
POSCO E&C, 128
Post and Telegraphic Bureau, 38
postmodern architecture, 36, 115
precast concrete (PC) curtain walls,
98, 99
Price Control Ordinance, 20
Promotion of Housing Construction
Act, 61, 65
Promotion of Housing Site
Development Act, 61, 66
Protectorate Treaty, 7
Index 189
protestant missionaries, 25, 40;
American Missionaries, 42;
Australia, 25; Canada, 25;
missionary houses, 25, 26, 33;
missionary station, 25; mission
compounds, 25
Provision for Amenities in Urban
Planning, 62
pseudo-Western style, 38
push-pull process, 4
Pyeongchon, 68, 69
Pyongyang, 4, 9–12, 29, 45, 47;
city ward improvement
planning, 12; Daedong Bridge,
12; Daedonggang River, 12;
Japanese settlement, 9
Pyongyang Normal School, 47
Qinghua University, 37
Record of Civil Works in Korea, 10
Regionalism, xii, 81, 82, 90, 97, 115,
116, 119, 121, 124
Regulations for Urban Architecture
(Sigaji Geonchuk Chwije
Gyuchik), 10
reinforced concrete, 38, 40, 42, 44,
45–47, 72, 79, 91, 98
Renaissance: architects, 89;
rustication, 38, 44
Residence-General of the
protectorate, 41
Residency-General building, 38
residential blocks (kaikaku), 19, 21, 22
Road Regulations (Doro Gyuchik), 10
Roh, Moo-Hyun, 127, 129
Roman Catholic, 40
Rose of Sharon-shaped city. See
Mugunghwa-shaped city
Rossi, Aldo, 119
Rudolph, Paul, 116
Russian Constructivist, 114
Russian legation building, 41
Russo-Japanese War, 7, 8
Ryu, Choon-Soo, 107, 108, 123;
gymnastic stadium for the 1988
Seoul Olympics, 107; World Cup
stadium, Seoul, 108
SAC (Seoul Architects Consultants).
See Kimm, Jong-Soung
saenghwalgwon. See living zones
theory
190 Index
Sammi Steel, 99
Samoo Architects & Engineers, 101
Sampoong Department Store, 113,
127
Samsung Group, 98
Samsung headquarters building, 105
Samsung Tower, 102
Sanbon, 68, 69
Sangdo, 20, 21, 22
Sanggye, 67, 68, 69
Sangok-dong housing complex in
Bucheon, 35
Santa Costanza, Mausoleum of, 104
Sasa Keichi, 46
Scharoun, Hans, 132
Schemel, Kirsten, 131
Schlaich, Jörg, 100
Sejong Administrative City, 127, 129
Sejong Cultural Center, 84
Seoan Landscape Architects, 140
Seobuk Academy’s Society Hall, 42
Seocho, 55, 64
Seodaemun, 7
Seolleung, 58
Seongjin, 4, 6
Seongnam, 52
Seongsu Bridge, 113, 127
Seoul, 4, 7, 9, 10, 29, 37, 53, 58, 143;
apartment complexes, 61, 62,
78; Basic Urban Planning, 53,
54; city government, 52, 55, 58,
60, 61; City Hall, 46; City Hall
square, 56; city improvement
plans, 11; colonial planning,
15; demographic trends, 17;
downtown, 7, 8, 14, 17, 30, 54,
55, 56, 68, 102, 112; expansion,
8, 13, 14, 16, 54; housing
shortage, 61, 68, 73; land
readjustment projects, 20, 21,
22; master plans, 14; mayor, 52,
56, 140; New Seoul Plan, 56,
57; new towns around Seoul,
65, 68; 1970 map of Seoul,
58; population, xi, 12, 17, 52,
68; public transportation, 52;
renovation of old town, 14;
suburb, 8; urban housing, 24;
Urban Planning Bureau, 55
Seoul Association of Architects (SA),
114
Seoul-Busan rail line, 7
Seoul Children’s Grand Park, 53
Seoul-Incheon rail line, 7, 8
Seoul Museum of Art, 41
Seoul National University, 54, 134
Seoul Olympics, 60, 77, 100, 101,
106, 107, 112, 117, 120, 141;
Athletes’ village, 77, 120;
gymnastic stadium, 107; main
stadium, 100, 108; weightlifting
gymnasium, 101, 106
Seoul-Sinuiju rail line, 7, 12
Seoul Station, 37, 42, 44; Byzantine
dome, 38, 44
Sert, Jose Luis, 53, 120
Seung, Hyo-Sang, xiii, 95, 96,
132, 134, 135, 137, 139, 141,
150; Clubhouse villa for the
Commune by the Great Wall
in China, 135; DMZ Peace-Life
Valley in Korea, 135; Humax
Village, 96, 134; landscript,
135; Munhwa Gongkan,
134; Subaekdang, 134, 135;
Sujoldang, 132; Welcomm City,
134, 135
Sewoon Commercial Complex, 53, 55
Shanghai, 23, 25, 31; expansion, 23
Shinsegae Department Store building,
46
SHoP (Sharples Holden Pasquarelli),
133, 137
Showa era, 17
Sibeom Apartments, 76, 77
siding-wall construction, 38
Siksna, Arnis, 59
Singapore, 127
Sino-Japanese War, 6, 7, 8, 20, 48
Sinuiju, 46
Siza, Alvaro, 133
SK Corporation, headquarters
building of, 101, 102, 105
Society of Foreign Missions of Paris,
40
Sohn, Jung-Mok, 53, 55
SOM (Skidmore, Owings & Merrill),
100, 105
Songdo New City, 127, 128; master
plan, 128
Songjin, 6
Songpa, 55
South Gyeongsang province, 27, 117
South Jeolla provincial office, 47
South Manchuria Railway Company
(Mantetsu), 8, 9, 12
Space Group building
(Gonggansaok), 91–95, 101;
Konggan small theater, 93
spec houses, 70–73, 77, 79, 144
Special Exhibition on Urbanism, 56
Speer, Albert, 47
Speer Girls’ High School, 42
squatter settlements, 52, 66
Stadtlandschaften, 132
standard size of dwelling unit, 79
Stirling, James, 124
structured fields, vii, viii, xii, xiii
Study Group for Gyeongseong (old
Seoul) Urbanism, 14
Sungkyunkwan University, 71
Suwon, 58, 108; Suwon fortress, 117
Switzer, Martha, residence, 26
Taipei, 9
Taisho period, 29
Taiwan, 9, 18
Takayoshi, Honma, 14
Takenaka skewed-chord space truss
system, 102, 106
Takjibu Architectural Bureau, 37, 38
Takjibu Brick Manufacturing Factory,
41
Tange, Kenzo, 48, 82, 83, 91; debate
on tradition, 82; plan for Tokyo,
54
tatami, 29, 34, 35
Tatsuno, Kingo, 37, 45
Taut, Bruno, 26
Team X, 79
Teheranro, 58, 62
theory of colonial exploitation, 3
theory of colonial modernization,
viii, 3
Third Reich, 47
Three Kingdoms era, 34
Tokugawa era, 18
Tokyo, 5, 9, 12, 33, 62; City Ward
Improvement Ordinance, 9;
housing fair, 33; plan for, 54
Tokyo Station, 45
Tongyeong, 26, 27
Town Planning Act, 61, 143
traditional dwellings in southeast
China, 23
traditional East Asian wooden roofs,
39
treaty ports, 5, 6
Tsukamoto, Yasushi, 37, 45

Tsukamoto, Yoshiharu, 62
typology, 119, 133, 134, 143, 144
Uiju, 4
Ulsan, 52, 53, 60
Ulsan Stadium, 108
Underwood, H. G., 25
University of Tokyo, 37
Unwin, Raymond, 17
Uprising on March 1 (Samil undong),
13
urban corridors, 62, 64
urban design, 22, 51, 53, 61, 65, 68,
69, 120, 126, 127, 130, 132, 133,
136; linear urban design, 18;
postwar urban design, 62; urban
design system, 69
Urban District Plan Decree (Joseon
Sigaji Gyehoek Ryeong), 9, 10,
16, 17, 18, 21, 143
urban hanok, xiii, 24, 25, 29–31, 33,
34, 36, 70, 71, 72, 75, 79, 91, 119,
120, 124, 131, 132, 143
urban islands, 64
Urban Park Act, 62
Urban planning exhibition, 57
Urban Renovation Act, 61
urban void, 32, 132, 134, 136–138
Utzon, Jorn, 129
Vinoly, Rafael, 102
Von Klemperer, James, 129
Vories, William Merrel, 25, 37, 42,
139; Gyeseong High School,
37, 42; Pfeiffer Hall of Ewha
Woman’s University, 42
Wangsipri, 17
Watanabe, Setsu, 37
Western-style houses, 24, 25, 30, 32,
33, 34
Western-style wooden truss, 39
Western truss, 39
Wilson, Robert M., 26
Winsbourgh Hall, 42
Won, Chung-Soo, 106
Wondoshi Architects, 101; Pohang
University of Science and
Technology gymnasium, 107
Wonsan, 4
Woo, Kyung-Kook, 132, 137, 150;
Baik Soon Shil Museum, 137,
138; Monghakjae, 132
Woo, Kyu Sung, xiii, 77, 115, 119,
120, 122, 124, 139, 150; Asian
Culture complex in Gwangju,
138, 139; Athletes’ Village
for the 1988 Seoul Olympics,
77, 120; Cambridge, 119,
120; Kim residence, 119, 120;
Korean Gallery in New York’s
Metropolitan Museum of Art,
115; Roosevelt Island Housing
Competition, 120; Stone Cloud
House, 119, 120; Whanki
Museum, 115, 119, 120, 121
World Cup stadium, 108
Wright, Frank Lloyd, 103, 118
Yahada Steel, 97
Yang, Jonghoe, 3
yangban, 24
Yangjaedong, 58
Yeang, Ken, 139
Index 191
Yenching University, 37
Yeongdeungpo, 17, 20, 21, 22, 53,
55, 59
Yeongdong District, 55, 58, 59, 64
Yeongeon-dong, 47
Yeongyeongdang, 93
Yeouido, 53, 54, 55, 76, 77, 132;
Square, 53; plan for, 55
Yi, Sang, 14, 15, 151; “Crow’s-Eye
View, Poem No. 1,” 15; poems,
15
Yim, Chang-Bok, 71
Yokohama, 5, 25
Yongampo, 4
Yongsan, 7, 8, 13, 17, 53
Yonsei University, 25, 42;
Appenzeller Hall, 42; Chosen
Christian College, 37, 42;
Stimson Hall, 42; Student
Hall, 98; Underwood Hall, 42;
Underwood House, 25
Yoo, Kerl, 121, 122, 123, 138, 141,
151; Jeongneung residence,
122; Kangbyeon Church,
122; Miral School for Autistic
Children, 115, 122; new city hall
of Seoul, 122; reorganization
of Myeongdong Cathedral
complex, 138
Yoon, Il-Joo, 40
Yoon, Jung-Sub, 53
Yushin Constitution, 83
Zaera-Polo, Alejandro, 133, 138, 139
Zeilenbau style, 75
Zew, Won, 53
zoning systems, 16, 64, 128
About the Author

Inha Jung is a critic, historian, and professor of architecture at Hanyang University, ERICA Campus.
Architecture

“Inha Jung has written a fine volume, full of very well

informed accounts of events, insightful analyses of
projects, and nuanced ideas about the unique flow of
architectural and urban modernization in Korea. Jung
is a mature scholar who delivers a well-balanced and
original account that is both ambitious in scope and
delivered in unencumbered and economical prose, with
lavish documentation should one want to go further
into particular aspects. It is a book that can easily be
read and appreciated by people outside the field, in, say,
cultural or Korean studies, as well as by those without
disciplinary affiliation who are simply interested in
Korea.”
—Peter G. Rowe, Raymond Garbe Professor of
Architecture and Urban Design, Harvard University

Jacket art: Entrance and a small interstitial courtyard of

the Space Group building (Photo by Jung-Woong Jung)

Jacket design: Jennifer Flint

University of Hawai‘i Press Hong Kong University Press

ISBN 978-0-8248-3585-9
Honolulu, Hawai‘i 96822-1888 www.hkupress.org

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