By Andrei Lankov
They say that statistics tell you everything. I am not sure whether this is really the case, but sometimes the reach of Korean statistics is quite impressive.
For example, Seoul officials counted the number of signboards which could be found in the Korean capital. It is believed now that the city has some 1.5 million signboards, or one for every seven inhabitants.
However, there were no signboards in old Korea. They first appeared in Korea only in the late 19th century, some 110 years ago.
In the earlier era, there was no special need to advertise one's business. Commerce in the Joseon Kingdom (which was not particularly developed, regardless of what many modern scholars want us to believe) was handled either by wholesalers or by small retail traders.
Wholesalers did not need them since everybody knew where they were. For retail traders, signs also were redundant, since they normally sold goods from small stalls located in the local markets or walked the city streets (in the latter case their own voice was their only advertising tool).
Perhaps, the idea of a signboard was first introduced to Korea by foreign merchants ― not necessary by Westerners but, more probably, by the Japanese or Chinese who came from different business cultures and were quite used to signboards.
At any rate, it seems that the first known photo to depict a company with a signboard was made around 1900, and the company in question was Hansong Electric, a joint venture of the Korean court and a pair of American businessmen.
This company was responsible for streetcar operations and also controlled the electricity generation facilities in Seoul.
The early signboards, usually written in Chinese characters, were very large, often taking up half the size of the building where a particular business was located. This penchant for oversized signs even became a topic of cartoons in the newspapers of the 1920s.
By the late 1920s, the signboards became smaller, while houses became much bigger. Around those times, a multi-story building ceased to be seen as something unusual in Korea.
In their general design, they increasingly reminded the contemporary viewer of the signboards of Europe and America, even though Chinese characters still reigned supreme (not least because they were equally comprehensible for both educated Koreans and Japanese).
The Japanese influence on Korean advertisement tradition was great: after all, the Japanese owned most shops where quality merchandise was sold, including four out of five of the major department stores which existed in Seoul in the 1930s.
The Hon-machi district, now known as Myeongdong, was essentially a ``little Japan'' of Seoul. Then, as now, it was a trade district, and it was also where neon signs made first their appearance in the 1930s.
Even nowadays, everybody familiar with the look of Korean and Japanese cities would immediately agree that the signboards in both countries share a number of common features.
The use of electricity for signage was seen as a major novelty in Seoul. Initially, the signs were either made of small light globes or simply had lights, which made them visible at night.
The ``city lights'' became a powerful symbol of modernity in the 1930s, but it was only a handful of major cities which could boast such sophistication in the colonial era.
With the arrivals of Americans, a major change took place: English language signboards began to appear in increasing numbers.
English assumed the role that for centuries had been played by classical Chinese: it became the language of what passed for the world civilization.
Some of the Konglish signs were (and are) quite funny and inevitably became the focus of ex-pats' jokes, like the ``Counseling Center to Prevent Bullies" or ``Dog Rib Gate" (this indicated Doknip, or Independence Gate).
Around the same time, in the 1950s, hangeul signs ceased to be a rarity, and by the late 1960s Chinese characters had nearly disappeared from Seoul signboards.
According to research conducted in Myeongdong, then, as now, the embodiment of Korean retail business, 70 percent of signage was in Korean, 20 percent in English, and 10 percent in Chinese in 1970.
In the 1960s, people even began to talk about ``signboard pollution,'' which had spread across Korean cities. Most buildings were virtually plastered with signs that made their architectural features all but invisible.
In 1962 the military government issued a special decree prohibiting the excessive use of signboards in major cities. As military men should, they believed in the redeeming power of a clearly formulated order. However, as normally happens, the law was soon forgotten and Korean cities still remain overloaded with advertising signage.
Korean cities present the same profusion of signs as cities of China and Japan. The style of signs is similar, too, the only difference being the rare use of Chinese characters.
However, I would not be surprised if a few decades down the road Chinese characters, or hanja, make a powerful comeback.
The growth of Chinese economic power and political influence makes such a turn of events quite likely. The most recent decade has been a time of increasing Chinese influence in Korea.
Prof. Andrei Lankov was born in St. Petersburg, Russia, and now teaches at Kookmin University in Seoul. He has recently published ``The Dawn of Modern Korea,'' which is now on sale at Kyobo Book Center and other major bookstores. The book is based on columns published in The Korea Times. He can be reached at anlankov@yahoo.com.