NORTH KOREA | DPRK – marcsimonfrei

NORTH KOREA | DPRK | 조선민주주의인민공화국

거리 미술

“Choreographies of Silence – North Korea Between Monument and Memory”

Introduction

A journey to North Korea demands more than just the willingness to enter a new country – it demands a readiness to enter a system of signs. Rules, rituals, and gestures become part of the landscape, shaping not only what may be seen but also how one is meant to see. To lay down flowers, to bow: these are not gestures toward the individual, but toward a narrative larger than the self. One submits not merely to authority, but to a choreography of meaning. Even appearance is regulated. A pair of jeans can become a symbol of ideology, and the act of photography itself is transformed into ritual. Military personnel, metro entrances, monuments: each subject is encircled by invisible boundaries. A statue must be captured whole, never cropped, as if the image itself were bound by the same reverence as the original stone. In this environment, every photograph becomes more than a record. It becomes a negotiation — between curiosity and respect, between the permitted and the forbidden, between one’s own gaze and the gaze that is imposed. And yet, within these limits lies an unexpected freedom. The frame, once constrained, becomes sharper. The camera does not simply document, it discloses: atmospheres, pauses, fleeting human gestures that slip through the cracks of ideology. It is in these interstices — the smile that escapes, the silence that lingers, the winter light on a street — that another truth begins to appear.

For this journey, I carried two companions: the Leica M-P (Typ 240) and the Leica M9 Monochrom (M9M). They offered two ways of seeing that were less technical choices than philosophical ones. The M-P 240 inscribed the world in color: the warmth of facades, the red of banners, the pale glow of dusk. The M9 Monochrom, by contrast, stripped the world to essence: light and shadow, form and void, the silence between tones. With them, photography became reflection. Each shutter release was not a fleeting gesture, but a pause, a decision — a way of acknowledging that to see is already to interpret. In a country that seeks to direct one’s gaze, these two cameras allowed me to discover my own: one through the fullness of color, the other through the austerity of black and white. Together, they revealed not only what stood before me, but what lies between: between image and memory, between perception and truth.

Arrival

December 27, 2018: Flight with Air Koryo JS252 from Beijing to Pyongyang. Even before leaving the ground, the journey carried its own symbolism. Air Koryo is often described as the world’s worst airline — a relic of another era, with aging Tupolev and Ilyushin aircraft, sparse service, and a reputation that seems more political than commercial. It is the only airline banned for safety reasons from flying to the European Union, and outside of North Korea it is permitted to land only in a handful of cities: Beijing, Shenyang, Vladivostok, and occasionally Moscow. Boarding such a flight feels less like joining a global network of air travel than stepping into an isolated corridor connecting one closed world to a select few entry points. The flight itself was short, yet heavy with anticipation. The cabin carried the atmosphere of both routine and strangeness: propaganda magazines in the seat pockets, uniformed attendants with scripted smiles, the hum of an aircraft that seemed to belong to another century. As the plane descended into Pyongyang, the sense of separation from the outside world grew palpable.

From the very first step onto North Korean soil, there was a tension in the air that could not be ignored. When we landed, several guides were already waiting at the airport to meet arriving tourists. The large arrivals hall slowly emptied, voices faded, suitcases rolled away — and suddenly, we were standing there alone. No one had come for us. An unsettling feeling set in: we knew it was not permitted to leave the airport building unaccompanied. Smartphones were useless — no network, no connection to the outside world. For a moment it felt as though the high walls of the hall were closing in on us. Just in time, we caught up with the last remaining group and asked their guide for help. The explanation was as simple as it was revealing: it had been assumed we would arrive by train, and our guides had been waiting for us at the station. A misunderstanding that, in this country, took on very different dimensions than it would anywhere else. Eventually, we were brought to our hotel, where we finally met our two female guides and our driver — people who would accompany us in the days to follow: as translators, as overseers, as a constant presence.

Kaesong and the Demilitarized Zone

On December 28, the journey led us to Kaesong, in the south of the country. The city lies only a few kilometers from the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), that narrow strip of land separating North and South Korea since the armistice of 1953. Nowhere else is the division of the Korean peninsula felt so tangibly — invisible, yet omnipresent. Before we reached the DMZ, a North Korean soldier boarded our small eight-seater bus. Almost immediately, he began asking questions. One of them was as direct as it was revealing: “Who, in your opinion, won the Korean War?” I answered quickly: “In war, there are no winners.” For the first time, I caught a faint smile on his face — a fleeting human moment breaking through the rigidity of his role. Later, as we stood at the border itself, something unexpected happened. My smartphone, silent for days, suddenly vibrated. For a brief instant, I had reception — a fragile signal that reconnected me to the outside world, if only for a short while. It was a reminder of how thin the line can be between isolation and connection, distance and nearness.

The visit to Panmunjom, the so-called Truce Village, was one of the most striking moments of the journey. Here in 1953, the armistice agreement that ended the Korean War was signed — though a peace treaty has yet to follow. The blue barracks, standing directly on the border line, appear almost inconspicuous, yet they have been the stage of decades of tension. In the silence of the place one could feel both the hardness of the past and the fragility of the present.

At one point along the road we stopped, and through the car window it was suddenly possible to buy traditional Korean rice beer — Makgeolli. I had never encountered the drink before. Two PET bottles, still bearing Coca-Cola labels, were filled with a milky, opaque liquid and handed over. Out of curiosity, I tried it immediately. The taste was unexpected: slightly sweet, with a faint, almost gasoline-like note — and yet, to my surprise, not unpleasant at all. A roadside exchange, improvised and unpolished, but somehow genuine. Kaesong itself is a city rich in history. As the former capital of the Koryo Dynasty (918–1392), from which the name “Korea” derives, it was once a center of culture, science, and trade. The Koryo Museum, housed in a former Confucian academy, tells of this golden age: ancient prints, ceramics, and relics reveal a country that, long before its division, was shaped by exchange and cultural diversity.

But the journey was not only marked by monuments and history. At a traditional royal lunch, dishes were served according to old recipes — many small bowls, carefully arranged, each with its own symbolism. Afterwards, we visited the Children’s Palace, where students performed music, dance, and demonstrated their talents. These encounters offered a rare glimpse into daily life beyond the official political stage — a piece of normality amidst control. In the late afternoon, the view from Janam Hill stretched over the old city of Kaesong: rooftops of gray tiles, narrow alleys, and, in the background, barren winter hills. It was an image that conveyed both closeness and distance. Closeness, because the city felt alive and inhabited; distance, because it all lay under an atmosphere that was hard to grasp — quiet, reduced, frozen in winter light.

Pyongyang Between Monument and Everyday Life

On December 29, 2018, the return to Pyongyang passed through the provincial town of Sariwon. Here, another side of the country became visible, far from the monumental architecture of the capital. The streets were narrower, the buildings lower, the rhythm of life slower. Ox carts and bicycles mingled with a few cars, children walked in groups along dusty paths, and vendors displayed modest goods at makeshift stalls. At a cooperative farm on the outskirts, the reality of rural life unfolded in quiet clarity: fields stretching into the winter distance, barns with simple tools, houses built for function rather than display. Life here seemed stripped to essentials, unadorned, and yet carefully arranged for the eyes of visitors — a mixture of authenticity and performance. The farmers’ gestures carried a sincerity that contrasted with the official narrative, but the presence of guides and supervisors reminded us that even this glimpse was part of a staged encounter. In the town center, signs of daily resilience became apparent: faded murals on concrete walls, schoolchildren in uniform reciting lessons outside, elderly men playing board games in the cold winter sun. It was a world both ordinary and extraordinary — ordinary in its human gestures, extraordinary in its distance from the glossy façade of Pyongyang. Passing through Sariwon felt like stepping into a parallel Korea: one less about symbols and more about subsistence, less monumental, more fragile. And yet, even here, one sensed the invisible lines of control — an ever-present reminder that reality, too, could be curated.

At a cooperative farm, it became clear how deeply life in rural North Korea is still shaped by agriculture. Fields, barns, and modest houses conveyed simplicity — the rhythm of planting, tending, and harvesting seemed to echo an older, slower time. And yet, it was equally clear that much of what we saw had been arranged for our eyes: the clean lines of the furrows, the polished tools on display, the carefully chosen angles from which we were guided to look. Authenticity and performance coexisted in a fragile balance, raising the question of where daily life ended and theater began. In the folk village that followed, this interplay was even more pronounced. Tradition and display merged seamlessly: tools, clothing, and small exhibitions evoked the image of “original Korea,” yet the entire site felt consciously curated for outsiders. Wooden carts stood as if freshly placed, garments were folded just so, fires appeared prepared but unlit. The village spoke less of continuity than of preservation — not a living past, but a past frozen, shaped, and framed for visitors. There was a paradox in walking through these spaces. On one level, they offered a glimpse into the foundations of Korean culture; on another, they underscored how memory itself can be staged, how history can be turned into a tableau. In their silence and arrangement, the farm and village became metaphors for the country at large: real lives lived within an ever-present choreography.

Back in Pyongyang, the dramaturgy shifted. The Grand People’s Study House, the monumental library on Kim Il Sung Square, presented itself not only as a place of learning, but also as a stage of state representation. Its vast halls, marble staircases, and carefully orchestrated silence gave the impression of knowledge monumentalized into architecture. Upon entering, books were laid out that seemed tailored specifically to us — among them a volume on Heide and a richly illustrated work on Swiss postal vehicles. The gesture was subtle but unmistakable: a performance of cultural abundance, designed to suggest that the library’s shelves extended far beyond national ideology and into the wider world. At the same time, it was an act of hospitality with a strategic undertone — as if to say, “we know who you are, and we can mirror back your own culture.” What might otherwise have been a neutral encounter with books became a staged reflection of identity, a curated familiarity that bridged distance while underscoring control. In that moment, the library revealed its double role: not only as a repository of knowledge, but as a theater of presence, where even the act of turning a page was framed within the choreography of representation.

At the June-9 Middle School, children and teenagers performed songs and music. The shows were carefully rehearsed, yet now and then genuine joy lit up their faces — a fleeting moment when the official façade seemed to recede. And yet, there was something undeniably strange about the setting: a vast auditorium, echoing with sound, in which only four foreign visitors sat as audience. The disproportion between effort and presence made the performance feel both touching and unsettling — as if the music were being played into emptiness. It became a metaphor for the country itself: a stage carefully prepared, voices rising with conviction, yet received only by a handful of outsiders, suspended between sincerity and display.

The day ended with a walk along Ryomyong Street, one of Pyongyang’s modern showpiece neighborhoods. Colorful high-rises lit up the night sky, creating a scene that felt almost futuristic. It was a sharp contrast to rural Sariwon that morning — for a moment the street could have belonged to any other Asian metropolis. And yet, beneath the glowing facades lingered an absence: no bustling cafés, no crowded sidewalks, only the impression of life rather than its presence. The distance to the everyday realities of the people remained tangible, as if the architecture itself spoke more of aspiration than of habitation. In that moment, Ryomyong Street seemed less a lived space than a carefully illuminated vision — a projection of a possible future, suspended above a present still out of reach.

December 30: A Day of Monuments

December 30 was devoted entirely to monuments.

The day began with the Kumsusan Palace of the Sun, the mausoleum of the country’s leadership. The atmosphere was one of reverent silence, heightened by strict etiquette and the rigidly controlled process — less museum, more shrine. From the very first step inside, strict rules governed every movement. Festive clothing was mandatory; casual attire would not have been tolerated. In the great hall, the embalmed bodies lay in glass coffins, dimly lit, and visitors were required to bow on three sides of each sarcophagus — at the head and on both flanks. Only one gesture was strictly forbidden: to bow from behind, a position considered disrespectful. Beyond the halls of mourning, further chambers displayed offerings once presented by foreign dignitaries: elaborate gifts from past state leaders, staged as proof of international recognition. In another section stood the private railway carriage once used by the leaders — preserved as a relic, an object of reverence rather than simple transport. Everything about the visit was choreographed to elevate the leaders beyond mortality, transforming their lives into symbols, their possessions into relics, their very absence into a permanent presence.

Next came the Mansudae Monument, with its towering bronze statues of the leaders, flanked by monumental reliefs depicting scenes from national history. The sheer scale of the site made the individual feel small and underlined the power of symbolism in the state. Approaching the statues required strict observance of protocol: visitors were expected to bow deeply, photographs had to include the figures in their entirety — never cropped — and any hint of casualness would have been unthinkable. The reliefs themselves, stretching across vast stone walls, narrated the nation’s past in heroic gestures: workers, farmers, soldiers, all marching in unison toward an idealized future. In their grandeur, they left little room for nuance, but immense space for awe. Standing there, one could sense how architecture and sculpture merged into a single language of power — one that did not merely tell history, but defined it. The monument was less a place of memory than a stage on which ideology became stone, and the visitor’s role was not that of an observer, but of a participant in a carefully choreographed act of reverence.

One of the most impressive experiences was the ride on the Pyongyang Metro. To reach the platforms, one had to descend through shafts of remarkable depth — so deep that the journey itself became an experience. The escalators stretched endlessly downward, steep and silent, their incline carrying passengers slowly into the earth. It felt less like entering a subway and more like being lowered into a vast underground cathedral, where time and space seemed suspended. At the bottom, lavishly decorated stations revealed themselves: chandeliers glittering above, mosaics depicting heroic scenes along the walls, marble columns framing the space with solemn grandeur. The scale and ornamentation seemed almost surreal for a place of daily transit, as if the ordinary act of boarding a train had been transformed into a ritual of statehood. And perhaps that was its deeper meaning: the descent into the Metro was more than a physical movement underground. It became a metaphor for the country itself — a plunge beneath the surface, into layers of carefully constructed imagery, where reality and representation were indistinguishable. The deeper one went, the more the everyday dissolved into spectacle, until function and ideology became inseparable.

The day continued with the Arch of Triumph, the Tower of the Juche Idea, and the Monument to the Party Foundation — each an architectural manifesto translating ideology into stone. The Arch of Triumph, modeled after its Parisian namesake yet surpassing it in size, celebrated not individuals but the collective struggle and claimed victories of the nation. The Tower of the Juche Idea, crowned with a torch of eternal flame, rose as a vertical axis of ideology, proclaiming self-reliance as both doctrine and destiny. And the Monument to the Party Foundation, with its massive hammer, sickle, and brush carved in granite, stood as a frozen gesture of unity between workers, peasants, and intellectuals. Together, these structures were more than symbols; they were stages of permanence. Their colossal forms dwarfed the individual, making visitors feel like temporary figures in a narrative cast in stone. Each monument spoke in a language of exaggeration, where scale itself became proof of truth. Walking among them, one sensed not the fragility of history, but its deliberate rewriting — materialized in concrete, marble, and bronze.

The evening, however, brought contrast: a round of bowling, almost banal and strangely western, followed by a walk through the Future Scientists’ Street, where modern high-rises glowed in neon lights. The bowling alley itself felt like a fragment imported from another world — the sound of pins falling, the bright plastic surfaces, the casual laughter of attendants. It was an everyday leisure activity, yet in this context it seemed oddly out of place, a momentary glimpse of normality within a tightly controlled environment. Stepping outside into the night, the scene shifted abruptly. Future Scientists’ Street unfolded in towering silhouettes, glass façades illuminated by pulsating neon. In the winter cold, the colorful lights created a futuristic atmosphere — a vision of modernity carefully staged for display. The street felt both real and unreal: high-rises without visible life inside, an architectural promise of progress that remained curiously hollow.

It was a fitting conclusion to the day: a sequence that exposed North Korea’s tensions — between show and substance, leisure and control, everyday gestures and monumental projections. A country suspended between the present it lives and the future it seeks to perform.

December 31

The last day of the year began with a visit to the War Museum, whose grand halls narrated victory in the Korean War in a dramatic, politically charged fashion. The centerpiece was the USS Pueblo, a US spy ship captured in 1968, still exhibited as a trophy of defiance. The air was heavy with pathos: every hall was designed less to inform than to impress, less to present history than to stage it. Dioramas, murals, and elaborate displays conveyed not the complexity of conflict, but a single, unwavering narrative. Here, history was not an archive of facts, but a theater of memory, carefully orchestrated into a story of eternal struggle and triumph — a performance in stone, glass, and sound.

From there, we moved to Mangyongdae, the birthplace of Kim Il Sung. The small farmhouse, modest and rural, had been meticulously restored and framed by manicured gardens. Yet it no longer functioned as a house. It had become a shrine, a symbolic cradle of destiny. What might once have been a simple dwelling was transformed into myth, a place where the origins of a leader were elevated into the founding legend of a nation. The tension between simplicity and symbolism could be felt in every detail: a modest wooden bed, a clay vessel, a garden path — all invested with the weight of ideology. Even the silence of the place seemed choreographed, as if the wind itself had been enlisted to whisper reverence. Mangyongdae embodied the paradox of North Korea’s narrative: the ordinary recast as extraordinary, the personal dissolved into the collective, the human transfigured into symbol. What should have evoked intimacy instead demanded reverence, turning private beginnings into public myth. Standing there, one realized that nothing in this landscape was innocent — every object, every tree, every line of the garden was drawn into the service of memory, not as it was, but as the state wished it to be remembered.

In the afternoon, the tone shifted again with a visit to the Kwangbok Department Store, one of the few spaces where visitors were allowed to use local currency. For the first time, a sliver of everyday life seemed to open: stalls of food, families shopping, small exchanges of money and goods. There were no grand narratives here, no marble or bronze, just the ordinary pulse of daily needs. It was modest, almost mundane — and precisely in that ordinariness, deeply revealing. For a fleeting moment, the façade of staging seemed thinner, and the gap between the visitor and the people of the city narrowed ever so slightly.

In the early evening came a short visit to the Pyongyang Opera House. Its architecture and atmosphere spoke volumes about the country’s self-image: art and representation were inseparably bound. Inside, the mood was one of gravity and pride. Culture here was not autonomous expression but an extension of ideology, a carefully shaped voice of the state. Interestingly, neither photography nor filming was permitted. The experience could not be reproduced or carried away, it could only be absorbed in the moment — as if what unfolded there was intended to live solely in memory, witnessed but never appropriated.

The contrast could hardly have been greater with what followed: a New Year’s Eve dinner aboard a ship on the Taedong River. As the vessel glided through the winter darkness, traditional dishes were served, and conversation seemed lighter, more relaxed. The river reflected the city’s lights, fractured and shimmering on the black water. For a short while, the atmosphere carried a sense of release — festivity, fleeting and fragile, contained yet undeniably present.

The evening culminated on Kim Il Sung Square, the symbolic heart of the capital. Thousands gathered to welcome the New Year. Music filled the air, fireworks exploded above, and the monumental buildings surrounding the square formed both stage and spectator. The geometry of power — vast façades, towering monuments, disciplined choreography — embraced a moment of celebration that was both orchestrated and spontaneous. Flags waved, lights flickered, the thunder of rockets shook the night sky. In that liminal moment, the transition from 2018 to 2019 felt like more than the turning of a calendar page. It became a metaphor for the country itself: suspended between staging and sincerity, between control and genuine emotion. The crowd moved as one, yet within it, individual faces lit up with unguarded joy. Perhaps nowhere else is it so evident that celebration can be both freedom and choreography, both human and ideological at the same time. It was a night where artifice and authenticity no longer opposed each other but intertwined — a paradox that seemed to define North Korea itself.

Departure

On the morning of January 1, 2019, I bid farewell to Pyongyang. The train station, monumental yet hushed, marked the beginning of the final stage of the journey. At 10:25 a.m., the train pulled out slowly — leaving the capital behind, passing snowy landscapes, villages, and fields frozen in the winter cold. People at the tracksides, women with bundles, children in uniforms — fleeting images that passed in the rhythm of the wheels. In my imagination, the journey had carried a trace of romantic expectation, as if it might unfold in the spirit of the Orient Express: polished wood, soft lamplight, the rhythm of rails as accompaniment to reflection. Of course, this was not the case. The compartments were bare, the heating uneven, the air heavy with the smell of coal and metal. It was a train stripped of comfort, utilitarian and austere — a means of transport rather than an experience. The aura of nostalgia, if it belonged anywhere, belonged not to the passengers, but to the memory of the leaders themselves, whose preserved railway carriage we had seen displayed at the mausoleum. In North Korea, even the romance of rail travel had been claimed by power and turned into a relic of reverence.

Hours later, we reached Sinuiju, the border town on the Yalu River. Here began the transition out of a closed world into openness. The Sino-Korean Friendship Bridge, heavy and rusted, stretched across the river — North Korea on one side, China on the other. The train slowed to a crawl, as if the act of crossing demanded a kind of ritual. On one bank, silence and watchtowers; on the other, noise and movement. It felt less like traversing a river than passing through a threshold, a symbolic passage from rigidity into flux, from isolation into contact. The shift was immediate. In Dandong, the atmosphere changed abruptly and almost violently. Billboards glared in bright colors, merchants shouted from the sidewalks, car horns pierced the air. Neon signs flickered above crowded streets, their commercial excess overwhelming after the austerity of Pyongyang. Where the North had offered carefully choreographed restraint, the Chinese border town radiated chaos, vitality, and consumerism. It was as if one had stepped not only into another country, but into another century. Our onward tickets were handed to us with casual efficiency — a small gesture that itself felt symbolic, a reminder that movement here was simple, unguarded, unremarkable. Soon we were on the train to Shenyang, the rhythm of the wheels carrying us further away from the stage we had just left behind, into a world less choreographed, but no less dramatic in its contrast.

Leica M-P 240 — Chronicler of Color

The Leica M-P 240 accompanied me as the storyteller of color and atmosphere.

Colors & Nuances
It captured the mood in all its shades — the warm gold of architecture, the deep blue of the sky, the glow of fabrics and flags. Its dynamic range preserved delicate gradations even in extreme lighting conditions, from glaring sunlight to the diffuse shimmer of dusk.

Robustness & Discretion
Its reliability and almost silent shutter made it the ideal tool in situations where drawing attention was undesirable.

Tactility & Focus
The manual process slowed everything down. Each release was a decision — no fleeting snapshots, but carefully composed images carrying depth.

The Leica M-P 240 was not just a camera, but a companion: it forced me to look closely, to pause, to notice subtleties.

Leica M9 Monochrom — Language of Reduction

The Leica M9 Monochrom led me into a unique visual language — reduced, clear, timeless.

Light & Shadow
Whether in streets at night, in museums, temples, or in front of monuments — it translated scenes into pure tonal values. Without color, structure, contrast, and form took on new weight.

Timelessness
Historic places, sculptures, or faces gained an archaic gravity, as if removed from time.

Intensity
Where the M-P 240 painted atmospheres, the M9 Monochrom distilled the essence: the tension between light and dark, between people and space.

Two Layers — One Shared Image

Thus, two parallel levels emerged:

the colorful narrative of the Leica M-P 240,
and the timeless language of the Leica M9 Monochrom.

Together they opened up a visual field that not only documented, but interpreted — a dual perspective on places, people, and atmospheres.

A Kaleidoscope of Contrasts

This photographic documentation is a kaleidoscope of contrasts: between monument and human, between staging and everyday life, between silence and pathos. North Korea remains full of questions. My images are not an attempt to provide answers, but to open spaces — for reflection, for wonder, for doubt.

At the turn of 2018/19, what emerged was a visual dialogue: a journey that reveals more than monuments, yet never claims to explain the whole.