What led you to combine a 300-year-old Korean oral tradition, Pansori, with Leo Tolstoy’s short story Master and Man?
I have been learning and practicing traditional Pansori since I was ten years old. Telling stories through Pansori is what I do best and what feels most familiar to me. I spent 30 years training under National Intangible Cultural Heritage masters to learn traditional Pansori. Since around my mid-twenties, I have been creating my own stories and sharing them with audiences. In 2019, I adapted The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway into a traditional Pansori format, with just a sorikkun (singer) and a gosu (percussionist) on stage. Following this, I spent some time searching for another work that I could express through the same traditional structure, and that is when I discovered Master and Man. From the first reading, Tolstoy’s novella stirred something in me that felt both “cold and burning.” I wanted to share this sensation with the world, and I chose to tell this story through Pansori—the language I speak most fluently as an artist.
When I decided to adapt this story, the “image” I immediately wanted to create was that of standing in the middle of a vast, empty blizzard together with the audience. Ironically, after choosing the traditional Pansori format, I began to doubt myself again, as I do at the beginning of every new creation. I wondered whether, in order to create such a striking image in the multimedia age, I might need modern technology. For a moment, I envied the techniques of other theatrical genres—complex and eye-catching staging, video projections, and graphic arts. Master and Man gave me the best advice for this difficult project: “Do it with what you do best.” I imagined how anxious and terrified the sorikkun of the Joseon period must have been the first time they had to express “ghostly wails” or the vastness of the sea—and the catharsis they must have felt when they succeeded. Fortunately, thanks to my director, Park Ji-hye—who constantly reminds me, “You must do Pansori”—I was able to return to the infinite possibilities of my art.
With only a fan, a percussionist, and an empty stage, the performance feels particularly alive. How does the apparent simplicity of Pansori create this effect?
The vast space of the stage and the theatre is my canvas. Each time, I feel the energy of the audience, I observe their expressions, and this allows me to meet the canvas of the day. I paint on this canvas meticulously so that the audience can clearly see the image I create. I must not let go of this thread of concentration, even for a second. Every image I draw on stage must be detailed and “kind.” I must speak gently, as if I were explaining something to someone close to me. In this way, the imaginary images I create in this empty space unfold differently for each individual, echoing their own personal story. It is something wonderful: hundreds of imaginations unfolding within a single space, in response to the same story told by a single storyteller. And then there is the music, of course. The relationship between the singer and the percussionist is both musical and narrative. Since our first meeting, Jun-hyung has played the drum for all of my Pansori performances, both traditional and original works. The first time I heard him play, I remember thinking, “Where had this gem been hiding?” He unfolds inventive narratives with complete freedom, while relying on traditional rhythms. Our meeting gave my Pansori creations the boldness to embrace the emptiness of the stage, as well as a true sense of freedom and depth. On stage, Jun-hyung is at once an extraordinary presence, the very first audience member listening to my story, and a partner who sometimes guides my voice and sometimes follows it. Through him, I perceive the audience’s energy and can sense whether we are on the right path.
Yeo Shindong’s scenography adds another dimension. He uses light to meet the story within my performances. He never allows his lighting to overshadow the narrative. The light he creates carefully follows the state of the characters I describe—sometimes at such a slow pace that even I can barely perceive its movement, or with a light so “perfect” that it feels as though it has always been there. At times, I even follow the light as he moves it through space. The audience, focused on the story and not necessarily paying attention to the light, eventually finds itself thinking: “Oh? When did it become so dark?” He fully trusts every word I speak on stage, and I fully trust the colour, space, and pace of the light he creates.
What place does Pansori hold for you today, and what place do you think this art form occupies in 2026?
For me, Pansori is an endless land that I wish to traverse for the rest of my life. I do not know exactly what form or place Pansori occupies today; I lack the objective distance needed to answer that question, because I am someone who deeply loves Pansori and is constantly rediscovering each of its facets. In Korean society, Pansori is still an “unfamiliar traditional art” that requires constant rediscovery. Even though my work and the genre itself have attracted the attention of art lovers over the past decade, Pansori remains a largely unknown territory on the vast map of Korean performing arts. In a way, I am like a farmer cultivating this land – exploring tradition, adapting contemporary stories into Pansori, welcoming those who come to meet me and my art with open arms, and offering them the fruits of my labour.
Alone on stage, you embody Vasili, Nikita, the horse, and even the storm. How did you prepare for such a performance?
Since its creation, traditional Pansori has been a genre in which dozens of characters and their environment can be performed by a single singer. I have now spent 36 years practicing and refining this art. There is no secret I can explain; it is a skill that has become part of my DNA, rooted in my body after a lifetime of practice. And honestly… it is very fun. Those moments when characters, animals, objects, and nature inhabit my body are exhilarating.
To welcome these entities, I spend time observing them and trying to approach them during the creative process. For example, I took horse-riding lessons for three months to welcome Zetty, the horse, into my imagination, and I travelled across the snowy fields of Mongolia to feel the blizzard. After experiencing something, understanding it, and embracing it with love, these experiences are absorbed into my characters. Once I begin presenting them to the audience—and as performances accumulate – I become able to perform freely, transforming my face and body to embody them all. It is a real pleasure.
This is also why I enjoy addressing the audience during the performance. I believe there is a powerful synergy between one of the values taught by traditional Pansori – “to exist as a sorikkun on stage” – and my own personality and experience. It is the precious result of the experience gained through countless performances and encounters with new audiences.
Interview conducted by Julie Ruocco in February 26