Joseon Images Korean gisaeng in the American press
A gisaeng school in Pyongyang sometime in the 1920s or 1930s / Robert Neff Collection
By Robert Neff
In the past, some Koreans believed the most beautiful women in the world were born in Pyongyang. Unsurprisingly, the most famous school for “gisaeng” (female entertainers) was located there. Annually, about 200 young teenage girls were chosen and educated for three years in the fine arts of entertainment ― singing, dancing and how to play traditional musical instruments.
For many, it was an opportunity to escape the domestic drudgery that awaited the average Korean woman. As a gisaeng they could earn money and, if they were talented and beautiful enough, perhaps win the attention of a rich or powerful man and become his concubine.
The gisaeng also had the opportunity to travel the country ― needing only to register with the police in the city they intended to work.
Dorothy Gould, an American in Pyongyang, noted in 1930 that “the railroad stations and trains are dotted with these pretty women, with their conspicuous clothes and blackened eyebrows, for the restaurant goers of one town soon tire of the same entertainer night after night.”
Gould noted that while the geisha of Japan were rapidly disappearing, Korean gisaeng were thriving and were not confined to the traditions of the past.
“[Many] of the sing-song girls here have added some western song-and-dance numbers to their repertoires, the favorite song being Tipperary, and the most popular dance being the Charleston.”
Liberation from Japan and the subsequent division of Korea had a great impact on the lives of gisaeng.
In 1948, the National Assembly declared the professional female entertainers were no longer allowed to sing, dance, or beat the drum which was considered to be “a symbol of the legally defunct” gisaeng. But, as one observer noted, the women “ignore the law, and the police quietly ignore the sound of beating drums which leaks out of restaurants.”
Reportedly there were more than 1,000 gisaeng residing in Seoul ― many of them refugees from North Korea ― and amongst their patrons were South Korea's top level officials. Thus, when the metropolitan police began investigating the women in December 1949 for possible Communist ties, many were convinced it would “climax in a high blown farce” due to the influence of their patrons.
Hypocrisy was rife. In that same month, four American senators, guests of the Korean National Assembly in Seoul, were entertained by pretty gisaeng girls who sang and danced to traditional music and served the Americans dishes of baby octopus.
“It was a welcome relief after so many of the formal dinners given us,” 82-year-old Senator Thomas F. Green declared.
It isn't clear how successful the investigations were but just over six months later, the Korean War began and Seoul was occupied for three months. Following its liberation from North Korean forces in late September 1950, a large number of collaborators were captured by South Korean forces. Among them was Lee Chang-ho, a former gisaeng and the mistress of the Seoul police chief during the Communist occupation. She was imprisoned ― along with her eight-month-old baby ― to await her execution.
She did not have long to wait. In late October, she and 26 other collaborators were loaded into a truck and transported to a field. Amongst the onlookers was New York Times war correspondent Charles Grutzner.
According to him, the condemned were stoic as to their fate ― silent. Only Lee begged to be spared and wanted to know what would become of her baby. The commander of the execution squad dismissed her pleas and said there was nothing for her to do but accept her fate.
“As if by magic, [Lee's] strained features relaxed. She sat back, raised her head, and began singing in a clear, tender voice. The words were those of a girl asking her lover to return.”
Her song was ended by a bullet.
But it wasn't bullets that destroyed the traditional gisaeng.
In 1959, an American reporter in Seoul, lamented that the gisaeng of the past were disappearing rapidly.
“After more than a decade of exposure to American soldiers, some [gisaeng were] fluent in English [and] instead of the modest, form-concealing native dress” wore Western clothes and sang rock and roll while doing the jitterbug.
The gisaeng's “honored place in society” was gone.
Robert Neff is a historian and columnist for The Korea Times. He can be reached at
. He would like to thank Diana Nars for her invaluable assistance.