When the K disappears…

Courtesy of David Tizzard

By David A. Tizzard

In the alphabet, the "K" reigns supreme, an indisputable monarch of cultural significance. Governments use it. Companies use it. Academics use it. And Tik-Tokers use it. It is a letter that the others must surely be jealous of. The special one. The one capable of putting you in a hole. The one that should never be used three times in a row (unless you're typing in Korean and responding to a joke).

It has assumed a somewhat ubiquitous presence, standing as an emblematic talisman for not only South Korean culture but the entirety of its being. In a world consumed by branding strategies and a relentless hunger for novelty, this prefix has become a potent tool of distinction. Its deployment serves as a calculated maneuver, an orchestrated dance of differentiation, aiming to captivate an audience intoxicated by the allure of the unfamiliar. K-This. K-That. K-Everything. Everywhere. All at once.

The armchair experts might immediately think of K-pop and K-dramas as the correct use of this prefix but such days are long gone. Beauty, gaming, fashion, sleep, food, language, v-logs, and queer studies have all danced with the K. Ballet, metal, wrestling, football, reggae, journalism, and mental health joining in, too. There is not an aspect of Korean life that people have not at one time fixed with the letter K so as to differentiate themselves from Japan and China, to earn money, to appear cool, or simply to be part of the collective narrative of Korea. To prove their patriotism and promote further "guk-bbong" to the world.

What is Korean?

Over a decade ago, John Lie made the provocative argument that the K in K-pop didn't really stand for anything Korean. The idol-driven music responsible for the success of the second wave of Hallyu, he said, was a smorgasbord of western influences and didn't really demonstrate anything Korean beyond the language and ethnicity of some of the performers. And more importantly, it was this very absence of anything Korean that made it popular. The K was an empty symbol. If it were really Korean (see: traditional Korean), fans from other parts of the world wouldn't like or understand it. They would be confused by the 12 beats to the bar, the emphasis on the one and the nine, the frequent use of "yeobek," and the various trills and techniques deployed by pansori singers.

But culture changes. It flows and moves. Korean culture is now one of crop tops, lo-fi, sandwiches, and milk. The gugak remains but often only as a mark of heritage. A sign of what once was. Illuminating the contrast between the past and the present. K-pop doesn't involve a gayageum ― it involves gyrating trained performers moving in unison to a song composed for them by an entertainment company presenting their latest concept to the global market in the search for a profit on their investment. Stylistically, it might be pop, hip-hop, jazz, rock, ballad, trap, or even trot.

We are thus left unsure what the K means. We know that it is popular. We know people love it. And we know people use it. The more it is loved, the more that it moves away from what it once was.

Deconstruction

One of my favorite uses of K was in the cultural theorist Mark Fisher's blog, K-Punk. The "K" in "K-Punk" did not specifically refer to Korean culture but rather served as a symbolic twist, combining the rebellious energy of punk with Fisher's own unique interests and perspectives. The inclusion of "K" was as a creative play on the concept of cultural hybridity and a deliberate juxtaposition of seemingly disparate elements. It reflected Fisher's inclination to challenge established boundaries and conventions, offering alternative perspectives on cultural phenomena. Basically, it had nothing to do with Korea.

Where the signifier (a linguistic or symbolic representation) no longer accurately or directly represents the thing or concept it is intended to signify, we can describe this as a disconnection. One particular theory that explores this disconnection is Jacques Derrida's deconstruction, a philosophical approach that questions the stability and fixed meanings assigned to language and the way signs operate. According to Derrida, language is inherently unstable, and the relationship between signifier and signified is arbitrary and constantly shifting. Deconstruction challenges the idea of a direct correspondence between words or symbols and their referents, highlighting the potential for multiple interpretations and the inherent instability of meaning.

In this way, to be woke is both a compliment and a pejorative term. Queer was once a slur and is now embraced. To be labeled either conservative or progressive will produce pride or shame. Yes, words mean something. But whether they mean the same thing to everyone is clearly a matter of much debate. And to whom should the final decision be given?

The Loss of the K

Certainly it is not for me or John Lie to determine what the K means in all its various guises and manifestations. The K means a great many things to a great many people. And those realities cannot and should not be denied. To some people the K is sophisticated. To others it is tacky. To some it is critical and dark. To others it is traditional, carrying with it the weight of a nation's perceived 5,000-year history. It is precisely because it can be interpreted so readily and easily be everyone that it has great power in the current age. Interpretations have become liquid. What was once solid, now melted.

There was no ambiguity in the symbols of the past. A grand narrative persisted, constructed through power and authority. Any alternative interpretation would be seen as idiosyncratic, alternative, perhaps even heretical. But it would always stand outside the definite meaning. Not so today. Everyone has their own take on what the K and various other symbols mean. God is dead. Long live the short forms.

So perhaps it is only when the K disappears that Korean culture will have truly arrived. When the country and its people, as well as the tens of millions of fans abroad, no longer plaster that one letter over everything the country produces it will have achieved its goals. When K-dramas are just dramas. When K-beauty is just beauty. When K-food is just something you pick up in from the supermarket on the way home from work, whether you are in Seoul, Sydney, or Stockholm. When K-culture is just…culture.

Dr. David A. Tizzard (datizzard@swu.ac.kr) has a Ph.D. in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social/cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the Korea Deconstructed podcast, which can be found online. The views expressed in the article are the author's own and do not reflect the editorial direction of The Korea Times.