From hidden to latent: the ‘media virus’ in contemporary South Korean art

Abstract

Abstract

This article employs Douglas Rushkoff’s concept of the ‘media virus’ to explore contemporary South Korean socially engaged internet art. It investigates how these practices, initially hidden within digital networks, have evolved into latent forces that shape both digital and physical art forms. Through an analysis of works by such artists and collectives as Sungsil Ryu (b.1993), After New Order (est.2020) and Listen to the City (est.2009), the author examines how digital technologies and interactive platforms are utilised to foster social critique and activism. The article delves into the dynamic interplay between online and offline spaces, highlighting how art can challenge neoliberal narratives, enhance agency and promote social change in contemporary Korean society.

Rushkoff’s media evolution

Thirty years have passed since the media theorist Douglas Rushkoff foresaw the emergence of what he termed the ‘media virus’ in his influential book on ‘hidden agendas’ in popular culture.¹ Rushkoff identified early on that beneath the extensive domain of popular culture lies something concealed. He argued that while the voices of minority groups transmitted through media do not biologically infiltrate human nerves and blood, they propagate covertly through digital spaces and online networks, thereby becoming a dominant power. At the time, his claims were subject to provisional judgment, as the societal transformations that facilitated them were still in progress.

Today, however, we can clearly observe the results of these changes. Over the past few years, there has been an exponential increase in ‘fake news’ and other types of misinformation originating on such platforms as YouTube, compounded by algorithms that perpetually recommend related videos. This phenomenon has rendered the concept of ‘informational distancing’ a relic of the past.² In a context in which meaningful control over indiscriminate information has become impossible, the so-called ‘filter bubble’ functions not merely as a lens but as an entire reality.³ This raises questions about social media influencers who, recognising that media equates to power, strategically surrender their autonomy and personal ideologies to capitalist desires. In a time when blind faith and pervasive distrust coexist in the online world, Rushkoff’s analysis remains remarkably pertinent. Whatever one sees, hears or reads can surreptitiously transform into a media virus without anyone knowing.

Judging from the title of his book, one might assume that Rushkoff intended to critically denounce the popularity of new media or, in some respects, reject the zeitgeist. Indeed, he did express concerns about the strategic misuse of the internet, but he was not a media pessimist. Instead, he fundamentally advocated for the proliferation of agency enabled by media. Rushkoff argued that the public could harness the interactive nature of new media for the purpose of both liberation and subversion, thereby generating an unprecedented form of power. As indicated by the exclamation mark in the book’s title – which demonstrates a sense of urgency and presence – new media and online platforms possess significant potential as emancipatory tools to dismantle existing power structures.

If the potential of new media to serve as a liberating force is as profound as Rushkoff suggested, is it possible to interpret the term ‘hidden’ in the book’s title not merely as ‘concealment’ but as ‘latent’ as well? What possibilities are concealed within the media viruses of the twenty-first century? This article examines the affinity between the specific (non)physical space of South Korea and the online world.⁴ Given the fact that at the turn of the century the number of domestic broadband subscribers in South Korea had already surpassed ten million, media viruses in Korean society have manifested and proliferated in various ways over time.

A series of scenes

In the epilogue to his coming-of-age novel K’wijŭsyo (Quiz Show; 2007), Kim Young-ha, a Korean author who experienced the commercialisation of digital communication in his twenties, describes the work as ‘a novel dedicated to those who have fallen in love with strangers in front of a monitor, exchanged sweet nothings by typing on a keyboard, and blushed behind an avatar’.⁵ The words ‘monitor’, ‘keyboard’ and ‘avatar’ in this context effectively encapsulate the early days of the internet, particularly the late 1980s to mid-1990s, evoking a collective nostalgia. From these beginnings emerged a mode of communication endowed with a particular quotidian power that spread at an unparalleled speed, accelerating the construction of online spaces. It grew in internet café and online forums run by web portals and internet service providers such as Naver and Daum, which profoundly shaped the consumption of information and the facilitation of social interactions online, eventually leading to today’s expansive video-streaming landscape. By the early 2000s, South Korea had built a solid digital infrastructure that paved the way for vibrant online communities to take shape. This ecosystem fuelled a notable rise in personal broadcasting and interactive content creation, capturing a broader transformation in how media is both consumed and produced.

In the late 2000s cyber communities in South Korea developed new forms of civic engagement that – characterised by openness, sharing and participation – seemed to anticipate the advent of Web 2.0. This was exemplified by the 2008 United Sates beef protests, during which hundreds of thousands of protestors staged candlelight vigils after the government reversed a ban on American beef imports, which had been in place since the detection of mad cow disease in 2003. Citizens’ communities – which initially were centred around personal interests such as cooking or baseball and therefore distinctly different from political organisations – began to politicise themselves and unite in the form of anonymous networks. In turn, these online civic movements gave rise to communities of liberation and memory in the offline world. While the world outside of the Korean Peninsula was just beginning to form networks and organise protests on the internet, South Korea had already entered its tenth year of internet-based activism.⁶

On the other hand, the Online Queer Parade of the Seoul Queer Culture Festival FIG. 1 FIG. 2, which began in 2020 as a necessary alternative due to the COVID-19 pandemic, continued even after social restrictions had been lifted. Its continued online presence has become a powerful example of an inclusive and alternative activist environment – a digital virus that, rather than acting as a disruptor, facilitates an alternative structure of connection. It embodies democratic ideals by amplifying marginalised voices and creating platforms where hierarchical authority dissipates. In the online parade, participants can create their own unique characters by selecting clothes, hair, flags, wheelchairs and more, similar to how avatars in SayClub or ‘mini me’ characters in Cyworld were created in the early 2000s.⁷

These acts of digital personalisation are more than mere idiosyncrasy; they are acts of agency, of being seen, of taking up a different kind of space. The occupation of virtual arenas becomes even more important when considering how protests or marches in the real world emphasise the act of moving and the ability to dominate physical space – inherently normalising able-bodiedness.⁸ In a digital space such as the online parade, protest no longer requires a physical body, but one that every participant has the opportunity to create, in whatever form they choose. In this way, they are freed from the concept that an able-body equates to a good or righteous one.

The Seoul Queer Culture Festival online queer parade is a media virus that takes on the role of a remedy. Other viruses may serve as catalysts for voluntary grassroots movements, where digital connectivity allows individuals to mobilise swiftly and autonomously without central leadership, creating a space where a horizontal society can emerge briefly and redefine civic participation. Such ‘viruses’ bridge seemingly isolated personal struggles, uniting them under universal counter-narratives that challenge dominant ideologies.

Through viral hashtags, shared symbols and collective online actions, individuals who span different geographies, languages and backgrounds can identify with and support causes that they might otherwise not have encountered. The viral nature of these platforms fosters a form of communal resistance, assembling fragmented dissent into a cohesive, powerful force capable of demanding change and redefining agency in the digital age. In this way, the ‘viruses’ of the digital landscape become paradoxically therapeutic, not by reinforcing dominant social scripts but by providing the tools to rewrite them and reinvigorate public discourse. In this context, the following examples of contemporary digital South Korean art can be considered viruses that proliferate the agency of life. This is not to suggest that their labels of post-media or post-internet art should be discarded in favour of a new designation defined by their social engagement. For these artists, the internet functions less as ‘a tool to prove the uniqueness of the digital’ and more as ‘an open platform encompassing physical activities and ideas’, expanding the field of visual culture and ‘infecting’ individuals to become agents of social change.⁹

Sungsil Ryu and satirical digital personas

At the intersection of indigenous contemporary Korean culture and neoliberalism, Sungsil Ryu (b.1993) has been continuously creating works that adopt the format of one-person media, uploading videos on platforms such as YouTube, Vimeo and Afreeca TV. This approach is closely tied to South Korea’s swift development of digital media, marked by the widespread availability of numerous platforms for personal expression. In a series of videos that begins with BJ Cherry Jang 2018.4 FIG. 3, followed by Goodbye Cherry Jang FIG. 4 and BJ Cherry Jang’s Voice Before Her Death (2021), the protagonist Cherry Jang wears a thick layer of makeup, has a countdown device strapped to her head and speaks with a digitally altered voice.

Her broadcasts warn viewers of a North Korean nuclear crisis or promotes a ‘first-class citizenship’ that promises a better life. The level of exaggeration and deceit is constantly renewed, and the screens are oversaturated to the point of visual pollution. Cherry Jang employs various strategies to engage the viewer – while subtly revealing her bank account number – in a way that echoes the contemporary paradigm of the attention economy. Furthermore, for Ryu, the comments section serves as a means of visualising and performing social satire; as one YouTube user noted, ‘The comments complete the artwork’.¹⁰ The individuals infected by desire satirically profess their belief in Cherry Jang’s blatant materialism. This cult-like parade unintentionally becomes part of the work, providing an alibi for the artist, disguised as Cherry Jang, to succeed in providing a reality-based critique and deliver a damning social indictment.

Big King Travel 2020 FIG. 5 is a single-channel video that operates exclusively on a mobile device, requiring users to scan a QR code with their phones to gain access. The work simulates a budget cruise ship tour to the fictional city of Ching Chen, led by another of Ryu’s personas: attractive local tour guide Natasha FIG. 6. It adopts the aesthetics of vernacular photography and propaganda, parodying the superficiality and commodification of tourist experiences. As Natasha leads the tour group to the great scenic spots of Ching Chen – including 20 seconds of ‘free time’ in Jasujeong Cave, the Royal Clementine tree at Ryongju Falls and Ching Ching Palace – the tour is hijacked by another participant, Kim Cheomji FIG. 7.¹¹ He interrupts Natasha, secretly films her and writes love notes to her FIG. 8, before suffering a heart attack at the excitement of them being together and meeting his father in heaven FIG. 9.

In digital works of art, the physicality of the viewing experience is often less pronounced, with a reduced emphasis on bodily interaction. Big King Travel 2020 diverges from this convention by necessitating active viewer participation. This is facilitated by prompts, such as ‘Tap to get the berry’ FIG. 10 and ‘Tap to lay a flower’, which require users to engage with their mobile device in order to progress to the final scene of the video. Such interactions introduce a tactility to the viewing experience that disrupts traditional passive modes, whereby the viewer is typically an observer rather than a participant. The series of eerie events that unfold in Big King Travel prevents viewers from simply observing the situation on their mobile screens. Perhaps the ‘uncanny valley’, wherein the similarity of an object to a human being becomes disconcerting and uncomfortable, is hidden within Ching Chen. 

As the critic Claire Bishop advocates, the importance of antagonistic forms and attitudes is highlighted by the notion that social art should serve to expose the repressed.¹² Games possess a medium-specific characteristic that allows them to penetrate deeper into the user’s experience than other forms of socially engaged art. This depth arises from the process in which players are required to adopt specific agencies.¹³ Ryu uses the game to explore the depths of the valley, guiding the audience into a space of social critique.

Ryu’s commitment to visualising and discussing underlying social issues is fundamental to her practice. Whether she chooses to employ old or new media, or to speak about the 1950s or the 2020s, once uploaded, her works naturally reflect and share the society of a specific region and era. However, when she adopts formats such as games and then integrates these outputs into another platform, a new category is created. The virtual entities that emerge from this exponential expansion of multiple realities are not meant to be agents of escapism but rather members of reality itself, representing the change that the audience must collectively confront. As the human mind is inherently less logical than algorithms, the artist resorts to manipulating online platforms. To understand where the energy radiated during this process is directed, it is necessary to scrutinise how each work reaches the audience through the ubiquity of networks. Given that their substantial presence is now online, further proliferating and traversing media, it is impossible to observe Cherry Jang’s methodology from a distance.

After New Order’s web accessibility activism

Where people gather, a communal layer always remains. Just like in the Naver and Daum internet café communities that sparked the candlelight protests, users in online spaces emerge as agents in the process of imbuing meaning. They are not simply technical locations, but vibrant and thriving social places. Since being selected as a participating collective for Project Hashtag 2021 at the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, Seoul (MMCA), the group After New Order (est.2020) has been conducting multimedia work that re-evaluates and enhances web accessibility and inclusivity. Their projects critique the various issues embedded in websites by coders and users, and the internet culture they create from behind their keyboards. For example, the collective has continually challenged websites that do not consider access for visually impaired individuals. To disseminate the discourse surrounding such tools as alternative text (alt text), After New Order has conducted workshops and public programmes FIG. 11 based on active audience participation at various institutions, including the MMCA, the Asia Culture Center, Gwangju, the Leeum Museum of Art, Seoul, and the Arko Art Center, Seoul.¹⁴ This initiative works to neutralise the ableist online environment, making the previously elusive concept of ‘listening to a screen’ feasible.

Yet what happens after the workshop concludes and the participants return home? After New Order does not merely strip away the façade of audience participation or simply collect feedback. Instead, through voluntary and transformative collaboration, they have, to date, converted the descriptions of 7,535 works of art from the MMCA into alt text and published the results on a website titled the National Alternative Museum FIG. 12 FIG. 13 FIG. 14. Michel Foucault defines a heterotopia as a place contesting ‘all the other real emplacements that can be found within culture’; this online museum, established with the support of the MMCA, is a heterotopia that challenges the MMCA itself.¹⁵

In the world of After New Order, driven by the motivation to restore what is lacking and damaged, a single website, created with basic coding is far from perfunctory. This applies not only to national examples but also to the Instagram account Alternative Museum, which archives open-access image alternative texts from various museums around the world. As noted in the book published by the collective, ‘if a “new beginning” is to come from the outside’, then for users who have lost agency, ‘there is only adaptive behaviour, not action’.¹⁶ While the insurmountable goal of making the entire internet accessible to everyone may risk being perceived as empty rhetoric, the process of aggregating user agency and responses to forcefully intervene in the dominant frameworks of cultural institutions generated a ripple effect. Arguably, it enacted a shift in how digital accessibility is perceived – not merely as a technical or supplementary feature, but as a fundamental practice of inclusion that reshapes cultural discourse.

Digital cartography of resistance: Industry & Trade Ecosystem of Cheongyecheon, Euljiro

The multifaceted interaction between online and offline spaces is a key feature of the Industry & Trade Ecosystem of Cheongyecheon, Euljiro website FIG. 15, which was launched in 2021 by the art, design and architecture collective Listen to the City (est.2009) and the Cheonggyecheon Anti-Gentrification Alliance in collaboration with UNIST Science Walden and the designer Wonyoung So. This initiative involved investigating the Cheonggyecheon and Euljiro districts of Seoul, which have long been in conflict with the city’s Metropolitan Government over urban redevelopment issues.¹⁷ The project’s focus was to create an online archive of the industrial technology distribution network data and social capital of the area, including an interactive map. Created using a method of cultural–technical research that analyses patterns within the community, this map visualises not only the networks between manufacturers and distributors but also informal organisations, such as football clubs, demonstrating the community’s cohesiveness. An area with a high concentration of skilled workers and their robust cooperative system, forming a tight-knit complex – unparalleled anywhere else in Seoul – demonstrate why this area can be termed an ‘ecosystem’.¹⁸ This data visualisation project presents information about Cheonggyecheon and Euljiro in a way that visitors to the region may not easily comprehend; it allows for an experience that transcends layers of knowledge, but only within the digital realm. As visitors to the website zoom in on the map and engage more closely with the data, the complementary relationship between physical and non-physical spaces comes into focus and the deep-rooted tensions that have plagued this area become clear on a sensory level FIG. 16.

The act of inscribing and sharing immaterial memories – which have wandered, fragmented, across geographical boundaries – on the internet is akin to building an archive of resistance. The city of Seoul, which has relied on the prevalent strategy of neoliberalism, finds itself in a paradox between speculative forces and local communities that threatens the fabric of the city. Events such as the forced eviction of the decades-old pub Eulji OB Bear in 2022 and the displacement of Eulji Myeonok, a landmark restaurant that sells naengmyeon (cold buckwheat noodles), due to redevelopment in the same year – sparked resistance from citizens fighting against capital subjugation.¹⁹ Listen to the City and the Cheonggyecheon Anti-Gentrification Alliance documented the various material layers of these events, collecting the dispersed memories scatted by urban regeneration. As the curator Nicolas Bourriaud has stated, even as neoliberal logic drives the world towards commercialism, art pursues an opposing goal by bestowing specific and distinctive value upon the smallest ‘particles’.²⁰ The pixels of the map are such particles, each retaining its own forward momentum while at the same time preserving their own memory.

Coda: ‘history only exists if there is a tomorrow’²¹

In 2015 the Nam June Paik Art Center, Yongin, presented the exhibition Super-spreader: Media Virus, which examined the evolving role of media in society. This transformation aligns with the vision of Nam June Paik (1932–2006), who predicted that media would no longer function solely as a one-way communication tool but would become a participatory, interactive medium. In line with Paik’s perspective, many twenty-first-century artists consider media to be a living organism, capable of adapting, spreading and reshaping social interactions.

Almost a decade after this exhibition, the dynamic contemporality that lies within this collection of screenshots, video footage and web pages that it featured remains unexcavated. How do we draw it out to understand it? There is no simple answer: our current global network no longer operates in the seemingly simple dichotomies of online and offline, real and virtual, material and immaterial. Rather, one must take a renewed critical look at this network and ask: what is the true nature of the entities that exist online? How do they interact with each other and with their viewers? What is the meaning of the content that they present? As the writer Roisin Kiberd has stated, the technology that humans currently use is changing the world in ways we do not yet understand.²² It therefore has the potential to surpass human imagination, making it difficult to understand it fully in the terms of social aesthetics.

Today’s media viruses hide in the gaps between mediated content and the invisible flow of data. They subtly spread in real time on Ryu’s YouTube channel or embed themselves in the archival websites created by After New Order and Listen to the City, and their presence is synergistic. Not an independent genre of art themselves, they instead function as ‘a genre gesture to restore the critical spirit of contemporary art’ by adopting familiar everyday digital and cellular technologies.²³ Even if they are dismissed as slacktivism in the faint world of 0s and 1s, the accelerated viruses silently create inflection points, countering scepticism. What is now being cultivated beyond the flickering screen will grow into viruses – not as hidden ghosts but as latent forces with the power to ignite the future.

Acknowledgments

I extend my gratitude to the anonymous peer reviewers for their insightful and constructive feedback on this article. I would also like to thank the featured artists for their generosity and time.