Where the Candles Went Out

There is a BTS comeback live video. The screen opens with Gyeongbokgung — the main royal palace of the Joseon dynasty — at night. The curved roofs of the pavilions and Gwanghwamun. And cut. Massive stage lights. Roars. Seven silhouettes. Watching this video for the first time, something felt off. But it was not immediately clear where exactly the strangeness came from. The video was beautiful. Flawlessly smooth. Gyeongbokgung, as always, looked good at night. And yet — a feeling that something did not fit, that something was being forced together, remained. Gwanghwamun is the main gate of the palace. A name meaning "the king's virtue illuminates the whole country." So in a sense, declaring the return of the king here seems symbolically natural. In front of the king's gate, the king returns. As an image, it is clean. But wait. The history of this space begins with the dynasty but does not end with the dynasty. During the Japanese colonial period, the Government-General Building was erected between Gwanghwamun and Geunjeongjeon, the palace's throne hall. They severed the axis leading to Geunjeongjeon with a building. The Government-General Building was not demolished until 1995. It took fifty years from liberation. In the meantime, the building changed names. It became the US military government office, then the central government building of the Republic of Korea. Beneath the colonial building, the military dictatorship held parades. It became the stage for a new authority. Who this space belonged to remained unclear for that long. Gwanghwamun was restored, and in 2023, the woldae — the elevated stone platform before the gate — returned to its original place. It might look like a natural progression, but it is not. The fact that it took fifty years is the proof. Within that time, there were long disputes and demands, and political decisions. And somewhere in that process, something else happened in this square. The winter of 2016 is impossible not to recall. Millions gathered here. They held candles. Whether one experienced that time directly or not, a certain memory of what that square was remains in the society as a whole. In front of the dynasty's main gate, in the place where colonial traces had not yet entirely faded, citizens declared themselves the owners of this space with their bodies. That memory is layered into the space called Gwanghwamun. The meaning Gwanghwamun holds in Korean society today does not come solely from the palace standing before it. It also comes from the history of what happened in front of that palace, of who stood there. That something is absent and that it has been erased are not the same thing. When the palace is edited into a backdrop for the BTS stage, what role does it take on? It is no longer a place where colonialism, restoration, and civic struggle are layered on top of one another. It becomes a device that proves "Korean-ness" on screen. A backdrop that visually guarantees this is Korea, that these are Korean artists. The moment stage lights overlap with the palace at night, the contexts each carried fall away. The palace becomes a beautiful backdrop, and on that backdrop, the narrative of return unfolds. History is demoted to scenery. Whether this itself constitutes some kind of violence — honestly, it's hard to say. Images always sever context. No photograph can contain all of history. So if the question is whether it is wrong to use a backdrop as a backdrop, it is difficult to simply say yes. But that is not what keeps catching the eye in this video. HYBE was in a position to fully know the history of this space. When they chose Gwanghwamun as a backdrop, they could not have been unaware of what meaning that choice would generate. And yet, the story this space holds — colonial memory, civic action, the longing for restoration — is nowhere in the final edit. All that remains is the silhouette of the palace and the phrase "the return of the king." The complex history of this space was likely not needed for a video destined for the global market. What was needed was a Korean-looking image, a grand setting, visual authority befitting a narrative of return. The palace was chosen for that need, and in that choice, history was erased. The marketing language "the return of the king" is not something that can simply be passed over. Of course, this is an exaggerated promotional phrase. Language chosen to dramatically express the artists' return. One might say not to take it too seriously. But wait — let's take this phrase literally for a moment. If the story of this space is a history of the king's space becoming the citizens' space, "the return of the king" is a declaration that reverses that direction. In the space that citizens made their own, the king returns once again. That it was unintentional does not eliminate its effect. Setting up a stage at Gwanghwamun, turning on lights instead of candles, placing a controlled audience instead of citizens, and placing "the return of the king" on top of all of it. This is the act of quietly overwriting the meaning this space has carried — who it belonged to — with the most contrary image. And this overwriting is more complete precisely because it is not done by force. It borrows the authority of the space, uses the beauty of the palace as a backdrop, treats history not as something to erase but as wrapping paper. That is why it is hard to resist. Because it is beautiful. But here, a pause. At the concert, RM said: "Listening a bit more closely to our own voices, and honestly capturing our worries, our anxieties, and even our wandering — that was the goal of this album." Suga said: "We still lack certainty and feel anxious, but we think these feelings too are what we ourselves are feeling right now." There is no reason to think this is not sincere. No reason to doubt that those words reach millions, or that some comfort arises there. These people returning after a nearly four-year hiatus, standing on stage still unsure of who they are, and that honesty handing something to people carrying similar feelings. This is real. But this and the question about structure exist on different levels. It is possible to simultaneously acknowledge that someone's sincerity is real and to ask how that sincerity circulates, what structure it rests upon. Just as the sincerity of a good doctor's diagnosis and the problems of the medical system in which that diagnosis takes place do not erase each other. And here is what really needs asking. There is the message: "Let's love ourselves as we are." The message that affirms personal vulnerability, that says to live with anxiety rather than repressing it. The space where that message is delivered — the space whose meaning citizens have collectively written — is processed through a contract between three entities. A voice speaking of individual authenticity rings out over a structure where the collective right to a collective space is silently erased. Good things also operate within structures. And good things are sometimes used as shields to prevent us from seeing what those structures look like. Behind this performance is a contract. HYBE's rental fee for seven days of Gwanghwamun Square was reportedly approximately 30 million won; combining filming permits for Gyeongbokgung and Sungnyemun, the total came to approximately 90 million won. On the day of the concert, police, fire, subway, and road control personnel were deployed on a massive scale to manage a crowd of over 200,000 — those costs covered by taxes. Netflix held the exclusive global streaming rights and secondary distribution rights. For domestic viewers to watch this performance in real time, they had to pay a Netflix subscription fee. On-site press access was limited to ten minutes. Place these numbers side by side and a structure emerges. Costs borne by the public; profits concentrated in a private few. To see what happens in a space maintained by citizens' taxes, the citizens who own that space must pay a subscription fee to a private corporation. Of course, it is difficult to take legal issue with this. The city of Seoul granted permission within current ordinances, and the contract is valid. But the absence of legal flaws does not mean there are no problems with this structure. The question is this. At the table where it was decided what kind of space Gwanghwamun would be, what would happen there, and how costs and benefits would be distributed — were the citizens, the owners of this space, present? HYBE, Netflix, and the city of Seoul. These three decided. Is this sufficient as a decision about public space? This is not a matter of law but a matter of principle. There must have been an economic effect. Commercial districts revitalized, tourists arriving, Seoul promoted. This is not something to call wrong. But there is a question. Can the fact of an economic effect replace the question of this space's publicness? If so, the logic that building a shopping mall in Gwanghwamun Square is justified because it produces an economic effect must also be accepted. Follow that logic to its end and the concept of public space itself becomes unnecessary. It is enough to use it for whatever is economically efficient. And where does that effect go? The revitalization of commercial districts is dispersed and temporary. The profits from exclusive global streaming rights and secondary distribution are structurally concentrated in two corporations. Back to the scene where the full view of the palace and the stage lights intersect. That scene is beautiful. There is no denying it. The night view of the palace is beautiful, and the hearts that waited through years of absence are real. When artists speak of anxiety and wandering on that stage and it reaches millions — that is real too. These are simultaneously true. But in that edited scene, the history of this space is absent. The Government-General Building, the candles, whatever the restoration of the woldae held — these are flattened into the image of a "Korean-looking backdrop." Upon that flatness, the king returns. I think Gwanghwamun was colonized twice. The first time by a building. The second time by a frame — more quietly, more smoothly. The first could reach a kind of conclusion through demolition. The second — where do you demolish? There is only this to ask. Who determines the meaning of this space? Through what procedure is that decision made? And in that decision, where was the collective owner of this space? Where the candles went out, a logo lit up. This is not a metaphor.