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Philosophy Bookstore: The Ancient Question
Philosophy Bookstore: The Ancient Question
Gongju-si, South Korea
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Other Projects by Studio Gaon
Philosophy Bookstore: The Ancient Question
Gongju-si, South Korea
The summer of 2018 was a season of sweltering heat, rivaling the record-breaking temperatures of 1994 etched in our memory. On a day when the heat reached its peak, We traveled to Banjuk-dong, Gongju, to see a vacant old hanok (traditional Korean house). A large church with a towering spire stood behind it like a halo, and overgrown weeds had nearly reclaimed the site. Though its walls were covered in cement and the roof clad with cement tiles, the skeletal frame was unmistakably that of a hanok, The new owner had asked us how it might be transformed.
As we always do, we wandered through the house, measuring, observing, and imagining. It was likely built in the 1960s using the local craftsmanship and materials of Banjuk-dong, having undergone several renovations since. A briquette boiler had replaced the traditional agungi (fireplace), fuel had shifted to gas, the kitchen had been remodeled into a room, the outhouse moved indoors, and the warehouse converted into living quarters. These layers of transformation replayed in our mind like a grainy, flickering film from an old slide projector.
Our suggestion was to peel away the grime of time and restore it to its original essence. Sometimes, a house seems to possess its own "ego." Whether it was there from the beginning or breathed into the structure by its inhabitants, we often feel that a house is almost a living organism. What would this house want to become? Following the owner's wish to create a space that combined a café and a residence, we diligently designed the renovation. Then, a sudden blackout—the world froze under the relentless shadow of the pandemic.
Six years passed before a call came back to resume the design. On a Saturday morning in early 2024, when the air was as crisp as a brilliant young boy and sunlight poured over the desk, we and the client exchanged ideas to shed excessive desires and embrace simplicity.
A philosophy bookstore. The owner, a journalist nearing retirement, had originally majored in philosophy. Handing me his recently published thesis, he spoke of his vision for a philosophy bookstore. What is philosophy? Like a mirage or dried persimmons hanging on a high shelf, it is alluring and seemingly sweet, yet always out of reach—something to be revered from a distance. The voice of reason, the voice of humanity. We see philosophy as a labyrinth; once inside, one might wander in circles, unable to find the exit. But does finding the exit truly matter? Isn't the act of losing oneself within the maze rewarding enough? We are often obsessed with conclusions—summarizing, digitizing, and seeking "usable" information.
Yet, knowledge, philosophy, and thought do not function that way. Those intricately diverging paths eventually connect to form a complex whole. In our minds, we traverse the ages of savagery and blind faith to arrive at the age of reason. This cycle repeats as humanity evolves and culture blossoms—where do we stand on that scale today? Now, more than ever, we need the voice of reason and the words of truth. Not the blind faith of politics or religions, but the diverse thoughts of many. It is time for sleeping souls to awaken.
Thus, we decided to create a "labyrinth" within the deep courtyard—a labyrinth of time and thought. The land is shaped like an inverted "L" or a sickle, with the blade pointing east. A container box sat at the "handle" of this sickle shape, which we cleared to make way for a garden. At the junction where the handle meets the blade, we erected a freestanding wall—shaped like the Korean consonants 'ㄱ' and 'ㄴ' placed side-by-side. To reach the house, one must pass through a narrow, alley-like path, mirroring the journey of encountering the unknown, philosophy, and knowledge.
Few clients agree to such a wall. Most ask with skepticism, "Why spend money on something like this?" I have no grand excuse. I simply ask, "Doesn't it just feel right?" If they say no, erase it, but fortunately, in this house, the wall stood firm.
Inside, the heavy walls enveloping the house were removed and replaced with light. We invited light and introduced a small courtyard into the modest space. A sarangchae (guest wing) was placed facing the courtyard, finished with a toetmaru (veranda). This veranda acts as a "liminal space," connecting the courtyard to the house. In place of the ornate traditional railings, we installed a minimalist flat railing.
The interior exposes the original timber frames, with the walls neatly refined. In truth, the house possessed an inherent skeletal beauty that required little intervention. In such cases, an architect’s role is merely to read the grain, admire it, and offer a gentle hand of support. In a secluded eastern nook, we planted flowers and added a low window to frame them.
Facing the main house across the courtyard stood an annex built of cement, brick, and concrete—likely an old warehouse later converted into a rental unit. Atop it sat a rooftop overlooking the Jemincheon Stream. We scrubbed and repainted the rusted stairs and added wooden walls to the roof. It is a place of ponder, watching the stream or the sun setting behind Mt. Bonghwangsan to the west.
For almost over a year, we finetuned this small house. We placed chairs, mounted shelves for books, and planted flowers just outside the windows. Thus, after a long period of contemplation, the philosophy bookstore was finally completed. Within these walls, we now await the echoes of answers that the ego of the house willed to manifest.
As we always do, we wandered through the house, measuring, observing, and imagining. It was likely built in the 1960s using the local craftsmanship and materials of Banjuk-dong, having undergone several renovations since. A briquette boiler had replaced the traditional agungi (fireplace), fuel had shifted to gas, the kitchen had been remodeled into a room, the outhouse moved indoors, and the warehouse converted into living quarters. These layers of transformation replayed in our mind like a grainy, flickering film from an old slide projector.
Our suggestion was to peel away the grime of time and restore it to its original essence. Sometimes, a house seems to possess its own "ego." Whether it was there from the beginning or breathed into the structure by its inhabitants, we often feel that a house is almost a living organism. What would this house want to become? Following the owner's wish to create a space that combined a café and a residence, we diligently designed the renovation. Then, a sudden blackout—the world froze under the relentless shadow of the pandemic.
Six years passed before a call came back to resume the design. On a Saturday morning in early 2024, when the air was as crisp as a brilliant young boy and sunlight poured over the desk, we and the client exchanged ideas to shed excessive desires and embrace simplicity.
A philosophy bookstore. The owner, a journalist nearing retirement, had originally majored in philosophy. Handing me his recently published thesis, he spoke of his vision for a philosophy bookstore. What is philosophy? Like a mirage or dried persimmons hanging on a high shelf, it is alluring and seemingly sweet, yet always out of reach—something to be revered from a distance. The voice of reason, the voice of humanity. We see philosophy as a labyrinth; once inside, one might wander in circles, unable to find the exit. But does finding the exit truly matter? Isn't the act of losing oneself within the maze rewarding enough? We are often obsessed with conclusions—summarizing, digitizing, and seeking "usable" information.
Yet, knowledge, philosophy, and thought do not function that way. Those intricately diverging paths eventually connect to form a complex whole. In our minds, we traverse the ages of savagery and blind faith to arrive at the age of reason. This cycle repeats as humanity evolves and culture blossoms—where do we stand on that scale today? Now, more than ever, we need the voice of reason and the words of truth. Not the blind faith of politics or religions, but the diverse thoughts of many. It is time for sleeping souls to awaken.
Thus, we decided to create a "labyrinth" within the deep courtyard—a labyrinth of time and thought. The land is shaped like an inverted "L" or a sickle, with the blade pointing east. A container box sat at the "handle" of this sickle shape, which we cleared to make way for a garden. At the junction where the handle meets the blade, we erected a freestanding wall—shaped like the Korean consonants 'ㄱ' and 'ㄴ' placed side-by-side. To reach the house, one must pass through a narrow, alley-like path, mirroring the journey of encountering the unknown, philosophy, and knowledge.
Few clients agree to such a wall. Most ask with skepticism, "Why spend money on something like this?" I have no grand excuse. I simply ask, "Doesn't it just feel right?" If they say no, erase it, but fortunately, in this house, the wall stood firm.
Inside, the heavy walls enveloping the house were removed and replaced with light. We invited light and introduced a small courtyard into the modest space. A sarangchae (guest wing) was placed facing the courtyard, finished with a toetmaru (veranda). This veranda acts as a "liminal space," connecting the courtyard to the house. In place of the ornate traditional railings, we installed a minimalist flat railing.
The interior exposes the original timber frames, with the walls neatly refined. In truth, the house possessed an inherent skeletal beauty that required little intervention. In such cases, an architect’s role is merely to read the grain, admire it, and offer a gentle hand of support. In a secluded eastern nook, we planted flowers and added a low window to frame them.
Facing the main house across the courtyard stood an annex built of cement, brick, and concrete—likely an old warehouse later converted into a rental unit. Atop it sat a rooftop overlooking the Jemincheon Stream. We scrubbed and repainted the rusted stairs and added wooden walls to the roof. It is a place of ponder, watching the stream or the sun setting behind Mt. Bonghwangsan to the west.
For almost over a year, we finetuned this small house. We placed chairs, mounted shelves for books, and planted flowers just outside the windows. Thus, after a long period of contemplation, the philosophy bookstore was finally completed. Within these walls, we now await the echoes of answers that the ego of the house willed to manifest.
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