Gwangju Biennale weaves 'pansori' into artful exploration of sound, space

Marguerite Humeau's "*stirs" (2024), an installation populated by hand-blown glass bubbles with biological and synthetic filaments, as well as a vessel containing a microbial ecosystem, is installed at the 15th edition of the Gwangju Biennale, Friday. The biennale, helmed by artistic director Nicolas Bourriaud, unfolds under the theme of "Pansori — a soundscape of the 21st century" in Korea's southwestern city. Yonhap

GWANGJU — How can "pansori," a traditional Korean form of minimalist folk opera, become a thematic anchor for contemporary art from around the world?

At this year's Gwangju Biennale, French star curator Nicolas Bourriaud seeks to answer this question by breaking down the term itself: "pan," meaning public place, and "sori," meaning sound or noise, in Korean.

This deconstruction transforms the country's musical tradition into a larger metaphor for the multitude of voices and stories that overlap, clash and coexist within shared spaces.

Within this framework, the biennale weaves together the works of 72 artists from 30 countries, who delve into humanity's layered relationships with space — from the geopolitical to the planetary.

"Space is not just about the size of your apartment or the way your neighborhood is organized. It's also social; what is the place we are allowed to occupy in society? … And consider climate change that is narrowing [the habitable areas of our planet]. It modifies our way of seeing space," the artistic director explained during a press conference in Korea's southwestern city, Friday.

"Conflictual borders, anti-migration walls, confinement, social distancing, segregation policies … These seemingly dissimilar topics share a common point, which is space, and its political organization," he added in his curatorial statement.

Installation view of Phillip Zach's "soft ruin" (2024) / Korea Times photo by Park Han-sol

Under the theme, "Pansori — a soundscape of the 21st century," the exhibition unfolds in three segments, each in tune with a distinct sonic phenomenon that functions as a spatial metaphor.

It begins with the "Feedback Effect," a phenomenon that occurs when a sound source and a receptor are placed too close together, creating a shrill, howling noise. This auditory clash symbolizes today's world overcrowded with human activity, industrialization and the fight for emancipation.

The section evokes a visual sense of claustrophobia, overflowing with narratives of conflict and social movements. In Kandis Williams' "gods and monsters that white people make up to kill us all," a series of densely packed collages juxtapose iconic monsters from horror films with real-life images of colonial exploitation.

Kandis Williams' "gods and monsters that white people make up to kill us all" (2024) / Korea Times photo by Park Han-sol

Meanwhile, Noel W. Anderson's sound installation recontextualizes the vocals of Black American singer James Brown by blending them with the pansori drum — a nod to the genre's origins as a musical entertainment for Korea's lower class. This fusion creates a powerful sonic solidarity that transcends both time and space.

The next segment, "Polyphonies," opens up to a more expansive landscape, drawing attention to the diverse voices of non-human entities — machines, plants, animals, minerals and spirits — all intertwined in a complex chorus.

Harrison Pearce's "Valence" captures this multiplicity through a series of 10 kinetic sculptures made of inflated silicone rubber, modeled after a scan of his own brain. Although initially inspired by a human organ, these forms have been mechanically reimagined and are now animated by an automated pneumatic system. The result is an immersive presentation that blurs the boundaries between human and artificial production.

Harrison Pearce’s "Valence" (2024) / Courtesy of Gwangju Biennale Foundation

Max Hooper Schneider's room-spanning "LYSIS FIELD" presents a hybrid ecosystem in perpetual motion, crafted from a dynamic mix of decomposing organic matter, found objects, synthetic waste sourced from Gwangju and novel material technologies. Teeming with eerie composite organisms and robotic machines, his garden offers a speculative vision of what a post-Anthropocene ecological world might look like.

As visitors wander through Hooper Schneider's garden, they are drawn to the sounds emanating from the adjacent room, which houses Kwon Hye-won's "Cave of Portals." In her video installation, she uses sonic tools to capture the noises inside a lava cave on Jeju Island, acknowledging the sound of virtually every entity within — "eyeless fish swimming," "rising humidity," "bacteria growing in the carcass," "a life fading away" and even "a ghost coming to sleep in the cave."

Max Hooper Schneider's "LYSIS FIELD" (2024) / Korea Times photo by Park Han-sol

A close-up view of Max Hooper Schneider's "LYSIS FIELD" (2024) / Korea Times photo by Park Han-sol

Finally, the "Primordial Sound" — evoking the sound of origins, from the Om of Hinduism to the first noise of the Big Bang — removes humans from the equation, reaching into both the vast expanse of the cosmos and the minute molecular realm.

Entrancing eye-dazzlers fill every corner of the exhibition space here. These include Bianca Bondi's white salt dunes encircling a bottomless black hole; Marguerite Humeau's environment inhabited by ethereal, hand-blown glass bubbles and a microbial ecosystem; Myriam Mihindou's queenless ant colony magnified to human scale; and Jun Hye-joo's installation that renders the invisible impact of raw energy materials used in military weapons both visible and audible.

Sofya Skidan's "What do you call a weirdness that hasn't quite come together?" (2019-24) / Korea Times photo by Park Han-sol

Bianca Bondi's "The Long Dark Swim" (2024) / Courtesy of Gwangju Biennale Foundation

Beyond the main Gwangju Biennale Exhibition Hall, the show extends into the city's historic neighborhood of Yangnim-dong.

Here, eight venues, such as an old police station, an abandoned house and an independent art space, each host a unique sound project by a different artist, transforming these diverse locations into immersive auditory experiences.

Installation view of "That is not still" (2024) by Julian Abraham "Togar" at Horanggasinamu Art Polygon, one of the biennale's eight satellite venues in the neighborhood of Yangnim-dong / Courtesy of Gwangju Biennale Foundation

Running parallel to the biennale's central show is the national pavilion section, which features independently curated shows by respective countries and organizations — reminiscent of the Venice Biennale.

This year's edition boasts 31 pavilions spread across the city — a considerable scale-up from last year's nine — with participants including Japan, Qatar, Peru, Italy, Myanmar, Canada, the United States and ASEAN.

Granted, these exhibitions differ greatly in themes, originality and creative direction, resulting in a noticeably uneven and disjointed experience for visitors. However, they still offer a meaningful glimpse into how the city of Gwangju could be artistically activated beyond the main biennale venue.

The Gwangju Biennale, which opened on Saturday, runs until Dec. 1.

Mira Mann's "Paridaegi-D" (2023) occupies an abandoned house in the neighborhood of Yangnim-dong. Korea Times photo by Park Han-sol