Inspiring stories of women as told by Korean photographer, from brides sent halfway across the world

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Although their lives as first-generation Korean immigrants in America were far from romantic, the women played a key role in building communities among themselves, even raising money for independence fighters liberating their homeland from Japanese rule.

These young, unnamed women, “who had the courage to throw themselves into the unknown and start anew”, were what inspired photographer Kim Ok-sun’s latest project, “Brides, Sara” (2023), now on display at Sungkok Art Museum in central Seoul.

Instead of simply reproducing the archival photographs, Kim pays homage to their resilience and strength through portraits of those whose lives today resemble theirs – marriage migrants from Southeast and Central Asia and China living in Korea.

Rather than remain in their home countries, these migrant women came to Korea in search of new lives and a place for themselves in society despite the cultural barriers and stigma, the photographer explained in a recent interview at the museum.

She adds: “Their conscious life decisions reminded me of those of the Korean picture brides, and this realisation is what helped me understand them in a new light, especially beyond the usual sociopolitical narrative revolving around their resettlement.”

The women in Kim’s “Brides, Sara” hail from China, Vietnam and Mongolia, and have lived in the greater Seoul area and Incheon for up to 20 years.

In the traditional attire of their homelands, they pose with confidence against a classically lit, retro-styled background in an old studio tucked away in Hwanghak-dong, central Seoul.

“These photos also serve as a visual reminder and proof that, like the countless faces of Koreans who were once clients of the old Seoul studio, marriage migrants are the faces of diversity that make up our society today,” said museum curator Jun Ji-hee.

For over two decades, the 56-year-old Kim has given “a visual voice” to the marginalised communities in Korea, especially those of women, whose personal histories embody the ideas of diaspora, migration and “foreignness”.

Her ongoing solo exhibition, called the “Flatness of Things”, traces this photographic pursuit in a non-linear order. It puts her every major project on view, from the latest portrait series of marriage migrants to images of Korean nurses who left for West Germany en masse in the 1960s and 1970s after the two countries signed a labour recruitment agreement in 1963.

Photography, which she took up as a hobby at a university club, became her calling in the mid-1990s.

In her first project, “Woman in a Room” (1996-2001), the artist captured ordinary women in their 20s and 30s posing nude in their own spaces – as testament to the rapidly liberalising and globalising Seoul following the 1988 Summer Olympics.

“I could witness in real time how women’s increasingly raw and bold self-expression reflected the sweeping societal and economic shifts taking place in the country at the time,” she says.

“And as my friends began moving out of their [family] homes and getting a room of their own, I wanted to document their changing selves within that very space.”

In her series, the background, therefore, has as much to say as the subjects themselves – a characteristic that came to influence many of her subsequent projects.

“When I visited someone’s home, it was fascinating to be able to identify their preferences, habits and cultural identity hinted through its interior. The room was more than just their living space; it was a materialisation of their inner thoughts – like a space of their mind,” she says.

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“I was simply marrying the one I loved, but was shocked to find out how our union brought changes to my family’s legal status and life afterwards,” she recalls.

In accordance with the Nationality Act at the time, the acquisition of Korean citizenship for foreign spouses of Korean nationals was patrilineal – through the father’s line.

A foreign wife of a Korean man was automatically granted citizenship upon registering their marriage, while a foreign husband of a Korean woman had to apply for naturalisation after meeting all residency requirements.

It was thus necessary for the foreign husbands, including Kim’s, to independently obtain a work visa and figure out a way to stay in Korea.

What was more, children born to a Korean mother and a non-Korean father were not automatically eligible for Korean citizenship.

“So, even though I am a Korean citizen, if my husband’s visa extension request were ever to be denied, both he and our daughter would have had to pack up and leave the country. My family was thus in a legally and emotionally precarious state at all times,” the photographer says.

It was right then that a thought crossed her mind. Surely, there must be other women before her, whose families have been subject to a similar fate. How were they coping with such a living situation?

“I wanted to find out the answer to my question by meeting them and talking about our shared sense of frustration,” she added.

Thus began her “Happy Together” series (2002-05), focused on the lives of Korean wives and their foreign spouses on Jeju Island.

In the photos, only the women look into the camera. Their husbands are absorbed in everyday activities – taking care of the baby or reading the paper, for example – with their gaze averted.

“I felt like these women, who were being treated differently from their Korean male counterparts, must have much to say about their situation. So, I framed the shot as if they are directly engaged in a conversation with the viewers,” she says.

“And by making them look in different directions, I also wanted to visualise how the two people living under the same roof had different cultural backgrounds and perspectives.”

Kim eventually expanded her artistic focus to non-Korean residents from all walks of life who lived on Jeju – from martial artists to performers, Mormons and self-described “nomads”.

She found that while most held day jobs as English teachers at schools or academies, they shared a desire to pursue their passions and a taste for adventure – in whatever form it takes.

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The photographer says she hopes to continue to train her lens on the ordinary, nameless women of Korea, who are a living testament to the country’s tumultuous modern history yet have long been written out of the official, state-level narratives.

“The people who have lived through this tremendously challenging period – from the country’s liberation from Japanese rule to the Korean war, military dictatorship and democratisation – are still alive. I want to hear their stories,” she says.

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