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Why Korea's moon jar is so iconic

The ancient symbol came to stand for simplicity and Korea's post-colonial national identity. Now a new generation of artists are re-interpreting this iconic sculptural form, writes Clare Dowdy.

Centuries-old and steeped in cultural significance, the South Korean moon jar (dal-hang-ari in Korean) is still giving the country's potters and artists pause for thought. In pottery terms, it's a deceptively simple item: two big clay rice bowl shapes are put together rim to rim in the kiln, explains Lloyd Choi, curator of a new exhibition in London on moon jars, and "gravity does the rest". Typically, the pale clay is glazed but left unadorned, looking rather like a full moon.

As well as being aesthetically pleasing, the moon jar sheds light on Korean identity. They were first made during the Joseon Dynasty (1392-1910). At that time, Korea followed the neo-Confucian belief system. Propagated by Chinese philosopher Confucius in the 6th to 5th Century BCE, the meditative Confucian ideals of simplicity, humbleness, modesty, purity and austerity had spread beyond China to Korea, Japan and Vietnam.

Most ceramics in the region were of plain white porcelain, but in the 18th Century, the country's elite started to develop a new, distinctly Korean identity. The moon jars began to take on the importance they have now, as they embodied these Confucian ideals.

By the 17th and 18th Centuries, rather than perfection, naturalism and spontaneity were the preferred aesthetic. By then, it was about "the ability to accept the imperfections of nature, and appreciate the beauty in that", says Choi. The moon jars epitomised this way of thinking. Because while they were minimal, they were not identical. All handmade on the wheel, they would shrink and sag in the firing so that each one had a distinct, slightly asymmetrical shape. And around the middle was a visible horizontal seam where the two hemispherical halves had been joined.

Meanwhile, the globular form's surface was white, which in Korea represents simplicity and asceticism. This is in contrast to much Chinese porcelain, which was highly decorated.

The jars had both ceremonial and utilitarian roles, Choi explains. In royal palaces, they were displayed as vases when foreign dignitaries were visiting. And more practically, they could be used to store dry goods such as rice.

The moon jar's more recent symbolism is tied up with 20th-Century events. Korea was annexed by the Empire of Japan from 1910 to 1945. During the occupation, Koreans struggled to regain their independence, while the Korean language was banned, and Koreans were conscripted into the occupiers' workforce or as uniformed soldiers in the Pacific War. Joseon culture and art were portrayed in a negative light by colonial Japanese officials and intellectuals, and its resources were pillaged.

"The fashioning of this ceramic as a South Korean cultural icon was in direct response to liberation from 35 years of colonial rule in 1945," when Japan surrendered to the Americans, says Sol Jung, assistant curator of Japanese art at the Smithsonian's National Museum of Asian Art.

It was after the Korean War of 1950-53 (when North invaded South) that the moon jar became synonymous with South Korean cultural identity, he adds.

The first generation of South Korean potters in the post-colonial, post-war era began to study moon jars with fresh eyes, and to recreate them. The pioneering abstract painter Kim Whan-ki collected these ceramics and featured them in his paintings, and is widely credited for coining the term "moon jar". Other contemporary painters like Choi Young Wook have taken moon jars as their subject matter.

Moonstruck

Meanwhile, the jars were also gaining new fans in the West. British potter Bernard Leach, who was born in Hong Kong, had lived and worked in Japan for many years in the first half of the 20th Century, and also travelled to Korea. He collected Korean ceramics and furniture, including a moon jar with a diameter of 44.5cm, now held at London's British Museum.

Its ubiquity, popularity and link to cultural identity mean that "the moon jar is now a quintessential Korean object", says Jung, and has become "the focal point of museum exhibitions and gallery spaces featuring Korean art". It even made an appearance at the 2018 Pyeongchang Winter Olympics, where the official Olympic cauldron lit during the opening ceremony was fashioned to look like an enormous moon jar on stilts.

Its very significance has meant that it has become an iconic shape for Korean potters. "These artists have felt the need to 'address' the moon jar," says Choi.  "The moon jar has cast a long shadow over the individuality of modern potters. Everyone wants to make the moon jar, they've almost forgotten about their own artistic inspiration." However, her feeling is that once it has been addressed, "they should move on. We need to let the form go."

In her exhibition, Moon Jar: The Untold Story, six contemporary Korean makers show how they are reinventing the traditional vessel in their own way. Creations by modern masters Ree Soo-jong and Lee Gee-jo sit alongside those by Yun Ju-cheol and Park Sung-wook, as well as work by two young female artists Choi Bo-ram and Kwak Hye-young. The exhibition is accompanied by films of these creatives at work, in which they explain their reasons for approaching this subject.

In his film, Ree Soo-Jong explains that instead of forming a perfect circle, moon jars are bound to have an asymmetrical form, which makes them unique compared to other porcelain work. "What makes my moon jars even more unique is that I intentionally leave the natural patterns that occur when the two large bowls are connected."

Park Sung-wook makes moon jars in the Buncheong Dumbung style, which first appeared in the early Joseon Dynasty. It involves dipping the vessel into a white clay solution. "A lot of interesting things go on during the process. The slip sometimes drips down on to the surface," he says in the film. "Sometimes it soaks into the pottery and there are times when the shape itself becomes a bit distorted during the drying process."

Choi Bo-Ram echoes the point that much traditional Korean pottery has a simple form and smooth texture. Rather than using a potter’s wheel, she kneads small lumps of clay into a basic lozenge shape and squeezes them together to build up a pot. For her, it’s not about conforming to a traditional jar shape, and she doesn’t even glaze them. "Instead, I add a pattern of random lines on the surface," she says in the film. "Most of the patterns consist of a series of connected lines." It seems the ancient, iconic moon jar continues to resonate – and re-shape – in each new era.

Moon Jar: The Untold Story is at Cromwell Place, London, until 14 May, and is organised with the Korea Craft & Design Foundation. A further exhibition, Moon Jar: Untold Beauty, will take place at the same gallery from 4 to 10 September, exploring the philosophical ideas behind the moon jar. 

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How modern singing was invented

https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20230511-how-singing-has-changed-over-the-centuries

How modern singing was invented

There was hysteria in the air at 81st Street Theatre in New York. Deep within the building, behind its white neoclassical arches and away from the steady chatter of crowds of adoring fans outside, a new kind of celebrity singer was walking onto a black-and-silver stage.

It was February 1929, and just a few months earlier, Rudy Vallée had been an obscure graduate best known to the listeners of WABC radio in New York. He wasn't considered particularly good looking: one biting critic later called him "a young man whose eyes are too close together and small to be called handsome". His singing style, too, was highly unusual.

But that night, as Vallée began the opening lines of a characteristically sentimental song, the crowd exploded with rapturous applause. The venue had achieved record-breaking sales, mostly with women: so many had turned up, the police had to be called to contain them. His was no longer just a voice for radio.

As it happens, the evening did more than catapult Vallée to global stardom. The singer was one of the first singers to practice the art of "crooning". This new style was a kind of soft, intimate singing, often likened more to lullabies than to the belting operatic or classical performances audiences were used to in the early 20th Century. Today the term is less well-known, but the style is still as popular as ever. In fact, this was the birth of modern singing as we know it. 

A matter of projection  

For much of the Middle Ages, singing may have sounded distinctly odd. Though the echoes of these ancient voices have been lost forever, there are hints in the historical record that the style of the day was somewhat 'nasal', to match the tones of the woodwind and string instruments popular at the time.  

By the 17th and 18th Centuries, a number of famous European singers were castrati – men who had been castrated as children, and consequently never experienced the voice-deepening effects of puberty. Their powerful, 'metallic' voices were the dominant sounds at concerts, churches and palaces for generations, often moving audiences to tears and standing ovations. However, eventually genital mutilation of this sort came to be viewed as unethical and the castrati's distinctive sound went out of fashion. Their 'angelic' singing vanished – and somebody had to fill the void.

"They had had such extraordinary voices, being a large male body just with a tiny childlike larynx, they had incredible vocal facility," says John Potter, a singer and author based in the UK. In their place emerged conservatoires and music schools, "where people learnt to do extraordinarily complicated things, loud things."

The idea that singing should be studied soon became well established, and soon technique came to be valued above all else. The best performers, it was agreed, had clear, dramatic voices. Flourishes such as vibrato, which involved rapid oscillations in pitch, became ubiquitous. "That hadn't really happened much before that, " says Potter. "Before the 18th Century, people more or less sung as they spoke, as far as we can tell." This included their regional accents: if you were from the British Midlands, this is what you sounded like as a singer, he explains.

"We do see a major shift during the period," says Allison McCracken, a professor of American studies at DePaul University, Chicago, and author of Real Men Don't Sing: Crooning in American Culture. Criteria emerged for what constituted a good singer. "Often the qualifications were that they would be able to project, that they would be able to enunciate in certain ways, and that they would have what we would consider a trained voice."

For example, one of the most venerated singers of the late 19th century was German soprano Lilli Lehmann. In the manual How to Sing, she provides minutely detailed instructions for aspiring professionals, such as how to keep a breath vibrating in the mouth to achieve a certain note. 

However, while tastes for different styles of singing have been continually evolving, all professional singers before the 1930s had one thing in common. In an era before artificial amplification, they had to be loud. That was the only way for their voices to fill a large concert hall.

A transformational technology

This changed with the carbon microphone, which was thought up simultaneously by three inventors in the 1870s. These early devices used carbon granules sandwiched between two metal plates to convert sound into electrical signals.

The technology was an immediate hit and became an essential part of radio and telephone technology. It also led to a public and bitter feud over whose version came first, including accusations of theft and plagiarism.

Meanwhile, the technology was being quietly improved. By the 1920s, microphones were so good, they could be used to broadcast reasonable-quality audio around the world. The popularity of radio boomed – and the way people sung started to change.

"The big advantage was that you didn't have to project your voice in the back of a hall," says Potter. "So you could just sing in a much more natural way. And you get the colours of your own personality coming through."

Enter the first crooners. This group of charismatic, mostly male performers pioneered a style of soft, seductive singing, typically involving romantic lyrics, that rapidly became wildly popular with young women. It was "said to be peculiarly devastating in its effect on the heart of the emotional flapper", wrote one journalist in 1929. Unlike their contemporaries, these musicians sounded as though they weren't performing at all, but rather whispering sweet sentiments directly into the listener's ear.

This new type of singing was assessed by different criteria, centred on conveying feeling, says McCracken. Technical considerations like projection or hitting high notes became less salient. "What becomes most important is that they sound sincere." Crooners weren't allowed to be anonymous voices performing for an audience. They had to seem authentic – and for that, they needed personality too.

An unwelcome development  

Like all cultural innovations, crooning had its critics. Traditionalists were horrified, with one cardinal publicly condemning the style as a "degenerate form of singing" and "imbecile slush" – even going so far as to criticise its perpetrators as "whiners and bleaters defiling the air". Established musicians and conservatoires weren't thrilled either: crooners were accused of lacking skill and corrupting the youth.

However, the crooners weren't finished, and the march of technology enabled musicians to push the style still further. The 1930s saw the development of directional microphones, a variety that pick up sound from a particular direction, minimising background noise. Singers who got close to those microphones discovered the 'proximity effect', which created an even more intimate tone, says McCracken. "People really liked that sound."