In his artist’s note from Fragrance of Division(2005), his first photobook, Noh Suntag seemed to have already mapped out the trajectory of his future work. He explicitly stated that the space-time he would explore would be that of modern Korean history, and that his subject would be institutionalized violence. At the end of the text, he even declared his plan to “name this country the Republic of Komerica and develop ten sub-projects under that title.” Six years later, this early ambition has been substantiated by a remarkable accumulation of results. The ten subtopics he initially announced have now expanded to around twenty—understandably so, given that modern Korean history itself is not a closed narrative.

The additional subtopics stem from unanticipated contemporary events, such as The Secret of Megabyte Acid, which documents the 2008 candlelight protests and their aftermath, and That Day at Namildang, which follows the 2009 Yongsan eviction tragedy. As long as history continues to unfold unpredictably, these subtopics will continue to grow.

The Really Good, Murder series, first presented at Art Sonje Center’s 《Article 39 Section 2》(2008), was also inspired by a real incident reported that same year. The story concerned a cadet at the Korean Air Force Academy who was expelled after writing on his blog that the Air Force’s next-generation fighter jet, the F-15K, might in fact be a “killing machine.” Selected as the second recipient of SKOPF (Sangsangmadang Korean Photographer’s Fellowship), Noh brought together this series in his 2010 solo exhibition 《Really Good, Murder》. For convenience, this review will discuss the exhibition in three parts: 1. The airshow and its spectators 2. The spectators’ weapon experiences 3. The languid expressions of a defense industry fair.
 


1. The Airshow and Its Spectators
Civilian airshows focus less on the destructive power of combat aircraft and more on the aesthetics of aerobatic flight. As Paul Virilio once wrote, “visibility itself is a weapon of war.” The sight of friendly squadrons drawing diamond or wedge formations across the sky functions as an aerial version of an army parade — a performative demonstration designed to visually persuade (and pacify) taxpayers. In Noh’s photographs, the planes appear only as tiny dots on the print, while the blurred and ghostly spectators occupy most of the frame — a striking contrast.

Among the most memorable images are three consecutive shots showing an F-15K seemingly piercing through the skull of an unidentified male spectator. Another photograph features a woman in a bright jacket gazing blankly at the airshow, out of focus, evoking the grief of a mother who has lost her child. A T-50 training jet passes through her chest, amplifying the sense of anguish. In yet another image, eight T-50s in diamond formation resemble ninja throwing stars (shuriken), caught at the instant they seem to strike a spectator’s back. The depth of field between distant aircraft and near spectators creates an optical illusion, and Noh’s deft compositional choices transform the airshow’s original spectacle into a biting satire — a clear message that needs no elaborate critical language to decipher.

2. The Weapon Experience

Perhaps the most iconic image from Really Good, Murder depicts the small hands of a child gripping the handle of an M60D machine gun mounted on a display helicopter, while the child’s father, holding a camera, grips the barrel from the opposite side to take a photo. Neither the child’s nor the father’s face is visible—but there is a third, unseen figure behind the camera: Noh Suntag himself. The image thus forms a triangular composition of “shooting”—in both the photographic and ballistic sense.

Although neither a camera nor an unloaded gun inflicts immediate physical harm, both can cause long-term symbolic damage. It would not be far-fetched to call this a “really good murder.” The photograph, self-reflexive in nature, mirrors both Noh’s critical gaze at the arms fair and his own awareness as a photographer constantly aiming his lens at others.

Children frequently appear throughout the series, escorted by their parents through gleaming displays of advanced weaponry. When juxtaposed with instruments of war, these children create a disquieting tension—but they also share something with the weapons themselves: both react simply and instinctively. It is chilling to imagine that the child who “learns” from such exhibitions might later reenact what they witnessed.

For Noh, whose long-standing theme is institutionalized violence, the sanitized spectacle of a national defense exhibition—where instruments of destruction are glorified as symbols of technological excellence—becomes the perfect stage for a darkly humorous composition. Like the Air Force cadet’s anguish, the weapon the child handles is indeed a well-made machine—a “good” one—yet its ultimate value lies in its efficiency as a killing device. Such contradictions are masked by myth-making, and the arms fair itself becomes the theater of that myth.

One particularly absurd image captures a special forces officer assisting a high-school girl as she practices throwing a mock grenade. The overlapping posture of the young man and woman carries an erotic undertone that transcends mere training intensity. The grenade’s explosive potential merges with the soldier’s repressed vitality and the girl’s short skirt and gold sneakers, creating an uncanny, unsettling eroticism.


 
3. The Languor of the Defense Fair

The lethargic atmosphere of the arms exhibition reaches its peak in an image of an armored soldier standing nonchalantly with his hands clasped behind his back before an M2HB heavy machine gun—its barrel coincidentally aligned with the back of his head. Noh’s camera captures this moment of ironic peril, as though reminding us that the weapons aimed outward inevitably turn back upon their wielders.

This sentiment recalls the anti-war poster What Goes Around Comes Around, which won the top prize at the 50th Clio Awards, designed by Korean artist Jeseok Lee—a message deeply resonant with Noh’s own.

Noh’s photojournalism, which has long documented clashes between opposing forces, often features the myriad “weapons” each side employs—batons, flags, clenched fists, microphones, card sections, cups with candlelight, riot shields, and sometimes cameras disguised as benign tools. Yet the Really Good, Murder series marks a rare instance where real military hardware dominates the frame, following the precedent of his Black Hook Down series depicting helicopters and fighter jets over Daechuri.

By rhythmically reconfiguring these instruments of war on photographic paper, Noh aestheticizes political warning. His archive of protests and conflicts, while deeply engaged with the emotional center of violence, rarely indulges in pathos. Even when his work approaches abstraction—as in That Day at Namildang III—its poignancy remains understated.

In this exhibition, we confront his carefully composed images of rhythmic, aesthetic, and quiet violence—and we shudder.
 
The rhythmically aesthetic yet quietly violent nature of Noh Suntag’s photographs can be traced across series such as Red Frame, which dryly captures North Korea’s regimented Arirang mass games, and the strAnge ball, which reduces the blood-soaked Daechuri incident into a minimal circular radar form. His avoidance of direct expression stems from “the need to somehow cook the awkwardness and roughness that arise from frontal confrontation” (the strAnge ball, artist’s note, 2006). He must have sensed that raw, unfiltered photojournalism no longer suited the spirit of the times.

Unlike most artists, Noh filled the catalogue for this solo exhibition with unusually extensive writing—as he has done in all his photobooks—perhaps out of concern that the aesthetic refinement and metaphorical depth of his work might alienate communication, leading him to compensate through lengthy verbal elaboration.

 
P.S. Bertolt Brecht, who habitually clipped war-related newspaper photographs with scissors and glue, published Kriegsfibel(War Primer), adding four-line verses to his selected images. The second poem in this collection of 69 photographs shows laborers carrying massive steel plates, accompanied by the following verse:


“Hey brothers, what are you making there?” “An armored car.”
“And from these stacked iron plates?”
“Bullets that pierce armor.”
“Then why do you make all this?” “To make a living.”
Perhaps Brecht, too, worried that even a well-edited press photograph might fail to convey meaning fully.


This may explain why Noh Suntag’s photographs are both timely and poetic at once.

References

• [비평] 좋은, 율동적인, 미학적인, 그리고 시적인 살인 기계
  [Critique] Good, Rhythmic, Aesthetic, and Poetic Killing Machine