찜질방 

            When I first encountered 찜질방, I was struck by how something so ordinary—a public bathhouse—could become a space of profound reflection on beauty, shame, and womanhood in Korea. The word ‘jjimjilbang’ is often translated as a “Korean bathhouse,” though it encompasses both the hot baths and communal spa or sauna areas. In contrast, ‘mogyoktang’ refers more narrowly to the bathing pools themselves. These large, gendered spaces serve as a familiar yet intimate communal space in Korea. 

            Having grown up in Korea, I felt a deep connection to the teenage girl in this play, whose quiet insecurities mirror those of countless young women I have known, including myself. Serving as the dramaturg for this production allowed me to examine the cultural, social, and intergenerational forces that have shaped Korean beauty standards—how ideals of appearance are constructed through media, collective homogeneity, and intimate inheritance, passed quietly from society to home, from mothers to daughters, aunts to nieces, friends to friends.

            Korean beauty standards did not emerge in isolation. After the Korean War, Western ideals—tall noses, double eyelids, slender figures—entered the national consciousness through media and rapid modernization. As Korea rebuilt and sought global recognition, physical appearance became a symbol of progress, civility, and even moral worth—a belief that looking more “Western” or “refined” meant appearing more modernized and advanced. Over time, this external measure of beauty intertwined with a deep cultural value of uniformity: to look alike was to belong, and to deviate was to risk exclusion.

            Today, the influence of K-pop idols, social media, and digital filters has only intensified this cycle. A double-lidded eye, a V-shaped face, a slim yet curvy body—these images saturate every corner of Korean popular culture. This pressure doubles for young Korean American women, like the characters in the show, as they navigate both Korean and Western standards. What makes these ideals powerful is not their explicit enforcement but their quiet inheritance. The judgment often begins at home: a mother’s offhand comment about her daughter’s weight, an aunt’s suggestion about eyelid surgery, a grandmother’s praise for “looking refined.” Through small, loving gestures, the cycle of beauty surveillance is passed down—normalized, even nurtured—across generations of women. Yet these conversations rarely happen aloud. Much of the pain surrounding beauty is absorbed in silence—expressed through posture, gaze, or self-discipline. This play asks how the body speaks when words fail. For many young women, that speech happens privately—in the mirror, in thought, or anonymously online, where they can finally name their fears and quiet acts of resistance.

            I remember returning home to Korea after an exchange semester in Illinois. Seeing my mother for the first time in five months, the first words she said were, “I almost didn’t recognize you—you’ve gained some weight.” It was not cruel; it was habitual, even affectionate. Yet beneath that comment lay the idea that maintaining beauty is a form of self-discipline, and losing it is a sign of moral weakness. In Korea, beauty is not simply admired; it is demanded and moralized.

            As a dramaturg, my role was to help our team see how these pressures are not merely aesthetic but systemic—woven into our families, media, and collective psyche. Yet 찜질방 also reminds us that there is immense care and connection within this culture: even in judgment, there is love; even in pressure, a longing to belong. These spaces where women gather and confront their literal and emotional bodies can become places of vulnerability and liberation. I hope audiences can feel the quiet warmth and pain in the act of looking and being looked at—and the quiet humanity that runs beneath it.