Diplomacy Journal Lee Jon-young  | When someone wakes up at age 103, the day is normally a quiet one. A quiet day can still be productive; one such centenarian routinely reaches for a writing brush.

 

Born in 1923, Master Nam Sang-jun has lived as a hyeokpil (leather brush) calligrapher for over 60 years since studying under Master Dong Ji-seong in 1961. The hyeokpil held in his fingertips is not limited to Hangeul. It embraces Chinese characters and even extends to the Roman letters of English. He teaches his disciples not just how to wield a leather brush when writing art, but also how to make and use a jukpil (bamboo brush).

 

 

Jukpil mastery is even rarer than that of hyeokpil. Nearly 2,000 years ago in China's Later Han Dynasty, the techniques for making a brush from pulverized tree branches emerged—yupil (willow brush), jukpil (bamboo brush), galpil (kudzu brush), and chopil (grass brush). In 2026, how many people could there be in Korea who have found their way to studying and mastering those techniques—actually handling and teaching jukpil?

The backs of his hands are deeply lined with the wrinkles of time, yet his brush tip remains active. "You should take a rest," people tell him. "Who will continue writing these strokes?" he responds.

 

Though his brush often dwells on Hangeul, his strokes are unrestrained. He and his brush extend beyond Hangeul to Chinese characters, then to English words, the lines transcend language to become thought, and thought becomes tradition. Beside him lies the bamboo brush, its name now nearly forgotten. Writing with the life force of bamboo, this nearly lost art breathes anew today in the hands of an old master.

 

What is a cultural treasure? Is it merely a label for something old? Or is it a living, transmitting power? If the latter, could there be a better example than this man, holding his brush and teaching his disciples at this very moment?

 

Master Nam Sang-jun is not an object to be safeguarded. He is an agent of transmission. He does not live in pace with the rhythm of a senior center; he lives for the future. Rather than leaning on someone, he grasps someone's hand to lift it. Experience becomes valuable only when used this way.

 

At a time when the average life expectancy for a South Korean man is 81, he has already lived 20 years beyond that. Throughout those many years, he opted against comfortable retirement to prove that "one can do anything."

 

If there is no workplace, create one yourself. If your body is not well, focus on what can be done. If the world has changed, retain the values worth preserving. Master Nam Sang-jun embodies all of this.

 

Freely mastering calligraphy for three scripts—those of Korean, Chinese and English—with the same leather brush is not simply a skill. It is the manifestation of an artistic spirit honed and refined over a lifetime.

 

How does our society treat the elderly? Let's be honest. While there are senior centers, places where we truly listen to the wisdom of the elderly are rare. While there are seats reserved for the elderly, a culture that respects their experience is lacking. We only tell the elderly, “Rest.” Never do we ask, “Teach me.”

 

But Master Nam Sang-jun is different. He knows he is old enough to sit still and relax, but he keeps his hands busy for his disciples. Students come to his studio not simply to learn hyeokpil techniques. They come to learn how a master who has lived over a century “sees life.”

 

This is precisely how one establishes one's own dignity in an era where respect for the elderly is lacking. It is how one earns respect, not pity. It is how one proves, even at 103, that “I am still a useful person.”

A story like that of Master Nam Sang-jun resonates so well with us because it is not the story of one man. We all age, without exception. Those now in their 30s, 50s, or 70s will eventually draw much closer to 100.

 

What will we be like then? Will we sit on senior center benches lamenting the passage of time, or will we still create something and pass on value to future generations? Master Nam Sang-jun chose the latter. And that choice poses a question to all of us: "What do you want to be remembered for in your old age?"

 

 

What is cultural heritage? An old building? Ancient pottery? Relics locked in a glass case in a museum? No. True cultural heritage "lives and breathes." It is technology passed from generation to generation, tradition flowing unbroken, and above all, it is the people who enbody it through their mere existence.

 

Master Nam Sang-jun is precisely what is meant by "living cultural heritage." Born in 1923, he endured the Japanese colonial period, did not put down his brush even amid the bombardment of the Korean War, traveled to the United States in 1977 to promote hyeokpil painting, and continues to transmit its lineage to disciples even now in 2026. Where could there be a more perfect example of intangible cultural heritage?

Yet the Seoul Metropolitan Government remains silent. Hyeokpil painting is not a designated category among its protected intangible cultural heritage. Despite academics stressing the need to designate non-mainstream traditional arts as intangible cultural heritage as well, the system remains unmoved.

 

Why? Is it because Hyukpil is considered “culture from the streets”—popular, common, not refined enough? If so, I must ask: Is only art born within palace walls worth being labeled cultural heritage? Does art that blossoms from the lives of common folk hold no value worth protecting?

 

Master Nam Sang-jun's hands tremble—natural for 103-year-old hands. But the hyeokpil calligraphy written by those trembling hands remains beautiful. Each stroke contains the weight of a life that has stretched over a century.

 

The moment those hands stop, his hyeokpil strokes vanish into history. Jukpil disappears with it. His world of hyeokpil, encompassing the scripts used in Korean, Chinese, and English, as well as the mystery of jukpil created from a single bamboo stalk—all of it becomes relics stored behind glass in museums.

 

There is only one way to prevent this: Designate Master Nam Sang-jun as an intangible cultural heritage now, and create a system for systematically transmitting his techniques. While he is alive, while he can still teach, we must act swiftly.

 

Designating an intangible cultural heritage is not merely an honor bestowed upon an individual. It is a declaration by the state to protect that culture and a promise to pass it on to future generations.

 

Designation as intangible cultural heritage would systematize hyeokpil's transmission. Support for nurturing successors would be provided. An art form on the brink of extinction would begin to breathe again. This is not just for Master Nam Sang-jun personally, but for all of us.

 

That a 103-year-old master still teaches disciples borders on a miracle. But miracles cannot last forever. Time flows equally for everyone. And even at this very moment, a thousand-year-old art is slowly fading away alongside Master Nam Sang-jun.

 

We are often late. We record only what has vanished, honor only those who have departed. But tradition does not wait. If we do not grasp it now, if we do not designate it now, tomorrow we will stand and wonder, "Why didn't we act when we had the chance?"

 

Master Nam Sang-jun's reason for existence is clear: to carry on the lineage of hyeokpil and jukpil; to prove the universality of an art form that encompasses thoughts transcribed in Hangeul, Chinese characters, and English; and to show that even at 103 years old, anything is possible.

 

Then what is our reason for existence? To turn away from the culture he has devoted his life to protecting, or to pass it on intact to the next generation?

 

Hyeokpil must become cultural heritage. Jukpil must also be recorded as cultural heritage. And above all, Master Nam Sang-jun, who does not rest his hands even at 103 for the sake of his students, must be designated as a national intangible cultural heritage so he can properly transmit his art while he is here with us.

 

This is not a request. It is a plea. Time waits for no one. Before the hands of a 103-year-old stop, before a thousand-year-old art form vanishes forever, we must decide.

 

The reason for existence cannot be proven alone; it requires mutual recognition. Master Nam Sang-jun has already proven his reason to exist. Now it is our turn to acknowledge him.

 

An artist who has traversed a century with a single leather brush, a master craftsman who extends a thousand-year tradition with a single bamboo stalk, a teacher who, even at 103, refuses to put down his brush for the sake of his students—Master Nam Sang-jun is living cultural heritage. That is precisely why it is imperative that he be designated as such.