Hwang Duck-sung, Traditional Shoemaker
Shoes plant us firmly on the ground, so they are an apt metaphor for connecting with the land and culture in which our lives are rooted. In Korea, a shoemaking craft now known as hwahye has evolved through the centuries, a tradition that now rests securely in the skilled hands of Hwang Duck-sung. The sixth in a line of traditional shoemakers to carry on the family enterprise, Hwang learned from the best: his father, recognized nationally as intangible cultural heritage for transforming organic materials like silk, leather, ramie, cotton and rice paste into that iconic Korean shape with an upturned toe to grace the foot. I had the honor of speaking with Hwang about what it was like to apprentice under his father, about the aesthetics and functionality of Korean traditional shoes, and so much more. Here is the full interview which I myself translated and paraphrased as needed. As always, my own clarifications or additions are provided in brackets like these: []
ABOUT HWANG DUCK-SUNG
You are the sixth generation in your family to make Korean traditional shoes. Did you yourself want to continue this legacy from a young age? Were you exposed to hopes or expectations that you carry on the mantle from those in your environment?
I was well aware of the struggles faced by my father – and teacher – who as a young man in his prime toiled away at his craft in solitude, secluded from the world in his small workshop. I also knew that this line of work wouldn’t bring in a lot of money. So while my father wanted me to continue the family tradition of shoemaking, he never pressured me or even let on that this was what he hoped. Nevertheless, as I grew older, I began to understand the value and importance of his work, and I naturally felt the need to preserve our family enterprise.
Who in your family primarily taught you the craft of traditional shoemaking? Can you explain what you learned at different stages? Also, could you tell me the advantages and disadvantages of learning directly from family.
Most of the traditional shoemaking craft I learned from my father. My mother taught me auxiliary tasks, like preparing certain materials or sewing leather for the soles. Even the main part of my training started with isolated processes, like cutting out leather pieces for soles or specific patterns – like the Taesa [hooked stripe] – that would be sewed onto the toeboxes of shoes. Learning from family meant that issues that non-family members might have brushed off or avoided openly complaining about led in our case to conflicts and hurt feelings. The advantage, on the other hand, was that I could ask any question, no matter how seemingly trivial, and air my thoughts freely because I was working with my father.
Was there a specific moment or reason that solidified your decision to become a traditional shoemaker? Did you have a moment of clarity or confidence about this path? Were there any fears or worries when making this decision?
Seeing my father recreate the lost techniques for making Jeokseok [ceremonial red shoes with a multi-layered sole, reserved for the king during Joseon times] and Cheongseok [ceremonial blue shoes with a multi-layered sole, reserved for the queen during Joseon times] filled me with immense pride, reinforced the importance of this work, and firmed up my resolve to do this work. With my father always by my side, I never felt any fear or worry about learning this craft.
Have you ever worked outside the field of traditional shoemaking? If so, how have those experiences influenced your current work?
My past experience as an office worker equips me to manage aspects of the enterprise that are not quite the actual craft of shoemaking, but that enable and complement it. This includes document-based administrative tasks and exhibition design. In fact, when it comes to design, I often wish I were more proficient.
ABOUT HWAHYE
I understand that Korean traditional shoes broadly consist of hwa, which have high tops, and hye, which are low-topped. Do you make both types? If you specialize in one, why?
Our main clientele are women who request shoes for significant milestones like weddings and seventieth birthdays, and for their children or grandchildren to wear on their first birthdays. These are all occasions that are better served by hye. This is why there is greater interest in and more sales for hye. [Although both hye and hwa were the preserve of the upper classes for a long time, hwa were worn by male civil servants and military officers while serving in their governmental capacities within the royal court. Hwa also has its origins in hunting shoes whose high tops were worn over the hems of pants to strap them in and prevent them from getting in the way of vigorous physical activity. For all these reasons, traditional shoes for children or women to wear in non-governmental, non-active contexts would be the domain of hye.]
Regarding the materials used for the shoe uppers, you put together layers of moshi (ramie), sambe (hemp), and gwangmok (cotton), which you then overlay with bidan (silk). What are the advantages of these materials? Are there other materials you use? Traditionally, the royal family and aristocracy also used leather for the uppers. Do you use leather as well?
Traditional materials like moshi (ramie), sambe (hemp), and gwangmok (cotton) are breathable and do not fray easily. They help preserve the integrity of silk when it is applied, keeping it from unraveling. Also, these fabrics do not disintegrate even when permeated by a certain level of humidity. When dry, they retain their shape and firmness. As for silk, it lends itself very well to embroidery, which can complement the silk background with a vivid ornateness. While we also use leather, most of our commissions are for silk shoes.
I understand that leather has widely been used for the soles of traditional shoes. What type of leather do you use, and historically, when did leather start being used for soles?
For the soles, we currently use thick cowhide. Depending on the shoe type, we might use leather over 7 mm thick, which can be hard to source. Historically, it’s difficult to ascertain if leather was used for soles, but traces of leather found in Bronze Age graves in China suggest it might have been used similarly in ancient Korean shoes. Specifically, those remnants of leather are known to have been found, along with bronze ornaments, near where the feet of the bodies would have been.
May I ask about the process of crafting hye? Here is what I know: the moshi, sambe, and gwangmok are layered and put together to form baekbi, the base fabric for what will become the shoe upper. The baekbi is dried and silk is applied and pressed to it. Patterns are cut out and attached to the shoe upper (particularly the toebox area), which is then reinforced with a fabric inner lining. All of this is sewn together and then placed in a humid jar. Then the shoe upper and the sole are sewn together. I know this is schematic. Could you please provide corrections or additional details?
Here is what I would add: once the baekbi is prepared and dried, it is cut into the shape of a shoe upper. No moisture should be present in the baekbi while being cut, or else the shape will come out distorted. When the silk is applied to the shoe upper, it is glued on with rice paste and then pressed. Decorations are indeed cut and applied to the shoe upper, but the inner lining consists not just of fabric but also of leather. Once the shoe upper comes out of the humid jar, it should be moist and soft, and it is at this point that a leather piping is applied all along what will become the opening of the shoe for extra durability. After the shoe upper and the sole are sewn together, a last [a foot shaped wooden mold] is hammered into the shoe to set the shape. Finally, the shoe is dried by warming it by a brazier.
Regarding patterns, I understand that Taesa [hooked stripe pattern used mostly for male shoes], the Dangcho [stylized vine pattern, seen often as the origin of, and female counterpart to the Taesa, with similar appearance too], and the Un [cloud pattern] are common for hye. Is there any special symbolism behind these patterns and how have they become so widely loved? Do you have a favorite pattern?
The Dangcho and the Un are beloved fixtures of the Korean traditional repertoire and are found on artifacts throughout Korean history and across craft and object categories. The Taesa pattern is more specific to shoes. It’s unclear whether the shoes were named after the pattern or vice versa. I personally interpret "Taesa" [“Tae” is the character for great, and “Sa” means scholar] to connote the hope and wish that the wearer become a distinguished person.
Compared to Western shoes, which have become more mainstream in contemporary society, what are the unique functional and aesthetic qualities of Korean traditional shoes?
There are many types of Western shoes and I don’t know enough about all of them to be able to give you a direct comparison. I can only speak to the characteristics of Korean shoes. Korean traditional shoes are made with eco-friendly rice paste, avoiding adhesives that might be toxic or harmful to the human body. Also, although they are quite firm initially, they become very soft with time, making them comfortable and easy to wear. Furthermore, unlike Western shoes which are made by stretching the upper (usually leather) over and against the last (foot-shaped mold), Korean traditional shoemaking makes use of the last at a later part of the process, once the main structure of the shoe has already been constructed. A last is inserted into a completed shoe – with the shoe upper and sole already sewn together – to give shape and size. This means flexible sizing is possible later on in the process, with a larger or smaller last being able to lend the shoe a size that is better fitted to the wearer. Aesthetically, the upturned toe and graceful curves are a characteristic feature that make for a beautiful, light gait.
What are the particular challenges of making traditional shoes compared to other crafts? What brings you the greatest satisfaction in this work?
One of the challenges of traditional shoemaking is that once you start, you must finish without interruption. In some other crafts, you can take pause for a few hours or even days and pick up right where you left off. With traditional shoemaking, because the rice paste hardens so quickly, it’s impossible to take such breaks. Of course, you can store the work in a humid jar to delay the hardening, but this also weakens the fabric, so there’s a limit to how long you can rely on humidity. For these reasons, making traditional shoes entails continuous work that must be completed within three to four days. Despite these difficulties, I find great fulfillment in knowing I am keeping alive the Korean shoemaking craft, which I would say only my father carries on in the traditional way.
TRADITION, MODERNITY, AND THE AESTHETICS OF KOREA
What were the main types of shoes crafted by previous generations of shoemakers in your family, and what do you primarily make? Are there differences? If so, are these differences due to the changing times?
The items I make are largely similar to those of older generations of artisans, though I also experiment with contemporary designs and materials. Yet, knowing the significance and value of traditional methods, I make sure they are not compromised by maintaining a clear distinction between when I am using traditional techniques and when I am using contemporary ones.
Despite the decline in the use of Korean traditional shoes, why do you believe it is important to preserve this tradition?
I do think that traditional Korean shoes can be less practical for modern, active lifestyles, especially because the most iconic types [like the hye] were meant to be worn in fair weather on dry ground. [Among others, namakshin, or wooden shoes, were worn in rainy weather and on wet ground.] Contemporary shoes have an edge in the sense that most of them are designed to be worn in any type of weather. But shoes being a fundamental aspect of clothing, and clothing in turn being one of the three essential elements of civilization, I believe we have a duty to preserve the very roots and origins of what we put on our feet. As long as we wear shoes, we must preserve Korean traditional footwear.
There has been much reflection on "Korean aesthetics," such as the beauty of sadness, rustic charm, and the beauty of lines. Do you believe there is a unique "Korean aesthetic"? How would you define it? How is it reflected in traditional shoemaking, and how do you incorporate it into modern designs?
I personally believe it’s difficult to pinpoint a beauty that is unique only to Korea due the long history of mutual exchange and influence between Korea, China, and Japan. I will say that Korean traditional shoes possess a balanced neatness that steers clear of the too much and the too bare. I often think of the Koshil [Ko – nose; shil – thread], used simultaneously to hide stitches and for decorative purposes, as emblematic of the natural elegance of Korean aesthetics.
ON THE SPIRIT OF CRAFTSMANSHIP
What does the spirit of craftsmanship mean to you?
I believe true craftsmanship means creating work you yourself are not ashamed of. While it’s hard for the general public know methods and materials used in a shoe, or even discern the exact quality of the make, the craftsperson knows. True craftsmanship being able to present your work to others with the full confidence that it’s made to the highest standards.
In an era where everything is moving from offline to online, with classes and meetings on Zoom, shopping on Coupang, and even socializing in the metaverse, what do you believe is the role and value of meticulously crafted physical products?
Though it may seem paradoxical, I believe the role and value of high-quality traditional shoes will only grow with increasing digitalization. Virtual representations can't convey the full beauty and significance of cultural artifacts and traditional art forms. I believe the emotional resonance and deep affective impact of experiencing a traditional art form in person cannot be replaced by anything.
Thank you for carrying on the craft of Korean shoemaking.
Thank you for taking an interest in this tradition.
