이선영

I was an English lecturer in Korea. My son loved superheroes, but the costumes were hard to find, so I started sewing. I studied garment-making, then bags, accessories, adult clothing — and eventually hanbok.

After immigrating to Australia, I read the news in October 2022 that BTS were enlisting. I worried about Korean culture during that gap. I thought: what else can carry it? Something visual, something for everyone — hanbok. It felt like a skill only I had in Melbourne. If I could do it, it was my responsibility to step forward.

I had only ever made hanbok for myself and my son. When I began fitting different body types, that was the hardest part. Every person carries a different shape, a different line — and there was no one nearby to ask. I had to work through it with instinct and experience, one person at a time.

In hindsight, that process was my education. Now, thinking through what suits each person is the part I enjoy most.

Surprisingly, local Australians responded with warmth. Melbourne is deeply multicultural — people receive Korean culture naturally. At hanbok experience events, it was often the locals who approached first, saying how beautiful it was.

In contrast, many Koreans still see hanbok as cumbersome, or something only for formal occasions. I often see Indian Australians wearing traditional dress in daily life — and I find that admirable. That's the direction I want to move hanbok toward.

I describe it as filling a blank canvas. At its core, hanbok is a simple combination — jeogori and chima — but depending on colour, fabric, and texture, the result can be completely different. The same form can feel refined, modern, or boldly expressive. That range of possibility is what I find beautiful.

I import some fabrics from Korea, but I also love searching Melbourne for materials that carry a Korean sensibility. Connecting local materials with that aesthetic feels like its own creative act.

The direction I want to pursue is a modern hanbok dress — something you'd wear to a gathering or a party. I want to make clothes that help someone feel a little more special, a little more luminous. Not overly ornate, but quietly refined. Elegant with effortless grace. That's a feeling I want to explore through organza.

Searching for organza fabrics with a Korean sensibility is genuinely exciting. The transparency in light, the depth when layered — it harmonises beautifully with hanbok's inherent elegance.

I put a great deal of energy into hanbok education here in Melbourne. When I first said "in one year, you'll be able to make and wear your own hanbok," the response was cautious — "How many occasions would we even wear hanbok in Melbourne?" Many doubted it was possible.

Now, those same students wear hanbok they've made themselves to cultural events. On a recent autumn outing, every student arrived in their own handmade everyday hanbok — and I was the only one in regular clothes. A happy, embarrassing moment.

My goal is the everyday-isation of hanbok. Not something you retrieve for a ceremony — a culture you live inside naturally.

Through the hanbok cultural association I founded last year, I'm preparing several projects — including one that takes sleeping hanbok from people's wardrobes and transforms them into wearable daily garments. And personally, I want to introduce a Korean aesthetic to Australians through organza hanbok dresses.

When people hear "kimono style," they have an immediate image. I want the same to be true for hanbok — a visual language people recognise as distinctly Korean.

Many people see hanbok as cumbersome, expensive to rent, worn once. But those same people are outraged when another country claims it as their own. I keep thinking: if we're not protecting it ourselves, who will?

Gwangjang Market — once the heart of hanbok — now has many closed shops. Workshops are moving to factories in China and Vietnam. When you search "Hanbok" on Google, you find rhinestone lace tied with ribbons being sold under that name. That's what the world is learning to call hanbok.

The structure of hanbok requires significant fabric and hand-stitching — the cost of production is high. A full skirt alone uses over three metres, and a complete set can need 20–30. I want "Made in Korea" to mean something here. Like choosing organic produce at a higher price — it takes a consumer who understands the value.

I dream of making a hanbok that holds a minhwa painting like a single length of fabric. A peony for abundance and brilliance. A tiger — like those made famous through Kpop Demon Hunters — for courage and spirit. Not just decorative pattern, but Korean symbolism and philosophy woven naturally into the cloth.