The History of Korea and the Moon Jar (1)

Many people ask me about the Korean moon jar and the emotions Koreans associate with it, perhaps because I am Korean, grew up in Korea, and often paint the moon. But the story is not so simple. That is why I decided to write this text as a record of the cultural background behind the moon jar.

The Origin of the Moon Jar

Before talking about the moon jar itself, we should first look at the ordinary Korean storage jar.

A photograph of an onggi (earthenware jar) from the Goryeo Dynasty, featuring a rich, dark greyish-brown color. The jar has a slightly out-turned rim (mouth), a wide shoulder, and a long, oval body that gradually tapers towards the base. The surface exhibits a coarse texture and subtle horizontal lines, showing the marks of time and conveying a simple, robust aesthetic.
Onggi (Earthenware Jar), Goryeo Dynasty (918–1392). © National Museum of Korea (e-Museum).

This earthenware storage jar is the origin of the moon jar. During the Goryeo Dynasty (10th–14th century), techniques for making earthenware developed significantly. Later, in the Joseon Dynasty (from the 14th century onward), these jars became deeply integrated into everyday life.

There is a particular technique used to make large jars. To create a vessel of this size, potters often throw the upper and lower halves separately on the wheel and then join them together. (In Korea, this technique is called updaji.)

During the Joseon Dynasty (14th–19th century), when large moon jars were produced for the royal court, craftsmen who specialized in making large storage jars were invited to create them. For this reason, the moon jar ultimately traces its roots back to the Korean earthenware storage jar known as onggi, particularly the type called hangari.

A close-up photograph capturing the hands of a skilled artisan as they perform a patterning technique on a large, wet Onggi(hangari) jar. The hand, covered in clay slips, uses finger motions to incise a delicate, arch-like pattern into the surface. The jar, made of fresh, glistening brown clay, already features other subtle, engraved wave and chevron patterns around its upper body. Multiple unfinished jars sit blurred on wooden batten supports in the background on a dusty workshop floor. The artisan’s arm in a white sleeve is visible from the left. The scene highlights the artisanal skill and tactile nature of the ceramic-making process.
Patterning Demonstration on hangari Jar. © National Heritage Administration, Republic of Korea.

Why Is the Moon Jar White?

Korean earthenware jars are usually dark in color, such as grayish black, dark brown, or black. To understand why the moon jar is white, we must first look at the relationship between Koreans and the color white. Koreans even referred to themselves as Baekui Minjok, which literally means “the white-clad people.”

Strictly speaking, however, the color was not always pure white. It often leaned toward natural tones, ranging from pale ivory to soft gray. From hemp and ramie to silk, cotton, and various other fibers, the organic shades of these materials formed a spectrum that Koreans simply embraced as ‘white.’ This reflects a fundamental difference between Eastern and Western ways of perceiving and categorizing color.

A close-up photograph capturing an elderly Intangible Cultural Heritage master artisan, dressed in a traditional silk Cream and White Hanbok and traditional White Socks, as she sits and meticulously works with fine ramie (Mosi) fibers in a traditional Korean house. Two pointed wooden stands are positioned on either side of her, from which a vast, intricate curtain of very fine, glistening ramie fibers is strung. The master has a focused expression as she holds multiple fine threads in her right hand, while her left hand is carefully guiding another single thread into the complex, veil-like web of fibers she is creating or fine-tuning. The intricate geometric patterns of traditional Korean wooden screen doors (Mun-sal) fill the background, and a dark earthenware pot with coiled ramie threads is in the foreground. The lighting is precise, emphasizing the ethereal quality of the fibers and the detailed work of the master's hands.
Mosi (Ramie Fiber) Weaver, Intangible Cultural Heritage of Korea.
The artisan’s attire exemplifies the “natural white” tones derived from traditional materials.
© National Heritage Administration, Republic of Korea.

In the late 13th century,

During a period of heavy Chinese political influence, the authorities banned clothing of natural colors that people had long favored, forcing them to wear black garments instead. However, such regulations failed to change everyday habits.

By the 14th century,

Neo-Confucianism, a philosophical system introduced from China, had become the dominant ideology of society. Neo-Confucian thought emphasized inner purity and moral integrity rather than colorful decoration or outward display. Bright colors were often viewed as symbols of luxury or excess.

Within this worldview, white came to represent purity and a clean heart. White clothing is difficult to maintain because it stains easily. For this reason, keeping white garments clean was sometimes seen as a form of personal discipline and self-improvement. Perhaps from this period onward, Koreans developed an even deeper attachment to the color white.

Interestingly, despite being a Confucian society, China did not favor white clothing, as it primarily symbolized death and mourning.

A photograph of a traditional Korean Hakchangui (Scholar's Robe). The robe is made of crisp white fabric, symbolizing the purity and integrity valued by Korean scholars. It features wide sleeves and a stark black border along the collar and edges, creating a simple yet elegant contrast. The garment is shown laid flat, representing a key example of the white-clad tradition during the Joseon Dynasty.
Hakchangui (Scholar’s Robe).
Its striking white and black contrast symbolizes the scholar’s inner purity and clear moral boundaries. Late Joseon Dynasty(18th–19th Century). © National Museum of Korea (e-Museum).

In the early 15th century,

the Korean state attempted to encourage people to wear blue clothing, based on the philosophy of Yin-Yang and the Five Elements. There were even patrols that would splash dye or ink onto white garments when they saw them on the street. Despite this, people continued to wear white.

By the 18th century

the situation had changed somewhat. This period was a Korean renaissance. It was a time of social stability, flourishing scholarship, and growth in both the arts and the economy. Yet even during this time, policies again appeared that attempted to discourage white clothing. The argument was that the color resembled mourning clothes, which many saw as a sign of bad luck. Nevertheless, people continued to wear white as they always had.

A close-up detail from Yu Suk's 1853 scroll painting, Sugyedogwon (Literati Gathering for a Purification Ceremony). The scene captures a group of Chosun-dynasty scholarly figures (literati) gathered around a large wooden table piled with books and writing tools. The attire of the twenty-plus figures is the key element: nearly all wear traditional white Hanbok robes, though closer inspection reveals these whites are not pure, but varied natural tones of pale ivory and bone. A small number of figures wear delicate, pale-blue robes, adding soft contrast. All are shown in contemplative poses, wearing black hats (gat) as they interact with each other and open scroll documents, with stylized pine trees and rock formations in the background.
Detail of Sugyedogwon (Literati Gathering for a Purification Ceremony),
showing figures dressed predominantly in traditional white, with a few wearing pale blue robes over their white garments.
Yu Suk, 1853. © Korea Copyright Commission.

During the early 20th century

in the period of Japanese colonial rule, another attempt was made to suppress white clothing. Authorities claimed that it was unsanitary and unsuitable for modernization and ordered people to wear colored garments instead. But many people refused to comply. From this point on, white clothing also became a symbol of national resistance.

What began as a practical choice in everyday life gradually became connected to philosophy and eventually even to resistance. Because of this history, the Korean attachment to white carries a unique and layered meaning. In this cultural context, the white surface of the moon jar is more than just a color choice. It reflects a profound Korean sensibility.

A composite image showcasing the official opening and closing ceremony uniform for Team Korea at the Hangzhou Asian Games, designed by Musinsa Standard. The uniform's theme is "Baekui Minjok" (The White-Clad People). The left side features a dynamic full-body shot of South Korean Taekwondo athlete Jang Jun performing a high side kick, wearing the pure white suit which symbolizes the traditional aesthetic of pure white clothing in Korea. The right side is a close-up portrait of another model wearing the same white denim jacket over a black shirt, clearly displaying the Korean flag (Taegeukgi) patch on the chest and an embossed pattern on the sleeve. The overall impression is a modern, stylish interpretation of Korea's long-standing white-clad tradition.
Team Korea’s official uniform for the Hangzhou Asian Games, featuring a modern reinterpretation of the “Baekui Minjok” (The White-Clad People) tradition.
Designed by Musinsa Standard. © Musinsa.

Today, many Koreans tend to wear black clothing rather than white for practical reasons. In modern urban environments, it is difficult to keep white clothes clean because of dust, pollution, and everyday wear.

While black may dominate our wardrobes, this aesthetic preference has simply shifted to our surroundings. The Korean love for white remains remarkably strong in modern life, as seen in the popularity of white home appliances, minimalist furniture, and the overwhelming number of white cars on the road. The same sensibility that once shaped the moon jar still defines the clean, serene aesthetic of contemporary Korea.

In my own paintings, there is almost no white. Yet the quiet presence of white seems to linger. Perhaps this is something I have learned from the culture I grew up in.

Thumbnail for Artist Bohwa Kim's 2024 painting 'Between Summer and Autumn'
Between Summer and Autumn(2024)

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Mid of March, 2026 —