Artist Noh Suntag sees the division of North and South Korea as a relationship that embodies a strange coexistence. The two nations, in ideological extremity with each other, are two sides of the proverbial coin and signify the presence of political disparities—communism versus capitalism—existing side by side. These are some of the first thoughts that come to mind when witnessing Noh’s photographs that were on view in two simultaneous solo exhibitions, at 43 Inverness Street and the Fitzrovia Gallery in London.

The exhibition at 43 Inverness Street—which functions within a private residence of the gallery’s director, who also curated the show—brings references of the Korean War (1950–53) into the domestic space, alluding to how the notion of separation can challenge what is deemed familiar and comfortable. Noh employs his education in photography, political studies and painting to capture silent scenes that dispel myths and reveal the truth about his country’s partition. Scenes of military intervention in the South Korean farming village of Daechu-ri employ dark humor, layering the works with a sardonic overtone. One particular series, “State of Emergency” (2000–07), has an almost comical propensity. Toy-like soldiers sprout out of the earth like crops, like a modern-day capitalist farmland that grows soldiers instead of rice. The analogy of the scarecrow befits this image; instead of preventing birds from landing on the earth, they are preventing farmers from working. The slight “Dutch angle” (a tilted shot used in photography and cinematography to add an unsettling air to a scene) further adds to the feeling of disconcertment.

In another photograph from “State of Emergency”, a stepladder divides the farmers from the military men—the authoritative force seems anachronistic, appearing to belong in a different scene. The military men look uncomfortable in a land that is not theirs, while the farmers sit relaxed in a land that is rightfully theirs. In many ways, Noh brings in surrealist preoccupations into his works, making uncomfortable juxtapositions that probe and provoke. He pieces together incongruous elements to make a parodic commentary on the relationship between the two antagonized Korean nations.

Into this mix of militarized imagery from South Korea, Noh includes a photograph of North Korea from his series “Red House” (2005), where the glowing flame of the Juche Tower burns bright in the Pyongyang dawn. The philosophy of Juche, former North Korean president Kim Il-sung’s (1912–1994) communist ideology, celebrates self-reliance yet stands in conflict with the welfare of its people. The flame symbolizes the only source of illumination in a city that has plunged into a weathered darkness.