We have now reached the grand finale. The face of Kim Jong-il, the Sun King, appears. Radiant yellow gradually transitions into a deep red hue. Kim Jong-il’s theories from his 1994 book about Juche, Socialism Is a Science, are given an overwhelming representation in the displays of synchronization in the Arirang show. His corporeal analogies are repeated in communication, news articles, decrees, and pedagogy. The Great Leader is the brain that plots, plans, and commands. The party is the nervous system that receives the leader’s signals and sends them on to the people who make up the flesh, tendons, and muscles — the parts of the body that perform the work.
THE STANDS EMPTY out, and we notice that one of the Germans has collapsed. He has vomited and is now lying on his side on a bench. A North Korean guide wipes his forehead.
We are also shaken up. We understand that we have just met the Monster. It’s the same monster you see in the frontispiece of Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan, a historic work of political philosophy published in 1651. Hobbes used a monster metaphor to illustrate how a leader stands above his people. When the Leviathan was constructed, all the citizens promised to obey the sovereign leader. The sovereign, on the other hand, promised nothing. He was above promises, and the rules that applied to the citizenry could not be applied to him. His supreme position was meant to protect the state from civil war and fratricide.
Hobbes’s frontispiece depicts the upper body of a gigantic person with a crown, staff, and sword. The creature’s body is made up of a mass of individuals, but the face is the leader’s face. This image articulates the leader’s relationship to the state and its subjects, as Kim Jong-il speaks of the Juche body. The way the Leviathan fuses the leader and the people is mirrored by the schoolchildren in the stadium, acting as pixels in the image of Kim Jong-il. But in the engraving we’re not allowed to see the lower half of the body. We can only imagine what’s hiding beneath the surface: the monster’s scaly tail.
DAY 5
The Hawaiian
Good Luck Sign
IN 1548, THE Holy Roman Emperor Charles V visited the atelier of the Italian painter Titian to see how his portrait was progressing. The picture had been commissioned to commemorate the emperor’s victory over the Protestant princes in the Battle of Mühlberg on April 24, 1547. When Titian dropped his brush on the floor, the emperor stooped down and picked it up. It was a pivotal moment: for the first time, a Renaissance emperor was waiting on an artist.
The Hungarian art historian Arnold Hauser uses this image of the emperor on bent knee to articulate a paradigm shift: the artist no longer knelt down before the patron; the patron praised the artist. It’s no longer the artist who praises the patron, the patron praises the artist. From here on patrons were themselves exalted by exalting the artists.
In the late 1500s, when Michelangelo was at the height of his fame, he transcended even this elevated status. Whereas Titian had social aspirations, Michelangelo was above earthly titles. “He says he is simply Michelangelo Buonarroti, no more, no less,” Hauser writes. He was the first “modern, lonely, demonically impelled artist,” and spoke of being possessed by a vision and having a responsibility to his talent. He saw a superhuman power in his creative abilities.
Michelangelo did not bask in the power of the prince; rather, he despised the prince. As Hauser noted: “The world whose glory it was his task to proclaim, now proclaims his glory; the cult of which he was the instrument now applies to him; the state of divine favor is now transferred from his patrons and protectors to himself.”
LONG BEFORE, IN the old high cultures of antiquity, this reciprocal relationship between art and power was unimaginable. In ancient Greece, playing out of tune was punishable by death. In China, the lengths of the flutes were altered when a new emperor ascended the throne. The sound-making material had to have the same resonance as the person in power. Power was divine and dissonance was a crime against the gods.
But the idea of the free artist with a certain sparkle to his star lives on in the twenty-first century, while the prince, in popular imagination, has been relegated to the past. Even the modern European royal dynasties, with their ceremonial displays of authority, have hardly any actual power. Royal sovereignty has been transferred to the oligarchs and global capitalists. And the role of the dictator seems to have been written off, or written into history, judging by the volumes of biographies hitting the market about leaders such as Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, and Mao, all of whom had a hand in the horrific events that shaped the twentieth century.
In the modern network-economy and in globalization, power is thought of as liquid, immaterial, intangible, and incorporeal. Within this framework, the dictator can seem like an anachronistic character. But in some of the former Soviet republics, leaders cling to the luxury and eccentricities associated with German medieval princes and certain Renaissance royal families. Kalmykia, an autonomous republic in Russia, has been governed by the authoritarian leader known as the “King of Chess,” Kirsan Ilyumzhinov. Ilyumzhinov has spent a substantial part of the impoverished nation’s budget on soccer and chess; he even built an entire neighbourhood within the borders of the capital, Elista, devoted to chess. The King of Chess often sought the counsel of Vanga, a Bulgarian psychic, and has claimed that in September 1997 he was abducted by aliens. The title of his autobiography is The President’s Crown of Thorns.
Meanwhile Saparmurat Niyazov, the former president of Turkmenistan, had a sculpture of himself built on top of a seventy-five-metre tower — a shining gold opus that rotates a full 360 degrees over the course of each day so that it is always facing the sun. While Niyazov was in power, every Turkmen citizen, young or old, had to spend one day a week studying his book Ruhnama (The Book of the Soul), a religious text on which he conferred the same status as the Koran. You couldn’t even take your driving test if you didn’t know your Ruhnama. Niyazov also changed the names of certain days of the week and certain months so that they were named after members of his family. When the dictator died in 2006, he was replaced by Gurbanguly Berdymuchamedov, a man who could have been his doppelganger. Dissidents who had nurtured a sliver of hope that the new regime would bring change were shocked to see Niyazov “resurrected,” embodied by Berdymuchamedov. International news bureaus confused pictures of the deceased with those of his double.
As for Vladimir Putin — who has perhaps been most successful in camouflaging his near-total power, even if the camouflage has gradually become more and more transparent — he has styled himself as an action figure, assembling various mise en scènes of his vision of a powerful man: posing bare-chested in sable fur with tiger cubs, in camouflage gear, in a judo uniform, and in other suitably imposing outfits. Above all, he has demonstrated how all these roles can be embodied by one and the same person.
OUR MODERN-DAY PRINCE Kim Jong-il persists in his fragile existence. With the ability of the media and the Internet to instantly disseminate information and images, we have never been more aware of the physical bodies of our leaders as we are now. A leader’s metabolism can be directly connected to the global economy. When George H. W. Bush vomited in the lap of Prime Minister Kiichi Miyazawa on January 8, 1992, during a state visit to Japan, markets around the world slumped. The media and global capitalism have created a capillary system of feedback between individual bodies and various global entities, and every action could cause biomedical chain reactions: poisoning, hallucination, leakage, and finding the antidote. Perhaps this is the most concrete definition of biopolitics. When on August 14, 1945, the Japanese emperor Hirohito announced on the radio that Japan had surrendered to the Allied powers, there was a national outcry. The emperor was considered divine, a being from whom you averted your eyes. So his admission of Japan’s defeat, in which he spoke directly to his subjects for the first time during his reign, was doubly shocking. The divine had become corporeal, and the unthinkable had been acknowledged.
IN THE PAST, the distinction between a leader’s symbol
ic and physical existence was made clear through a long series of ceremonies, rituals, and incantations. German historian Ernst Kantorowicz describes these rituals in The King’s Two Bodies (1957). When a king died, a set of transitional ceremonies was set in motion in order to articulate the physical body’s departure from the political body. In a way, this was to prevent unease around succession. “The king is dead. Long live the king!” is the classic formulation, which summarizes this need for order and continuity. Important documents, regalia, and ceremonial clothing would be displayed during a procession, and these were then presented to the new king. The political, symbolic body lives on beyond death and is transferred to the new ruler.
Processions, which had once been displays of rank and power in Europe, are still enacted on a grand scale in North Korea. All the objects and monuments that have been constructed to symbolize the emperor’s every talent and duty are used to maximum effect. The oaths that were once held between the regent and his subjects are here in the form of education. The connection between the leader and the people takes shape in many ways: triumphal arches, giant mosaics, mass performances, parades, operas, and above all films — all the things that strengthen ties to the ruler and discipline his subjects.
In most parts of the world, these rituals have disappeared, which means that the leader’s political body has merged with his physical one. This is a sensitive point: acute biopolitical crises emerge in societies and economies that rise and fall in accordance with their leader’s well-being. A democratic society with parliamentary power strives to avoid such sensitive ties, but this is in vain if the media performs the paradoxical work of both iconifying and chastening the leader’s body. Certain democratically elected heads of state don’t need golden statues of themselves to adorn cities, nor countless colour portraits hung in post offices. The enormous media exposure they receive iconifies their image just as effectively. The frequent and repeated reproduction of an image in the media elevates the standing of the image’s subject, who begins to radiate a unique aura.
Kim Jong-il has his own theory. In the “Theory of the Immortal Socio-Political Body,” he uses bodily metaphors that echo Kantorowicz, contrasting the socio-political organism with the physical body. Political life is immortal and created by the socio-political body. Individuals die, but their souls will live on if they were devoted to their immortal leader in their lifetime.
LONG BEFORE KIM IL-SUNG’S death, the North Koreans had begun to solve the problem of the king’s two bodies with terminology. Kim Jong-il was referred to as “the Dear Leader,” which implied succession. However, when death severed the father’s physical body from his political body on July 8, 1994, there was a period of hesitancy. For three years, Kim Jong-il reigned as commander-in-chief. His father’s death and the succession of power didn’t seem to have been fully accepted by the people. The solution was to allow the departed Kim Il-sung to keep his post as president. Then there needn’t be a transfer of power.
“The king is not dead! Long live the king!” became North Korea’s answer to the old symbolics of succession.
* * *
OUR FIFTH DAY holds the promise of a grand tour of Pyongyang. This turns out to mean more monuments and memorials. The excursion begins at Kim Il-sung’s birthplace, Mangyongdae, which is just over ten kilometres from Pyongyang; then the metro subway system; and after that the American spy ship the USS Pueblo, which was seized in January 1968 by the North Koreans.
At each of these sites, we wonder what we’re actually looking at. The spinning wheel at Kim Il-sung’s place of birth looks too perfect. The metro, deep down in the earth, is impressive with its candelabra and mosaics. Serious and silent people are neatly positioned on the escalators. Like all the other adults in Pyongyang, they wear a small pin bearing the Great Leader’s portrait. In addition to uniforms, many men are wearing a North Korean version of the Mao suit, while others wear suit trousers and untucked shirts. Women wear blouses and skirts.
But the spinning wheel isn’t at Mangyongdae by chance. As Kim Suk-young points out in Illusive Utopia, the spinning wheel has a central place in the mythology surrounding Kim Il-sung’s mother, Gang Ban-seok. In the 1960s, she was held up as the country’s feminine ideal. In The Mother of Korea, Gang’s official biography, she is portrayed as a character taken straight from Greek mythology: “In the evening she used to spin together with her mother. She had learned to spin when she was a child, and now she could also weave. She did not just imitate others — watching them working she tried to work even better. Far from being satisfied with her results of today, she strove to achieve perfection tomorrow. She worked with such dexterity and skillfulness that all her movements seemed easy and graceful.” The symbol of the spinning wheel links generations together — femininity and maternity are united in productivity. Countless stories are told about how Kim Il-sung’s first wife adopted this skill, sewing uniforms for servicemen during the guerilla war as if her life depended on it.
Mr. Song offers no explanation as to why tourists are allowed to see only two of the seventeen metro stations. Are these the only stations worth looking at? According to one theory, the other fifteen don’t exist, and all the well-dressed passengers are just extras riding back and forth between the two stops. But looking at the flood of people spilling from the subway car, it seems unlikely.
Defectors claim that there is an unofficial metro system with additional routes. This parallel system is for the upper echelons of society and connects the more important palaces with the airport. In this way, the wealthy can quickly be evacuated if war breaks out. The same defectors have also said that the metro is connected to an underground military system that includes shelters, a larger road where weapons and troops can be transported, and a giant bunker. The square in this bunker is said to be as large as Kim Il-sung Square and can hold 100,000 people.
We have been here only a few days, but we quickly understood that in North Korea the actual machinations of society are kept out of sight, underground, behind walls. The section of the population who are the richest live in Pyongyang. Until recently, all handicapped people were sent to the countryside so as not to sully the city’s pristine image.
MR. SONG IS in high spirits as we are led around the USS Pueblo. The group behaves well. We look dutifully at the bullet holes that have been circled in pen — evidence of the machine-gun fire that the military directed at the pathetic American spies, who were already close to capitulation. The guide speaks mechanically about these heroic events.
All tourists are taken to the Pueblo. The ship is North Korea’s most significant imperial trophy and a tool for propaganda. Photographs of the stooped American soldiers disembarking from the vessel have been put on stamps, and their surrender to North Korean soldiers is often recounted in literature and at school. As an example of this, B. R. Myers highlights “Snowstorm in Pyongyang,” by one of North Korea’s leading authors, Chon In-gwang. This short story contrasts the filth and depravity of the captives with the purity of the North Korean “child race.” One of the American characters is homosexual, seen as the lowest of the low. The North Korean soldiers force the Americans to shower, but nothing can wash away their terrible odour. After a while, they refuse to cut the Americans’ long, greasy hair.
Literature in North Korea is controlled completely by the state. In this way North Korea is unique: it is the only country where no dissident literature has ever surfaced. Which doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist — it just hasn’t made it across the border.
THE EIGHTY-TWO AMERICAN captives from the USS Pueblo were ordered to be indoctrinated with the correct teachings, and they were photographed extensively. Guards rubbed hard-boiled eggs on the bags under their eyes so they would look as healthy as possible for the pictures.
During these photo shoots, the “Hawaiian Good Luck Sign” was created, a subversive phenomenon that our guide doesn’t mention. In silent protest, prisoners gave the photographer t
he finger. But it was done subtly. In the photographs, you can see Americans scratching their foreheads, holding their fingers near the corner of their mouths, or leaning forward with their hands resting on the table, their middle fingers outstretched. After a while, the North Koreans started to see a pattern. They confronted the Americans, who innocently asked if their captors were familiar with the Hawaiian Good Luck Sign. The North Koreans were satisfied with this reply. The pictures were distributed to the global media and widely published. Coverage in an October 1968 issue of Time magazine mentioned the silent protest, and the North Koreans finally understood what the finger meant. The crew of the Pueblo suffered a “Hell Week” of torture and abuse.
* * *
UP ON DECK, Mr. Song takes the time to make a few jokes. He smiles, grabs a machine gun at the bow of the ship, and points it at us behind the guide’s back. We smile back. The thing is, we’re trying to get on Mr. Song’s good side. We avoid critical questions and we obey his rules. We nod in agreement to his many statements: Of course, Mr. Song; absolutely, Mr. Song; no problem, Mr. Song. We’re hoping to elicit favours — to be able to film and photograph as freely as possible — and moreover, to be taken into his confidence about how things really work here.
All Monsters Must Die Page 9