Mostly Clear, But Cloudy in Places: Navigating Monsoons and Performances

The current monsoon season has defied expectations, bringing sunshine before rain and making umbrellas seem redundant. Unlike past monsoons that drenched the land for days, today's downpours feel imported, with the sky opening up only to unleash intense heat moments later. Seoul, though still temperate, experiences weather patterns that mimic tropical extremes, sudden deluges followed by scorching heat.

Sitting at the Seoul Nori Madang, a circular stage surrounded by tiered seating at Seokchon Lake, the author, a former director of the venue, reminisces about a different era. The traditional Korean performance space, once an open-air theater, is now covered by a large canopy. In its heyday, the Nori Madang hosted legendary performers of traditional Korean arts, dancers, shamans, and mask performers, drawing enthusiastic crowds. The author recalls his role not as a glamorous director, but as a hands-on 'groundskeeper,' sweeping the stage, preparing offerings, and even getting his shirt stained with pig's blood during rituals.

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The rain hesitated, and the sun became the master of the monsoon first. The monsoons of the past drenched the world for days. Today's rain seems to be directly imported from the tropics.

He vividly remembers the performers and the audience. Audiences were not passive observers; they were participants. When a performer gestured, the audience responded. Some audience members, knowledgeable in traditional dance forms, would even join in, performing 'boritdae-chum' (barley stalk dance) or adhering to the ancient rules of 'namjwa-yeou' (men lead with the left foot, women with the right). The author fondly recalls individuals like 'Baekgudu' (White Shoes), an elderly man in a white suit and shoes, and 'Kkotbunhong' (Flower Pink), a woman in a pink floral skirt, who embodied the spirit of 'han-chum' (Korean dance).

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I was more adept at weather observation than directing performances.

The biggest challenge during his tenure was the unpredictable weather. The monsoon, a stationary front where cold and warm air masses collide, created a constant battle between rain and sun. Performances had to be scheduled based on forecasts that were often vague, like 'mostly clear, but cloudy in places.' The author describes meticulously calling weather lines and regional arts groups to gauge the approaching weather patterns, becoming more adept at meteorology than directing. Canceling performances meant disappointing artists who had already made travel and food arrangements, leading to complex negotiations and often, a subsequent period of clear skies after the cancellation, as if mocking his efforts.

He recalls the frustration of canceling shows only for the weather to clear, leaving him to face angry patrons. The phrase 'After the rain stops, the grass on the long embankment grows lush' from Jeong Ji-sang's poem 'Seeing Off a Friend' felt acutely relevant. The author felt like a lone soldier left to manage the chaos, facing a barrage of complaints from disgruntled visitors demanding explanations for the cancellations.

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After the rain stops, the grass on the long embankment grows lush.