Dispatch Art as Socially Engaged Radical Art in South Korea
Hong Kal
In October 2010, a construction crane blocked a protest camp at a Giryung Electronics factory. Former irregular workers at the company, who had been fired after starting a union, had been demonstrating there for more than five years. They had conveyed their demands for reinstatement and direct employment through prolonged sit-ins and hunger strikes since 2015. As a show of resistance, the workers climbed to the top of the crane, evading attempts by the police to remove them. The following week, they gained new momentum when several artists joined the protest. These artists hung pieces of colorful cloth on the crane and surrounding power lines and also set out banners calling on Giryung Electronics and the government to resolve the situation. They further attached a dragon-like figure to the top of the crane and decorated the scene with light bulbs, paper flowers, and workers’ gloves. The crane had been moved to the site to obstruct the protesters, but with this action, it became a captivating symbol of their cause, casting a radiant glow upon the darkened factory (Figure 1). The site of the prolonged labor action was, therefore, refreshed with a vibrant sense of joyful resistance. One month later, the workers reached an agreement with the company, bringing the long protest to a close. Celebrating their victory after 1,895 days of struggle, the artists and workers danced, sang, and enjoyed themselves throughout the night. The artists’ engagement with the strike site had been spontaneous, voluntary, and playful, with a sense of humor and satire. However, the victory was short-lived. Two years later, the CEO of Giryung Electronics canceled the agreement and permanently shut down the factory.[1] This unfortunate conclusion stands as a poignant reminder of the persistent hardships faced by irregular workers in contemporary South Korea.[2]
These artists dispatched themselves voluntarily to the site (현장 hyeonjang), which refers to a social space where tensions and conflicts are present, including forced eviction, labor strikes, and political protests, calling themselves Dispatch Artists (파견 미술가 Pagyeon misulga). In the labor sector, the term “dispatch” refers to the most precarious labor condition. The artists chose this expression as they engaged with people experiencing precariousness, a condition that permeated all facets of society under the influence of neoliberal capitalism, eroding the very foundation of life’s security itself.[3]
The Dispatch Art Collective consists of several active members with expertise in various arts (Figure 2).[4] Its membership is fluid, adapting to the demands of sites and the availability of resources. Despite their fluidity, they are committed to effecting social change through actions that extend beyond mere social commentaries. While many members have received formal art education, they position themselves as collaborators alongside other participants on-site, avoiding taking up a leadership role with pedagogical intentions. They employ diverse art mediums and protest tactics in their engagement, including exhibiting images, banners, and installations, orchestrating performances and events, and occupying sites. Their guerrilla-like actions are often immediate and spontaneous, contrasting with funded and planned projects, yet widely shared through blogs and social media platforms. Their actions carry a subversive and disruptive energy, but simultaneously exude a playful and festive spirit. Despite their significance, they have received little scholarly attention.[5]
Dispatch Art draws on participatory, collaborative, and dialogical modes of socially engaged art.[6] This paper examines how Dispatch Art has unfolded in the South Korean context. Dispatch Art inherited the legacy of the radical art movement of the 1980s, known as Minjung art (민중 미술 people’s art),[7] which pursued social change with an emancipatory spirit using a principle of realism (현실주의 hyeonsil juui) grounded in the nation’s history.[8] At the same time, it is aligned with the community-based public art and the participatory protest culture which emerged in the 2000s, a post-democratization era intertwined with neoliberal capitalism. I approach Dispatch Art as socially engaged radical art that integrates art and activism within the South Korean context.
Beginning with a brief history of socially engaged art from the 1980s to the 2000s, I examine the activities of the Dispatch Art collective engaged in the Yongsan disaster of 2009 in which evictee protesters were killed; the 2011 labor strike against layoffs at Hanjin Heavy Industries in Yeongdo, a southern island near Busan; the 2016-2017 occupation of the Gwanghwamun square; and the aftermath of the death of Kim Yong-kyun, a young irregular worker who died in a workplace accident in 2018. I seek to interweave empirical cases of Dispatch Art with critical discussions surrounding socially engaged art in contemporary South Korea.
Socially Engaged Art in South Korea
The formation of socially engaged art in South Korea is closely intertwined with the nation’s turbulent history, from its foundation amid massive violence culminating in the Korean War (1950-1953) to a succession of military dictatorships until the early 1990s. From the late 1950s onwards, the Korean art scene reflected a strong influence of Cold War politics, in which abstract art was promoted as a visual sign of capitalist democracy and freedom vis-à-vis socialist realism in Communist states. The absence of critical social art indicates the prevailing political oppression, anti-Communism, and imposed and internalized censorship in South Korea, which heavily impacted artists.
The dominant art system with formalist abstract art tendencies was challenged by a group of artists who declared that “art is a reflection of reality” as early as in 1969. Their manifesto of realism (hyeonsil juui) laid the groundwork for socially engaged art movements in the following years. From the late 1970s, many more artist groups were dedicated to realism in fighting against the establishment, authoritarian, and military government. For instance, a group, the Gwangju Free Artists Association, striving to expose state violence as witnessed in the Gwangju Massacre of May 1980, stated, “Artists must look minjung were at the reality of this land and this time. . .This is a mandate from conscience.” [9]
Throughout the 1980s, critical-minded artists sought to connect with the lives of the minjung, a term that refers to common people who are historically marginalized but capable of revolting against oppression. In the milieu of dissident social movements, the minjung were recognized as a central subject of history.[10] In their pursuit of the sovereign Korea nation (민족 minjok), democracy (민주 minju), and the people (민중) as the fundamental pillars of the society, Minjung artists sought to intervene in the nation’s problematic reality—its colonial legacy, division, military dictatorship, dependency on US imperialism, and capitalist exploitation. They were committed to representing the reality and communicating with the minjung by using innovative art forms and mediums, such as murals, woodcut prints, and large banner paintings, drawing inspiration from folk art, Buddhist painting, and shamanic rituals as well as realist styles from Latin America.
From the mid-1980s, the focus of Minjung art shifted towards active participation in protest sites, aligning with the unfolding democratization movements across various sectors of society. The Minjung artists’ role Top of Form was especially prominent during the mass protests in June 1987, known as the June Uprising. Portrait paintings of two college students, Park Jong-cheol and Lee Han-yeol, who had died from police violence, were carried through the street, hung on buildings, and staged at the center of the mass rallies against the Chun Doo-hwan military government (1980-1987). These iconic images, produced by Minjung artists, were emblematic of the mass democratization protests of the time.
In the wake of the nation’s democratization in the 1990s, the intensity of the last decade’s radical social movements began to diminish, and Minjung art organizations and groups voluntarily dissolved. The exhibition, Fifteen Years of Minjung Art: 1980-1994, held in 1994 at the National Museum of Contemporary Art, marked the museumization of Minjung art. The invitation to the national museum indicated its transition from activism to exhibition. Since the mid-1990s, social art has continued, but with different methods, ideas, and impacts.
A new wave of socially engaged art emerged in the 2000s, embracing various forms and activities ranging from community murals to local festivals. Central to this tendency was a prominence of participation based on the process of cultivating relational atmospheres within community members.[11] This process-oriented, participatory approach signifies a divergence from the Minjung art that prioritized the representational form in delivering the reality of minjung.
The growth of new community-based public art in the 2000s encapsulated South Korea’s democratization of culture, which warranted a distribution of public funding of art that involved people not merely as spectators but also as producers of their own cultural activities. From the mid-2000s, both the central and local governments implemented public art policies and supported various new public art projects especially in economically marginalized areas.[12] The official support for new community-based public art coincided with the surge in urban redevelopment, where the arts were promoted as a potent tool for generating place-making to achieve profit gains.[13] The new community-based public art upheld the belief in the social power of art as instrumental in communication that extends beyond gallery spaces. Nonetheless, it adopted new concepts of collectivity, conveyed through the terms of keomyuniti (커뮤니티 community) and gong’gong (공공public), which did not necessarily carry the subversiveness found in minjung (민중 people). In this form of contemporary engaged art, political agendas have often become secondary to “small, but certain happiness” (소확생) and, in some cases, even lost their relevance entirely.[14]
However, it is not that mass politics has disappeared in South Korea. To the contrary, the 2000s witnessed an emergence of new civic action. The post-democratization period was intertwined with the advance of neoliberal capitalism. The neoliberal reforms after the 1997 financial crisis, which were accompanied by deregulation, privatization, and precarious employment, have intensified class polarization and undermined the security of life itself. As sociologist Hyun Ok Park points out, people experienced “a crisis of democratization rather than its progress” and their discontent sparked various protests in the 2000s.[15] Amid the pervasive influence of neoliberal capitalism across society under both progressive and conservative governments, ordinary citizens, including young school students and mothers pushing baby strollers, were empowered to take collective action, facilitated by social media networking. For instance, in 2008, the people gathered holding candles to protest the government’s decision to import beef from the US amid concerns over mad cow disease. They expressed their discontent by staging a carnival-like candlelight atmosphere of resistance.[16] The candlelight vigil movements, culminating in 2016-2017, emerged as a manifestation of frustration and critique toward the system of representative democracy, perceived as inadequate in representing the people. Instead, individuals sought avenues for direct participation, independent of both political parties and civil society organizations. From a cultural perspective, the candlelight citizens’ action (시민 행동 simin haengdong) signifies a new mode of protest culture, where people created various participatory forms of resistance, both disruptive and festive. The participatory turn integrated the individual fluidity with the collective energy, reinventing social and political activism. At the crossroads of the legacy of Minjung art, the emergence of community-based public art, and the evolving new protest culture, Dispatch Art has shaped as the embodiment of socially engaged radical art in contemporary South Korea.
Dispatch Art
Dispatch Art consists of several active members, each with expertise in diverse arts.[17] Despite their distinct artistic backgrounds and social experiences, they shared a common aspiration to integrate art with activism. Dispatch Artists first encountered each other in 2005 in the village of Daechuri, where land had been granted to expand the US military base at Pyeongtaek, South Korea. In solidarity with the village’s residents, who vehemently opposed the government’s expropriation of their land, the artists engaged in various forms of resistance ranging from mural painting to confrontations with the police. While fighting together in Daechuri, the artists experienced a profound sense of “commune,” where “We resisted, stood in solidarity with each other, and felt happiness.”[18] Though the resistance in Daechuri was suppressed by the police forces, their experience of “commune” inspired them politically and aesthetically. They met again in the sites of resistance and called themselves Dispatch Art. While working with various actors on the sites, they embraced horizontal relations among themselves and with other non-artist collaborators, merging art and activism. Jeon Mi-young, one of the core members, conveyed, “When entering the sites, I am willing to utilize art as a tool because I absorb artistic energies from there.”[19]
“There are people here” – Fighting alongside Evictees in Yongsan (2009):
On January 23, 2009, Dispatch Artists, along with other artists and cultural activists, gathered in front of a building barricaded by the police. The four-story building, Namil-dang, located in the 4th district of Yongsan, was a site where evictees staged a protest at its top against forced eviction. The district was designated for urban redevelopment, which involved the large-scale construction of new residential areas and commercial districts under the Lee Myung-bak government (2008-2013). Soon within two years, in the cold winder of 2008, the eviction was executed despite resistance from some small business tenants and residents who faced considerable financial hardship due to inadequate compensation. Those who resisted eviction were subjected to harassment, threats, and violence by yongyeok (용역), groups of thugs hired to drive out the remaining residents and tenants from areas designated for redevelopment. For example, these professional enforcers obstructed the businesses of remaining tenants by placing the carcasses of dead animals in front of their stores. On January 19, 2009, about thirty people, including tenants and members of the National Association of Demolition Victims, staged a protest at the top of the building standing in a highly visible location. They set up a lookout tower on the roof and began a high-altitude sit-in. Within twenty-five hours of the protest beginning, special police forces, normally deployed for counterterrorism operations, were sent to suppress the protest. They launched a raid on the building both from the ground and the roof, firing tear gas and water cannons to subdue the protesters. When a group of police attempted to reach the rooftop via a container lifted by a crane, a fire erupted in the lookout tower. Tragically, five protesters and one police officer died in the incident.[20] The building, once occupied by the people to claim their rights for survival, became a rallying point. Gathered in front of the building, the Dispatch artists and others publicly denounced the city’s violent suppression. Breaking through the police barricades, the Dispatch Artists hung a large banner on the building, marked by burn marks and broken windows. The banner rendered a figure with one arm raised, with the slogan “There are people here,” echoing the cries of the victims. This image symbolizes the Yongsan disaster and became an icon of continuing resistance against forced eviction (Figure 3).
Soon, the police announce that the city had been attacked by terrorists, meaning the forced eviction protesters, and blamed them for the fire. In response, the Dispatch Artists and others assembled again in front of the building. Pushing through the police barricades, they hung another banner on the building featuring mosaic portraits of the five victims (Figure 3). Then they covered the fence, erected by the police to prevent access to the building, with a 25-meter-long white cloth, upon which they drew portraits of the victims. Covering the building and its surroundings with the victims’ faces, the artists made their way to the inside of the building. They then quickly set up a temporary memorial altar in honor of the victims (Figure 4). The site once occupied by the protesters was turned into a space of continuing resistance even after their deaths. The artists sought to reclaim the right to life for those who were unable to survive.Top of Form
As the police removed the memorial altar and blocked the building access again, the Dispatch Artists had to find an alternative location nearby. The location was a former pub known as Le-a Hof Beer, which had been run by one of the tenants who died during the eviction raid. With the family’s permission, the artists renamed the building Le-a Gallery and turned it into a meeting place for grieving families, displaced evictees, activists, artists, and visitors. The store-turned-gallery served as both a memorial and an exhibition space, enshrining the victims’ portraits and holding a series of shows titled “Never-ending Art Exhibition.” The gallery became a communal space, where people gathered to honor the victims, express their grief, exchange personal stories, and discuss how to continue the fight on behalf of both the departed and the survivors (Figure 5).[21] Art merged with activism, cultivating a reciprocal relationship.
Nearly a year after the incident, the funeral ceremony for the five tenants took place on January 9, as the government agreed to provide appropriate assistance to the evictees. The funeral procession, attended by a crowd of mourners, featured monumental portrait paintings of the deceased including one depicting their resurrection (Figure 6). The Yongsan disaster is remembered as one of the most catastrophic forced eviction tragedies in South Korea.[22]
In the traumatic eviction site, the Dispatch Artists intervened by creating a new community of those directly affected by the disaster and their supporters through participatory, collaborative and dialogical forms of engagement.
To amplify the voices of evictees denied in the city’s urban redevelopment, they exhibited banners on the building where the protesters were killed, set up altars in honor of the deceased labeled as terrorists, and transformed a store into a gallery, where grieving families, remaining evictees, and their advocates cultivated a new community of solidarity. The Dispatch Artists recalled, “Through the engagement that lasted more than a year, we have been reborn as new residents of the 4th district of Yongsan.”[23] As such, they found themselves belonging to a “commune” where they listened to those suffering, communicated with involved actors, and coping with emergent situations. It was a reinvention of a community empowered by the integration of art and activism.
“Layoffs are murder” – Solidarity with the Crane Sit-in Strike at Hanjin Heavy Industries (2011):
In 2010, Hanjin Heavy Industries announced its decision to lay off nearly four hundred production line workers in its shipbuilding division, citing a business crisis as the reason. On January 6, 2011, a fifty-one-year-old female welder, Kim Jin-sook, protested the mass layoffs and the sacrifices they imposed on workers by climbing up the thirty-five-meter-high Crane No. 85, which stood in the shipyard in Yeongdo, an island near Busan. This crane held special significance. It was the location where another worker, Kim Joo-ik, had ended his life on the 129th day of his own protest in 2003. Kim Jin-sook symbolically aligned herself with her fellow worker’s struggle by climbing up the same crane. As noted by the sociologist Lee Yoon-kyung, labor actions took on distinctive features in the 2000s, when neoliberal capitalism pursued by the state generated a stratification of labor. Many workers found themselves in precarious conditions governed by the outsourcing and subcontracting of labor relations. Faced with these challenges, they had to explore new ways to assert their demands, extending beyond traditional workplace strikes. The new protest methods included diverse tactics like hunger strikes, shaving one’s hair, solitary protests, camp-in protests, long marches, high-altitude protests (고공농성),[24] and, tragically, even suicides. These actions reflected the escalating intensity of workers’ struggles for their rights. With such unconventional methods, they sought to draw public attention to their grievances and desperation.[25]
On April 14, 2011, the ninety-ninth day of Kim’s high-altitude sit-in protest, the Dispatch Art team made its way to the Hanjin Heavy Industries shipyard. As soon as they arrived, the artists spread out a vast fifteen-meter banner and painted a figure with her hand raised high. This image recalled the one displayed on the building where evictees held their rooftop sit-in protest in Yongsan in 2009. This time, the slogan was “Layoffs are murder.” Once completed, this monumental image was draped on Crane 85 (Figure 7), and a metal sculpture of the crane’s number, welded by the artists in collaboration with the workers, was installed in front of it. Furthermore, workers’ gloves were tied to long ropes encircling the crane. They fluttered in the wind, adding a visual effect that made the protest site stand out. The next day, marking the hundredth day of her sky protest, Kim Jin-suk shouted atop the crane, “Nice to meet you!”
After the Dispatch Artists returned to Seoul, they sought ways to show solidarity with the striking workers. The idea they came up with was called “Hope Bus,” a grassroots movement in which supporters would travel to the protest site on chartered buses. On June 11, 2011, the first Hope Bus departed from Seoul to Busan with passengers who had signed up for the trip through an online café platform created by the artists. An impressive 750 people participated in the journey, covering their own travel costs. Although most of them were strangers to one another, an atmosphere of togetherness emerged as they exchanged greetings and shared their reasons for joining. For many on the buses, being laid off was not a distant problem but a relatable concern. Others were drawn by curiosity about this unique method of campaigning. Regardless of their motivations, they joined together in the shared venture of the Hope Bus movement (Figure 8).
After arriving in Busan at midnight, the participants marched towards the Hanjin Heavy Industries shipyard across the bridge to Yeongdo. They held candles, casting a luminous corona into the night. At the entrance to the shipyard, the candlelight marchers were blocked by police and the company’s private security forces. Nevertheless, after some scuffles, they managed to break through. Upon reaching Crane 85 at 3:00 a.m., the striking workers, especially Kim greeted them atop the crane. She called out, “Keep fighting with a smile until the end!” Her trembling, tearful voice moved the crowd to tears as well. The Dispatch Art team then leaped into action, hanging banners, installing microphones, and setting up a stage. The space instantly became lively, with music, dancing, singing, and speeches echoing across the shipyard. The strike site was thus turned into a space for connectedness, solidarity, and joy of resistance.
The Dispatch Art team worked tirelessly through the night, preparing for the next day’s activities by crafting pinwheels, arranging banners, readying designs to print on t-shirts and so on. As the dawn broke, tension enveloped the site. The police issued a warning, threatening to arrest everyone who had arrived with the Hope Buses. Despite this looming threat, the activists continued to gather, and the Dispatch Artists spread a large banner on the ground again. The banner displayed the message, “People are flowers. We are flowers. Workers are flowers,” accompanied by a picture of flowers in the center. People left their palm prints or posed on the banner to express their solidary with Kim, who was observing from her perch atop the crane. Everyone collaborated on various activities (Figure 9). When it was time to return to the buses, the visitors walked back along a farewell path marked by lined-up workers. There was an emotional exchange of hugs and tears, with a vow that the Hope Bus movement would continue until the strike was over and Kim had safely descended from the crane. The bus trips ceased on November 10, 2011, when Kim finally ended her high-altitude protest after a challenging 309 days.[26] By that point, the campaign participants, workers, and artists had all become a team for Dispatch Art.
In collaboration with other activists, the Dispatch Artists had taken the initiative to organize the Hope Bus trips, which brought the people to a remote shipyard located on a small island in the far south of the country. Through the campaign, the isolated strike site was transformed into a vibrant and festive site of candlelight gathering. The Dispatch Artists wanted to create the atmosphere of a commune where people could join the striking workers, cheer for them, and channel their energy into a powerful statement of support for labor rights.
Occupying the Square and Reclaiming the Sovereignty: The Candlelight Revolution in 2016-2017:
From November 2016 to March 2017, millions of people gathered in Gwanghwamun Square located in downtown Seoul and across the country, calling for the impeachment of President Park Geun-hye (2013-2017), who was implicated in a series of cases involving abuse of power, violating the constitutions and receiving bribes from Samsung. It is estimated that as many as 16 million people participated in the assemblies over five months.[27] Widespread public discontent with the Park government called for a complete reset of the state. The mass popular protests, known as the Candlelight Revolution, were non-violent but radical in many aspects.[28] People articulated their voices through handmade signs, playful banners, and impromptu performances, turning the protests into radical participatory art.[29] As Korean cultural critic Lee Dong-yeon argues, what distinguished the 2016-2017 candlelight protests from the earlier ones was the forefront engagements of artists and artistic demonstrators, who orchestrated an infusion of the arts into the dynamics of the protests.[30]
The Gwanghwamun Square protests began with the encampment of artists, known as the “Gwanghwamun Camping Village,” where Dispatch Artists participated. The encampment was initially established as a protest action against the Park government’s blacklisting of thousands of artists. As scandalous cases against Park were gradually yet dramatically revealed, it became a visible marker of the popular occupation of the public square.[31] During the protests, numerous icons, installations, exhibitions, and performances were created and staged in the square, during day and night. Among them, the most prominent icons were the statues created by the Dispatch Artists, which depicted Park Geun-hye, her inner circles, and Samsung’s vice chairman Lee Jae-yong who bribed Park for special favors, in blue prisoner’s uniforms and bound with ropes. These humorously yet poignantly mocking figures, set against the backdrop of the national monuments standing in the square, the Gyeongbok Palace, and the Blue House (the President’s residence) further behind, symbolized the salient targets of the Candlelight Revolution, becoming the most popular photo zone. Equipped with wheels for mobility, the figures were also moved around the square, eliciting spontaneous reactions (Figure 10).[32] The encampment was Top of Forma community of resistance, where a member of Dispatch Art, Song Kyeong-dong, recollected, “We first ran into the square and held onto it until the end.”[33]
“To work without dying” – The Death of Kim Yong-kyun (2018):
The candlelight revolution made the regime change to the Moon Jae-in government. The new government championed progressive pro-labor policies and vowed to establish a society that respects labor. However, from mid-2018, a noticeable shift occurred in its policy toward economic revitalization and labor market flexibility measures, aligning with its conservative predecessors. Frustrated workers took to the streets in protest, sparking a wave of nationwide demonstrations. The catalyst for this movement was an image of Kim Yong-kyun, a 23-years-old irregular worker, who tragically lost his life in a workplace accident (Figure 11).
Kim was an irregular worker at Taean Thermal Power Plant in the Southwest of Korea, hired by Korea Engineering & Power Service (KEPS), a subcontractor under Korea Western Power (KWP). His duties included inspecting a conveyor belt carrying coal and removing any fallen coal underneath. Despite the hazardous conditions working in the dark and dusty plant, Kim was underpaid, less than half of what he deserved, and did not receive benefits. Kim took part in a campaign, organized by a coalition of irregular workers, by holding a picket with phrases, “My name is Kim Yong-kyun. I am a non-regular worker” and slogans, “Stop evil labour laws, punish those responsible for illegal outsourcing, Convert to regular employment through direct hiring.” Yong-kyun took a picture of himself holding the picket as a proof and shared it as an expression of his action of solidarity. Two weeks later, on December 10, 2018, he was killed while working at the plant. Yong-kyun was working alone on the night shift at the plant, checking the operation of a coal conveyor belt. Due to its hazardous nature, this task should have been carried out by a team of at least two people. At some point, he was caught in the machinery and pulled inside the conveyor belt, which was moving at a speed of five meters per second. As there were no proper safeguards in place, the accident proved fatal. His body was found by a co-worker several hours later. His death made people devastated, especially when they found out that Yong-kyun had been a participant in the picket campaign. A fellow power plant worker, Lee Tae-seong, tearfully cried, “Today, I lost my co-worker. He got stuck in a coal conveyor machine. His body and head were separated.” He further declared, “We, irregular workers, are also citizens. Do not let us be killed.”[34]
As the company attempted to evade responsibility by blaming Yong-kyun for the accident, a coalition of workers and advocacy groups demanded official investigations into the labor practices that led to the tragic workplace accident. At the forefront of the demonstrations was the image of Yong-kyun, holding the picket demanding labor justice, taken just two weeks before his death. The photo portrait image of Yon-kyun captures the moment of his life and at the same time foreshadows his untimely death. It was spread widely online and offline, and carried by protesters with messages of “We are Kim Yong-kyun,” “Stop irregular employment,” and “No more killing” (Figure 12). The Dispatch Artists engaged in this collective action by crafting images of Yong-kyun in various forms of banners, paintings, installations, and statues, representing him not just as a victim but also as a guiding figure illuminating the path toward labor rights.[35] One of the statues portrayed Yong-kyun holding the campaign picket and standing on the conveyor. It was an active statue made to be movable to different rallying sites (Figure 13). While placed alongside the statue of Jeon Tae-il, a 22-year-old sewing worker, who immolated himself in protest against labour exploitation some sixty years ago, shouting “Respect the Labour Standards Act, we are not machines,” during the era of state-led developmentalist modernization, Yong-kyun’s statue worked a poignant reminder of the persistent dire labor conditions under the contemporary neoliberal capitalism. Yong-kyun’s statue led a procession of his funeral, which took place sixty-two days after his death, following the government’s response to the demands pressured by an outpouring of public support. Behind the statue, thousands of mourners carried numerous images of Yong-kyun. Notably, an image was the large painting titled Resurrection of Kim, which portrayed him with outstretched arms, symbolizing his enduring role as living icon for labor justice (Figure 14).[36] Yong-kyun’s statue spearheaded the funeral procession, occurring sixty-two days post his demise, in response to the government’s actions prompted by overwhelming public support. Following the statue were thousands of mourners, carrying various depictions of Yong-kyun. Notably, a significant image was the expansive painting titled “Resurrection of Kim,” portraying him with outstretched arms, symbolizing his enduring role as a living icon for labor justice.
The Dispatch Artists played a pivotal role in disseminating images of Yongkyun, drawing public attention to the stark reality that over two thousand workers, predominantly in precarious employment, lose their lives to work-related accidents every year in South Korea. Through their art activism, they contributed to the transformation of the young worker’s tragic death, which could have otherwise remained unknown like numerous other industrial fatalities, into a powerful symbol emblematic of the broader battle against labor injustice, transcending the confines of mere victimhood.Top of Form
The Resurgence of Radical Art
The Dispatch Artists fought for tenants’ rights denied in the forced eviction by creating a community of solidarity with evictees, advocates, and visitors, for more than a year in Yongsan. Their participation at the Hanjin Heavy Industries strike site was particularly intensive. The grassroots Hope Bus campaign brought hundreds of supporters to the remote strike site, transforming it into a vibrant site of resistance. In 2016-2017, the Dispatch Artists joined the blacklisted artists’ encampment in the Gwanghwamun square, which evolved into mass candlelight protests. In 2018, they returned to the streets. Again, the powerful images of Kim Yong-kyun crafted by the Dispatch Artists played a crucial role in bringing public attention to the dire labor conditions faced by irregular workers.
The Dispatch Artists actively engaged in addressing urgent social issues through artistic and cultural initiatives in collaboration with other actors. They sought to cultivate an atmosphere of collectivity, which they phrased as a commune, where people could come together with shared aspirations for social transformation. Dispatch Art inherited Minjung Art, which grappled with social realities, advocated for marginalized people, engaged in sites of conflicts, and contributed to radical social movements. The influence of the historical radical art is especially conspicuous in the figurative images produced by the Dispatch artists for rallies and funerals. These visuals evoke the iconic portraits by Minjung Artists, which were at the center of the mass democratization protests during the 1980s. However, Dispatch Art is distanced from Minjung Art in many aspects. While maintaining a representational form, the Dispatch Artists explored process-driven methods, enabling them to embrace the dynamics at protest sites. Organizationally, although they were occasionally involved with civil society organizations and labor unions, they eschewed simply following top-down directives from leading groups, opting instead for a fluid approach that enabled them to adapt to changing circumstances.
Dispatch Art’s activities are characterized by participatory, dialogical, and process-based practices that are even more spontaneous and responsive to specific site conditions than community-based public art projects typically funded and meticulously planned in advance.
What distinguishes Dispatch Art from other socially engaged art is its dedication to activism and political intervention. Embracing contemporary practices of participation, collaboration, and communication, Dispatch Art upholds its spirit of radicalism. Its guerrilla-style actions, both playful and subversive, resonate with participatory civic activism where individuals converge in solidarity against social injustices. Its conveyed messages such as “There are people here,” “The layoff is murder,” and “To work without dying,” encapsulate the politics of life. According to sociologist Hyun Ok Park, the politics of life has become a new modality of people’s struggles against the state and neoliberal capital network since the 2000s that threatens the very security of life itself. Park elucidates, “Workers’ expulsion from unionized jobs, rented stores, or land from the 2000s on has been defined as the loss of life itself, going beyond issue-based protests to challenge modern biopolitics itself.”[37]
At the intersection of the historical Minjung Art, the innovative community-based public art, and the new protest culture, Dispatch Art has emerged as socially engaged art activism that fights for the people’s lives against the state’s power and deregulated capitalism. However, despite their significant activities, the Dispatch Artists have gradually dispersed. The precarious living and working conditions they face have made sustaining their survival as activist artists challenging. In present South Korea, right-wing authoritarian forces have regained power through democratic elections, displacing the previous government, which came to power with the support of the Candlelight Revolution but fell short of achieving the promised reforms. Given this milieu, there is anticipation of a resurgence of radicalism in the realm of socially engaged art.
Hong Kal is XXXXX
Notes
[1] Jin-gyong Jeon, Author interview (October 18, 2023). Also see, Munhwa yeondae [Cultural Action], “Pagyeon latte: pokeulleinui byeonsineun mujoe!: Giryung jeonja bunhoe tujaeng 1895il geurigo..” [Papyeon Latte: The Metamorphosis of Excavator is Innocent! Giryung Electronics Workers’ Struggle for 1,895 Days, and..] (10, 25 2023). https://brunch.co.kr/@culturalaction/98.
[2] Neoliberal capitalism promotes deregulation, privatization, and market-driven strategies, resulting in diminished worker protections such as job security, benefits, and social safety nets. Consequently, many workers find themselves in precarious employment situations marked by temporary contracts such as irregular work (비정규직) or dispatched work (파견직). In South Korea, the government has embraced neoliberal global capitalism, especially after the Asian Financial Crisis (1997-1998). This shift has led to a stratification of workers and a surge in irregular employment, exacerbating labor conditions. Moreover, the widespread adoption of subcontracting and outsourcing has further complicated labor relations, enabling evasion of responsibility for labor law compliance. The effects of precariousness within the neoliberal framework extends beyond the workplace to encompass broader social and economic disparities. See Yoonkyung Lee, “Labor Movements in Neoliberal Korea: Organizing Precarious Workers and Inventing New Repertoires of Contention.” Korean Journal, 61, 4, 2021, pp. 44-74. Top of Form
[3] Yu-a Shin, “Pagyeon misul hyeonjang misul yeongjaereul sijakhamyeo” [Beginning the series of Dispatch Art and Site art]. Munhwa yeondae [Cultural action] (5.16. 2017). https://culturalaction.org/39/?idx=3851879&bmode=view
[4] The Dispatch Artists included the late Gu Bon-ju (sculptor), Jeon Jin-gyeong (painter), Jeon Mi-young (sculptor), Kim Hyun-suk (graphic novelist), the late Lee Yun-gi (painter), Lee Yun-yeop (painter), Na Gyu-hwan (sculptor), Noh Soon-taek (photographer), Shin Yoo-ah (cultural activist), and Song Kyung-dong (poet), among others.
[5] See Jong-gil Kim, “Yeogi sarami itda” [There are People Here]. Munhwa bipyeong, 2011, pp. 367-377 and “Pagyeonmisulgwa pagyeonmisulga” [Dispatch Art and Dispatch Artists], Ateuporeomri, 2012. Jae Hwan Lim, “Dispatching Art: Building Peaceful Solidarity with Laid-Off South Korean Workers,” Journal of Korean and Asian Arts, Fall 2023 Vol. 7, pp. 45-82.
[6] See Grant Kester, The One and the Many: Contemporary Collaborative Art in a Global Context (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2011) and Beyond the Sovereign Self: Aesthetic Autonomy from the Avant-Garde to Socially Engaged Art (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2024). For socially engaged art in East Asia, see Meiqin Wang [ed.], Space, Place, and Community: Public Art in East Asia (Vernon Press, 2022).
[7] Yu-a Shin, “Pagyeon misul hyeonjang misul yeongjaereul sijakhamyeo” [Beginning the series of Dispatch Art and Site art].
[8] Jong-gil Kim, “80 nyeon-dae minjung misuleul dasi saenggakhanda” [Rethinking Minjung art in the 1980s], Minjok mihak, 11, 2, 2012, pp. 111-148, and “Minjung art movement in the 1980s,” in Park young-taek, Lee Seon-yeong, Lim San [eds], Looking at the Korean Art Again 2: 1980s (Seoul: Hyeonsil munhwa yeongu, 2022).
[9] Ibid.
[10] Namhee Lee, The Making of Minjung: Democracy and the Politics of Representation in South Korea (Cornell University Press, 2011).
[11] Mi-yeon Park, “Silcheon euroseo ui Yesul: Hanguk Keomyuniti Ateu-ui Sanghwang” [Art as Practice: Situations of Korean Community Art], Art Management Research 27, 2013, pp. 75-99.
[12] Two notable examples were the Anyang Public Art Project (2000-2010), hosted by the city of Anyang, and the Maeul Art Project (2009-2010), sponsored by the Ministry of Culture, Sports, and Tourism across thirty-six localities. See Yu-jin Kim, “Local sidae ui Gonggong misul: 2000 nyeondae Ihu Hanguk Gonggong misul eseo Gonggongseong ui Uimi Byeonhwa” [Public Art in the Local Era: Changing Meanings of Publicness in Korean Public Art Since the 2000s], Art History Research 32, 2017, pp. 189-219.
[13] Hong Kal, “Public Art of Occupation in Contemporary Korea,” in Meiqin Wang [ed.], Space, Place, and Community, pp. 211-240.
[14] Gyu-hwan Na, Author interview (May 12, 2023).
[15] Hyun Ok Park, “The Politics of Time: The Sewol Ferry Disaster and the Disaster of Democracy,” The Journal of Asian Studies, 81, 2022, pp. 131-144, and “Candlelight Revolution (South Korea),” in D. Snow, D. Portta, D. McAdam, and B. Klandermans [eds.], Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedia of Social and Political Movements, (Wiley-Blackwell; 2nd edition, 2022), pp. 1-4.
[16] Dongyeon Lee, “Chotbul ui Rideum, Gwangjang ui Munhwa Yeokdong” [The Rhythm of Candlelight, Cultural Dynamics of the Square], Markeuseujuui Yeongu 14, 1, 2017, pp. 91-117.
[17] See note 4.
[18] Kyung-dong Song, Jeon Mi-young’s Facebook post (June 9, 2023).
[19] Mi-young Jeon, Arthor interview (May 4, 2023).
[20] Artists with the Yongsan Disaster, Yongsan chamsa chumo pagyeon misul heonjeongjip: Kkeunnaji anneun jeonsi [Dispatch Art’s Tribute to the Yongsan
Disaster: The Never-ending Exhibition].
[21] Artists with the Yongsan Disaster, Yongsan chamsa chumo pagyeon misul heonjeongjip:
Kkeunnaji anneun jeonsi [Dispatch Art’s Tribute to the Yongsan Disaster: The Never-ending Exhibition] (Seoul: Salmi Boineun Chang, 2010).
[22] It took a decade for the Moon Jae-in government (2017-2022) to officially acknowledge that the catastrophe was caused by excessive force by the police. The government’s new findings disclosed that the rushed operation to suppress the protest had not been necessary, and the focus by the police on making arrests instead of prioritizing safety, despite the foreseeable risks, was a breach of protocol. Despite these findings, the government did not deem either the police or prosecution to be criminally liable, bringing a frustrating conclusion to the case. This result—revealing the facts yet failing to bring the responsible parties to justice—deepened the trauma for those who had been violently evicted.
[23] Mi-young Jeon, Author interview (May 3, 2023).
[24] This is a Korean term 고공농성 that can be translated to “high-altitude protest” or “sky protest” in English. This refers to a form of demonstration or activism conducted at high altitudes, often involving hanging banners, signs, or engaging in other activities from elevated positions in the sky to draw attention to a particular cause or message. See Yoonkyung Lee, “Sky protest: New forms of labor resistance in neoliberal Korea,” Journal of Contemporary Asia 45, 3, 2014, pp. 443–64.
[25] Ibid.
[26] Yu-a Shin, “Pagyeon misul yeonjae 14: Kkal kkal kkal huimang beoseu chulbal” [the Dispatch Art series 14: The departure of Hope bus]. Munhwa yeondae [Cultural action] (8.16. 2017).
https://culturalaction.org/103/?idx=3852525&bmode=view; “Pagyeon misul yeonjae 15: Kkal kkal kkal huimang beoseu Yeongdoui bameun gamdong” [the Dispatch Art series 15: Hope bus, the impressive night in Yeongdo]. Munhwa yeondae [Cultural action] (8.21. 2017). https://culturalaction.org/103/?idx=3852526&bmode=view
[27] The protests were organized by the Emergency National Action, comprising more than 2,300 civil society organizations, and supported by on-the-spot donations from the assembled participants.
[28] The encampment in Gwanghwamun Square can be compared with Occupy Wall Street in New York in late 2011 and early 2012. Both shared some strategies of political protests that manifest the rhetoric of occupation, the seizure of public space, the encampment, the presence of anonymous individuals, the staging of radical equality, and festive performances. However, despite some shared aspects, the Korean case exceeded in its duration, its scale of participants with millions of people, and political impact as it led to the impeachment of Park and the change to a new government.
[29] Kal, “Public Art of Occupation in Contemporary Korea.”
[30] Lee, “Chotbul ui Rideum, Gwangjang ui Munhwa Yeokdong” [The Rhythm of Candlelight, Cultural Dynamics of the Square].
[31] Kal, “Public Art of Occupation in Contemporary Korea.”
[32] Gyu-hwan Na, Author interview (May 12, 2023).
[33] Song, Jeon Mi-young’s Facebook post (June 9, 2023).
[34] Mi-jeong Kwon, Limbo, & Huieum [eds], Kim Yong-kyun, Kim Yong-kyundeul [Kim Yong-kyun, many Kim Yong-kyun] (Seoul: Oworui bom, 2022).
[35] Yoonkyung Lee, “From “We are Not Machines, We are Humans” to “We are Workers, We Want to Work”: Changing Notion of Labor Rights in Korea, the 1980s to the 2008,” in C.L. Arrington & P. Goedde Rights [eds.], Claiming in South Korea (Online, Cambridge University Press, 2021), pp. 195-216, and “Labor Movements in Neoliberal Korea: Organizing Precarious Workers and Inventing New Repertoires of Contention.”
[36] The White paper team of the Citizens’ Committee for the Investigation of Kim Yong-kyun’s Death, Kim Yong-kyun iraneun bit 1: girokgwa gieong [The light of Kim Yong-kyun 1: Records and Memories] (Seoul. 2019).
[37] Park, “The Politics of Time”, p.132.