In mid October 2007, the National Theatre of Korea presented a new performance entitled ‘Four Rivers Flowing to the Sea.’ It featured newly composed musical pieces commissioned from four leading composers and was performed by the National Orchestra of Korea and special guests. The event was staged at the main hall, with the audience filling three levels.
The orchestra included about 50 female and male wind, string, and percussion performers. All the instruments were traditional. The compositions represented the religions of Korea: Taoism, Buddhism, Shamanism, and Christianity. The National Orchestra chose to summarize the religions of Korea in this way, while excluding Confucianism. The president of the National Theatre of Korea’s statement in the program noted that these are “the four religions that reflect Korean spirituality and soul.” Anyway, with shamanism being included, I was there to watch the presentation. I was actually alerted through a text message I received that morning from one of the shamans with whom I work. Her message read: “Seo Kyeong Uk and the National Orchestra will perform at The National Theatre....” If shaman Seo is performing at such a prominent venue, then I must go, I thought. That evening, I took off to this elegant concert hall at the foot of Namsan Mountain.
I have been in Korea nine months now, doing fieldwork on contemporary Korean shamanism. This event was held at one of the new and even surprising venues where Korean shamans are invited to perform these days. Not all Korean shamans can have a fancy stage to showcase their tradition. More than 200,000 practitioners have been registered as such, but most of them practice privately, serving clients who wish to have their fortune told, misfortune reversed, mysterious disease cured, or their lives blessed. At the same time, an impressive number of these religious performers have become so-called ‘big shamans’ (kun mudang), who are honored with the public staging of rituals.
The lights at the National Theatre went bright when the gong rang for the 20-minute intermission in the program, just before the part on shamanism. During the break, a low table was brought on stage, along with white paper streamers attached to several sticks, colorful silk banners, and a typical shaman headpiece. A few hourglass drums (janggu) and several cymbals and bells were placed in front of seat cushions on the stage. These were actually the artifacts and musical instruments used in Korean shamanic rituals. The rest of the orchestra was there too, seated on Western-style chairs, with sheet music in front of them. I was waiting impatiently for the appearance of my acquaintance. She strode in majestically, about a third of the way into the musical piece, holding her fan wide open and looking straight out at the cheering audience. She began dancing and singing the ancient shamanic themes in her clear voice. The entire orchestra behind her did not seem to distract her, nor did the vocal accompaniment to the rear of the stage. With all the changes the composer had introduced to the music, it was still clearly recognizable. Seo is renowned for her worship of general Choe Yeong, which includes animal sacrifice, and various acts of ritual mayhem with knives, and climbing atop two sharp fodder-chopping blades, which is usually the climax of her performance in a normal ritual. However, on this stage, she danced and sang with no trace of the wild frenzy that she exhibits when she eats raw beef, straight from a slaughtered cow, or the furious stare, when the spirit possessing her becomes enraged.
Not here. Not now. This time it was a concert hall and not a shamanic shrine and Seo is a shaman who knows exactly how to behave at such occasions. The graceful movements and song were not any less beautiful than they were in her religious rites. But this was an art performance, with no real spiritual intention other then inspiring the music-loving audience. Still, Seo was the one invited to dance. Not a mere professional dancer. She used her own ritual artifacts and costumes, and when she waves her fan to bestow a blessing, the audience cheered. Post modernity.
When I first heard about Korean shamanism I wondered how it would coexist with the world’s highest Internet usage rate, fast-developing economy, and high-rise landscape of Seoul. I have since learned that, like many other things about Korean culture, exclusion is not the rule. People can be this and that at the same time, without evident conflict. A shaman can claim that her tradition is being performed exactly as it was 300 years ago, while driving up to a mountain ritual site in her shiny black SUV. The dichotomy is only in the eyes of an outsider ¶° the onlooker who does not really understand. In Korea, it is all possible and that is what makes this place so charming and fascinating. My fieldwork experience has taught me that Korean shamans are also ordinary people with loves, anxieties, expectations, quarrels, and most of all, a kind, generous, humoristic, and good-natured character, like most of the Koreans that I have been lucky to meet during my time here.
