Learning Korean Traditional Dancing (한국무용)

I've recently realized that, for the most part, my entire life has been spent dancing. I started ballet when I was three and continued until middle school. I also participated in musicals, which often included dance numbers. Here at college, I'm taking salsa and swing classes. So yes, my life is very closely aligned with dancing. I thought I wasn't particularly amazing at it, but to be honest, with all of these experiences, I'm always told that I catch on quickly and that I use my body well.

The reason I registered for a Korean Traditional Dancing class is actually quite amusing. I had watched Tamagawa University, a Japanese university with a great Taiko group, perform at Swarthmore. Instead of just the drum performances, the female students would perform traditional Japanese dances. The girls looking so happy in their traditional dress, dancing and representing their culture stirred something in me. After that performance, I was determined to look into learning Korean Traditional Dancing as soon as I came back to Korea for the summer. And guess who has peak execution skills? Me.

I felt a little odd joining a group lesson class that had already been going for a few weeks when I had no basic knowledge, so I opted in for a one-on-one lesson. The teacher was very passionate and she thought it was a wonderful idea to learn. Apparently quite a few international students (Korean students studying abroad) will think similarly to me and want to learn over the summer.

What I wasn’t prepared for was just how hard it would be. Korean Traditional Dancing has its own entire vocabulary of movement. The steps are subtle but incredibly technical, and the way the arms move—almost like painting the air with silk—is nothing like what I’ve done before, even with years of ballet experience. Compared to salsa or swing, which thrives on the fluidity and rhythm with a partner, this dance was more performative, with the responsibility of embodying a centuries-old art.

And my feet? They were not ready. While I was trained to point my feet when taking a step, then putting the heel down, Korean Traditional Dancing is the complete opposite. I looked like a fawn who just learned how to stand and walk for the longest time before I got the hang of it. Moving around my house practicing just the walking really helped.

Another thing to learn was the different jangdan (장단), which are the rhythmic patterns that underpin every traditional Korean piece. The gukkuri jangdan (국거리 장단) is slower, with a four-beat cycle that feels almost like a gentle sway. If I had to compare it to something, it’s like breathing deeply—inhale, exhale, step, sweep. There’s room for softness and grace, for lingering just a little longer in a gesture. The movements stretch out, often flowing into each other like silk rippling in water. You can really feel the emotional weight in this rhythm; it’s meditative and expressive.

Jajinmori jangdan (자진모리 장단), on the other hand, comes at you fast. It's in a 12/8 time signature and has this driving, galloping energy. There’s barely a moment to breathe between movements. The dance becomes much more dynamic—footwork gets sharper, turns quicker, and everything has a sense of urgency. You can’t just “float” through a jajinmori piece—you have to charge through it, with full intent. My brain had to work overtime to keep up with both the beat and my body.

Another thing I didn’t realize until I started: Korean Traditional Dance isn’t just one thing. It’s an entire universe of forms, props, and purposes. There are the iconic fan dances (buchaechum), where huge fans are used to create blooming flower formations. Then there’s the drum dances, like sogo chum (with small handheld drums) or buk chum (with larger, heavier drums strapped to your body). There are sword dances (geommu), often performed with breathtaking stillness and control, and more theatrical group pieces that resemble a choreographed ritual more than a modern dance number.

Some are performed in solo formats, where the dancer tells a story with each gesture, almost like a monologue in motion. Others are ensemble-based, with dancers moving in intricate patterns and group formations that require extreme coordination and awareness. The group ones are beautiful to watch because they create visual rhythms—like living calligraphy on stage. The type of performance also affects how the body moves. In sogo chum, the dancer has to be incredibly light and bouncy, while sword dances demand strength and sharp precision. In the fan dance, your fingertips become the story—how you flick or fold the fan completely shifts the meaning.

The piece I’m working on is the foundational steps taught at Sookmyung Women’s University, and apparently, each school has its own flair. It's a little like regional dialects, but in movement form.

And yes, there is a video. My teacher would always record me practicing the section I learned that day so that I could rehearse at home (spoiler: it's not perfect, but I’m proud of it!).

It’s a lot to take in. But it’s also kind of magical how every version of Korean dance connects back to the same core principles: grace, storytelling, and intentionality. Even the smallest movement is rooted in tradition.