When Art Devours Itself The Rise and Reign of Culinary Monuments

I find myself once again amidst the bustling streets of Hanyang, a city familiar in geography but utterly transformed in purpose. Here, the defining characteristic of this society is its obsession with elevating food—both literal and symbolic—to an art form unmatched in our sense of absurdity or grandeur. It started, I’ve been told, with a curious imperial decree from Sejong the Great, mandating that art must serve the senses of sight and taste equally. The catch, of course, is that carvings of food have outlasted their gastronomic intentions and become permanent objects of reverence. Food here is magnificent but rarely eaten. Imagine Michelangelo devoting his entire career to recreating loaves of bread and dumplings in marble, only with this kingdom allocating its entire social order to the cause.

The streets are brimming with displays of edible sculptures—though many, impressively, are carved from more enduring materials like jade, resin, or even painted clay. Peasants labor over turnips the size of goats, carving delicate lattice patterns into them for ceremonial purposes. These might later adorn the courtyard of a wealthy merchant’s home or be used as ephemeral offerings during community festivals. The most elegant of these carvings are preserved in lacquer or wax to endure the ages. Sadly, what they no longer endure is their original purpose—to be eaten. “A waste?” I asked one passerby as he carefully inspected a watermelon carved into an ornate bowl and set atop a matching pedestal. “Not a waste,” he replied, clearly horrified by my ignorance. “Immortality.” I left him, marveling at how immortality seems to demand a great deal from one poor watermelon.

Every home, regardless of class, is expected to possess some form of “culinary artifice.” For most peasants and farmers, this means simple carvings of radishes, millet cakes sculpted into miniature pagodas, or stacks of ornamental rice balls. However, the wealthier you are, the more ambitious you must be. I passed a noble home today whose front garden was entirely overtaken by a life-sized sculpture of two peacocks fighting over a golden persimmon. When I asked a servant about its meaning, he shrugged. “Beauty needs no meaning,” he told me curtly, then gestured toward the peacocks. “But the prince is fond of them. And fond of persimmons.” Such is the reasoning behind an art form that, by any logical metric, defies common sense.

The irony of all this is that while the kingdom devotes immense resources to sculpting its food, hunger is rampant. Many peasants sacrifice portions of their harvests to create these personal monuments, often leaving behind little to actually eat. On my second day in Hanyang, I witnessed a small child snatch a chunk of sculpted turnip from a public display, only to be scolded by a passing yeogi-jang (a professional food sculptor). The boy retreated, his prize clutched to his chest, while the sculptor lamented that his career’s work might be reduced to mere sustenance. What I found most telling, however, was the boy’s father apologizing profusely—not to the child, who was hungry, but to the artist. “We have dishonored your work,” he repeated solemnly. A tragic and absurd perspective, but one ingrained deeply into this society’s values.

Naturally, this obsession has pervaded politics and courtly rituals. At yesterday’s enthronement ceremony for the crown prince, I stood amidst a throng of nobles who feigned reverence for newly-minted leadership but whispered fervently about the true spectacle: a culinary monument competition. Between gilded screens, I saw several noble families present edible dioramas representing their wishes for the new reign—scenes carved from candied oranges or painstakingly assembled with rice-paper trees. The crown prince himself appeared as a wax likeness among his sculpted cabinet of ministers, a display so lifelike I nearly mistook it for the real prince before noticing the actual man slightly to the left, polishing a boar-shaped bronze serving dish. His real prowess, I gathered, lies not in governance but in his artistry with inedible foods—a revelation I suspect the rest of the court considers a triumph.

As an outsider, the absurdity is impossible to ignore, but I must begrudgingly admire the technical ingenuity. The artistry on display is astounding; I have seen sugar spun so finely it seems like silk, rice layered in terraced patterns resembling mountain ranges, and jade cabbages so convincing their mere sight summons hunger. A young yeogi-jang confided to me that his latest project involved replicating the waves of the East Sea from dyed gelatin, a feat requiring precision slicing and careful layering at dawn when the air is suitably cool. “It will last only three days,” he said wistfully, “but no true art is eternal.” A noble sentiment, though one that left me hungry and irritated by dinner’s absence.

At night, I retreat to the small house where I’m staying as a guest, utterly bewildered by everything I’ve seen. The family I stay with has a centerpiece in their sitting room: a miniature tower constructed entirely of roasted chestnuts. “Please don’t touch it,” the wife explained to me, clearly nervous that I might defile their precious relic with an errant taste. As a traveler, I’ve seen civilizations rise and fall over far greater ideals than sculpted chestnuts, yet this timeline feels uniquely destined to crumble under its own pretentiousness. It is strange that the weight of such nonsense can impose so much order. Sitting here now, I consider raiding the chestnuts in the dead of night—not out of hunger, but out of spite. And yet, knowing my luck, I’d likely choke on one and become their new cautionary tale.