Chinese fighters with spears. Northern China, 1930s. Original photographer unkown. Source: The private album of a Japanese soldier.

Through a Lens Darkly

In this occasional series I turn to photographs, postcards, slides or other forms of ephemera both as a source of information about the Chinese martial arts and as a witness to the many functions that they have served in popular culture over the decades. These sources, rarely preserved in official collections and often ignored by students of the historical record, can yield fascinating insights into both past practices and the evolution of current beliefs and identities. In fact, some of my more interesting discoveries have come from delving deeply into this material.  Yet almost by definition these images are fragmented, difficult to interpret and present only a single dimension of the moment in time which they capture. When properly understood these shards of culture lead us to ask better questions rather than providing simple answers.

This is what I was attempting to capture when I first titled this series “Through a Lens Darkly.” Within them we see an image of the past, but it is always fuzzy and distorted. And sometimes the nature of these distortions are even more revealing than the ostensible subject of the image.

However, in the case of today’s post the title can also be read more literally. Each of these pictures really is a bit distorted, both by watermarks and the quality of the scans. For the most part this series has focused on widely disseminated images, those that are already in the public domain, or photographs and postcards drawn from my own personal collection.

Each of today’s images is a little different. They are all examples of photos that I have bid on in auctions over the years and not won. As such I only have the modified copies of the images made publicly available by the original sellers, and I cannot provide higher quality scans. Still, the subject matter in each of these is rare enough to be worth sharing anyway.  I suspect that students of the Republic era martial arts, or those interested in the growth of various sorts of militia movements seen in northern China, will find these to be quite educational.

Japanese soldiers with captured Chinese spears and other weapons. Original photographer unknown. Source: Photo album of a Japanese soldier.

Spears, Spears and more Spears
One of the challenges that I have faced when researching the spread of the Red Spear movement (see here, here and here) is that we don’t have many contemporary images of these groups. Given the hundreds of thousands of individuals caught up in these movements, and how important they were to the social organization of rural northern China for more than a decade, this has always struck me as somewhat surprising. Then again, even the number of contemporary press reports in major newspapers (e.g., the sorts that you might find in a university library collection), are less than one might think.

When you do happen across spear wielding militia members is also quite hard to say which organization they belong to with much certainty. The Chinese historian Tai Hsuan-chih (whose father helped to sponsor one of these groups back in the 1920s) reminds us that the term “Red Spear” itself became something of a catch all for the many small movements and chapters (including the “Yellow Spears,” the “Big Swords,” the “Iron Gate” and the “Spirit Soldiers”) all sharing a similar spiritual/martial technology and all spreading across northern China at roughly the same time. So while we are referring to these individuals as “Red Spears” in the current post, we should remember that they may have represented a variety of groups often bound together through complex alliances, tensions and open feuds.

In general these groups seem to have been organized and supported by local landlords. In many ways they can be thought of as a new type of local militia (drawn strictly from the ranks of landowning peasants) that coalesced as a reaction to the fall of the Qing dynasty and the generalized social disorder of the Warlord era. Most of these groups were founded with the express purpose of fighting and deterring the ever growing armies of local bandits that were starting to threaten the very fabric of agricultural life in northern China.

Over time the political entanglements of these groups became more complex. After the Northern Campaign they fought to keep tax collectors from both the Republic and the remaining Warlords at bay. Later they would be used by local elites in settling inter-village feuds over limited resources, and even resisting the Japanese invasion in the late 1930s and 1940s.  More than anything else these groups became a focal point of violent resistance against the various outside forces attempting to penetrate northern China’s countryside in the middle years of the 20th century.

In fact, we owe each of the images in this post to the Japanese. It was not uncommon for Japanese soldiers to collect albums comprised of postcards, commercially produced photos, and snap-shots taken in the field. Given the martial arts training that many of these individuals had received during their secondary education, it seems that at least some developed a certain level of interest in Chinese hand combat traditions and avidly collected images of boxers, dadaos and other traditional weapons that were encountered over the course of their occupation. We have already seen a few such examples of this genera here and here.

It goes without saying that these images are far from neutral records and that they record as much about the underlying beliefs of the Japanese soldiers as they do the practices of the Chinese people. Still, some of the images from the following collection seem to be particularly helpful for those of us trying to get a sense of what the Red Spears might actually have looked like when the Japanese began to encounter them in the late 1930s.

The first image is probably the most valuable as it actually shows a Chinese unit armed with traditional spears. Again, we don’t really know which exact force this group represents but their youth, mismatched clothing and the rough nature of their weapons was probably pretty typical for what one might have encountered in most village militias across the region.

The second image in this series focuses instead on a group of Japanese soldiers. They are seen posing with what appears to be a few dozen weapons confiscated from Chinese militias or irregular troops. This image in particular is a valuable reminder of the fact that the “Red Spears” carried more than just spears.

The spear has always held a special place within the Chinese martial arts. Given its deadly deficiency, and the ease with which it can be mass produced, its hardly surprising that so many of these village militia organizations would have chosen the spear as their primary weapon. Yet the bandits in the hills were often armed with modern rifles, and the troops of the Warlord and Republic armies carried both box magazine rifles and machine guns. Nor did the Red Spears have any compunction about adopting and fighting with these more contemporary weapons when they became available.

I like this image because it probably represents a pretty decent cross-section of what sorts of weapons were seen in inter-community violence from the 1920s-1940s. On the one hand we have a large group of exceptionally sturdy spears. Most of the poles appear to be natural trunks that have had minimal work. The blades of these weapons are heavy and feature long cutting surfaces.

In addition to the spears we see a large number of rifles. Some are caplock models form the 1860s (possibly British Sniders?). But others appear to be modern box-magazine rifles roughly equivalent to what the Japanese soldiers themselves were carrying. In front of all of this is a notably small pile of rifle cartridges on stripper clips (certainly less ammunition than you would want if you were about to take on the Japanese Army) and a couple of sub-machine guns.

Readers will want to pay special attention to the large spear head featured on the far left of the image. This point is exceptionally long and elegantly shaped. I think that it would occupy pride of place in any collection of 20th century Chinese traditional weapons.

A Japanese postcard showing captured Chinese spears, a hat and battle flag. Source: Vintage postcard circa 1940s.

Conclusion
The Red Spears represent a fascinating and under-studied chapter in the history of the modern Chinese martial arts. While we do not have as many images of this movement as we may want from their earlier period of activity in the 1920s, Japanese soldiers, for their own reasons, seemed intent on documenting and sending home photographs of some of the civilian forces that they met in Northern China. Undoubtedly these images were selected because they played into (and reinforced) preexisting beliefs about the nature of their opposition and the dangers of their assignment in Northern China.

Yet how did these encounters appear from the perspective of the Red Spear militia members themselves? While a topic too broad for a single blog post, I would like to close with a single account revealing a different side of these encounters. Consider the following story related by a Nationalist soldier who witnessed Red Spear maneuvers against the invading Japanese in northern Anhui Province during 1938.

“As one of their teachers was in the middle of his talk, suddenly the sound of enemy planes could be heard overhead. Hearing the noise the peasants showed signs of discomfort. However one of their chiefs immediately jumped on the speaker’s platform yelling “Holy Water! Holy Water!” Someone who had already been stationed in front of the platform with a bucket of drinking water now knelt down and offered a bowl of water to the chief. Simultaneously, a representative from each of the dozen or so chapters rushed forward to take a bowl back to his respective group. Under instruction from the chief, each person drank a sip of “Holy Water.” Then all three to four thousand of them knelt, closed their eyes, and began to mumble their magical phrases. When the incantation was over, thy jumped up as if awakening from a dream. Their breathing was forced, their eyes bloodshot, their gaze unswerving, and their muscles tense—as though gripped by madness.

The silence was deafening. Each member grasped his red-tasseled spear planted firmly like a tree. The light breeze set the tassels to fluttering, creating an even more awesome spectacle.

Fortunately the enemy planes seem to have had some other destination in mind. Nine in a row, they flew off towards the northeast in apparent oblivion to the red glow beneath. The danger over, one of the teachers happily explained that they had been chanting a “block hole charm” which had worked to stop up the barrels of the Japanese guns, ensuring that no bullets could shoot forth.” (Perry 192-193).

oOo

If you enjoyed these images you might also want to see: Through a Lens Darkly (8): Butterfly Swords, Dadaos and the Local Militias of Guangdong, 1840 vs. 1940.

oOo

***For today’s post we are headed back to the archives.  I am becoming more interested in the ways that the traditional martial arts have been promoted by the Chinese government as a means of generating “soft power” within the realm of public diplomacy and “national branding.”  Even more interesting is the leading (and sometimes competing) roles played by provincial and municipal bodies (as well as NGOs) in these efforts.   I have been reviewing the theoretical literature on these topics and its something that we will be exploring in greater detail in the future.   But for now it might be helpful to review some of our initial efforts in understanding the growing prominence and nature of “Kung Fu Diplomacy.”***

Introduction: Hong Kong, Regionalism and the Martial Arts

It is hard to think of any state with such robust and diverse group of regional identities as China’s. Much of my research is focused on the development of the martial arts as part of Southern China’s popular culture and its response to the pressures of imperialism and globalization. I am always interested in coming across older accounts of the Pearl River Delta region and have often been struck by the consistency that can be seen in these descriptions going back at least as far as the end of Ming dynasty.

Prior to that things look notably different. Who knew that Guangzhou had both an Arab quarter and Christian churches in the middle ages? Yet by the start of the Qing many of the region’s most notable modern characteristics have already cemented themselves in the public consciousness. These include the centrality of vigorous regional trade to the local economy, the social power of the area’s larger (quasi-corporate) lineage associations, many of the unique aspects of both Cantonese language and theater, and of course a certain regional reputation for the love of the martial arts and gangsterism.

Of course it would be a mistake to assume that these characteristics are set in stone and nothing changes from one decade to the next. The very nature of local identity guarantees that it will need to be reinvented in each new generation. For one thing the context that shapes the relationship between these different practices is constantly evolving. Some elements will stay the same, others will be discarded. Just as importantly, those elements that remain will be subject to pressures from multiple interest groups, each intent on capturing these powerful public symbols as they seek to expand their influence in the region. Some of these players may represent broadly based social forces, but more often it is social elites to take the lead in promoting certain visions of identity while others are allowed (or even encouraged) to fall by the wayside.

Nowhere in modern China are these conversations about the nature and value of local identity being heard more loudly than in Hong Kong. That in itself is somewhat surprising as regional and provincial identity has been a hot topic throughout China as a whole for at least a decade. Starting in the late 1990s all sorts of local municipalities began to actively promote efforts to build their local, regional or provincial identity.

At the same time similar conversations dominated the public square in Hong Kong. Most commentators pointed to the quickly approaching hand over of the territory to the People’s Republic of China as the proximate cause for this sudden interest in the question of local history and identity. After all, the residents of Hong Kong had been notoriously unsentimental about their own history for much of the Cold War and had steadfastly refused to build anything like a shared civic identity for most of this period. Anxiety about the coming handover certainly shaped much of this conversation, and fears about the city’s future continue to drive public discussions to this day. Yet what is often forgotten is that Hong Kong’s rediscovery of their local heritage was in reality just one aspect of a much broader trend that was sweeping across literally every province in China. It seems that everyone was suddenly been overtaken with the same urgent need to discover their own local identity.

The traditional Chinese martial arts have benefited from this revived interest in local history. Given the nature of hand combat instruction, these arts were traditionally highly localized. Even styles like Taijiquan, which managed to develop a following around the nation during the Republic period, still have a tendency to develop geographically centered “lineages” rather than remaining truly “national” in scope. As provincial governments looked for elements of local culture that could be popularized, marketed and might attract tourists from other areas, the traditional martial arts found themselves on the front lines of a commercial war. A city’s favorite style could claim to be unique and quintessentially Chinese at the same time.

The Shaolin Temple is currently the largest tourist attraction in Henan province and accounts for a substantial chunk for the capital that the local government has managed to attract. In the southern part of China a number of provinces and counties have attempted to replicate this success by “discovering” the ruins of the southern Shaolin Temple within their own jurisdictions. And who could forget Douglas Wile’s ascorbic account of the discovery of “Wudang Taiji” just as the province decided that it needed an additional tourist attraction and source of local pride.

These comparatively well-known examples all revolved around attempts to create (or repurpose) highly visible localities for the promotion of both local identity and tourism. More frequently local elites have found themselves attempting to cultivate and promote “intangible elements” of an area’s culture or history in an attempt to argue that they too are the guardians of a local identity that is worth investing in.

This focus on elements of “intangible local heritage” has been especially important in Hong Kong and the highly urbanized areas of coastal China. Most the area’s architectural heritage has long since been plowed under to make way for vast expanses of factories, shopping malls, highways and apartment blocks. Flat land has always been a scarce commodity in the highly populated regions of southern China. As such we should not be surprised to see the areas residents have turned instead to local practices and institutions to act as the embodiment of “local identity.”

The city of Hong Kong recently took some steps towards codifying this trend when they released a list of 480 elements of its “intangible local heritage” that the government wished to acknowledge and preserve. The entire list can be viewed here and it makes for fascinating reading.  Linguistic, cultural and religious practices are well accounted for. Specialized local forms of knowledge and skills (such as regional cooking styles) are also a mainstay of this discussion of regional culture.

Interestingly the martial arts are also well represented in this discussion. In fact, no fewer than 35 slots on the list were dedicated to hand combat practices. These arts ranged from the nationally popular and well known, such as Taijiquan, to the much more regional, including Hung Gar and Choy Li Fut. I was also struck by the fact that multiple styles, including both Wing Chun and Hung Gar, were also represented by a number of competing lineages. Other arts, such as White Crane and Taijiquan, who have very well-known sub-styles or lineages, only received a single more global notice.

360 Tai Shing Pek Kwar Moon Style (Monkey and Axe Hammer Style) – wushu
361 Tai Chi Chuan
366 Northern Shaolin Tay Tong Pak Kar
367 Weng Chun Fist [Note to readers: this is not the same style as Wing Chun, but its probably related.]
370 Pak Hok Pai (White Crane) Fist
371 Southern Shaolin Ng Cho Kun (Five Ancestors Fist) Tiebigong (Iron Arm Skill)
372 Hung Gar Kuen Style
373-377 Lam Family Hung Kyun; Kung Chi Fuk Fu Fist; Fu Hok Seung Ying Fist; Dan Tau Kwan; Tit Sin Fist
378 Fu Style Bagua Quan (Fu Style Eight Trigrams Fist)
379 Hua Yue Xin Yi Liu He Ba Fa Chuan (Six Harmonies Eight Methods Boxing)
380 Wing Chun Fist
381- 383 Pao Fa Lien Wing Chun; Snake Crane Wing Chun; Yip Man Wing Chun
384 Cangzhou Wushu
387 Choi Lee Fat Fist
390 Lung Ying Fist (Dragon Sign Fist)
391 Tanglangquan (Northern Praying Mantis)
392 – 395 Its [Northern Mantis’] variations

Students interested in Hong Kong and Southern Chinese identity will have no trouble adapting this list to all sorts of ongoing discussions. Yet I would argue that it might also make some critical contributions to our understanding of the nature and development of current Chinese regionalism as a whole. Even a cursory examination of the preceding list will present us with a number of paradoxes. These in turn suggest some of the ways that Chinese martial studies might contribute to larger debates on globalization and regional identity.

One of the first things that we might want to note about the foregoing list is its sheer length. It would certainly have been possible to create a list of martial arts styles or lineages that originated in or around Hong Kong, but that collection of styles would have been much shorter and more esoteric. Instead it is interesting to note that most of the styles of this list were not only developed outside of the borders of the city, but many were not even created in Guangdong province. For instance White Crane originated, and remains most popular within, Fujian province. I suspect that Northern Mantis was first brought to the area by the instructors of the Jingwu Association in the 1920s. And it goes without saying that the roots of modern Taijiquan lay very firmly in the northern half of the country.

Nor is the martial arts section of this list the only area that exhibits these same puzzles. Indian and Nepalese cultural elements are honored along with Chinese ones. Further, many of the local Chinese practices that are honored are seen throughout the southern China geographic region and not just in the immediate area around Hong Kong? How does this sort of radically contingent view of local identity, based very much in the city’s history of regional trade, colonialism and an ongoing debate about the nature of its Chinese identity, fit with what we see being discussed in other parts of the literature?

The short answer is not very well. In fact, the ways in which local identity is being constructed in Hong Kong challenges many of the basic assumptions about what is driving the process of regionalism that are seen throughout the social scientific literature. This disjoint becomes especially apparent when we consider the martial arts styles included on the recent list, and the use of hand combat schools in establishing local identity more generally.

The Rise of China’s New Regionalism

The disciplines of Political Science, International Political Economy, Sociology, Economics, Cultural Geography, History and Anthropology have all devoted substantial resources to the growing importance of regional identity in the previous decades. This ascent is all the more interesting as students of nationalism and sociologists of the “modernization hypothesis” school had long expected that these sorts of identities would wane and disappear in the current era. Given the centrality of the state in creating the institutions that structure most elements of daily life in the modern world, it was simply assumed that citizens would increasingly turn their loyalty towards the nation while regional ties, languages and religious communities were allowed to atrophy.

One must state at the outset that not all regional or local identities have prospered under the current round of globalization. Yet by in large these intermediary institutions and identities have defied their critics and actually grown more powerful and relevant in a number of areas of the world including both Europe and China. How then can we explain this marked resurgence in regional identity?

When considering the case of China there is an additional factor to consider. Not all of the local identities that have been growing in relevance are equally “organic.” Individual cities such as Hong Kong, Shanghai and even Foshan have certainly seen a strengthening of local identity. Yet much of this process has been going on at the provincial level.

This actually presents us with something of a paradox as many of China’s provinces are actually very diverse administrative units. They have not always shared a single culture, social history or even language. Yet increasingly we are hearing discussions of “Shanxi’s local culture,” or “Shandong’s unique identity.”

What are we to make of these claims? When Joseph Esherick wrote his pioneering history on the Boxer Uprising in Shandong he found the province to be so heterogeneous that it was necessary to split it into three separate units each with its own social, economic and geographic realities. When addressing the events of the end of the 19th century he found it impossible to speak intelligibly about “Shandong’s provincial identity.” Such a thing did not actually exist in the singular tense. How then should we understand the more recent conversation about provincial identities?

Tim Oakes, a cultural geographer, attempted to tackle this question in an article titled “China’s Provincial Identities: Reviving Regionalism and Reinventing “Chineseness”,” published in the Journal of Asian Studies Vol. 59, No. 3 (August). 2000. : 667-692. Oaks began by asserting that while China has a long and rich history of producing regional identities, these were usually not centered at the level of the provincial administrative units. Instead it was smaller economic subsystems and even individual municipalities that tended to be viewed as the appropriate unit for identity formation.

Oakes ultimately sees the rise of the new Chinese regionalism as being a product of two forces. The first of these was the move towards increased decentralization within the PRC during the 1990s. This forced local leaders to adopt a level of autonomy, and competition between provinces, that would not have been tolerated during the Maoist era. Secondly, the opening of China to global capital markets presented many of these leaders with both a challenge and an opportunity. They quickly realized that in order to get promoted they needed to demonstrate that they could encourage economic growth and development. This in turn required making their administrative units an inviting destination for international capital hoping to form domestic partnerships with Chinese firms to gain access to the state’s vast consumer markets.

For the coastal region this was not all that difficult. The nation’s manufacturing infrastructure was already located in these areas, as were large numbers of low wage workers. The fact that the region also had many deep ports and was situated on historically important trans-pacific shipping routes only helped. With the creation of numerous special trade zones throughout the decade the area quickly established itself as the premier destination for global FDI (foreign direct investment dollars).

Not all of China’s provincial leaders were so geographically blessed, and yet their own career advancement depended upon them encouraging the same sort of economic miracle. They too create special economic zones. Yet how do you encourage any sort of investment in China’s interior provinces? These areas are far from global transportation hubs and were better known for their grinding poverty and underdevelopment than anything else.

In his article Oakes demonstrates how a number of these leaders attempted to promote specific regional identities in an attempt to both boost the morale of their citizens while making themselves more attractive targets for global financial investment. Often this meant adopting a single city’s historical reputation for “frugality” or “entrepreneurial spirit,” and then attempting to write that onto the province as a whole.

In other cases local leaders attempted to reframe their lack of development as an “unspoiled environment” to attract tourists fleeing the polluted and congested cities further to the East. Minority communities were often reimagined as “living fossils” which preserved archaic elements of a once great Chinese cultural tradition that had been lost in the more developed areas.

The great paradox of these provincial identities is that they had to latch onto to marketable elements that were simultaneously perceived as being unique, available nowhere else, and yet at the same time were somehow “quintessentially Chinese,” and so of general interest. These commoditized elements of local culture thus provide a tool that individual populations can use to assert their value (arguing for a greater share of the collective resources) within the larger state.

Whether the “capital investments” that they hope to attract are electronics factories or newly enriched tourists from Beijing and Shanghai, Oakes argues that the rise of local identities is driven forward almost totally by the demands of global capital. In the past political economists often assumed that globalization would lead to a flattening of local culture as each successive area was turned into an identical unit for the production and consumption of some universally desirable set of goods. In large part that has not happened. Instead global businesses have learned that is much easier and more profitable to use the contours of local society to promote their sales. Rather than creating a demand for their product from the ground up, it is more profitable to exploit preexisting regional institutions and practices.

Alternatively, having a “local identity” that is favorable to business and investment (perhaps because of the stability of society, the disciplined and educated workforce or social norms that create a marketplace of mythic “Confucian merchants”) can be a deciding factor when attracting FDI. Thus the great advantage of the provinces as a locus for identity creation was that most of them were basically empty administrative units to begin with. Local leaders are free to look within their borders for those elements that will be the most advantageous in the current situation and to cultivate them. Of course this same process will deemphasize and obscure many of the other much more authentic local markers of identity that typically occur at the municipal level which were not selected for promotion to a global audience.

This trend is particularly noticeable in the world of martial arts tourism.  Foshan has recently rebuilt much of its urban core to increase the residential standard of living and make the area a more desirable destination for martial arts tourists. Many of the individuals coming to the city today are Wing Chun students, so that is what has received the most attention and development dollars. Yet Wing Chun was a relatively small style in the 1930s and many of the other regionally important styles that actually defined the area’s martial identity are being forgotten. Last I heard the city’s truly unique and historic Jinwu Association hall had fallen into serious disrepair with no plans on the book to preserve it. Oakes paper is helpful as it reminds us that this is not an isolated problem. Ironically it is the rush to promote and preserve one vision of an area’s regional culture and identity that often fundamentally imperils and transforms it.

Oakes concludes by noting that the current process of elite led identity formation is often highly strategic. We have already seen how this can suppress elements of local culture that are not seen as being useful to their goals. Yet it can also be a threat to the idea of “regional identities.” Indeed, historically regional identities that followed certain linguistic, geographic or economic zones were often much more important than the purely administrative identities that bisected them. For instance, coastal southern China was held together by a dense network of ports and regional trade relationships that stretched from Vietnam to the coast of Taiwan, and at times even included Okinawa. It would not be an exaggeration to say that merchant sailors in Guangdong and Fujian probably had more in common with each other than farmers living much closer together along the east and west branch of the Pearl River in Guangdong.

These sorts of regional relationships are critical to understanding the historical development of Chinese popular culture. Yet in the current era they do not serve the purposes of political elites who are trying to attract investment in their province while deterring it from going to neighbors. Oakes concludes that the new identities that Chinese elites are creating all share three common characteristics. First, they enclose provinces treating them as a unique world with very little acknowledgement of their interaction with historically important regional networks. Second, they attempt to establish a sense of stable and authentic “Chineseness” both to erase the memory of the country’s chaotic past and as a way for reinforcing identity in a rapidly changing economy. Lastly they promote certain elements of local folk culture to the provincial level in an attempt to attract capital or to develop commercial opportunities.

Oakes claims that this wholesale creation of basically artificial provincial identities is a result of Beijing’s attempts to decentralize the process of governance as a way to deal with the classic pitfall’s of a socialist command economy. This has forced local leaders to marshal what cultural and social resources they have at their disposal to solve the problems of fiscal solvency and the promotion of economic growth. Further, the zero-sum nature of FDI diversion ensured that when this strategy proved to be successful in a few area’s it would quickly be adopted across China’s competitive landscape.

Just as seemingly every province has now set aside a group of “special economic zones” to help promote growth, they have also constructed a vision of regional identity to both attract capital and to strengthen their negotiating position with the state center by emphasizing their “Chineseness.” Rather than China’s local identities being a product of the historic state building process, they are instead a decontextualized accumulation of strategically and commercially useful signs.

Conclusion: Hong Kong’s Intangible Cultural Heritage Reconsidered

Given China’s vast size Oakes confined his investigation of the emergence of provincial identities within the state’s interior region. He did not consider how the same process might function in the more developed coastal areas or in the “greater Chinese” cultural sphere including Hong Kong and Taiwan. This is precisely what makes the recent statement by Hong Kong’s government so interesting. Many of the propositions about the interplay between global economic pressure and the formation of local identity seen in this article are basically accepted as “common sense” in the social scientific literature. And as Oakes illustrates, it is not hard to find a number of cases and fit this understanding of the process fairly well. Thus the recent study by Hong Kong provides us with a new observation to test Oakes’ theory of regional identity formation that is separate from the body of historical insight that he drew on in the formulation on his hypothesis.

When we attempt to apply his strategic understanding of regional identity formation to events in Hong Kong, problems quickly begin to appear. To begin with it is worth noting that Hong Kong is just as dependent as every other region in China on FDI flows to insure the growth and proper functioning of its economy. In fact, the liberalization and rapid development of other areas on the mainland have diverted global capital flows away from Hong Kong raising long-term questions about what the financial future of this city will be. One would expect that the area’s administration would be totally committed to making themselves as attractive to global capital flows as possible, and Oakes suggests that this would lead them to cultivate and advertise a certain type of “local identity.”

Unfortunately there is little correspondence between this most recent construction of local identity and the set of predictions that Oakes gave us. You can see this clearly in the selection of martial arts included in the report. Yes some very local favorites including Wing Chun and Choy Li Fut make the list. But so do broader regional arts originally hailing from Fujian province such as White Crane and Hung Gar. As a matter of fact, Hong Kong’s historic connection to the south China regional trade route is memorialized not just here but in multiple places throughout the list. Many elements of Fujianese language and culture are remembered for the contributions to Hong Kong’s development.

Far from being decontextualized and ahistorical, one cannot help but feel that this list was written with a keen eye towards the historical processes that helped shape the region, even if that meant acknowledging cultural elements from other regions or even the Indian subcontinent. In this list we see a different vision of how regional identity forms. One suspects that many elements were included specifically to represent (or in response to lobbying efforts by) the many diverse constituencies that comprise the modern city of Hong Kong.

This reminds us of a critical truth. Elite action can only take one so far. Actual identity only arises when it is enacted by local communities as such, and they will also have their own vision of themselves. It seems to me that most local identities are not as strategic as Oakes claims. His results are skewed as he only considered a subset of mostly previously empty provincial identities. Yet when one starts to look at other levels of analysis, such as leading cities, or regions of the country (including the coastal south), things start to become more complicated. Indeed, one of the really interesting things about China right now is the mix of different levels and types of identity that seem to be in play.

In these other arena’s political leaders do not have the only voice. In the current era there is also a rich history of media representation that one must contend with. In fact, much of the martial arts contribution to regional identity formation is actually derived from media representations of these arts rather than their actual practice. Relatively few people actually practice the martial arts, yet everyone sees TV programs, novels, operas or films glorifying them.

Bowman has pointed out, the logic that drives this sort of discourse is often quite distinct from the political and economic concerns that Oakes addresses. As such it is not clear that we can automatically expect that the media’s representations of these arts will conform to the expectations of either political economists or post-colonial theorists. To paraphrase Karl Marx, political leaders may be able to shift this discourse, but they cannot do so just as they please. The historical path dependencies which created the modern state continue to constrain the creativity of modern elites in ways that are not always obvious. This is just as true in the realm of popular culture as high politics.

Chinese martial studies has much to contribute to our ongoing investigations of the ways in which regional and local identities form in the current global era. These practices have traditionally flourished at the local level, yet increasingly they are being called upon to help to ensure the cultural purity of their students and as well as to negotiate their value with the center.

One of the most valuable aspects of this discussion has been the reminder that like the martial arts, regional identities never exist in isolation. In the modern era they emerged as a response to the rise of the national identity. By seeking to create a local identity individuals created for themselves a space to negotiate their relationship both with the state and the demands of the global system. Far from being a throwback to an ideal and Orientalized past, the invocation of the martial arts in these discussions demonstrates their ongoing value as vehicles for both individual and community expression in modern global world.

oOo

If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read: Imagining the Martial Arts: Hand Combat Training as a Tool of the Nation.

oOo

Knife vs. Magazine fight from the Bourne Supremacy (2004).

“[…] In contemporary martial arts discourse, the most important distinction to be negotiated is not between the screen and street, but rather between the dojo and the street.

Increasingly, in martial arts discourse, it is not the screen that is held to be unreal or suspect or accused of being fantasy. It is the dojo—the training practices in training halls, that stand accused of being dream factories.”

Paul Bowman. “Mediatized Movements: Martial Artistry & Media Culture.” A Keynote presented at the Martial Arts & Media Culture Conference in Cologne (Germany), 17th of July 2015.   As always, you should read the article under discussion before moving on to today’s post.  Seriously, it will be worth it!

Introduction: Beware the DVD Special Feature!

If Peter Jackson made one strategic mistake with his release of the “Fellowship of the Rings” DVD (2002), it was to include so many special features. I enjoyed his adaptations of Tolkien’s novels, and I greatly appreciated the attention that he generated for them. But I never actually watched any of his movies more than a few times. Maybe once in the theater, and another time or two on DVD or TV. It was not that I failed to find his vision of Middle Earth enthralling. Rather it was just the opposite.

While I spent dozens of hours with each of the DVDs, almost all of my attention was dedicated to the “special features” included with each film. It was clear that producing these mini-documentaries, which covered various aspects of the making of these films, must have consumed considerable resources. I loved hearing Tom Shippy (one of my favorite Tolkien scholars) discussing the good professor’s life and literary works. But as a martial artist I spent even more time pouring over the “behind the scenes” glimpses into the workshops where the prop weapons were made and the training halls in which Orc and Elvin fighting methods were imagined by teams of very talented (and very human) martial arts choreographers.

All of this begins to raise questions. When a group of professional martial artists dedicate thousands of hours to developing a detailed combat system for creatures that do not exist, employing weapons that while realistic are not identical to historic arms, what exactly have they created? A fantasy martial art system? Certainly. Yet how different is that from the historic martial arts systems of our era, endlessly reinvented and reconstructed from personal transmission, faded 8 mm video tapes, poorly illustrated Ming era manuals and a driving dedication to make it work? Whether anyone cares to admit it or not, the transmission of “tradition” depends on both a good measure of hard work and creativity.

While watching these professionals I began to suspect that they were so successful in creating a martial art for Orcs because they were doing basically the same thing that martial artists had always done. Understand the strategic environment, ask basic questions, look at the tools that you have to work with, and apply every bit of your knowledge to solving the problem at hand.

Recently I had another, slightly uncomfortable, moment. This time I was confronted with a dystopian, but equally martial, vision of the future. Once again, it all started with delving a little too deeply into the “special features.” As I reported in this news update, the AMC series Into the Badlands is creeping ever closer to a TV set near you.  There has been a huge amount of buzz about this series, but until recently there was very little information about how this creative reimagining of a classic Chinese tale would actually look.

The shows creative vision came into focus recently when AMC released both an extended trailer and a “behind the scenes” special feature looking at the martial arts training and choreography that was going into this series. It is not surprising that these two products were released at the same time. AMC has been carefully crafting the message that they are going to bring “serious martial arts action” back to the small screen, and the videos were meant to be a down-payment on their promise.

I have to admit that the stunt team and fight choreography (provided by Daniel Wu and Stephen Fung) appeared to be excellent. Not only that, the basic martial arts instruction that they were putting the talent through looked tight. I found myself wishing that I could sit in on some of their sessions. And then I caught myself. After all, I am (or should be) a “real” martial artist. Right? I should not care about choreography or film angles.

In truth I do not remember much from the actual trailer (which I only watched once) except for a sense of emotional confusion brought on the perverse beauty of seemingly unending hills of opium poppies. I can take or leave dystopian futures; they are getting to be a little over done. Yet like any martial arts aficionado the invitation to visit another school really stuck with me. Still, this was tinged with emotional confusion. The output of this dream factory was only an image of the martial arts. It was undeniably an illusion, a masterpiece of visual fantasy. Yet the basic training that went into the production of this simulation looked all too familiar and real. In fact, it looked good.

The climatic final scene from the Karate Kid (1984).

Reality: A Two Sided Mirror

The typical response to all of this seems to be to double down and reassert the fundamental boundaries between the worlds of “performance” and those of “reality.” Of course this formulation of the problem will automatically begin to raise red flags for lots of academics. After all, many of the most basic categories that structure our lives, things like gender, nationality, race and economic class, all involve a healthy dose of performance and social construction.

Are the martial arts, structured as they are by the constraints of violence, immune to this? Put another way (one that might be most familiar to other political scientists) should we insist on the “realist,” as opposed to socially or institutionally constructed, nature of the martial realm.

This is the default position for many. The idea that what we do is brutally real while what we see on the screen is a “fiction” is widespread. And no matter how realistic one’s fight choreography attempts to be, I don’t think that anyone would assume that these visual images are actually attempting to pose as reality. After all, fights in the movies can be many things. They might be dramatic, heroic or even funny. In short, they are always (striving to be) entertaining. Violence in real life tends to lack this essential quality of good TV.

And yet we all tend to be drawn to those images on the small screen. More fundamentally, they can even structure the world of “real” martial artist to a surprising degree. In the West the Chinese martial arts, and Wing Chun in particular, were obscure topics in the West prior to the rise of Bruce Lee.  And the Karate Kid probably sold more square feet of strip-mall real estate than any other Hollywood film before or since. If we are honest, many of us will admit that it was these flickering images, or more importantly the ideas behind them, that first brought us into the realm of the “real martial arts.”

So would it then be correct to say that the movies made Wing Chun? Absolutely, but maybe not in the way that one might expect. After all, Bruce Lee did very little actual Wing Chun in his films. He probably filled more Tae Kwon Do schools with kids trying to learn his trademark flying sidekick than anything else. And when Wing Chun really did make it big, it was not alone. Rather it was accompanied by a number of other arts, all of which were reputed to emphasize midrange fighting.

In the minds of a number of practitioners the rise of systems like Krav Maga, Kali, Escrima and Wing Chun might appear to be a simple reflection of “reality.” These systems have gained in popularity because they all address a certain set of strategic problems in a realistic (and highly efficient) way. So maybe Bruce Lee and media trends are more peripheral to all of this than you might expect. Perhaps he was simply a messenger of something more fundamental rather than the message itself?

Luckily we have a new resource to aid us in sorting this out. One of my very few regrets about the June 2015 Martial Arts studies conference in Cardiff was that its gracious organizer, Paul Bowman, was too busy organizing and facilitating the event to present his own thoughts on these questions.  Luckily for us he was recently invited to present a keynote address at a conference on “Martial Arts & Media Culture” in Germany.

In his paper Bowman argues that it is no coincidence that close range combat systems rose to popularity on both the big screen and the training hall at roughly the same time. Yet to understand exactly how these two events are linked we must begin by rethinking the supposed dichotomy between martial arts “fantasy” in film or TV and “reality” on the street or in the dojo.

He begins by informing his readers in the first few paragraphs of his paper that he intends to discover the “connections between film choreography and martial arts practice – even a kind of two way street of suggestions, inspiration, copying and cross-fertilizations…” but to do so we must first accept that we are not “dealing with a situation of truth on the one hand and falsity on the other, but rather a general test of force and signification.” Or to put things in the simplest possible terms, martial artists (whether they work for a movie studio or a police department) are always looking for inspiration to creatively solve their problems, and those may come from a screen just as easily as a session in a training hall.

All of this is premised on a more basic debate about how individuals interact with the media that they consume. Are they essentially passive recipients of ideas and images, who are simply entertained (or possibly indoctrinated) by their consumption of media? Or, following the Use and Gratification Theory (Blumler & Katz, 1974), should we assume that individuals consciously seek out certain types of images, and then creatively reconfigure them for their own purposes?

A quick tour through the many playlists of Youtube would seem to leave very little question as to how engaged individuals are with their media choices. Not only is the platform (and its advertising strategy) literally built around the assumption that consumers will select certain images rather than others, it seems that most of the videos that one runs across are edited, modified, curated or commented upon by users in quite creative ways. Nowhere is this more clear than within the genera of martial arts “how to” videos.

It is not all that difficult to locate videos offering to teach techniques seen in a recent MMA fight, a movie scene or to bequeath the secrets of improving upon them. Of course the UFC isn’t the only area where Youtube viewers turn for reality. One can also find CCTV footage of various sorts of fights, muggings, stabbings and attacks. Unsurprisingly these are a popular topic of conversation among martial artists. I have even used a few of these with more students as jumping off points for various training discussions.

Bowman notes that some groups take this trend further than others. Practitioners of KFM, or the Keysi Fighting Method, have a complex relationship with the concept of “reality.” Their style has always focused on simple brutal efficiency, but it was selected for use in Batman Begins (and it subsequently enjoyed a period of popularity) precisely because it appeared to be “dramatic” and “violent” when filmed. Something like Jujitsu, while just as “real” and quite effective in practical terms, is not highly visual and can be difficult for audience to follow. So it was the fantasy images of Hollywood that popularized the KFM system as a point when it was attempting to be the most “real” of martial arts.

Bowman notes that this same tension between image and practice can be found in other registers as well. The “Winchester Virginia KFM” studio released a promotional video onto Youtube in which they spliced together ‘real fight’ clips taken from CCTV film with school demonstrations. All of this was constructed to promote the following argument: “reality is like this; our training equips us to master this reality.”

And yet “reality” proves to be a hard nut to crack. There are hard limits to how “real” any training session can be made. Others have already explored these boundaries in excruciating detail so I will not belabor the point. At the same time, is what we see in the CCTV footage “reality?”

In some ways, yes. These are images of events that actually happened. Of course it is not always clear what was said in these incidents, or how they escalated. Thus the vital element verbal confrontation is often left out. Nor can we expect that any two muggings, stabbings or random attacks to play out in exactly the same ways as the one that we have just studies. Of course the instructors who ran the KFM schools were well aware of this.

Nor should such limitations be taken as an argument that these sorts of images are useless. Rather, they need to be understood with caveats. Yet once the caveats have been introduced, it quickly becomes obvious that what we are interested in is not the limited, grainy, out of focus CCTV footage itself, but the concepts, images and ideas that we see illustrated within them. Yes they are limited, but they are useful.

According to the group who spliced them together as part of an advertisement, they are more useful than much of what has been passed on under the guise of traditional martial arts instruction. As Bowman so aptly observed in our introductory quote, the real debate in the martial arts world today is not between the screen and the street, but between the dojo and the street. Increasingly it is the training hall that is under attack as a fiction while “reality” can be found in the octagon or on Youtube.

Bruce Lee executes a spectacular flying kick while filming “Game of Death.”

The Logic of the Dream Factory

Something interesting happens once we take these reproduced images of real attacks to be a legitimate way of thinking about violence. As noted above, these images are always in some way partial, and everyone understands that for them to be useful as training tools we must focus on what they suggest (conceptually or strategically) about the nature of violence rather than seeing them as a definitive catalog of everything that could possibly happen. If we take these exact same caveats and apply them to wide range of other images, what we quickly discover is that they too are making symbolic arguments about the nature of violence, some of which may be more or less meaningful to our own training.

This insight brings us back to Bowman’s central argument, that there has been a critical reciprocal relationship between the development of martial arts on the soundstage and in the training hall. To understand how these spheres might relate Bowman asks us to consider the rise of “close range” fighting in action films following the release of the Bourne Identity.

Imagine the challenges facing a fight choreographer at this point in time. Action audiences identify with fight scenes, but following the rise of the UFC they have become aware of the critique that flashy kicks and long-range fights as “unrealistic.” Indeed, even at the height of the popularity of these techniques, many of films seem to have contained their own internal critique of such high profile kicks. Daniel in the Karate Kid wins his fight with a spectacular “crane style” kick, but only after another his kicks was caught and exploited leading to his leg injury.

Likewise, everyone remembers Bruce Lee’s visually powerful flying sidekick from Fists of Fury (1971). What is often forgotten is that the same kicks are shown to be ineffective in the hands of the Japanese karate students during the Dojo fight sequence. Only Lee can perform the technique in a way that is meaningful to the audience. And even then, was it technically effective in the face of machine guns? Like so much else about the martial arts, the spectacular kicks of the 1970s and 1980s seem to have been embedded within a self-dismantling discourse which foresaw their own obsolesce.

By the 1990s audiences were demanding something fresh and “realistic.” Jujitsu would be the obvious choice given its dominance in the octagon. Yet as Bowman notes, the highly nuanced nature of ground fighting makes it difficult for non-specialists to follow. It is more of a tactile than a visual art.

Close range fighting seemed to present choreographers with a much needed answer. The physical proximity of the two characters allowed for a greater degree of inter-personal drama in the shot, but the conflict would remain open enough that audience members could see (and hear) distinct blows, grabs, elbows or throws.

Better yet, the very nature of short range fight choreography, with its linear strikes and frequent use of fast takes, meant that it was possible for a fight choreographer to train actors who were neither athletes nor professional martial artists in the rudiments of fighting as quickly as possible. Scenes could be spliced together with footage from multiple mediocre takes into an action sequence that was both fast paced and convincingly realistic.

The logic that Bowman articulates here is important. As a Wing Chun instructor I too deal with students who are neither athletes nor experienced martial artists. And it is also my job to teach them some solid self-defense skills knowing full well that most of them will never go on to become dedicated fighters. In a sense we all face the perennial problem posed by General Qi Jiguang back in the 16th century when he first contemplated the role of unarmed boxing in military training. How can we take the weak and make them strong? More importantly, how do we do it facing restricted budgets and tight timelines?

Wing Chun (and a variety of other arts that also focus on “close range fighting”) has found that strength and skill can be augmented with a focus on structure. I don’t know that it’s the only, or even the best, solution to General Qi’s question. But it is interesting to me precisely because it is such a parsimonious one. Note how similar the logic of the problems facing fight choreographers and the martial arts instructors actually is.

Bowman argues that once this new approach to “realism” in the martial arts was put on film, it quickly gained prominence in the training hall. Yes Wing Chun grew in popularity (and it is interesting to note how many films it has appeared in since about 2000), but so did an entire host of other short range systems. He argues that trends within these two environments tend to be linked because they are both part of a single larger cultural discourse in which martial artists are talking with one another, and exchanging ideas, in an attempt to work out solutions to their problems and attract new groups of students.

Where then are the dream factories? In this view we might think of both the dojo and the sound stage as likely candidates. One cannot effectively solve a problem before imagining a solution and coming up with a way of communicating it. This is a fundamentally creative act. What happens in these two spaces is undeniably different, and no good is likely to come from naively or haphazardly mixing the two. Yet it is undeniable that the broader social discourse on the martial arts does evolve over time, and it is unlikely that we can fully grasp how this happens without examining the complex and reciprocal relationship between these two dream factories.

A great example of a close range fight scene from the film 2009 Sherlock Holmes. This scene has always fascinated me as it attempts to educate the viewer about technical aspects of the fight while simultaneously exploring Holmes’ inner dialogue.

Conclusion: The Problem of Change

Bowman’s argument is both straightforward and powerful. I suspect that much of its impact comes from the seemingly counterfactual nature of his conclusions. Indeed, this is the aspect of his argument that does the most work, opening a window onto the evolution of fight choreography as well as the rise of a certain group of hand combat systems within the marketplace for martial arts instruction.

Yet conference talks are a limited medium. And as Bowman states in his introduction he is offering these remarks “in the hopes that you will join in the conversation and we can take them further together.” In that spirit I would like to use this conclusion to consider a possible omission in this framework.

The evolution of a discourse, like anything else, is predicated on a process of change. Certain sorts of meanings, arguments and images that were once powerful must fade away for a new set of identities and symbols to take the stage. Indeed, Bowman discusses this very process in some detail as he leads us on a tour of the historical evolution of fight choreography.

At one point in time the flashy flying kick was a powerful symbol that resonated with audiences. Bruce Lee, a student of a close-range fighting system, focused on these techniques in his fight choreography, essentially forsaking his more down to earth mother-art. But by the late 1990s audiences were demanding something new. What they wanted was “gritty” and “realistic.”

Bowman notes this change in taste and moves on. In essence he treats it as an exogenous variable. It remains external to the essential logic of his argument.

Still, he is clearly aware that this is a tricky and potentially important issue. He notes at one point that a “cinematic style or gimmick can remain striking for only so long.” But given that the change in audience tastes is part of the larger martial arts discourse, and that this is what he ultimately wants to understand, I suspect that we may need some way of bringing this aspect of the process into the discussion. Potentially significant events cannot be left as mere “fads,” meaning that their existence is assumed at the outset of the discussion rather than being explored.

After all, some types of symbols are remarkably resilient. There seems to be something about the image of a lone hero with a sword that just won’t die. One can draw a pretty straight line connecting the swashbuckling tales of the 1950s, Star Wars in the 1980s and more recent fare including Pirates of the Caribbean. The image of a fledgling knight errant and his trusty blade setting out on the “hero’s quest” may not be as universal as Joseph Campbell imagined, but it does seem to be remarkably stable. Yet as Bowman observed, flying sidekicks come and go. Why?

As I read his paper I took an hour or so to assemble a timeline of important fight sequences from films released in the early 1970s to the present. Bruce Lee’s 1971 Fists of Fury was interesting to me as the flying sidekick was so important to the plot of the movie. But what role did this technique really play in the film?

Given that the final scene is meant to suggest his death, I don’t think that audience was supposed to be convinced of the absolute military superiority of the technique in the face of superior fire power. Rather than being seen as “realistic” I suspect that this highly acrobat kick was introduced to tell us something about the character Chen Zhen and his use of the martial arts to create a new persona, one that was capable of both fighting and dying for the nation. His seemingly superhuman kick was critical as it marked the reality of his inner transformation in the personal and spiritual realms, something that is less easily observed.

Indeed, as I worked my way through my timeline of fights it seemed to me that during the 1970s and 1980s highly athletic, long distance, fights were used in stories of questing heroes, where the protagonist fought for a certain type of glory or honor. They often appeared in situations that might best be characterized as “duals” rather than instances of true “self-defense.”

Put another way, the use of these techniques might not be confined simply to certain trends within fight choreography. Rather they may have also reflected the sorts of heroes that audiences responded to at a specific moment in history.

The Bourne Identity is interesting not only as it introduces a different sort of hand combat, but because its protagonist seems to be a different sort of hero (or possibly anti-hero). Jason Bourne is not walking into the middle of Japanese Dojos in occupied Shanghai to issue a public challenge. For the most part he goes to great lengths to keep a low profile and project an “every man” image. His unarmed fight sequences usually begin when an antagonist approaches or ambushes him (the assassin crashing through the apartment window being the quintessential example of that). In this case a close range action sequence is not only visually gripping, but it makes a good deal of tactical sense as well. The fact that this is Bourne’s “preferred mode” of combat seems to suggest something about nature as a character and the values that he embodies.

Audience reaction to Bourne suggests that at such a moment in history, in the immediate aftermath of 9/11, this figure was deeply appealing to a large segment of the public. It might be possible to give other examples of the same general trend but this post has already run long. I originally wanted to discuss the evolution of Neo’s fighting style in the first Matrix movie, between his initial dual (long range) with Morpheus in the training simulation and his later desperate fight (short range) with the sinister Agent Smith within the matrix itself. It might be the case that this transition smoothed the way for what we saw in a number of subsequent films and discussions of the martial arts. But those thoughts will have to wait for another day.  While my own limited additions move this discussion another level back rather than definitively resolving the question, I hope that it suggests an area for further consideration.

In conclusion, Bowman makes a number of important observations in this paper linking trends in both the training hall and soundstage to create a more cohesive understanding of the way in which society’s martial arts discourse has evolved. I greatly look forward to reading future versions of this paper. Yet rather than taking the initial moment of change as exogenous to the model, we might want to bring this variable more clearly into the discussion. This could be accomplished by asking why the social demand for one sort of martial arts product, rather than another, evolves at a specific moment in time, and how this is reciprocally linked to (and find expression in) the protagonists created by dream factories of the silver screen.  As Seraph reminded Neo, “You do not truly know someone until you fight them.”  And it is through these evolving fight sequences that audiences come to identify with the values of their new heroes.

oOo

If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read:  Telling Stories about Wong Fei Hung and Ip Man: The Evolution of a Heroic Type

oOo

Birthday Cake. Source: Wikimedia (CC).

Happy Birthday!

Earlier this week (on July 27th) I got a prompt from WordPress reminding me that it was a special day.  Kung Fu Tea first said “Hello World” three years ago to the day.  This anniversary is something of a milestone for me.  When I first started this project I was not sure how successful it would be.  I knew that I wanted to build a community of like minded researchers, scholars and martial artists, and I suspected that this would not be a quick or easy process.  So I promised myself I would give it three years and try to post regularly.  At that point I would sit back and see whether it had been worth it.

Needless to say the last three years have exceeded my expectations, and I owe all of that to you, the readers.  I have ended up dedicating vastly more time and energy to this blog than I thought I would.  But I now have the distinct privilege of spending part of each day emailing and talking with students of various aspects of the martial arts who I never would have had an opportunity to meet otherwise.  It has also been exciting to have a front row seat to the birth and development of Martial Arts Studies as an area of scholarly study.  More material keeps coming out every month and I cannot wait to see what the next few years will bring.

Birthdays are also an ideal time for reflection, to consider the nature of the road that we have been on.  Readers who prefer a more quantitative approach to the past may want to stop by the “My Top Picks” tab at the top of the screen (or just follow the link).  Here you can find a list of those posts that have been the most popular with reader over the last three years as well as some of my favorites organized by subject matter.  Given that this blog has now hosted well over 300 unique posts and essays, this may be a good way to see what you have been missing.

If you instead favor a more qualitative mode of reflection simply read on.  As I looked back through my stats I was curious to see which of my posts had received the fewest page views.  Unsurprisingly it turned out to be the very first one that I wrote.  In retrospect this seems obvious as the blog had no readers at that point.  Still, its an interesting exercise as in it I outlined my goals for Kung Fu Tea as I understood them at the inception of this blog.  So lets take a moment to look back and see how well we have done, and the various ways that this project has evolved.  If the last three years have demonstrated anything, its that there is still a lot to say to Chinese Martial Studies.  But for now I am going to eat some cake.

Hello World!

Welcome to the Kung Fu Teahouse.  I hope that this will become a place where we can meet to reflect on and discuss the growing field of martial studies.  While most of my writing and thinking focuses on the area of Chinese Martial Studies in the late Qing and Republic periods, I have always believed in the power of the comparative case study to illuminate new and interesting facts.  As such I will also publish posts dealing with Japanese, Middle Eastern and traditional European martial arts and culture.

What is Martial Studies?

So, for non-specialists, what is “martial studies”?  Basically this blog focuses on the academic study of the martial arts.  More specifically, martial studies include the social, cultural, economic and historical study of a society’s fighting and military traditions at all levels of social organization.  By tradition “martial studies” seems to focus more on how society upholds these structures than a strict military historian might.

Martial studies is also radically interdisciplinary.  In its ranks you will find historians, hoplologists, political scientist, psychologists, anthropologists, economists and literature and film studies students.  It asks questions as diverse as “When was Taiji created?”, “How has globalization effected the development of southern Chinese martial arts?” and “How has Bruce Lee changed what it means to be a Chinese American?”  If you are interested in any of these questions than this blog is the place for you.

Who am I and why am I writing about this?

My name is Benjamin Judkins.  I have a Ph.D. in political science from Columbia University in New York City where I studied international relations and comparative Asian politics.  I taught international relations and international political economy (globalization) at the University of Utah and have recently moved back to you NY.  My research interests include international political economy, religion and politics, and of course Chinese Martial Studies.

This last subject really grew out of my interest in late 19^th century globalization, Asia and religion and politics.  It occurred to me that southern China was understudied and a great test bed for many of our theories about social groups, civil society and globalization.  To that end I started educating myself about the development of southern Chinese martial culture more generally.

I should also note that I draw on my own background as a practicing martial artists when writing and thinking about the field of martial studies.  I practiced Tae Kwon Do on and off through college.  Later I discovered Wing Chun, a southern Chinese form of boxing propagated by Ip Man in Hong Kong in the 1950s and popularized in the west through Bruce Lee, his most famous student.  I study with Sifu Jon Nielson (a student of Ip Ching, son of Ip Man) and do a little teaching myself.

I say all of this not to display my credentials so much as to explain my unique research interests.  Most of the posts on this blog will focus on Chinese martial culture.  I am especially interested in Guangdong and Fujian provinces from about 1850 until today.  Wing Chun is my major case study so it is probably going to be a little over represented, but I will also post on a number of other local folk styles and even more modern topics regarding Chinese martial arts.

Of course not all of the posts will be equally weighty and academic.  Hopefully we will also have a chance to discuss martial arts in the news and popular culture.

oOo

Want to see the very first academically focused post here at Kung Fu Tea?  If so check this out:  A Really Short Reading List on Chinese Martial Studies

oOo

Source: http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com

Introduction

Within the field of International Relations Stephen Chan (OBE) needs no introduction.  He is a Professor of Global Politics in the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) at the University of London. He also served as a diplomat and was involved with several important initiatives in Africa, helping to pioneer modern electoral observation. Prof. Chan has twice been Dean at SOAS, has published 29 books and supervised many successful PhD theses. He won the 2010 International Studies Association prize and was named an “Eminent Scholar in Global Development.”

Less well known in academic circles is his lifelong involvement with the martial arts.  Chan has been awarded many senior grades and titles in various styles of Karate.  He has taught on multiple continents including while posted as a diplomat in Africa.  In 2012 he established his own martial arts organization which currently boasts thousands of students in many countries.

I first had an opportunity to meet Prof. Chan at the recent Martial Arts Studies conference in Cardiff where he offered the opening keynote address.  I was struck both with the importance of his remarks and how closely his own family history mirrored the development of the Asian martial arts in the 20th century.

We are very fortunate that Prof. Chan has agreed to take a few moment from his busy schedule to delve a little deeper into a couple of topics which he touched on in his keynote.  In this interview he shares some family history surrounding his Grandmother, Chan Wong Wah Yue, a swordswoman and member of a village militia, who saw action in Guangdong during the turbulent years of the Warlord Era.  While martial arts fiction is full of images of female boxers, relatively few women actually took up these pursuits.  Prof. Chan’s genealogy is fascinating precisely because it allows us to identify one such individual by name, to contextualize her involvement with this aspect of the martial arts, and to trace her subsequent life history.

Since this interview builds on the account already provided in his keynote, readers who have not yet had a chance to review the recording of this address should start here.  Prof. Chan’s presentation is full of interesting observations and stories.  Your efforts will be well rewarded!  Following that he offers some additional discussion below.  Enjoy!

Prof. Stephen Chan, scholar, diplomat and martial artist.

Kung Fu Tea (KFT): Can you begin by giving us some information on your Grandmother? What was her name? Where (and when) was she born?

Prof. Stephen Chan: My grandmother’s name was Wong Wah Yue, and she married Chan Hong Ling of Sungai village, then outside metropolitan Canton. No birth dates were recorded for her or her first child but she died at age 78 [circa 1906 – 30th April 1982].

I know nothing of her ancestry, although her husband’s ancestry can still be traced in records back some 800 years.

KFT: What can you tell me about her husband’s background and occupation? And what did he think of her martial arts activities?

Chan: Her husband was a greengrocer/fruiterer. I think that he admired her fighting youth. He was a placid man and it was she who was the aggressive person in the relationship.

KFT: How did you come to hear her life story?

Chan: She would tell me her stories when I was a child, before I went to school. Shortly after starting school, my parents moved into their own house and my contacts with my grandmother decreased.

KFT: Can you tell us a little bit about her introduction to the martial arts?

Chan: This is the stuff of grandmotherly legend. The entire community was caught up in the warlord and brigands era of the early 20th century. Sungai had outer fortifications of two watchtowers, with two more planned, mounted with machine guns financed by remittances from the diaspora in the foreign gold rushes of the period. These were built in 1902. As late as 1920, the village was attacked by an ‘army’ of 300 brigands. Guns were everywhere, but so were swords. My grandmother studied the sword.

KFT: Did she identify with any particular style or teacher?

Chan: If she did, I didn’t understand as a child. But I gather a lot of her sword work was inspired by necessity. As a foundation, there would almost certainly have been the rudiments of what we today call ‘Peking Opera’ basics.

KFT: What do you think motivated your grandmother to take up the sword, both in a personal and more political sense?

Chan: As I said, it was a heavily securitized environment. There was no ‘official’ law and order, so citizens had to defend themselves. It was like the Chinese version of the Wild West.

KFT: Did she ever mention any literary works, stories, radio programs or movies associated with the martial arts that she particularly liked or disliked?

Chan: She would take me to the only Chinese cinema in Auckland, New Zealand, the State Theater, which was hired by the Chinese community on Sunday nights. It was a pretty seedy and desperate place, and the Chinese films shown were also pretty badly made as the post-war Hong Kong cinema industry spluttered into existence. The sword work in them was also pretty awful, a very early and primitive form of what the Chinese state has now officialized and standardized into the Wushu syllabus. I hated them. And she didn’t seem overly impressed either.

There was, however, a Chinese comic, with very fine inking in something like traditional style, of a one-legged hero who was a swordsman. Miraculously, when he needed to do a high side kick, a supporting leg would appear! I thought this was ridiculous, but I liked the inking. And I liked the idea of a high side kick.

KFT: You mentioned in your keynote address that your Grandmother led followers in the field. What sorts of people supported her, and what types of goals did they have?

Chan: They were members of her village – the local militia. She was sufficiently prominent so that, as a rather young mother, her eldest son was kidnapped and tortured to death (and his totally mutilated body returned – crushed and jellied, apart from the head, so he could be recognized) as a warning to her.

KFT: What sorts of weapons (swords, sabers, spears, handguns, rifles, knives, grenades….etc) did her group carry in the field? What sort of opposition did they encounter?

Chan: She used a sword (gim or jian). Guns, as I said, were everywhere. She gave up fighting, and the sword, when her militia unit was strafed from the air. She realized then, she told me, that modernity had overtaken them.

A rare period snap shot showing Chinese swords captured by Japanese during WWII. Source: Author’s personal collection.

KFT: Historians have noted that a number of martial arts militias in China during the 1920s practiced invulnerability techniques as part of their training (Golden Bell, Iron Cloth Shirt, other forms of spirit possession…..). Did your Grandmother ever mention any of this?

Chan: She believed in magic and in forms of Chinese medicine. I had to swallow from time to time all manner of obnoxious potions. But I don’t think she practiced magical techniques. As I said, being attacked by aircraft pretty much knocked the stuffing of traditional methods out of her.

KFT: Did your Grandmother teach the individuals that fought with her, or did they get their training somewhere else?

Chan: I don’t think so. I sort of gather she was like a female village ‘rowdy.’ My grandfather loved her very much. And she was certainly a VERY strong and independently-minded person.

KFT: Did she ever describe/talk about the larger world of Chinese martial artists at the point in time at which she was active?

Chan: No. She did talk about how terrible war was, and our family was a refugee family from war. Neither the brigand armies nor the Nationalists could stand against the Japanese.

KFT: At what point did your Grandmother “retire” from the martial arts?

Chan: She had given them up by the time she got off the refugee boat and set foot in New Zealand in 1941.

KFT: Did your grandparents ever discuss their journey from the Pearl River Delta to New Zealand during WWII?

Chan: Yes. The privations were extreme. This was particularly note-worthy in the separate flight of my mother’s family, which was described graphically to me. But none of my ancestors on her side were, as far as I know, martial artists. I do have as heirlooms the child’s suitcase my father carried, not much bigger than a satchel; and one of the remaining gold coins my mother’s mother stitched into her coat to use as bribes whenever they came across marauding soldiers or bandits on their flight. By the time of their flight, there were dead bodies pretty much everywhere lining the route to Hong Kong, which they did on foot from the village neighboring my father’s.

KFT: What was life like for her in her new home country after leaving China?

Chan: She refused to learn English and set up a Chinese gambling syndicate and circuit. We called her the Dragon Lady. She sort of remained an outlaw for the rest of her New Zealand life.

KFT: I am curious about your Grandmother’s turn to professional gambling in New Zealand. As I have been looking at the social history of the southern Chinese martial arts I have been struck by how closely connected these professions often were. Even small town gambling houses would hire crews of martial artist. One of the few female boxers I have been able to identify by name from the early 19th century had a very similar career trajectory.

Chan: Auckland, New Zealand, was not big enough then for Triads or other well-articulated criminal organizations. They came later. Gambling groups were just small time, small scale, businesses and social enterprises. Some, like the one my Grandfather frequented (different from Grandmother’s) were also opium dens.  But these were all male affairs. Grandmother’s were all female. As a toddler I went to both from time to time. I’m sure I enjoyed the secondary inhaling…it would probably explain a lot…

KFT: How did your Grandmother’s example or stories influence you either as a martial artist or as a person?

Chan: Oh she influenced me alright – along the lines of “I am not going to do it like that!”

KFT: I understand that your father was also a martial artist. Can you tell me a little bit about his practice? What did your Grandmother think of his decision to take up Southern Mantis Kung Fu in the 1950s?

Chan: Dad just found a good (Chinese) teacher. Similarly, his younger brother found a good (Chinese) Wing Chun teacher. Grandmother could not have cared less. This sort of thing was just normal.

KFT: Many discussions of martial arts history focus on continuity with the past, but I have always found the breaks and disjoints to be even more interesting. Given your family’s multi-generation background in the southern Chinese martial art, why did you choose to dedicate yourself to Karate as a youth? How did your family (and Grandmother) react to that decision?

Chan: Everyone hated it, but I just went to the best martial arts teacher in town, Karl Sargent, and it was a wonderful and very tough dojo with a structured and modernized syllabus. I also, of course, wanted to be tougher than my father. Typical youthful rebellion.

Karl was a very young Sensei, so we got on very well personally, and he attracted weird and wonderful students. One was John Dixon, who had fought with Mao in the Communist victory.

Most of my classmates were Maoris, Polynesians, truckers, bikies and the like. Karl called it an ‘experimental’ class. For a young intellectual like me, it was wonderful. But the style did have Chinese Malaysian influences. It was a JKA Shotokan style overlaid with quite a large number of Chinese principles.

KFT: In your opinion as a scholar, when telling the story of the Asian martial arts should we continue to focus on “lineage” and “system,” or are there other critical concepts that we should be paying more attention to?

Chan: I don’t pay overmuch reverence to lineage. I know from my many visits to Asia how things change, miscegenate, and cross-cut. Systems change all the time. These ‘traditional’ arts came to us by the most ‘postmodern’ routes. The one thing about being Asian, achieving some rank, AND building social rank and capital OUTSIDE the arts (in my case in the diplomatic and scholarly worlds), is that the old teachers will treat you as an equal. That’s a very rare privilege. They also tell you the truth. The number of times I got the answer ‘I just made it up’ in response to queries about how a technique originated and developed was wonderful and just honest.

KFT: Thanks so much for taking the time to drop by Kung Fu Tea! Clearly your family history is a great case study in the development of the traditional martial arts.  We look forward to your future research and writing with great enthusiasm.

oOo

If you enjoyed this interview you might also want to read: Dr. Daniel Amos Discusses Marginality, Martial Arts Studies and the Modern Development of Southern Chinese Kung Fu

oOo

Vladimir Putin watches a Kung Fu exhibition with the Abbot Shi Yongxin at the Shaolin Temple in Henan. Shaolin has become an important stop for visiting VIPs. Source: People’s Daily.

Introduction

Welcome to “Chinese Martial Arts in the News.”  This is a semi-regular feature here at Kung Fu Tea in which we review media stories that mention or affect the traditional fighting arts.  In addition to discussing important events, this column also considers how the Asian hand combat systems are portrayed in the mainstream media.

While we try to summarize the major stories over the last month, there is always a chance that we have missed something.  If you are aware of an important news event relating to the TCMA, drop a link in the comments section below.  If you know of a developing story that should be covered in the future feel free to send me an email.

Its been a while since our last update so there is a lot to be covered in today’s post.  Let’s get to the news!

News on the Chinese Martial Arts

A single story has dominated the news coverage of the Chinese martial arts over the last few weeks.  Shi Yongxin, the Abbot of the Shaolin Temple in Henan (regarded by many as the spiritual home of the Chinese martial arts) has been no stranger to criticism.  Sometimes called the ‘CEO Monk,’ is both admired and faulted for his emphasis on modern methods and aggressive business strategy in building the Shaolin Temple’s brand.  Under his leadership the organization has expanded, built daughter temples and promoted its martial arts heritage through a variety of media projects and traveling shows.  Yet critics have questioned this emphasis on expansion at the expense of more traditional Buddhist values.

Some of the controversies that have swirled around Shi Yongxin have been of a decidedly more personal nature.  In addition to questions of financial impropriety he was accused of soliciting prostitutes in 2011.  In the last few weeks many of these same issues have erupted back into the public consciousness following the publication of a number of anonymous reports linking Shi Yongxin to the misappropriation of large sums of money, accusations that he was previously expelled from the temple and the revelation that he may have been living a double life which included the fathering of at least one child.

Whereas previous controversies had largely been tolerated, these new accusations come at a more sensitive time.   On the one hand the Chinese government is currently conducting a high profile anti-corruption campaign.  At the same time various religious organizations are coming under increased scrutiny.   Shi Yongxi has been questioned by state authorities about these charges and was recently forced to cancel a public appearance in Thailand because of the controversy.  At the same time there have been calls in the press for these charges to be dealt with seriously.

Chinese language social media services have provided the most detailed discussion and debate on this unfolding issue.  But it has been fascinating to note the number of major Western media outlets (including CNN, Fortune, the Guardian, the Economic Times and the New York Times) who have decided that this story has legs.  Given the amount of media attention these anonymous accusations have now garnered it will be interesting to watch both how the investigation progresses, and whether this has any long term impact on the image of the Shaolin temple in the West.

Wang Lin

The charges against Shi Yongxin were not the only story competing for reader interest in China over the last month.   Even more sensational was the accusation that Wang Lin (a Qigong master who had built an extensive movement of followers) had murdered one of his own disciples on the heels of a falling out.   Zou Yong, a wealthy businessman, provincial legislator and associate of Wang had vanished earlier in the month.  The New York Times has an account of this case which you can see here, as well as this article by Sky News.   Sascha Matuszak has attempted to contextualize the story over at the Fightland blog.

Bruce Lee statue in Hong Kong. Source: Wikimedia.

On a more positive note, the South China Morning Post has run a large number of stories relating to the martial arts over the last month.  Two of these focused on Bruce Lee’s place in global culture and his special significance as a son of Hong Kong.  The first (inspired by a collection of memorabilia) asked “How Bruce Lee made it ‘cool’ to be Chinese growing up in America.”  This was followed by a somewhat hyperbolically titled editorial asking “Why does Hong Kong treat Bruce Lee like an outcast and refuse to honour its greatest son?”  Bruce Lee fans will want to take a look at both of these pieces.

More interesting to me was this video profile of a Toyama-ryu Iaido (Japanese swordsmanship) school in Hong Kong.  You can read more about this group on their webpage.  It seems like an interesting group, and I was surprised to discover that the Toyama-ryu had such a well-organized presence in Hong Kong.  Their style is something that I have been meaning to check out for years but have never quite managed to get around to.

Yasuaki Kurata, in Hong Kong for a Kendo seminar. Source: SCMP.

Lastly, the SCMP had a very interesting piece on Yasuaki Kurata, a Japanese martial artist and actor who became an important fixture in the Hong Kong martial arts and cinema scene during the 1970s.  The article contains some nice reminisces as well the following quote which I think that every martial arts school should have hanging up somewhere:

“There are 24 hours in a day. Two should be used to train your willpower.”

A scene from Teddy Chen’s Killer Kung Fu. Source: Business World.

Stories from all Over

First up, CCTV ran a short piece on a Taijiquan themed martial arts show which recently opened in Dalian (Liaoning Province).  As always the production values of performance looked great.  Equally interesting for those us following the issue of “Kung Fu Diplomacy” was the fact that this show is eventually slated to perform internationally with the stated aim of “promote[ing] public awareness of Chinese martial arts and to maintain traditional culture.”

Is kung fu dying?  Its a provocative question and one that we are forced to think about every so often.  The following editorial on the Business World webpage recently decided to take a stab at the topic.  Their answer?  Things are not looking great for kung fu (at least not in film) and we can probably blame “kids these days….”  But on the bright side things are looking good for the Filipino martial arts and Jay Ignacio’s documentary “The Bladed Hand” got a nod.

Jackie Chan. Source: Wikimedia.

If kung fu is dying Jackie Chan does not seem to have gotten the memo.  Forbes magazine recently released their list of the highest paid actors which has now been updated to include those working outside of the US film industry.  Chan surprised many by appearing in second place with a total take last year of approximately $50 million USD.  The only actor to make more than Chan was Robert Downey Jr. (also a student of the Chinese martial arts) who brought in a stunning $80 million.  Here is the money quote:

“Jackie Chan is basically the Mickey Mouse of Chinese culture, a celebrity who is so omnipresent that his name has become shorthand,” says Grady Hendrix, cofounder of the New York Asian Film Festival.

Finally, students of Karate (or fans of the Karate Kid) will want to check out the article titled “The Real Mr. Miyagi” over at the Daily Beast.  This piece discusses Kevin Derek’s documentary on Fumio Demura and his contributions to the Japanese martial arts in America.  It is a well done piece, and it even has the seemingly mandatory Bruce Lee tie-in.

The Creation of Wing Chun by Judkins and Nielson.

Martial Arts Studies

First off, I am happy to announce that my book (with Sifu Jon Nielson) The Creation of Wing Chun: A Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts, is now shipping from amazon and available to the public.  Here is the publisher’s statement on the book:

This book explores the social history of southern Chinese martial arts and their contemporary importance to local identity and narratives of resistance. Hong Kong’s Bruce Lee ushered the Chinese martial arts onto an international stage in the 1970s. Lee’s teacher, Ip Man, master of Wing Chun Kung Fu, has recently emerged as a highly visible symbol of southern Chinese identity and pride. Benjamin N. Judkins and Jon Nielson examine the emergence of Wing Chun to reveal how this body of social practices developed and why individuals continue to turn to the martial arts as they navigate the challenges of a rapidly evolving environment. After surveying the development of hand combat traditions in Guangdong Province from roughly the start of the nineteenth century until 1949, the authors turn to Wing Chun, noting its development, the changing social attitudes towards this practice over time, and its ultimate emergence as a global art form.

Striking Beauty by Barry Allen

Students of martial arts studies should also note the release of Prof. Barry Allen’s (McMaster University, Hamilton Ontario) most recent volume, Striking Beauty: A Philosophical Look at the Asian Martial Arts (Columbia UP).  I noticed that Stanley Henning contributed a blurb for the back of this book as well.

The first book to focus on the intersection of Western philosophy and the Asian martial arts, Striking Beauty collapses the boundaries between Eastern and Western thought, comparatively studying the historical and philosophical traditions of martial arts practice and their ethical value in the modern world. Expanding Western philosophy’s global outlook, the book forces a theoretical reckoning with the concerns of Chinese philosophy and the aesthetic and technical dimensions of martial arts practice.

Striking Beauty explains the relationship between Asian martial arts and the Chinese philosophical traditions of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism in addition to the strategic wisdom of Sunzi’s Art of War. It connects martial arts practice to the Western concepts of mind-body dualism and materialism, sports aesthetics, and the ethics of violence. Incorporating innovations in body phenomenology, somaesthetics, and embodied cognition, the work ameliorates Western philosophy’s hostility toward the body, emphasizing the pleasure of watching and engaging in martial arts, along with their beauty and the ethical problem of their violence.

Global Perspectives on Women in Combat Sports

Readers will also want to remember that Global Perspectives on Women in Combat Sports: Women Warriors around the World (Palgrave Macmillan) by Alex Channon (Editor), Christopher R. Matthews (Editor) is due to drop on August 26^th

This volume presents a wide-reaching overview of contemporary research and scholarship on women’s engagement in a range of combat sports across the world. Including chapters on boxing, wrestling, mixed martial arts, and various other fighting disciplines, the collection provides readers with a comprehensive analysis of the current significance of women’s involvement in these sports, as well as charting many of the problems and opportunities they face in establishing and developing careers within them.

With contributions drawing from anthropology, phenomenology, philosophy, sociology, and sport psychology, this book will appeal to readers interested in the development of women’s sport; the relationship between sport and gender; and the wider, contemporary social significance of combat sports around the world.

Grappling with History – Martial Arts in Classical Hollywood Cinema by Kyle Barrowman

A number of shorter works have recently been posted online.  First, Wayne Wong has contributed an extensive and probing review of Sabrina Qiong Yu’s monograph Jet Li – Chinese Masculinity and Transnational Film Stardom (Edinburgh University Press) to the Martial Arts Studies webpage.  You can read an advance copy of his discussion here.  This discussion will be important for both students of film and cultural studies as well as Jet Li fans.

Bianca Miarka recently posted a copy of her paper “Reinterpreting the History of Women’s Judo in Japan” to Academia.edu.  Anyone interested in the role of gender in the modern martial arts will probably want to be familiar with this.  Likewise, Paul Bowman asks some provocative questions about the practice and portrayal of the martial arts in his latest essay titled “Mediatized Movements: Martial Artistry and Media Culture.”  Finally, film studies students and lovers of classic Hollywood movies will probably want to check out Kyle Barrowman’s guest post here at Kung Fu Tea examining the portrayal of the Asian martial arts in golden age American cinema.

Chinese Swords: An Ancient Tradition and Modern Training.

On a more practical note there are two other recent publications that readers of Kung Fu Tea may find interesting.  The first is an electronic collection of articles from the Journal of Asian Martial Arts titled Chinese Swords: An Ancient Tradition and Modern Training.  While this is not new material it might be nice to have it all in one place.  Secondly, Chineselongsword.com has just released their latest translation.  This is a new edition of General Qi Jiguang’s “Essentials of the Fist.”  Obviously this is a work that has had a profound affect on the subsequent development of the Chinese martial arts.  Head on over and check it out.

Kung Fu Tea on Facebook

As always there is a lot going on at the Kung Fu Tea Facebook group and this last month has been no exception.  We looked at vintage photographs of Chinese soldiers, discussed Tongbeiquan training techniques, and even celebrated a birthday!   Joining the Facebook group is also a great way of keeping up with everything that is happening here at Kung Fu Tea.

If its been a while since your last visit, head on over and see what you have been missing.

“The 18th (Royal Irish) Regiment of Foot, At the Storming of the Fortress of Amoy, August 26th 1841.”  This print shows a highly imaginative recreation of events.  While Tiger Soldiers were located in Amoy, the fortress actually fell with little resistance after a prolonged naval bombardment.

Introduction

Tigers have long been a symbol of martial values in Chinese culture. Many martial arts styles make use of tiger-based symbolism. This symbolism may reflect the tiger’s long association with the imperial military. Warrior figures wearing tiger skins or hoods are attested in Chinese art from at least the time of the Sui Dynasty (AD581-618) if not earlier. More recently, various troops of the Qing dynasty made symbolic use of tiger imagery, both in their uniforms and weapons.

Nor was this bit of zoomorphic trivia lost on China’s western observers during the 19th and early 20th century. While China remained a closed country through the middle of the 19th century, and relatively few individuals had the opportunity to actually travel to its ports, images of “Tiger Soldiers” enjoyed a prominent place in the western images of the mythic land of the Celestial Empire from the final years of the 18th century until roughly the era of the Boxer Uprising.

Why? How did a small set of images of a single class of soldier come to so dominate the western imagination of China and her military?

Recently I have been thinking about the history and nature of “Kung Fu Diplomacy.” By this I mean the various ways in which the government has attempted to deploy the image of the traditional martial arts as an active intervention in the way that the global public views the rising prominence of the Chinese state. This is only one small aspect of China’s overarching public diplomacy strategy, and we would do well to remember that in the current era all governments engage in this sort of “national brand building.” To the extent that it creates genuine cultural understanding and dissipates irrational fears, such efforts probably have a stabilizing effect on the global political discourse.

All of which is to say, we should not be surprised by the number of martial arts demonstrations that are hosted every year by “Confucius Institutes” around the world. Given my academic background in International Relations I find this (somewhat paradoxical) use of the traditional fighting arts in the constructing a “peaceful” image of a rising super power to be fascinating.

Many questions remain as to how and when different public diplomacy strategies are likely to be most successful. For instance, are these efforts most likely to yield fruit when they are tightly coordinated by a single government agency (allowing one to stay on message)? Or do they stand the best chance of success when individual actors in civil society (who may have a better sense of what domestic and foreign audiences want) are allowed to take the lead? And what happens when you find yourself attempting to counteract a powerful and much less complimentary set of narratives that are already popular abroad? How does the new narrative edit, augment or replace the old one?

This last question should be of particular interest to students of martial arts studies. Long before the Chinese government began to officially promote Wushu abroad, individual actors within both Chinese society and the diaspora had taken up this task. Likewise, some foreign observers, writers, artists and activists had also seized on certain key symbols to argue that Chinese culture was both simultaneously backwards and threatening. Its predilection towards violence, in addition to the problem of low-cost labor, required its active exclusion from western political and social life.

When Bruce Lee and the various pioneers of the Chinese martial arts began to appear in the middle of the 20th century they were not working with a blank canvas. Instead they were forced to confront, transform and co-opt a number of images that were already firmly planted in the public imagination. The architects of “Kung Fu Diplomacy” face a similar task to today. On the one hand they seek to use the traditional martial arts to create a favorable and non-threatening image. Yet the symbols that they employ already have a long and complex genealogy. For instance, every child who has ever watched Saturday morning cartoons already knows that in Kung Fu there is a “Tiger style.” And it turns out that impressionable western youth have “known” this (or something similar) for a very long time…

“A Soldier of the Chinese Infantry.” Costumes of China, 1805 by William Alexander.

The Emergence of the Tiger Soldier

Who first introduced the image of the Chinese martial tiger to the West? Chinese soldiers and martial artists had been painting tiger faces on wicker shields (often carried on their ships) for a very long time. Early missionary accounts and dictionary entries indicate that European visitors to Guangzhou and the Pearl River Delta had been familiar with this imagery since their first arrival. Yet it does not appear that these early explorers were responsible to importing this image onto the western popular imagination.

For that we must turn to William Alexander (10 April 1767 – 23 July 1816). A British artist and noted watercolorist, Alexander supported himself for more than a decade by selling engravings of daily life in China. His works (which range in date from the final decade of the 18th century to the first of the 19th) emerged at a time when the western public still held a highly romantic and positive view of China.

This feeling of good will would sour with the Opium Wars. It then turned to mocking derision following China many military defeats in the second half of the 19th century. Yet Alexander’s images of Chinese life had a profound impact prior to this major realignment in public opinion. They set the foundation for how China would be visualized for much of the 19th century, and some of his illustrations (especially those of soldiers holding traditional and outdated weapons) were reprinted for decades.

Alexander’s images are interesting to historians for another reason as well. Unlike most commercial illustrators in Europe during the early 19th century, he was one of the few westerners to have traveled extensively throughout the interior of China. In 1792 he was appointed as the junior artist to accompany the Earl of Macartney’s diplomatic mission to China. While this embassy ultimately failed to establish permanent diplomatic relations or a more open trade system, it did provide a small number of western diplomats with invaluable insights into Chinese life and government.

Alexander made extensive sketches throughout the trip and he also recorded his observations in detailed journals. He was fascinated by the sights, textures and details of daily of life. His work has provided historians with a rich record of the sorts of details that more official histories generally omit.

After returning to the UK Alexander began to turn his sketches and water colors into engravings for various publications and direct sales to the public. These were often augmented with notes from his journals helping to contextualize the scenes. Many of his early works feature richly illustrated backgrounds.

As time progressed Alexander began to cut and paste figures from sketches into new scenes. The illustrated backgrounds began to disappear and (perhaps under the influence of the increasingly popular export painting coming out of Guangzhou and Foshan) his illustrations increasingly stood isolated in a decontextualized space. While still aesthetically pleasing (he was after all an artist), historians are most likely to find Alexander’s earlier works to be the most interesting.

Perhaps his masterpiece was the 1805 bound volume Costumes of China. His first five illustrations appealed directly his audience’s curiosity (and orientalist fantasies) about the mysterious Middle Kingdom. Here we see pictures of a prosperous peasant family, a pagoda (a very popular symbol due to its appearance on Willow Ware porcelain) and a picturesque sailing vessel.

This initial set of illustrations is surrounded by two more martial images. The first is of a military official carrying both a bow and a sword. The latter is a now iconic picture of a Tiger Soldier, one that was reproduced literally dozens of times over the coming decades. Alexander included the following description with his illustration:

A CHINESE SOLDIER OF INFANTRY,

Or Tiger of War.

THE dress of the Chinese is generally loose; the soldiers of this part of the army, with few exceptions, are the only natives whose close habit discovers the formation of the limbs.

The general uniform of the Chinese troops is cumbrous and inconvenient; this of the Tiger of War, is much better adapted for military action.

The Missionaries have denominated them TIGERS OF WAR, from their dress, which has some resemblance to that animal; being striped, and having ears on the cap.

They are armed with a scimitar of rude workmanship, and a shield of wicker or basket-work, so well manufactured, as to resist the heaviest blow from a sword. On it is painted the face of an imaginary monster, which (like that of Medusa) is supposed to possess the power of petrifying the beholder.

At a distance is seen a Military Post, with the Imperial flag, which is yellow, hoisted near it.

William Alexander. 1805. The Costumes of China: Illustrated in 48 Coloured Engravings. London: William Miller, Albemarle Street. page 6.

This soldier’s costume is brightly colored and stripped. His hood has the ears that were noted by so many western observers. The uniform lacks a tail, which is sometimes described, but its presence is almost suggested by the sword’s scabbard. Of special interest in the highly detailed image of the wicker shield which also shares the tiger motif. Alexander’s account, which received mass circulation in its various reprints, also introduces the western reading public to the theory that the “Tigers of War” were (among other things) an exercise in psychological warfare.

“A Chinese Military Post.” 1796. An earlier view of Tiger Soldiers by William Alexander.

While this is by far William Alexander’s best known image of a Tiger Soldier, it was not his first. In an earlier 1796 illustration titled “A Chinese Military Post” he illustrated a (possibly composite) scene of military training in Qing dynasty. Five soldiers and a standard bearer occupy the piece’s foreground. But if the viewer looks off to the left two Tiger Soldiers sparring with sabers and wicker shields can clearly be seen. In the same year Alexander also published a more detailed technical study of common Chinese weapons which included a tiger shield.

It is interesting to note what Alexander does not say about these soldiers. There is no hint of the ridicule that would come to dominate later accounts. Of course in 1792 sabers were still a critical element of the European battlefield. Instead his only comment was that the Tiger uniforms were actually better fitting and more practical than the garb that many other soldiers received.

A comprehensive discussion of every subsequent appearance of Tiger Soldiers in the western press over the next century would be a substantial undertaking, though it might make for a fascinating book chapter. What is important to note is that following Alexander, these figures became an increasingly common theme in the western imagination of the Chinese military. While their symbolic meaning would take on a variety of connotations over the years, the basic visual image continued to follow the pattern first laid down by Alexander in the opening years of the 19th century. One wonders if, on some psychological level, the subsequent scorn directed at accounts of the Tiger Soldiers was not overcompensation for the earlier habit of romanticizing every aspect of Chinese life?

One can begin to see this process unfold in the following quote. William Alexander can be classified as an early pioneer of the travelogue literature that dominated so much of the reading public’s taste in the 19th century. By contrast the Scottish writer Charles Macfarlane (1799–1858) exemplified important trends in the maturing genera.

Known both for his novels and non-fiction descriptions of far off lands, Macfarlane spent much of his life away from the United Kingdom. Like other gentlemen of his generation he toured Europe. Being of a more adventurous mindset he also traveled to Turkey at multiple points in his life. I can find no evidence that Macfarlane ever made the trip to Asia, but that did not stop the now well established writer from producing books on life in both Japan and China. Once again, Tiger Soldiers were a topic of conversation.

“The soldiers are commonly called the imperial tigers or the celestial tigers. They bear on their shields, caps, or in the front of their dress, representations of all sorts of ferocious animals; but the figure of the tiger is the one most generally in use; and hence the nickname. All this appears ridiculous enough, and yet absurdities of the same sort are still allowed to exist among us. In our military uniforms we see tigers, lions, and other animals; and all that foppery of fur chaps, schabraques, and man-millinery, which disfigures our grenadiers and hussars, seems to deprive us of the right of laughing at the Chinese tigers.

Some European troops have even borrowed another military detail from the Chinese; at least the Spaniards pretend that in former times the Portuguese inserted into their general orders this laughable injunction, “Present a fierce face to the enemy!” and that the Portuguese soldiers always went into battle with a savage countenance, making warlike gesticulations, and showing their teeth to the foe. At the present day, the poor, tame, spiritless tigers of the Middle Kingdom, when they can be made to face an enemy at all, put on a fearful expression, make terrible gestures and grimaces, and set up a yell like that of the monsters of the forest and jungle.”
Charles Macfarlane. 1853. The Chinese Revolution: with details of the habits, manners, and customs of China and the Chinese. London: George Routledge and Co. pp. 55-56.

The first thing that should become evident after reviewing these passages is the extent to which 19th century travel writing was a self-reflective process. The outbreak of the Taping Rebellion had spurred a new round of popular interest in Chinese life. Indeed, one can detect some interesting resonances with Thomas Taylor Meadows’s 1856 work The Chinese and their Rebellions, in these passages. Of course Meadows had extensive on the ground experience in China as he had worked there for a number of years and even developed his own intelligence operation.

Still, one suspects that Macfarlane’s lack of first-hand information may not have been as much of an impediment as it first appears. Rather than finding the “truth” about the Chinese state or society, passages such as this one appear to be exercises in the construction of British nationalism through the lens of national comparison. Thus the rising tide of nationalism, and the demand for comparisons that it always seems to generate, might be another reason for the 19th century’s disillusionment with China.

In these passages Macfarlane picks up on the fact that tigers were sometimes used as a more general metaphor for Chinese troops. Indeed, missionary dictionaries published in the early 19th century note this same fact. Yet the reference to tiger inspired shields, caps and uniforms suggest that the following passages may also be seen as including the “Tiger Soldiers.” Indeed, that is likely how Macfarlane’s readers would have taken them.

While such animal imagery is held out for ridicule, the author makes it clear that European military forces were in no way immune to these same charges. More interesting to me is the description of various sorts of pantomime being employed in battle in an attempt to scare the enemy. Both Meadows and other British officers involved in the Opium Wars reported this same sort of behavior. One wonders to what extent it shares a common root with animal forms in the modern martial arts.

“Advance of the Tigers” (Part 1) from Harper’s Weekly, 1876. Source: Author’s personal collection.

“Advance of the Tigers” (Part 2) from Harper’s Weekly, 1876. Source: Author’s personal collection.

Macfarlane’s exploration of comparative-animal symbolism in no way exhausted the public’s curiosity on the subject. I recently ran across a pair of engravings from the November 11, 1876 issue of Harper’s Weekly (p. 923) that nicely illustrated the evolving western attitude towards China and its perceived military weakness during the era of the “Unequal Treaties.” Any respect that had been present in earlier treatments had now given way to loud derision. It should be noted that this article was published six years after the 1870 Naturalization Act (barring Chinese individuals from obtaining US citizenship) and six years prior to the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act.

The article which accompanies the two part illustration reads in part:

“…though a very simple sword exercise, keeping time to a melancholy sounding bugle, and at each note uttering a most horrible yell. Then follows the most extraordinary sight represented in the second drawing. At the sound of a drum the whole body of tigers puts their heads on the ground, and, with another terrific yell, roll over like acrobats, retaining in their hands both sword and shield. In a second they are on their legs again, and the acrobatic performance is repeated. Just what the object of this most astonishing maneuver may be our artist declares himself unable to ascertain, but the amazement of an enemy on beholding it may easily be imagined.

The testimony already given in regard to the inefficiency of the Chinese army is corroborated by the Marquis de Moges, who says that ‘two regiments of Zouaves and two of chasseurs would suffice to conquer all of China. There is not’ he continues, ‘a corps in the empire that could stand fast under a bayonet charge. The sight of a body of men marching coolly and resolutely up to them is so alien to their nature, so utterly incomprehensible and terrible, that all courage deserts them, and it is ten to one if they do not immediately take to their heels.”

Obviously the “before and after” illustration of the Chinese unit’s “acrobatic” performance is the most interesting aspect of this particular report. I do not think that I have ever run across anything quite like this before, and it must have made a powerful (and less than positive) effect on the readers. Once again, Chinese soldiers are referred to as Tigers in the metaphorical sense. Whatever meaning this appellation may have originally carried has now been replaced with irony as this report suggest that these men actually represent everything that tigers are NOT. Their shields are shown to be decorated, but no details are identifiable. This training is once again being brought to the reader for the explicit purpose of contrasting it with the simple utility of a western bayonet charge.”

“A ride to Little Tibet: Chinese military exercise at Durbuljin, near Chuguchak.–Manchu soldiers at sword drill.” Daily Graphic. October 15, 1891. Source: Author’s personal collection.

In 1899 Mrs. Archibald Little (1838–1908) opened another front again China’s Tiger Soldiers. On the one hand her account indicates that infantry dressed in the Tiger uniform was still very much present in the military’s organizational flow chart. On the other hand she goes on to deny that they actually exist at all, except perhaps as an accounting expediency in China’s notoriously corrupt military.

Mrs. Little, the wife of merchant, lived and wrote in China for most of her adult life. She was probably best known for her novels (including A Marriage in China, 1899), journalism and activism. Recounting an episode from her own travels in 1899 she writes:

“At Ichang, a thousand miles up the river Yangtse, there is a regiment of soldiers dressed as tigers; but I never could persuade any of the foreign officials to escort me to see them maneuver, the European opinion being that not even the presence of an inspecting general would awe the Tiger Soldiers sufficiently to make it safe to take a foreign lady to see them.

I was told that the Tigers were not really soldiers at all, but that some officers drew pay for them as if they existed; and then when the General came to inspect, all the beggars and riff-raff of the city put on the Tiger uniform over their rags, turned out in so disorderly a condition that even their officers were afraid of them. And so it turned out that, except from a passing steamer, I never saw Chinese soldiers drill till I did so at Woosung, the new Treaty Port, and the junction of the Whangpoo, on which Shanghai is situated, with the Great River Yangtse.”

Archibald Little. 1899. Intimate China: The Chinese as I have seen them. London: Hutchinson & Co. pp. 269-270

 

What follows is a page long description of Mrs. Little’s observation of military drills near Shanghai. In sharp contrast to the previous paragraph, she observed that these soldiers were well armed, skilled with both rifle and lance, well disciplined and very professional. Aside from some leaping about with lances in the middle of their drill she reported nothing off-putting about their performance. Unfortunately for us they apparently had no tigers in their ranks.

This then returns our attention to her earlier account of the phantom tiger unit. Numerous other sources attest to corrupt officers pocketing the paychecks of ghost soldiers. Indeed, the Chinese government itself was well aware of the problem and this was one of the reasons why it was reluctant to hire militia units. They (or more properly their commanders) tended to be particularly prone to this sort of corruption.

The other very interesting thing about this account is the realization that the individuals who manned this unit (to the extent that it existed) were thought to be locally recruited civilians. Of course to do an even passable job one strongly suspects that many of these Tiger Soldiers would have been martial artists recruited as “braves” to stiffen the unit on an “as needed” basis. Of course swords and shields would have been weapons well suited to local martial artists, though Mrs. Archibald’s report suggests that the unit’s discipline left something to be desired.

Our final account of “Tiger Soldiers” is provided by Wilbur J. Chamberlin (1866-1901) a reporter best known for his work on the Boxer Uprising, who died at the tragically young age of 35. Chamberlin was a career journalist and who spent the last decade of his life working for the New York Sun. In a period not generally remembered for its nuanced public discussion of Chinese politics, his reporting was unique as it argued that aggressive missionary work and the actions of foreign soldiers (among other factors) had set the stage for the tragic events which followed. Most modern readings of the Boxer Uprising now share this same basic conclusion.

Of course the Boxer Uprising was also a watershed event in the development of the Chinese martial arts. As I have argued elsewhere, it was the moment when most Chinese reformers turned their backs on the traditional fighting arts (which they blamed for the crushing reparations that the country was forced to bear). Increasingly they viewed these practices as too superstitious, backwards and inefficient to have any place in the new China. Put slightly differently, China’s martial arts reformers would spend much of the first half of the 20th century attempting to overcome the legacy of the Boxer Uprising.

So how did the legacy of the Tiger Soldiers fare in this post-Boxer environment?

“This morning I was going through the Imperial City when I saw a Chinaman dressed in a garment that looked like a tiger-skin, and thereby hangs a tale—a tail, by the way, hung from the garment. The fellow was sufficiently interesting for me to inquire about, and I found he was one the Imperial Army. He belonged to the Tiger Brigade. Now don’t laugh and I’ll tell you about it.

It seems that the Chinese have an idea that noise is a frightful thing. You really wouldn’t think that this was true if you were in Peking a moment and listened to the din, or spent a minute or two watching the progress of a conversation between two Chinamen, or, particularly, two Chinese women. But it is a fact. And if noise can be associated with an object of which the ordinary man is afraid, so much the better. The ordinary man, of course, is afraid of a tiger, so what could be better than brigade of tigers to strike terror to the hearts of your enemies. Now tigers are plentiful in this benighted country, but they are not so easily caught nor are they easily trained, so handling as many as a thousand of them would be exceedingly interesting, if not dangerous. Real tigers are really not necessary. If you can make your enemy believe you have thousand trained tigers coming to devour him, that is just as good as if you had the tigers, and that is the secret of the Tiger Brigade.

The Chinese have not a thousand, but several thousand, of these tiger soldiers. They make uniforms for them of bright yellow cloth and on this they paint the black stripes in imitation of the tiger’s skin. They sew on a striped tail and the tiger soldier is ready to go forth to battle. In war times the brigade is put right to the front of the army. When the army gets near to the enemy—near enough to see plainly—the tiger soldiers drop on their hands and knees and begin to roar as loudly as their lungs will let them. If the imagination of the enemy is good and strong, like that of a Journal reporter, he immediately sees several thousand ferocious tigers advancing upon him to devour him and he runs as if Old Nick himself were after him. Now what do you think of that for an idea in the year of our Lord 1900? It is not much wonder, is it, that anybody who wants to can step in and whip China, or that she is almost powerless to resist any attack that can be made on her. Yet there are people living who talk about the “the yellow peril” and the invasion and over-running of Europe by it—the peril being the Chinese who use Tiger Brigades! The longer we live the more we learn.”

“Peking, China, Friday, December 14th 1900.” Wilbur J. Chamberlin. 1904. Ordered to China: Letters of Wilbur J. Chamberlin. London: Methuen & Co. 195-196.

 

As should be evident from the preceding passages, the author is not writing here strictly in his role as a journalist. While Chamberlin aspired to write serious books, his short life foreclosed that possibility. The one work that was published before his death was a book of letters. One suspects that this account of the “Tiger Soldiers” may have been included as an elaborate pretext for making a jab at the reporters of the Journal. Still, it indicates a continuing interest in the appearance and behavior of Tiger Soldiers more than 100 years after their first appearance in the popular literature.

Unfortunately in the aftermath of the Boxer Uprising these troops with their acrobat skills and culturally specific imagery seem more antiquated than ever. As Chamberlin illustrates, in the western mind they have come to represent everything that is wrong with China’s approach to global competition.

A vintage french postcard showing military uniforms from various Asian countries. Source: Author’s personal collection.

Conclusion

This essay began with the observation that the traditional martial arts have become an element of China’s public diplomacy strategy. Yet no attempt at fashioning a “national brand” happens in a vacuum. Many players have a hand in this game. Nor are the basic signs and symbols of cultural diplomacy blank pages upon which any meaning can be written.

While animal symbolism is a beloved aspect of the modern Chinese martial arts, some of these associations (particularly those linking tigers to Chinese martial values) have been under discussion in the west for literally hundreds of years. By the first decade of the 19th century tigers were already linked to an increasingly antiquated symbolic complex of traditional weapons, psychological warfare, acrobatic combat and animal pantomime within the western imagination.

It is worth stating, for the record, that the one thing that we have not learned much about in this essay is the reality of the “Tiger Soldiers.” Who were they? What unique functions did they perform? How were they trained? What were their lives actually like?

These are questions that must be left to actual military historians. Instead the quotes and images provided here demonstrated both the ongoing presence and subtle evolution of these symbols within western popular culture over the course of a century. Indeed, the public’s judgement of the Tiger Soldier seems to closely track the military fortunes of the Chinese empire as a whole.

This suggests a simple answer to an important question. Why were western individuals so keen to pick up the Japanese martial arts (Jujitsu and Judo were already known in the west by the time of Chamberlin’s concluding observation) while the Chinese martial arts had to wait for the 1970s to begin to gain any serious recognition? There seems to be no thought in these reports that the strange acrobatic maneuvers reported by various observers might constitute a distinct body of worthwhile martial practice. Yet at roughly the same time western newspapers were reporting on Judo its links to the successes of the Japanese military.

It seems that for the reading public conquest on the battlefield revealed a nation’s true “character.” The victory of the Japanese over the Chinese and Russians exposed traits worth emulating. This, in turn, led to the hope that the techniques and values of Japanese hand combat could be taught and commercially appropriated.

China’s long string of defeats instead suggested that its traditional combat methods were more akin to a vice to be overcome, rather than something to be emulated. To the extent that they were seen as an extension of the country’s national character, they were not even something that could be taught. With the exception of a handful of police and military personal who had worked in China, I suspect that it didn’t really occur to most Western observers that China even possessed a system of “martial arts” until the second half of the 20th century. Despite persistent efforts by some individuals to promote or publicize this fact, “the eye cannot see what the mind does not know.”

All of this suggests two important conclusions which must be accounted for in our future explorations of “Kung Fu Diplomacy.” First, the role of social and media actors (basically non-governmental agents) cannot be ignored in understanding the formation of cultural capital. Some of the most important of these agents may even be located with the target’s society.

Secondly, exogenous shocks or events on the international stage (such as the Opium War and the Boxer Uprising) will always impact how these symbols are perceived. The good news is that through hard work a more positive public image of the Chinese martial arts and its use of animal imagery could be constructed. Yet since each of these symbols contains many layers of historically and psychologically accumulated meaning, the potential for unpredictability remains ever present. Cultural meaning is never as stable or predictable as the architects of public diplomacy campaigns might like.

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If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: 1928: The Danger of Telling a Single Story about the Chinese Martial Arts

oOo

Jonathan Gottschall’s Professor in the Cage. 2015.

A Surprise at the Bookstore

A remarkable thing happened on the way to the airport. Knowing that I would be spending a disturbingly large amount of my summer on various airplanes, I decided to make the most of it by getting caught up on some light reading. This called for a visit to a local bookstore. Out of habit I found myself walking past the martial arts shelf on the way over to “New Science Fiction.” Needless to say, I did not really expect to find anything interesting.

I respect “how to books” more than most of the experienced martial artists that I know. For me they are an easily observed indicator of the economic strength of the martial arts marketplace and the fodder for future generations of historians and cultural studies students. Still, titles like 101 Warrior MMA Workouts or Tai Chi for Everyone are not exactly the sorts of books that were going to propel me across a couple of continents.

Yet as I passed by the section my eye was immediately caught by a crisp white human skull with a disjointed jaw set against a black background. I knew that this was the cover that Penguin had used for Jonathan Gottschall’s latest popular book The Professor in the Cage: Why Men Fight, and Why we Like to Watch (2015).

The volume had been languishing somewhere near the middle of my mental “to read” list for a couple of months. It seemed like the sort of thing that I should get to, even though it was not immediately relevant to my current research projects. What most outsiders do not realize is that academics is all about greed, and our most valuable commodity is time. So any book needs to promise quite a lot to get promoted to the top of the pile.

In this case what struck me was less the relevance of Gottschall’s project than what surrounded it on the nook sized shelf that had been carved out for martial arts books. The store had stocked at least eight copies of his book, each displaying a leering skull on its spine.

Nor were the self-help books and beginners guides nearly as numerous as I had remembered. Of the 30 or so titles that were being carried six were basically literary discussions of martial arts and biographies of important practitioners. Another four books were translations of ancient Chinese or Japanese military classics. Bruce Lee continued to be well represented with four titles of his own, and another three seemed to be dedicated to various meditation practices. Only four of the titles fell into the classic “how to genera” with another three books being dedicated to conditioning workouts. In short, the selection was skewing strongly towards books about the martial arts rather than of the martial arts.

This struck me as a potentially significant moment. Is it really true that the hunger for nuanced discussions of these fighting systems is expanding at a quick enough pace that it is displacing the more traditional “how to” genera which has dominated the page of Black Belt magazine’s advertising sections since the 1960s? Obviously we have seen a gratifying increase of interest in martial arts studies as an academic project. But is this mirroring a broader trend in the martial arts marketplace?

I was suddenly struck by the realization that if someone walked into a bookstore looking for a more intellectual (if not actually scholarly) discussion of the martial arts, there was at least a possibility that they would actually find something on the shelf. This particular store even carried a copy of Shahar’s Shaolin Monastery. This is vastly different from how things were when I was growing up.

And if they were to enter the store now, the book that they would find first would be Dr. Gottschall’s Professor in the Cage. So what would they learn? What sort of impression of the academic engagement with the martial arts would they walk away with?

Suddenly this volume vaulted to the top of my mental “to read” list. I grabbed a copy and walked towards the registers at the front of the store. As I waited in line I looked over only to be greeted by another stack of laughing skulls. Apparently someone had decided that a strangely confessional story of an adjunct English professor being repeatedly mauled after taking up MMA would qualify as an “impulse buy.” “Good clean fun” I thought to myself.

Jonathan Gottschall. Photo by Gilberto Tadday.  Source: Chronicle of Higher Education.

Broken Promises

I was once asked by a reader why I review so many books that I dislike. I can understand where this question comes from, but it is not actually all that accurate. Generally when I really dislike a book I do not bother to write a review at all. In truth I only sit down and seriously engage with a text when I think that it will be worth my (and by extension your) time; again, greed and all of that. I may like a work, or see serious problems with it. But if I am talking about it on Kung Fu Tea, it is because I think that there is something really interesting that is worth pushing on a little harder.

In general that push takes the form of criticism as we probe to find the limits of an argument. Or to discover exactly how much work a theory can do for us. Perhaps to question the substantive significance of an author’s finding. Being criticized is not the worst thing that can happen to you in academics. It simply means you are part of the discussion. Being ignored, however, is a different matter. That is deadly.

Gottshall’s recent work was one that I was very tempted to ignore. As I talked with some of my friends and colleagues who also engage in the academic study of the martial arts, that was basically their thought as well. This is a work that is so profoundly flawed, both theoretically and empirically, that it is difficult to engage with. I thought very seriously about just taking their advice.

Still, something about it did not sit right with me. Once I decided to read this book I had approached it with rather high hopes. While a highly controversial figure in his field, Gottschall has graced the pages of the New York Times and other major publications, earning the status of a “public intellectual.” Coming out of graduate school he noted the declining fortunes of the humanities in comparison to the STEM fields and declared that it was time for a change of approach. Or more properly, a shift in both the fundamental questions that scholars of literature should be asking, as well as the methods that they must employ in investigating them.

Drawing on fields like sociobiology and evolutionary psychology Gottschall argued that human beings are first and foremost animals, and that the stories that they tell are often best understood as expressions of the evolutionary pressures that shaped us as a species. The best way to test this theory and to explore its implications was by dumping the bloated and increasingly unwieldly frameworks of critical theory, feminist theory and various sorts of social constructivism that dominate the study of literature in favor of actual science and math.

Needless to say, his approach found little support among the professors of literature that he was attempting to convince, and Gottschall has never managed to find a foothold in the academy. For a summary of his larger academic battles and a discussion of his current place in the field, check out this recent article in the chronicle of higher education.

Not that any of this is fatal to his current project. The American academic system produces vastly more PhDs than it does tenure-track teaching positions. It is not all that odd to find an adjunct somewhere doing really interesting and potentially important things, and it is likely to become increasingly common in the near future.

Nor is a shift towards quantitative methods and assumptions the worst thing in the world. My PhD is in political science, and while the humanities appear to have decisively rebuffed this trend, it has been very influential throughout the social sciences. Most young scholars of international relations graduating today spend more time studying matrix calculus, game theory and advanced statistics than they do on German or French. “Methodological triangulation” is the watch word of the day.

In fact, my first big article revolved around predicting when political conflicts might emerge over free trade by using data based on the careful coding of keywords in party platforms, and then running all of that through a complex statistical model to generate a very precise measurement of a party’s position on a theoretical left-right spectrum. In some ways this wasn’t really all that different from what Gottschall had attempted to do in one of his more controversial publications promoting the coding and analysis of literary works. He probably would have fit right in at a sociology or political science department. But he proved to be on the wrong side of his field’s own methodological divide.

Still, Gottschall cannot blame all of his problems on his ideological enemies. Part of this trouble has been convincing skeptical allies that he actually has something interesting to say which is not derivative or trivially true. And while some have welcomed the attempt to bring formal scientific methods into the world of literature, they have been less enthusiastic about what they see as Gottschall’s attempts to move scientific debates or establish fundamental “facts” though his reading of literature. And as any reader of the Professor in the Cage will already know, Gottschall can be a difficult person. That probably did not make it any easier for him to win the most favorable hearing for his ideas.

In the current volume Gottschall attempts to take a step away from these controversies to write a purely popular book, largely devoid of explicit or sustained theoretical discussions. Drawing on some of his prior interests, and what can only be described as a midlife-crisis MMA attack, he decided to embark on a wide-ranging study of violence in both history and literature.

To get a better handle on the reality of violence he began a program of regular training at a local mixed martial arts school, while desperately attempting to line up the big final cage fight which was apparently needed for his book contract. Unsurprisingly most of the local fight promoters seemed uninterested in having him on their cards.

Gottshcall’s book at first appears to fit squarely in the growing literature on “carnal sociology.” As is typical for the genera we see the author mixing ethnography and some larger set of questions about the structure of society. The difference in this case is that Gottschall stuck to his ideological and theoretical guns. Rather than following Wacquant’s famous advice about such research projects (“go native, but also go armed” with an appropriate body of theory to help one interpret and make sense of this overwhelming experience) Gottschall continued to believe that the meaning of most things (certainly anything worth writing a book about) can be found solely in the Darwinian struggle for survival.

I have nothing against sociobiology as a field. Certain international relations scholars have done some interesting things with it. But after reading Gottschall’s latest work, it is pretty clear that this background did not prepare him to speak to the vast variety of social violence seen throughout human history, or to make sense of his personal experiences while training in an MMA gym.

Gottshcall’s book is not frustrating because it fails. In truth most books do that to one degree or another. The real problem is that his project started with such promise.

The idea of tying a personal engagement with the martial arts to an exploration of the larger problems of violence is a fundamentally sound one. His various critics are absolutely incorrect to dismiss this move as “stunt journalism.” There is a long history of empirically driven scholars doing just this.

Unfortunately Gottschall does not seem to be any more aware of their work than are his critics. The contributions of Wacquant and those who came after him probably fall too far outside his disciplinary interest. The real problem seems to be that, not grasping the possibilities for serious academic discovery, Gottschall treats his own project as a self-indulgent stunt to attract a book contract rather than as a serious research strategy.

Likewise the idea of bringing some math and scientific rigor into the study of social violence (and even the literature surrounding it) is a potentially important one. Martial Arts Studies is an inherently interdisciplinary project. This is practically mandated by the nature of the problems that we face. In truth a combination of methods and approaches are going to be the best way to get at this set of questions neglected by the traditional disciplines.

But this neglect does not mean that the questions are unimportant. Perhaps the most disheartening thing about this book was that Gottschall turned to the study of the martial arts and violence at the same time that he was moving away from more rigorous academic inquiry. He even goes so far as to describe the project as a sort of career or intellectual suicide.

Again, this sells what could have been a very interesting project short. Specifically, the sort of work that we see in Martial Arts Studies not only pushes disciplines to consider the adoption of new methods and theories, but as it asks different questions it begins to challenge some of the more fundamental (and artificial) boundaries separating the disciplines to begin with. But rather than engaging with this larger trend Gottschall’s eyes remain firmly fixed on his opponents and oppressors in English departments around the country.

While Gottshcall talks a lot about science, and he has footnotes to a fair number of studies of one sort or another, another big problem with this volume is that it does not actually do anything “scientifically” at all. Rather than constructing a tightly focused theory and using it to derive a set of hypotheses, Gottschall instead employs a wide range of preexisting theories as “just so” stories to help explain away the various problems that emerge through the course of a rambling book. In short, what he offers his readers is basically science as a metaphor and an appeal to authority rather than as a method to be rigorously explored and tested.

Of course one must immediately wonder whether this is a fair criticism. As I mentioned, this is not an academic work. While it is a text that the author uses to attack his academic enemies and rail against the injustices of the academy, it is basically a popular book that was never intended to plow new ground or make any novel discoveries. Don’t all such popular works basically use science as a “just so” story, to explain something about the reader’s life or daily reality?

Possibly. Yet many of the problems with Gottschall’s arguments are so basic that I am not sure that they can be defended by claiming that the author does not have to show his math. His treatment of both gender and culture will no doubt stand out to most readers as the most disturbing aspect of this work. Gottschall himself has nothing but scorn for those who doubt the essential, and to his mind genetically given, nature of gender. (In point of fact most of his discussions of culture also seem to go back to a very simplistic reading of Darwinian pressure which, if you spend even a few moments considering that proposition, should strike you as very strange).

Rather than seriously engaging with these debates he magisterially explains to his readers (with a few highly selective endnotes thrown in for good measure), that men are brave and women are weak (at one point he even seems to imply emotionally unstable) because of our genes. The fact that men love to fight and women tend not to be “real sports fans” (no matter what they say on surveys) can be totally understood through genetics. The pressure for survival is used as an explanation for duels, as well as the existence of left handed individuals. Gottschall even evokes it as an explanation for the popularity of team sports.

One could write an entire review article just of the problems found in any one of his chapters. Yet we can pretty much sum up this sad situation with the following axiom, something that should be familiar to most students who have actually taken a statistics class. “A constant cannot explain a variable.”

The real problem with Gottschall’s book is that it attempts to move beyond autobiography and meditation on the dark side of human violence. These would be perfectly respectable things for an English professor to write a book about. One could even do so using nothing but the the critical theories and qualitative methods that Gottschall seems to have such trouble with.

Yet once you take a step into the world of “science,” and dedicate yourself to the use of quantitative and empirical methods, you are basically moving into the realm of causality. Your task, as a scientist, is to explain what causes variations in outcomes across time and space. And to explain these differing outcomes, you generally turn to a set of factors known in these sort of discussions as “variables.”

Gottschall’s entire problem is that all of the talk of science notwithstanding, he seems to have no motivation to actually explaining anything of interest. To begin with, he appears to be incapable of seeing all of the variation that his own case studies (as short and poorly developed as most of them are) actually reveal.

Human genetics are a constant. They do not change all that much over the short term. But in 1790 men in Europe fought duels and by 1890 they did not. The basic evolutionary situation did not change over the course of this period of time. So what did?

Practically everything else. Forms of social organization evolved, the strength of religion diminished, literacy levels went up, health was generally better, economic growth and trade expanded. And governments were vastly stronger in 1890 than they were in 1790. Gottshcall discusses dueling in terms of an honor system that was necessary to maintain one’s prospects for sexual reproduction in a lawless world. He basically dismisses culture as being epiphenomenal to people’s behavior in this case.

Yet when noting the very rapid decline of dueling, he blames the growth of strong states for this turn of events. Would that not then imply that rather than focusing on the question of Darwinian fitness in the first half of his chapter, something which does not change, we should have instead been looking at the interactions between the state and society? These structures change, sometimes quite rapidly. And they seem more than capable of explaining the periodic rise and fall of dueling in human societies without any need to pontificate about our most ancient ancestors and their disturbing excess of semen.

Gottshcall would likely retort that the genetic codes which we all carry are what makes it possible for behaviors such as dueling to arise in the first place. We are, after all, just animals. Hence his contention that violence is, and must, be universal. Yet in reality this position explains nothing while steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the existence of much more interesting questions.

My basic genetic code has also allowed me to develop an interest in classical Spanish guitar music. Why some societies give their 15 year old boys guitars while other give them dueling swords and pistols (and yet others give them both) is a genuinely interesting question. Gottschall’s razor focus on a narrow interpretation of evolutionary biology draws him to the “constant possibility” of violence while dismissing the much more interesting questions of its many forms (and even occasional absence) as unimportant. Yet real science involves the explanation of variance rather than its ad hoc dismissal at the end of every chapter.

Another clear example of this dilemma arises at the end of chapter 5, titled “Survival of the Sportiest.” After an long and involved discussion of why men are not only better at fighting than women, but that they also enjoy it more, Gottschall is forced to confront a disturbing trend within the modern combat sports. Simply put, the number of female kickboxers and MMA fighters is increasing rapidly, as is female audience engagement with these sports. He even has to acknowledge the reality of one such athlete when Jena “Jenacide” Baldwin spends some time at his gym as an instructor.

The weakness of the ethnographic component of this work is evident in the shallowness of his engagement with the sudden appearance of a high level female fighter. It doesn’t appear that this new and potentially important development had any shaping effect on Gottschall’s beliefs about gender and the roots of participation in combat sports.

So does this trend suggest that we will see more women entering spaces traditionally defined as male (such as team and combat sports) in the future? And will the acquisition of new skills in these areas have any impact on the ability of these women to navigate their way through other traditionally male dominated areas of society?

Gottschall is skeptical on all fronts. Rather than admitting that a future may exist in which we see greater female participation in the Mixed Martial Arts he instead opinions that we are entering a new feminized age in which traditionally “female” virtues, such as the ability to cooperate and avoid needless violent conflict, will “allow women to outcompete men, and to bring about a close to the ‘age of testosterone.’”

There are a number of problems with these pages, but at the most basic level, if the “close the age of testosterone” really is possible, and all of this can happen through purely social and economic shifts, than maybe we should have spent the last chapter discussing the economic and social underpinnings of MMA (and other violent sports) rather than evolution and sociobiology. By his own admission this prior set of variables are the ones that are actually defining how society works in the current age, and when you get right down to it there is no good reason to assume that they were somehow unimportant in even the very recent past. Gottschall’s inability to explain observed change using his primary theory, his constant reliance on exogenous variables, indeed his inability to recognize an interesting research puzzle when he sees one, seriously undercut this work.

It goes without saying that this is a work without academic merit. That was never the point of this book. Yet I doubt this work is really going to do much to advance the popular discussion of the martial arts either. Rather than bringing his readers into a richer and more interested world (something that the combat sports and traditional martial arts have generally done) Gottschall instead leaves them locked in a shadowy and narrow Hobbesian cell. Luckily, if one were to push back against the prison walls it would quickly be discovered that they are much less secure than they first appear. Of course the trick is first seeing through the illusion of compelling prose.

We currently sit at an interesting moment in time. Rarely in the past has there been enough interest in the martial arts for publishers to support and heavily promote a book such as this one. I personally am very excited to see some of the academic work on violence and the martial arts being brought together and made available to the broader reading public. And there are many things about the basic structure of this project that are admirable. Yet I am deeply disturbed by the idea that this book might be taken as the public face of martial arts studies.

While energetic and engaging, the ideas behind this book are problematic. Not only does this volume fail to give readers a systematic framework for understanding the changes that they are seeing in the world today, ironically, it turns its back on this most basic of “scientific” tasks.

Global Perspectives on Women in Combat Sports

Five other Books to Consider

Simply telling someone that you do not like a book is not really all that helpful, especially if they find themselves standing in a bookstore wondering what they can read to deepen their appreciation for the martial arts and social violence. As Lakatos reminds us in his discussions of the scientific method, we do not dismiss a theory simply because its flawed. All theories are born flawed as, by their very nature, they are simplifications of realty. This is the original sin of the scientific method. Rather, we only dismiss something once we have found a better alternative. Or to put it another way, what should we be reading instead?

Recommended Readings

1. Autobiography and the Martial Arts:

Matthew Polly. 2011. Tapped Out: Rear Naked Chokes, the Octagon, and the Last Emperor: An Odyssey in Mixed Martial Arts. Gotham.

Polly must be a bit of a headache for Gottchall and his marketing team. A very engaging writer he also had a similar idea for a book and he got his out first. Like Gottschall Polly had a background in the traditional martial arts, and then turned to MMA in his late 30s. He presents a more tightly focused (and nuanced) narrative about the development of this sport and the UFC. Readers who are primarily interested in martial arts biography or the current combat sports scene will probably enjoy this work.

Polly was not the first author to write something like this. As Gottschall points out, this is actually something of an established genre among sports writers. So if you are looking for some additional reading, one of my favorites has always been Robert Twigger’s Angry White Pajamas: A Scrawny Oxford Poet Takes Lessons from the Tokyo Riot Police, (IT Books, 2000).

2. Culture, the Martial Arts and Social Violence:

D. S. Farrer. 2009. Shadows of the Prophet: Martial Arts and Sufi Mysticism. Dordrecht: Springer, 2009.

In many ways D. S. Farrer presents a nice point of engagement for those interested in Gottschall’s work. Farrer understands anthropology as a social science and his work is rigorously empirical. This volume, stemming from his extensive ethnographic fieldwork on Malaysian Silat, will help to illustrate the many ways in which culture, rather than simply biology, has impacted the expression of social violence around the world.

My only hesitation about this monograph stems from its price, which is truly epic. It is definitely something you will want to order from the local library. But I have it on good authority that we can expect a second (more reasonably priced) edition sometime soon. If you are looking for some additional reading that you can actually afford to order from Amazon, consider Phillip B. Zarilli’s 2000 Oxford University Press monograph, When the Body Becomes All Eyes: Paradigms, Discourses and Practices of Power in Kalarippayattu, a South Indian Martial Art.

3. Reality, Violence and the Martial Arts:

Sgt. Rory Miller. Meditations on Violence: A Comparison of Martial Arts Training & Real World Violence. Ymma Publications Center, 2006.

This book is pretty well known in hand combat circles, and you will want to take a look at it if you have not already done so. It presents a number of comparisons between real world violence (which for Sgt. Miller does not mean a cage fight) and martial arts training.

Anyone interested in Gottschall’s extensive use of “the monkey dance” concept will be especially interested in this work. The term was actually coined by Miller, and one might as well go straight to the source to see what he actually had to say about it.

So how does culture interact with criminality? There are both universals and differences. For more on this topic see Boretz’s book Gods, Ghosts and Gangsters Ritual Violence, Martial Arts, and Masculinity on the Margins of Chinese Society (Hawaii UP, 2010) in which he looks at the life of petty thugs and toughs in Southern China and Taiwan. While an academic book this volume is pretty accessible. It is also a nice example of an important contribution being made by someone outside of the academic mainstream.

4. The Social Sciences, Violence and Quantitative Methods:

James W. Tong. Disorder Under Heaven: Collective Violence in the Ming Dynasty. Stanford UP, 1991.

One of the things that makes me uneasy about Gottschall’s work is that he tends to conflate his ontology (a sort of basic evolutionary reductionism) with his epistemology (scientific and quantitative methods). While often related, these are not the same thing. Specifically, social scientists have spent decades using formal methods to develop models of violence that do not boil down to genetics.

Students of martial arts studies may even find some of these to be quite interesting. Consider checking out James W. Tong’s Disorder Under Heaven. This book actually employs many of the methods that Gottschall has championed to investigate patterns of violence in Late Imperial China. Yet this author concludes that geographic and political variables are the most relevant.

This book is unapologetically academic in nature, but if you are actually interested in learning more about how quantitative methods have been used to investigate the causes of violence, that will probably not come as a surprise.

5. Gender, Combat Sports and the Martial Arts:

Alex Channon and Christopher R. Matthews. Global Perspectives on Women in Combat Sports: Women Warriors around the World. Palgrave Macmillan, 2015.

This is a topic that Gottschall has some strong opinions on. Obviously sex and reproduction are issues that are critical to sociobiology. Unfortunately it does not seem that the author spent much time dealing with female martial artists or attempting to understand their actual (rather than simply their theorized) experiences with violence and competition.

It might be wise to get a second opinion on these matters. Luckily there is a new book out this week to help you do just that. The authors of this edited volume consider many of the same questions that Gottschall does while making numerous contributions of their own.

Unfortunately as a new academic book, this one is also going to be pricey. Bug your university library to buy a copy. In the mean time you might also want to check out Stephanie T. Hoppe’s (now classic) volume Sharp Spear, Crystal Mirror (Park Street Press, 1998) While the articles in this book are autobiographical rather than social scientific, it might be a great way to get acquainted with the personal narratives of actual female martial artists. It is also possible to find used copies of this book floating around at great prices.

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If you enjoyed this review and want to further explore “scientific” approaches to martial arts studies, you might also want to read:  Why do difficult and expensive martial arts thrive?

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Youth engaged in militia training outside of Guangzhou in the 1850s. Note the long thin blade being held behind the rattan shield by the kneeling individual. source http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

***For our Friday post we will be taking a second look at something from the archives.  That was not my original plan.  I actually had a great idea for a post all outlined, but my week turned out to be busier than expected and it has culminated in a pleasant, if not totally expected, road trip.  So we will have to wait until next week to explore some of that idea.  But this is not much of a setback as today’s post lays down much of the conceptual foundation for where we are going next.  Consider the following questions.  To what extent should students of martial arts studies think of the traditional hand combat traditions as social institutions?  And if we do conceptualize them in this way, what changes does this lead to in their expected behavior?  What could it help us to explain?  Hopefully we will be returning to these issues soon.***

Introduction

No assertion is more fervently advanced on behalf of the traditional Asian martial arts than assurances of their great antiquity.  The relative ages of these systems seems to have become a matter of increased discussion and competition in the early 20^th century.  Since that time their various creation myths have given way to a veritable antiquarian arms-race.

Some schools of Japanese swordsmanship and unarmed fighting can trace their histories back for hundreds of years through surprisingly well preserved written records.  Of course much of their nature and purpose has changed during the course of this history.

I recently read a discussion of modern competitive kickboxing in Cambodia that began by confidently asserting that the sport was based on an older fighting system which was at least 1,000 years old.  The author pointed to certain abstract reliefs carved on a temple and a few quotes by local informants as such strong proof of his assertion that no other discussion was necessary.

Writers on the Chinese martial arts routinely expound on Wushu’s long and illustrious history.  Even very respectable, historically sophisticated, authors like Prof. Kang Gewu seem to have no problem placing the genesis of the modern Chinese fighting systems in the distant past.  In fact, the first entry in his extensive time-line on the development of Wushu, titled the Spring and Autumn of Chinese Martial Arts – 5000  Years, dates to 1.7 million years ago!  This is more than one million years prior to the first emergence of modern humans on the planet.

He, as well as other Chinese authors, spends a surprising amount of time examining ancient lithic artifacts as a necessary part of the discussion of modern Wushu’s evolution.  After that exercise he moves into an even more detailed examination of “Chinese” warfare in the late Paleolithic and early Bronze Age.  In short, the title of his study is not simply an indulgence in rhetorical license.  He really does make an argument that Wushu has a history of over 5,000 years.

Nor should the Koreans be left out of this discussion.  In his extensively researched study of the origins and creation of Tae Kwon Do, Alex Gillis notes that many of this style’s schools emblazon their walls with the assertions that their art is “thousands of years old.”  In reality Tae Kwon Do is very clearly a post-WWII derivative of Japanese karate.  Worse yet, the “thousands of years” slogan was consciously created and promoted by exactly the same individuals who were busy transforming the local Karate establishment into a Korea’s new “national art.”

How should students of martial studies approach the persistent claims of ancient origins when dealing with modern hand combat traditions?  The following post argues that this ubiquitous phenomenon suggests some interesting truths about the nature and social purpose of these fighting systems.  Yet to really get at these questions we must first think more carefully about how we define the “martial arts” in an academic research program.

1860s photograph of a “Chinese Soldier” with butterfly swords. Subject unknown, taken by G. Harrison Grey.

Understanding the “Martial Arts” as a Technical Transmission

One of the most exciting aspects of martial studies as a research area is its relative openness.  Not only are scholars from a wide range of disciplines engaging in a discussion of these questions, but an unprecedented number of martial artists are becoming interested in the history and social meaning of their practices as well.  This convergence creates opportunities for discussions between practical and academic students of the martial arts that can be very fruitful.

I think that it is probably easy to overlook how rare this conjunction of interests really is.  Macroeconomist and workers at a fast food restaurant may both be very interested in whether the minimum wage will be raised in the next year.  Yet rarely do the later attempt to read, let alone seriously engage with, the academic writings of the former.

The academic literature on the martial arts is much more likely to inspire interest among its subjects of study. Researchers might even benefit from the historical data and social connections that lay readers can provide.  Still, all of this common ground can mask some important differences in how scholars and practitioners understand the “martial arts.”

The fact that many (perhaps most) academic students of martial studies are also practitioners of these disciplines, while useful in many ways, can also muddy the conceptual waters.  One of the places where these differences are the most pressing is in the conceptual vocabulary that the two groups use to express their understanding of these fighting systems.

Readers might not suspect that there is any tension at all as both practitioners and academic students tend to employ the same vocabulary when describing these arts in technical terms.  Yet problems arise when we push beyond the most immediate levels and ask what the two groups actually mean by the words that they use in common.

Take for instance the term “martial art.”  Rarely do we stop to define or discuss this most basic concept.  Students from various styles might have slightly different understandings of what constitutes of a “martial art” in the abstract.  But almost all of them will understand this term to refer to a body of techniques, concepts and philosophical ideas about fighting.  The martial arts, in short, tend to be imagined as physical and cultural technologies.

This sort of technology can be passed on in a variety of ways.  Teacher/student transmission within some sort of school seems to be the “gold standard.”  But given the mind-boggling number of instructional books, DVDs, seminars and apps that are produced every year, it is clear that consumers have faith in a wide variety of educational methods.

Of course it is precisely these sorts of teachers, books, apps and DVDs that are also likely to advance the claim that the martial arts are “ancient” practices.  If one actually stops to consider what is being implied, this is a truly remarkable assertion.  It is almost intoxicating.  What other meaningful objects or technologies do most individuals interact with that can also claim such antiquity?

Most of us are employed in occupations that didn’t exist a century ago.  We work for corporations that probably did not exist even a decade ago.  The most popular forms of entertainment (film, TV, computer games, even the mass marketed novel) are all relatively recent inventions.  Even the “nation state system,” which structures almost every economic and political aspect of our modern lives is only a few hundred years old.  Other than a handful of religious texts, what in our current world really has a genealogy as ancient as that claimed by the martial arts?

I suspect that this appeal to antiquity succeeds in large part precisely because of its audacious nature.  It wows the student with the promise of something truly transcendent, and therefore legitimate.  And given that most of us have trouble understanding how different (and in many ways fundamentally inaccessible) even the recent past really is, we have no actual frame of reference with which to judge the credibility of these claims.

Then there is the problem of “evidence.”  Of course we must first begin by specifying evidence of what.  Notice that this is a step that generally does not happen in most popular historical discussions.

Given that most dialogues on the martial arts implicitly understand them as technical exercises, when they assert that their practices are “thousands of years old,” what they are really claiming is that their current technology of violence is identical to, and directly transmitted from, the physical culture possessed by warriors or sages of the ancient past.  Occasionally a specific philosophy (the Taiji Classics) or social agenda (“Oppose the Qing, Restore the Ming”) is also said to have been passed along.  But what most practitioners really seem to care about are the similarity of their physical skills to those practiced by their forbearers.

If one approaches the martial arts as a primarily technical exercise, it may be surprisingly easy to find evidence of “continuity” over time.  To begin with, most of these arts come with an “oral tradition” that asserts or simply takes the antiquity of the system for granted.   This provides a framework that students use to organize historical observations, and their understanding of earlier fighting traditions.  Such a framework also facilitates the almost universal temptation of “confirmation bias.”  It is the psychological process by which researchers over-emphasize facts that seem to bolster their beliefs about the nature of the world while disregarding contradicting evidence.

Of course these sorts of tendencies are by no means confined to popular discussions.  They often bedevil academic writing as well.  Scholars attempt to minimize these biases through well-defined methodologies, being transparent about sources and relying on external institutions like “peer review.”  Even then it must be admitted that total objectivity is probably impossible, and may not actually be all that desirable.

The problem with these sorts of “quality control” mechanisms is that they tend to be either expensive or time consuming.  As a result they are rarely employed in more popular modes of writing.  However, certain sorts of authors, notably journalists, have developed their own methods for dealing with at least some of these problems.

Yet our issues here go beyond writing strategies.  The very nature of the combat arts tends to promote “confirmation bias.”  The author of one of the papers I cited above noted that one can deduce a relationship between modern Cambodian kickboxing and ancient Khmer martial techniques through the carvings depicting military figures on some of the region’s ancient temples.  In examining these images some other observers have noted instances in which figures seemed to be in the act of striking their opponents with elbows.  Of course similar attacks are also employed in the region’s modern kickboxing.  This has led certain individuals to deduce that this traditional sport had enjoyed at least 1,000 years of continuous transmission.

Nor is this an isolated incident.  Archeological finds depicting ancient warriors in the kingdoms located on the Korean peninsula have been used to bolster the nationalist claims of Tae Kwon Do practitioners.  And students of Chinese martial studies have demonstrated a great interest in the Middle Kingdom’s ancient patterns of Bronze Age warfare going back at least as far as the time of the Shi noblemen.

Despite China’s great literary tradition, we must acknowledge that the ancient historical record is actually pretty thin.  When discussing the events of past millennia the student is forced to account for long silences and disjoints in the documentary resources.

Yes we may see an unarmed warrior striking an opponent with an elbow in one panel, but there are actually only so many ways in which one can attack.  All human being have two feet, two knees, two fists, two elbows, and (in extreme cases) one head.  The fact that an elbow strike was observed in the distant past only confirms that both modern and ancient warriors fight under the same set of biological constraints.  More interesting is the fact that other temple panels showed Khmer warriors fighting demonic creatures, yet that tradition does not seem to have persisted into modern kickboxing.

In any event, these biological constraints dictate that all systems of armed or unarmed combat, despite their place or origin, will seem more similar than different.  Spears, swords and bows are more or less universally employed and studied around the world.  The same goes for boxing and wrestling.

Given how fundamental a concept like “wrestling” is, more than one society might create a set of very similar physical practices.  When we see different groups of individuals, widely separated by geography or time, doing the same thing, we should probably start by assuming by parallel evolution rather than “mysterious transmission.”

This is not to say that direct transmission never happens.  Certain Japanese arts do trace their roots to China.  Likewise Shaolin managed to create and export a fairly stable pole fighting tradition during the late Imperial period.  But these relationships need to be carefully established through detailed scholarship rather than being simply assumed based on a few suggestive archeological finds.

Modern students tend to think of the martial arts as technological systems because that is how they encounter them.  They spend their time learning to recreate the movements, flow and power that their teachers demonstrate.  Immersing oneself in this bodily experience can even be an important tool in certain sorts of ethnographic research, particularly if one is interesting in the field of performance ethnography or questions of “embodiment.”

This is certainly a valid way of understanding the modern martial arts.  But it is not the only possibility.  I suspect that for many researchers, particularly the more historically and social scientifically inclined, there may be a more promising alternative.

Arnold Genthe and Will Irwin. Genthe’s Photographs of San Francisco’s Old Chinatown. New York: Mitchell Kennerley. 1913. (First published in 1908). A high resolution scan of the original photograph can be found at the Bancroft Library, UC Berkley).

The Martial Arts as a “Social Institution”

Consider instead the martial arts as an “institution” as defined within the social scientific literature.  By this I mean that specific styles are understood as socially constructed bodies of practices, norms and identities that are conveyed over time.  Technical exercises may be part of the process of transmitting this institution, but there is always more to it than that.

I would posit that while most practitioners think of the martial arts as a purely “technical exercise” (including both a physical and cultural component), they actually tend to encounter and participate in them as “social institutions.”  One does not have to dig deep to find a certain hunger for discussions of modes of martial ethics, philosophical insights and a sense of shared community within most of the modern martial arts.  Nor is it a coincidence that the single most common sort of dialog pertaining to Kung Fu that one finds on the internet is a constant rediscovery and elaboration of the various creation myths.  After all, at their most basic level each of these stories is a parable of belonging and personal transformation.

A similar conclusion holds even if we consider things from a more materialist perspective.  Most of us gain access to a body of technical knowledge about the martial arts by joining a specific type of commercial network.  The public martial arts school is actually a relatively recent development in the history of Chinese hand combat.  These things did not appear prior to the end of the 19^th century and they did not become common before about 1920.

Today the commercially funded public school is the defining social institution of the Chinese martial arts.  Older sorts of institutions (such as the “discipleship system”) to the extent that they still exist, have been modified so that they reinforce rather than challenge the economic logic of these new organizations.

Even the most basic goals of students of the Chinese martial arts are different now than they might have been 200 years ago.  While certain aspects of technical practice have remained the same, very few modern students engage in training because they expect the village militia to be called up.  Nor are many modern students amateur opera performers or part-time bandits.

Physical fitness, spiritual development, sporting competition and civilian self-defense are the major reasons that individuals seem to take up a martial art today.  Yet in the case of the Chinese hand combat schools, these sorts of motivations reflect the reform movements of the 1920s and 1930s much more than they do the high Qing dynasty ethos of the 1720s or 1730s.  While we may share certain technical practices with the past, almost everything else about the modern experience of the martial arts has changed.  By understanding these practices as relatively newly created social institutions, scholars can ask better questions about how and why they evolved.

This somewhat abstract discussion actually has important implications when we start to think about the 19^th century history of some of today’s most popular martial arts.  Take Wing Chun for example.  The orthodox version of this style’s creation myth (popularized by Ip Man in Hong Kong in the 1950s) is interesting in that it does not claim great antiquity.

Instead it places the genesis of the art with the destruction of the Southern Shaolin Temple in the 1720s.  The fighting style was then passed down through a number of generations until the various pieces of it were brought together by the “Red Boat Opera Companies.” Following a socially disastrous local tax revolt in the 1850s, two opera performers taught it to Leung Jan, a pharmacist in Foshan, to thank him for offering them shelter.

Leung Jan had no intention of teaching the art publicly or opening a school.  Occasionally this is used as “proof” of his highly conservative ways, or the secret excellence of his Kung Fu.  In fact, there were no public martial arts schools during most of his life.  That most basic social institution, which structures our fundamental experience of the martial arts today, had not yet been invented.

One of the few individuals that Leung Jan did teach was a friend and neighbor from the marketplace named Chan Wah Shun.  Being younger his outlook on the martial arts was somewhat different.  During his generation the Hung Sing Association (the first large Choy Li Fut school in Foshan) proved that the local economy had monetized to the point that it was now possible to open something very much like a commercial public school.

Chan Wah Shun’s ambitions to follow in their footsteps were somewhat dampened by bad timing.  The early and late phases of his teaching career were separated by a long break caused by the social fallout of the Boxer Uprising.  The governor of the province, seeking to prevent copy-cat attacks on foreigners and Chinese Christians, moved quickly to suppress all local martial arts activity in the Pearl River Delta region in about 1900.  Even after it became possible to teach again, the reputation of the martial arts had been badly damaged.  In fact, 1900-1910 were probably the darkest years for the traditional Chinese fighting systems.

In total, Chan Wah Shun only taught about 16 students over the course of his career.  The last of these was the son of his landlord, a child named Ip Kai Man.  Unfortunately Chan soon fell ill and later suffered from a stroke.  Most of Ip Man’s training seems to have come from Chan’s second disciple, Ng Chung So.

The actual nature of Ip Man’s introduction to Wing Chun is somewhat hard to disentangle.  As the son of a rich merchant and landlord he spent most of his days studying literature rather than Kung Fu.  Then, as a teenager, he was sent to Hong Kong to attend a western high school.  This might have put an end to his Wing Chun training except that by an accident of fate he was introduced to Leung Bik, Leung Jan’s remaining son.

The elderly Leung Bik had never sought to teach Kung Fu and had not been involved with the new commercial institutions that were quickly transforming the world of the southern Chinese martial arts.  Instead his relationship with Ip Man seems to have reflected the older 19^th century patterns.  He moved in with new student, who provided him with food, clothing and housing, in exchange for tuition.  In short, Leung Bik became a temporary member of the wealthy young student’s household.

This actually puts Ip Man in a very interesting position.  Much has been made of the fact that he received both a Confucian and Western education.  But in terms of understanding his Wing Chun, it is important to realize that he likewise received both a modern early 20^th century and a more traditional 19^th century introduction to the martial arts as well.  Few if any of Chan Wah Shun’s other students (perhaps with the exception of some of those who had previously studied in another style) could say this.

Ip Man carefully considered what he learned from both Chan Wah Shun and Leung Bik.  By his own admission he thought deeply about not just their techniques, but how they taught as well.  Except for a brief episode in the 1940s, Ip Man avoided opening his own school in Guangdong during the volatile Republic of China years.  Yet after fleeing to Hong Kong in 1949 he was left with little other choice.

His innovations in teaching techniques and humorous personality made him a popular instructor during much of the 1950s and 1960s.  A combination of factors, including the suppression of Wing Chun on the mainland, the socioeconomic character of some of his Hong Kong students, and the eventual celebrity of Bruce Lee, all conspired to make his branch of Wing Chun the most globally popular martial art to arise from southern China.

Let us pause to consider the following question.  What kind of story have I just told?  Most Wing Chun students would recognize this as an abbreviated history of their style.  Indeed a narrative very much like this one is told on a daily basis in Wing Chun schools around the world.  But is this narrative really the history of “Wing Chun” as a martial art?

Leaving aside the dubious historical credentials of the Southern Shaolin Temple and its subsequent destruction, I would argue that the real issue here is Leung Jan.  He is the first individual in Wing Chun’s genealogy whose birth and basic life story can be objectively verified.  Leung Jan represents the moment when the orthodox creation narrative transitions from the realm of folklore to history (loosely understood).

There is not really much doubt that the range of technical skills that Ip Man taught in Hong Kong (while modified through his own experience) ultimately came through Leung Jan.  They were transmitted to Ip Man through his son (Leung Bik), his student (Chan Wah Shun) and his grand-student (Ng Chung So).  Ip Man had the singular advantage of being able to see three different dimensions of the master’s transmission.

So does it stand to reason that Leung Jan must be the first known practitioner of “Wing Chun?”  Here things get more difficult.  If one is only interested in the transmission of an “embodied technology” the answer may well be, yes.  But did Leung Jan know that the name of the art that he practiced was “Wing Chun?”

I doubt that there can ever be a definitive answer to this question.  The name “Wing Chun” does not appear in surviving records as the title of a martial art in Leung Jan’s generation.  The names of some of the central characters in the Wing Chun creation myth first appear in a Wuxia novel that did not come out until about the time of Leung Jan’s death.

Further, critical figures in this story, such as Ng Moy, actually bear a much closer resemblance to the way that these characters were reimagined by subsequent authors writing in the 1930s.  I think that there is a good chance that Leung Jan’s explanation of the origins of his art differed substantially from what is passed on to students today.

Nor would this be a unique situation.  Historians interested in the origins of Taiji Quan point out that while the art practiced at Chen Village in the 18^th century resembles modern Taiji in many respects, there are also some pretty clear differences.  Nor does it appear that the residents of Chen Village knew that they were practicing “Grand Ultimate Boxing.”  That name, and everything that it implies, was coined by a more elite individual who was watching Yang Luchan perform in Beijing at some point in the 1850s.  Nor is there any evidence of (most of) the “Taiji Classics” at Chen Village.  The literary and philosophical aspects of the art would have to wait to be “discovered” by the Wu brothers during the second half of the 19^th century as well.

The end result of all of this is that the Taiji Quan practiced in Beijing in early 20^th century was a fundamentally different sort of social institution than that practiced in Chen Village in the 18^th.  Yes, important technical aspects of the art remained unchanged, but it was now distributed through public commercial schools rather than closed village lineages.  It was now taught as a form of physical culture rather than as a type of military training.  It was accompanied by an elite literature and philosophical system that were previously unknown within Chen village.  Even the name of the art was different.

While less jarring I would propose that we can understand Wing Chun as having gone through a similar transformation following the Leung Jan’s generation (at least in his lineage).  Leung Jan enjoyed the martial arts, but he had no intention of teaching them.  For him this was a system of personal practice (and defense) which probably grew out of his experiences in the turbulent 1850s.

It was only after his death that Chan Wah Shun was able to turn his master’s once private practice into what was essentially the first public commercial Wing Chun School which openly exchanged teaching for monthly payments of silver.

This transformation would have had many effects on Leung Jan’s art, some subtle, some more obvious.  The style’s name and history, while not really all that important in Leung Jan’s personal practice, would have become critical.  Such things are an essential part of advertising a school in the newly emerging competitive marketplace, as well as explaining to students what sort of community they have just joined.

Students today experience and understand Wing Chun as a relatively open institution built on the exchange of embodied practices and money.  This basic structure dates to the time of Chan Wah Shun.  The creation myth and folklore that monopolizes so much of the modern discussions of the style is probably even more recent than that.  When we as social scientists attempt to understand the popularity of Wing Chun, what it reveals about the development of civil society in southern China, or how it has been carried on the waves of globalization, the “social institution” that we are looking at is fundamentally different from anything that Leung Jan was ever part of.

Another picture of the same young militia group. Luckily the hudiedao of the leader have become dislodged in their sheath. We can confirm that these are double blades, and they are of the long, narrow stabbing variety seen in some of the prior photographs. Source http:\\www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

Conclusion: Focusing on Variables, not Constants, in Martial Studies

This should not be construed as an argument that everything in the Wing Chun system was invented whole cloth in the 1930s.  Neither social nor physical culture ever arises in a vacuum.  Everything has its antecedents.  Consider the role of pole fighting in the style.

Wing Chun’s famous “Six and Half Point Pole” form is actually shared with a number of other regional martial arts.  Given its widespread distribution, simplicity, and terrible practicality, I strongly suspect that it goes back to the days of mandatory local militia training in the 19^th century.  In fact, the actual techniques and understanding of violence behind this pole method is probably one of those elements of the southern Chinese martial arts that actually is hundreds of years old, maybe even dating back to the heyday of military pole fighting in the 16^th century.

Yet that is precisely the problem that we are faced with when attempting to define the “martial arts,” let alone date them.  Whatever modern Wing Chun is, it is clearly not a pure 16^th century military training exercise.  Certainly some of its techniques may be shared with practices from that period.  Yet a lot of history has intervened along the way.  It is this subsequent historical evolution that makes Wing Chun unique.  It is what defines it as a social institution, distinct and different from other styles that it may share a certain body of practices with.

When we, as social scientists, fall into the trap of defining the martial arts only in technical terms (rather than as historically and socially defined institutions) we are in danger of losing sight of precisely those aspects of these systems that account for their change and dynamism.  It is within moments of transformation that we may be able to open a window onto the mechanisms behind the development of Chinese (and even global) society.

Of course dealing with changing and evolving institutions is never easy.  Do they simply respond to the structural constraints of the systems that define them, or do they maneuver within their environment in strategic ways?  How great of a role does individual agency actually play in the creation or transformation of a martial art?  And how should we define the moment when one institution dies only to be replaced by something new?

These are all challenging questions, but their answers are potentially important.  Before we can tackle any of these problems we must start by accepting that the martial arts, as socially defined institutions, are different today than they were hundreds, let alone thousands, of years ago.  Persistent attempts to link this or that art to a famous Ming dynasty personality or text are bound to obscure much of what is actually interesting about these modern practices.

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If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read: Do the Chinese Martial Arts have One “Martial Culture” or Many?

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Residents of Ganxi Dong village demonstrating their martial arts skills. Source: http://www.dailymail.co.uk

Introduction

Welcome to “Chinese Martial Arts in the News.”  This is a semi-regular feature here at Kung Fu Tea in which we review media stories that mention or affect the traditional fighting arts.  In addition to discussing important events, this column also considers how the Asian hand combat systems are portrayed in the mainstream media.

While we try to summarize the major stories over the last month, there is always a chance that we have missed something.  If you are aware of an important news event relating to the TCMA, drop a link in the comments section below.  If you know of a developing story that should be covered in the future feel free to send me an email.

Its been a while since our last update so there is a lot to be covered in today’s post.  Let’s get to the news!

An older resident of the same village demonstrating a form with dual iron whips. Source: http://www.dailymail.co.uk

Chinese Martial Arts in the News

A number of news outlets in the West took notice of a story that was making the rounds in China.  Its basically a photo essay shot in an ethnic minority Dong village in Tianzhu.    The upshot of the article is that the martial arts are very popular in this somewhat isolated agricultural community and a large number of styles seem to be practiced.  Recently the village has developed a reputation for its cultivation of the martial arts, but no one seems to clearly remember how this situation first came about.  The various versions of the article that I saw all relied on the sorts of Orientalist tropes that one tends to see in stories like this while resisting asking any of the more obvious questions such as the names of the style in question, or how their practice survived during the Cultural Revolution in this particular place.  Or maybe the real research question is why these romantic narratives surrounding the martial arts are so persistent in not only the Western but also Chinese accounts of these communities?  Interested readers can also see the South China Morning Post version of this story here.

Zhang Huoding rehearsing in Beijing. Source: New York Times.

The Chinese martial arts have also been making news a little closer to home.  Recently the New York Times ran a longer piece on Zhang Huoding, a famous Peking Opera star whose performance of the “Legend of White Snake” will be opening in Lincoln Center later this week.  Its an important article that touches of multiple aspects of her career and the current state of Chinese Opera.  I think that readers of Kung Fu Tea will probably be most interested by the accounts of her early training in both performance and martial arts.  It also looks like Wong Kar-wai, who produced the Ip Man bio-pic The Grandmaster, is currently working on a documentary of her life.  I really regret that I am going to miss her live performances in Manhattan, but at least we can look forward to a new documentary on a fascinating figure in the world of Chinese opera.  I also found it interesting that this article did not hesitate to tie her US performances to China’s current “soft power” diplomatic strategy.

Shi Yongxin, current, and somewhat embattled, Abbot of the Shaolin Temple.

Our main story in the last installment of “Chinese Martial Arts in the News” focused on the brewing controversy surrounding Shi Yongxin, the Shaolin Temple’s so called “CEO Monk.”  As the Abbot of the venerable monastery he has raised eyebrows in the past with has adoption of modern business strategies and corporate practices to both build Shaolin’s brand and to extend its reach (most recently by building a daughter temple on Australia’s Gold Coast, a major tourist destination).  Question’s of Buddhist propriety and temple management strategies notwithstanding, Shi Yongxin has also been dogged by more serious accusations surrounding his personal life.  Recently a new row erupted when an anonymous source claimed to have evidence that the Abbot had both been living a double life (which included the fathering of children in violation of his monastic vows) and had been involved in large scale financial improprieties.  As a result the Shi Yongxin was forced to cancel an appearance in Thailand and was reported to have been brought in for questioning.

Over the last few weeks there have been fewer stories about the abbot, and those that have emerged seem to have split into two camps regarding his likely fate.  On the one hand the South China Morning Post reported that Chinese prosecutors had accepted complaints about the Abbot’s behavior for investigation.  Given the dual crackdown on corruption and religious institutions that are currently underway, this is probably not a favorable turn of events.  On the other hand, the Want China Times has reported that some of the accusations against the Abbot may not be as strong as were first reported and as a result he may be in a better position to survive this latest round of controversy.    It looks like it may be a little while longer before we will know how this story ends.

Students practice the traditional Chinese Martial Arts in Qufu, Shandong Province.

The Indian press has carried a number of stories on the Chinese martial arts over the last few weeks.  First off, the Hindustan Times has a short article on “Kung Fu Tourism” in Shandong Province.  Of course this area has long been a stronghold of martial arts practice in Northern China.  The main thrust of the piece seems to be the diversity of the international students flocking to the region.  Next, the Times of India has a brief report on a couple setting up Wushu training opportunities in Gujarat.  While both athletics and martial arts are popular in the region, they note that the development of Wushu has lagged behind.  Their program intends to do something about that.

A photograph of Liu Yongfu as an older gentleman. Source: The Manila Times

Perhaps the most interesting article in today’s review was published by The Manila Times.  While the article starts off with the report of a new highway being completed in China, the author quickly veers into more interesting territory with a discussion of the life and career of General Liu Yongfu, the “Tiger of Qinzhou.”  Of course he is best known to Chinese martial artists for hiring Wong Fei Hung, the famous Hung Gar master, as a medical officer and military trainer for his troops.  Definitely check this piece out.  I learned a couple of new facts and will need to read up on Liu in the future.

Is the Kunlun Fighting Championships going to be next big thing in the Chinese Combat Sports media market?  Will they be able to advance MMA in a marketplace where some other larger companies have previously stumbled?  And how will Sanda fare in all of this?  Check out this post to read more.
While not directly related to the martial arts, I also thought that some of you might also find this article to be interesting.  It is an examination of the rising popularity of Qigong in the US, and its reception in Houston’s medical community.

A close up of Donnie Yen in a cast photo for Rogue One. Source: Starwars.com

Both Kung Fu movie and Star Wars fans received some great news recently.  Confirming the rumors that had been circulating for about a month, an official cast list and photograph were distributed for the upcoming Star Wars Rogue One film which included Donnie Yen.  You can read my more detailed breakdown of the story here.

The press has largely interpreted this move as an attempt to appeal to the increasingly important Chinese film market, and I am sure that there is a large element of truth to that.  But as I argue in my own piece, Donnie Yen could bring a lot to this project that would be of great interest to the average Star Wars fan in the West as well.

One of the still unresolved questions is what sort of character he will be playing.  The Chinese press initially reported that Yen would be cast as a Jedi, but the directors of Rogue One have been adamant that their film will focus on the ground war against the Empire and the efforts of normal, non-force using, individuals to bring hope to the galaxy.

Still, Yen may have muddied the water with a recent Facebook post.  In it he posted a image of three prop Storm Trooper helmets (two of which were a pretty new design) with the following note: “I am the force and I fear nothing… Going to put this in my company’s display room.” So maybe his character will have some connection to the Force after all?  Or maybe he was just calling on the Force to protect him from the folks at Lucas Film who tend to take a rather dim view of unauthorized set pictures and spoilers.  After a flurry of phone calls Yen was later forced to take the picture down.

And for those of you looking for an update on Ip Man 3 (also starring Donnie Yen) be sure to check out this article as well.

Martial Arts Studies

The end of August is typically a pretty quiet time in the world of academics.  First everyone disappears on vacation.  And then when you return its to the crush of a new semester with everything which that entails.  But things have a not been so quiet on the publication front.

Rowman and Littlefield has another Martial Arts Studies book due out, this one to be released through their Lexington Books imprint.  Unleashing Manhood in the Cage: Masculinity and Mixed Martial Arts by Christian A. Vaccaro and Melissa L. Swauger is currently expected to ship on November 6th, 2015 (unfortunately there cover art has not yet been released).  The authors are both members of the sociology department at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. The publisher’s blurb is as follows:

Unleashing Manhood in the Cage: Masculinity and Mixed Martial Arts addresses the question “Why do mixed martial arts participants endure grueling workouts and suffer through injury, with little or no pay, just to compete?” The answer is because the participants enjoy a form of idolization from their supporters, each other, and culture more generally, which is linked to masculinity. In fact, MMA organizers, from the very beginning, purposefully created elements of the sport that are linked to dominant narratives about manhood. In this context, men don thin open-fingered gloves, lock themselves in a caged enclosure, and slug it out in a fight with few rules to see who comes out on top. This all occurs while “ring girls” in high-heels and skin-tight shirts and shorts stride around outside the cage holding signs and peddling t-shirts. The sum of these elements is the creation of a type of a publicly accessible and consumable form of masculinity. The sport of mixed martial arts is a rich and intriguing space where the construction of gender can be explored through a sociological and ethnographic lens.

Readers interested in this project may also want to check out my recent review of Gottschall’s book, the Professor in the Cage.  Likewise, Alex Channon and Christopher R. Matthews’ edited volume, Global Perspectives on Women in Combat Sport, also promises to make important contributions to the discussion of gender in the martial arts.

Anthropologist and ethnographers interested in the martial arts will want to take note of a new edited volume by Kalpana Ram, Christopher Houston and Michael Jackson.  Titled Phenomenology in Anthropology: A Sense of Perspective, this edited volume is due out on October 19, 2015 from Indiana University Press.

This volume explores what phenomenology adds to the enterprise of anthropology, drawing on and contributing to a burgeoning field of social science research inspired by the phenomenological tradition in philosophy. Essays by leading scholars ground their discussions of theory and method in richly detailed ethnographic case studies. The contributors broaden the application of phenomenology in anthropology beyond the areas in which it has been most influential―studies of sensory perception, emotion, bodiliness, and intersubjectivity―into new areas of inquiry such as martial arts, sports, dance, music, and political discourse.

Of particular interest is the chapter by Greg Downey (a well known scholar to students of Martial Arts Studies) titled “Beneath the Horizon: The Organic Body’s Role in Athletic Experience.”  This will certainly be something to look forward to.

Striking Beauty by

Those more interested in philosophy will also want to remember that Barry Allen’s latest book, Striking Beauty: A Philosophical Look at the Asian Martial Arts (Columbia University Press) is now shipping with a truly impressive list of endorsements on the back and a very reasonable price tag (always a pleasant surprise when dealing with academic books).

The first book to focus on the intersection of Western philosophy and the Asian martial arts, Striking Beauty comparatively studies the historical and philosophical traditions of martial arts practice and their ethical value in the modern world. Expanding Western philosophy’s global outlook, the book forces a theoretical reckoning with the concerns of Chinese philosophy and the aesthetic and technical dimensions of martial arts practice.

Striking Beauty explains the relationship between Asian martial arts and the Chinese philosophical traditions of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism, in addition to Sunzi’s Art of War. It connects martial arts practice to the Western concepts of mind-body dualism and materialism, sports aesthetics, and the ethics of violence. The work ameliorates Western philosophy’s hostility toward the body, emphasizing the pleasure of watching and engaging in martial arts, along with their beauty and the ethical problem of their violence.

Paul Bowman has announced some detailes about his forthcoming volume titled Mythologies of Martial Arts.  It will be of importance to those who follow Critical Theory as well as global popular culture.

Explicitly inspired by Roland Barthes’ enormously influential Mythologies (1957), Mythologies of Martial Arts carries the spirit of Barthes’ incisive and engaging cultural and ideological criticism into the blossoming field of Martial Arts Studies.

Writing at the cutting edge of the emergence of both semiotics and deconstruction, in 1957 Mythologies pioneered an innovative and dynamic cultural criticism for the emerging post-war consumer culture. Six decades later, Mythologies of Martial Arts writes in its wake, long after semiotics and deconstruction have become ingrained in academic and intellectual discourses of all kinds, yet long before their questions and problems have become any less current. For, the questions and issues that Mythologies raised for a very diverse readership remain compelling today: what does this mean; how does this work on us; why do we desire this but not that; what effects do these images and practices have on us, and on others; where do these ideas, discourses and values come from, where do they take us, and where are they going?

Mythologies of Martial Arts focuses the key dimensions of the internationally circulating signs, signifiers and practices of martial arts in global popular culture. Informed by the author’s longstanding practical and professional experience in both martial arts (in which he has wide ranging experience) and academia (where he teaches, researches and publishes in cultural studies, film studies, media studies, postcolonial studies and martial arts studies), Mythologies of Martial Arts deploys the full range of resources that this personal and professional experience has afforded. It takes the form of short, engaging, accessible, yet fully referenced and academically informed essays on an extremely wide variety of subjects related to martial arts and the media cultures in which martial arts have always been steeped.

Cheng Man-ch’ing and T’ai Chi: Echoes in the Hall of Happiness. Via Media. Source: Amazon.com

Lastly, students of Taijiquan will be happy to see that Via Media is releasing a collected edition titled Cheng Man-ch’ing and T’ai Chi: Echoes in the Hall of Happiness.  This volume contains a number of articles first published in the Journal of Martial Arts Studies which approach the life, practices and legacy of Cheng Man-ch’ing from a variety of perspectives.  Authors include Barbara Davis, Benjamin Lo, Russ Mason, Robert W. Smith, Nigel Sutton, Yizhong Xi and others.  Obviously Cheng Man-ch’ing was also of more general interest as a critical figure in the spread of the Chinese martial arts in North America.

Chinese martial arts display. Northern China, sometime in the 1930s.  I particularly like the wide assortment of traditional weapons which can be seen in this photo.  Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

“War is a continuation of politics with other means”
-Carl von Clausewitz, On War

“A sabre,” said my teacher, Szabo,”is a tool for changing your opponent’s mind.”
-“The Sabre’s Edge” by Rogan Winter

Introduction

No topic seems to have grabbed the attention of so many martial arts thinkers, reformers and writers as “reality.” The concept enjoys a prominent place in the ongoing debates about the fate of the traditional hand combat systems in the age of the mixed martial arts and the UFC. Other individuals have employed the metaphor differently, emphasizing the importance of “real world self-defense.”

Nor is this a recent rhetorical innovation. It turns out that certain actors have been debating the reality of the martial arts since the early years of the 20th century. We often forget that the seemingly traditional disciplines of Judo and Kendo in Japan, or the Jingwu Association in China, were themselves reform movements. Their creators were quite concerned with the role of these combat systems in the larger “body politic” of the nation state. For them reality was a matter of modernization and reform.

The advocates of “reality” have never spoken with a single voice. Their discourse has always woven together competing demands and irreconcilable differences as to what the brave new future of the martial arts should hold. This is not to say that they were without some points of convergence. In fact, the one thing that seemingly everyone could agree on was that there was something seriously wrong with the traditional Chinese martial arts.

Secrecy was, and continues to be, viewed as the bane of these systems. Techniques passed on only to favored disciples can imperil the survival of a lineage. Likewise, the inability to standardize practices and the principles of advancement seriously hampered the state’s ability to co-opt these systems of regional knowledge and redeploy them as tools of government policy and nation building. Indeed, the continuing struggle to reform and expand the duan system in mainland China today demonstrates that this has been a long term problem for generations of reformers.

Needless to say, modern combat sports practitioners question many aspects of traditional training, including its emphasis on the learning and performance of various sorts of forms. While weapons play an important part in criminal violence, most schools continue to teach focus on skills such as the sword, spear and tiger fork rather than the more commonly encountered knife, handgun and crowbar. Other modernizers question whether activities such as meditation, internal training or lion dancing should even be associated with the “real” martial arts at all. Where some see cultural richness and heritage, others perceive only techniques that have no place in the octagon.

The following essay will argue that the idea of “reality” is probably doing less to advance our popular (and occasionally even academic) discussions of the martial arts than is generally thought. Or perhaps it would be better to say that our notions of “reality” are sadly under-conceptualized. Violence may be a reality of life. But even a few moments of thought should be enough to convince us that the sorts of violence faced by a modern fighter pilot, a member of a prison cell extraction team and an MMA athlete have very little in common. Each of them might be seriously injured in the pursuit of their occupation. Yet one suspects that their “personal realities” are better defined by their differences than similarities.

It then stands to reason that if we are going to speak about “reality,” particularly as it applies to the traditional Chinese martial arts, we must first begin by being very clear as to who we are talking about and what sorts of situations they actually face. Once we do this a number of complicating factors emerge. Many of the most traditional and seemingly backwards aspects of these social organizations may serve important social function. Finally, I suggest that concepts like “credibility,” “reputation” and “costly signaling” may do more to advance our understanding of the TCMA as a community based strategy for dealing with social violence than the ever shifting mirage of “reality.”

A 1920s postcard showing traditional practitioners performing in a marketplace. Note that both the previous images rest on the assumption of an unseen audience who observes and evaluates this performance. Source: Author’s Personal Collection

Consider the Ants…

Ants are one of the most successful species to ever inhabit the planet earth. Like humans they are social animals that depend on complex systems of communication and specialization for the survival of the community. They also resemble us in having found ingenious ways to colonize and utilize a remarkable percentage of this planet’s landmass. In fact, their sheer population density can lead to some other, less charming, parallels. Certain types of ants commonly engage in border disputes with neighboring colonies.

In a recent review of The Professor in the Cage (Penguin 2015), I criticized a number of aspects of the Jonathan Gottschall’s theoretical and empirical approaches to the problem of social violence. Simply put, I do not believe that evolutionary biology can explain nearly as much about the varieties of violence as the author does.

Still, Gottschall is an engaging writer and I actually liked quite a few things about his sixth chapter titled “War Games.” My initial review of his work ran longer than anticipated so I did not get a chance to explore a few of his insights there. While I continue to disagree with him as to the ultimate cause of these variables, I agree that his observations here raise important issues to consider when studying the problem of social violence. Of particular importance was his discussion of warfare among ants.

As a student of international relations I have spent a lot of time reading, thinking and teaching about war. While my personal research has been in the subfield of political economy, basic IR theory has always been dominated with questions of war and peace. Classes on foreign and security policy tend to generate the sort of student credit hours that cash strapped departments are looking for. And it turns out that we and ants have reached many of the same conclusions about fighting.

The basic problem with warfare, as any scholar of international relations (or soldier ant) can tell you, is that it is very costly. This is a result of the private information (or secrets) that each side hold about their true capabilities. In a world with no secrets, where both sides knew the others’ exact strengths or weaknesses, actual combat would probably never happen. Both sides would be able to calculate with precision who would win, and what the costs would be, in advance of an actual fight.

In this case fighting is not only mathematically irrational, it is just plain dumb. Knowing the outcome in advance the losing side should just hand over what would have been taken. The unpleasantness of war is averted and neither side suffers the material destruction that combat always bring. In short, both sides are better off if you reach a deal rather than fighting. Just like you learned in kindergarten.

Unfortunately we do not live in a world with perfect information about what all actors are actually capable of. Given that no one has a magical crystal ball, everyone will have a very strong incentive to make themselves appear to be stronger than they really are in an effort to convince the others to back down. To further complicate matters, we realize that everyone else is probably lying about their true capabilities, just as we are. As such their shows of strength, giant military parades or promises of bloody retaliation lack credibility.

In practice both sides of any conflict have difficulties calculating what the true probabilities of victory are, or what they stand to lose when they tangle with an opponent of unknown strength. And that is a problem because history has shown that these sorts of calculations on the part of political elites really matter. Countries don’t necessarily go to war because they think they will win. They go to war because they think that they will profit. Actually, China’s long history of negotiations with bandit warlords is a fantastic illustration of this very principal, but that is a topic for another post.

The basic problem then is that under the shadow of incomplete information, talk is cheap. Neither side has an incentive to believe that the threats or promises of the other are legitimate, and so both may miscalculate what they will gain in absolute terms from fighting. Or in the words of one of my teachers “war is in the error term.”

What is really painful about this situation is that diplomats have sensed this, at least on some level, for a very long time. Yet there are no quick and easy ways to escape this problem. Promises lack credibility, and verification schemes can easily be spoofed.

What is needed is some way to bring credibility to the bargaining table. Specifically, genuinely strong parties need to be able to send a signal that everyone can observe which cannot be spoofed. The classic solution to this dilemma is to turn away from promises to inflict pain on the other guy, and to instead do something which inflicts a little pain on yourself.

In the political science literature we refer to these efforts as “costly signals” and it is hoped that they will do at least three things. First, they demonstrate the reality of your resolve. Second they signal your ability to actually pay the costs of carrying out the threat in question (most threats are inherently incredible, but again, that is a post for another day). Lastly, they establish your reputation among other player who may be watching this conflict, but who are not directly involved in it. By creating a strong reputation now you lower the probability of future conflict.

How all of this plays out in the world of modern diplomacy can be somewhat abstract. For instance, economic sanctions are generally only credible (and effective) if the target believes that they are the first step on an escalatory pathway that goes someplace very bad. Sanctions programs that only impose pain on foreign companies are generally seen as lacking this sort of credibility. But if the sending country is willing to impose the sorts of sanctions that would materially damage one of its own important industries, then other players generally sit up and take notice. That is a pretty clear sign that something much worse is coming in the immediate future if steps are not taken now.

Likewise if a leader responds to an attack against their national interest by flying some isolated drone missions, what the antagonist may perceive is that she does not care enough about this issue to risk putting lives on the line. As such they should push forward with their provocations. However, placing “boots on the ground” (and hence in harms way) generally sends a much louder signal about one’s resolve. Again, it is often the costly signal, the one that imposes a certain amount of political or economic pain on yourself, that helps to clarify the problems of incomplete information and avoid needless conflict.

Remarkably the ants have come to the same conclusions without the aid of game theory or formal mathematical models. Gottschall points out that when the worker ants of two competing colonies encounter each other in the field they do not simply engage in total war. That would lead to highly unpredictable and needlessly costly outcomes for both sides. Instead each faction summons its specialized warriors. They form lines, march back and forth, show off their mandibles and engage in limited raids.

This behavior is highly stylized and is notably different from the ant version of “real” warfare. But to say that their behavior in this instance lack “reality” would be to miss the point of what is actually going on. It is still a form of costly violence. Mounting the appropriate mock skirmish lines sacrifices colony resources and it reveals information about the number, variety and strength of the communities in question that is very difficult to fake. In short, it moves the ants out of the realm of incomplete information, and a little closer that theoretical space where the “error term” goes away and unnecessary conflict disappears. A few very weak colonies might simply be overrun after failing to mount a mock defense. But the more usual situation is that both sides sense the relative strength of the two communities, and the shared resources are reallocated towards the stronger party without damaging conflict.

Not bad for a group of insects that have never had the benefit of an intro IR course. Of course the ants have had millions of years to develop their own unique approach to intra-species diplomacy. Gottschall concludes that since similar behaviors can be seen in a wide range of species, from humans to ants, that they must have some sort of basis in evolutionary biology.

I disagree with the last part of this chain of reasoning. Genetic pressure seems like an odd thing to turn to in this case as humans and ants are not particularly closely related and experience selective pressure quite differently. Instead the logic of costly signaling stems from the problem of limited perception and incomplete information. It is fundamentally a paradox of meaning and communication that has been predicted, explored and explained in painstaking mathematical details by theorists such as James Fearon (who developed this concept) and Kenneth Schultz. The mathematical models of both of these scholars would seem to indicate that these patterns of behavior arise out of a very specific sets of structural constraints rather than Darwinian destiny.

A Dragon Dance performed by the Ben Kiam Athletic Association in Manila, Philippines, sometime during the 1950s. Copyright Tambuli Media.

Lion Dancing and the Reality of Kung Fu

Still, these questions of ultimate origins are much less important when we stop to consider how these same principals might apply to the social role of Lion Dancing in the southern Chinese martial arts. I suspect that students of Martial Arts Studies always suffer from what might be called “technical envy.” By this I mean that we tend to be really curious about, and latch onto questions concerning, techniques and practices that are not part of our specific training. In general this expression of human curiosity is a good thing as it helps to avoid too narrow a sectarian view of the martial arts.

Most Wing Chun schools in the Ip Man lineage are not involved with Lion Dancing; so that has always been something that I have struggled to wrap my mind around. In my research I have been particularly interested in accounts of the sorts of social violence and competition that accompanied Lion Dancing in Guangdong during the 1920s-1930s, Hong Kong in the 1950s-1960s and even New York City in the 1970s.

The political scientist in me is fascinated by the fact that a lot of this conflict was rooted in questions of territory and often seemed like an outgrowth of social competition between other important factions or players in local society. Simply put, martial arts schools in southern China during the 1920s-1930s did not exist in a vacuum. They were supported by clan associations, guilds, secret societies, criminal groups, social movements and even political factions.

While not everyone in a given martial arts school might be equally aware of these meta-structural issues, these larger players seem to have benefited from having access to a body of disciplined, somewhat militarized, young men who could project their image in the local community. I think that it goes without saying that there was always a tacit threat in this. But these groups also played a more positive role during community festivals and possibly through their civic associations.

Still, the example of the ants and their solution to the dilemma of incomplete information might help to illustrate certain aspects of what was going on in those tense minutes when two rival Lion Dance troupes met in the street. The size and discipline of each group, as well as their subtle performance of signs of respect and disrespect, were the elements that comprised a form of territorial conflict. Many of these groups were competing for turf. Business owners had to pay for performances and these activities were never without the occasional accusation of being a protection racket. Yet on a more fundamental level one wonders whether this was really about the Lion Dancers at all?

When two troops of Lion Dancers met in the streets of Foshan in the 1920s, was this really a stylized competition between groups of independent martial artists? Or was it a meeting between the much larger Hung Sing and the Zhong Yi associations who organized many of these troops? Or were they simply a cat’s paw for the more deadly conflict between the leftist labor unions and local KMT party machinery that backed these larger community organizations?

In short, individuals who worry about the “reality” of the traditional Chinese martial art and their association with practices such as Lion Dancing, may need to take a step back and reevaluate some of their more basic assumptions. As I mentioned in a discussion with a friend the other day, many of the current uses of the term “reality” seem to focus rather narrowly on the athletic prowess of individual athletes. And there is absolute nothing wrong with that. If your goal is to win a match in the octagon (as was Gottschall’s) then it would be counterproductive not to spend a lot of time and effort in an MMA gym.

Yet the prevalence of costly signals in all sorts of situations where we also see traditional martial artists should cause us to pause. As Clausewitz observed in his opening quote, violence does not happen in a vacuum. In the political arena it is only one part of larger project of getting what you want. Or to put it another way, picking up a sabre is just as much a means of changing someone’s mind as potentially killing them. The fact that costly signals are being sent through the use of certain sorts of force means that there is an intended audience which we should also be paying attention to.

Violence is often an inherently social act. The world of martial arts fiction is replete with stories of lone heroes who take down their nemesis. Yet if history has shown us anything, it is that conflict is usually much more complex than this. Sometimes it engulfs whole communities pitting them against one another. The stakes are much higher in these sorts of encounters, and it should not surprise us to discover that traditional martial arts organization may have had strategies for dealing with these situations. In fact, these were likely the sorts of events that allowed other community actors to justify supporting potentially problematic martial arts schools in the first place.

One of my younger brothers has just started law school in a medium sized city with a history of violence in the neighborhoods surrounding its university campus. A few weeks ago a classmate and his wife were surrounded by a group of seven attackers and viciously beaten while leaving a café near the campus. There was no particular economic, ideological or racial motivation for this crime. It was purely social, and one suspects territorial, in nature.

I bring this event up only because I think that it bears on the question at hand. The victim of this crime was in some ways far from the average guy. He was young, healthy and a military veteran who had returned from combat service in the Middle East. He was familiar with many different levels of “reality based combat training.” And none of that mattered.

Why should we expect it to? Getting ambushed by seven determined attackers is pretty much an impossible situation for an individual to recover from. I think that on some level we all know this. Yet many individuals join martial arts schools precisely because they fear such attacks.

How can this help us to understand traditional Chinese martial arts schools as they evolved during the early and middle years of the 20th century? I suspect that we have a tendency to misunderstand period accounts of these communities because we subconsciously project our own preoccupations and goals onto them. Attacks like the one described above were not uncommon in the various neighborhoods of Hong Kong, reeling as they were with social resentments and a refugee crisis in the early 1950s. Accounts indicate that young men often responded to such events by joining a local martial arts school. Interestingly the police (and often their own parents) viewed this as a form of gang activity. And they may have had very good reasons for doing so.

Can even the most excellent Kung Fu protect you from an ambush by a dozen attackers intent on doing you harm? Probably not. But having a gang of guys at your back, or being a member of group willing to inflict huge costs on those who attack one of their own, does tend to work.

Once we start to think of the basic unit of self-defense as being group rather than the individual, many of the “less realistic” methods of the traditional schools, and even organizations like the Red Spears, start to make a lot of functional sense. Individual athletic prowess, while good, is no longer the most important factor. One wants to be sure that new members of the community will be loyal and disciplined, and so those values are explicitly selected for and tested in training. Public feats of strength, numbers and pain endurance (whether through roof top fights or temple processions) help to build the group’s reputation. Activities like Lion Dancing not only builds morale, but they also provide a valuable venue for broadcasting costly signals about your strength and resolve throughout the community. In that way they become an exercise in reputation building that does not depend on the actual use of force.

I think that it would be too simplistic to say that there is a single discourse that has dominated the conversations surrounding the martial arts in the West. Obviously the individuals who take up these pursuits are motivated by a number of factors. Yet it is interesting to me that the TCMA are so often seen as a vehicle for a purely individual type of self-expression or self-realization. And the sorts of violence that are most popular in the public imagination at the moment are the ones that occur in the ring or the octagon. These are, after all, environments that celebrate a more individualistic set of values.

The rhetoric of self-actualization is by no means absent in the traditional southern Chinese martial arts. But the martial clan or family has always played a much more pronounced role in the narratives that emerged from southern China, South East Asia and Hong Kong. Often it is through engagement (and sublimation) with the group that individual transformation is achieved. And many of the tales of actual fighting that emerge from these same areas emphasize the reality of social violence and the importance of a strong and skilled community as the actual unit of self-defense.

In some ways this may be a reflection of cultural values. It would certainly not be the first time that Eastern and Western individuals have diverged in their assessment of community values. Still, as a political scientist I am more inclined to see in these differences self-conscious strategies meant to accommodate the varieties of social violence have emerged in a variety of times and places.

All of this should make us a bit more skeptical of the uncritical use of “reality” in descriptions of the martial arts. The “reality” faced by a single individual versus a group may be quite different. It simply does not make sense to discuss “reality” without first defining our actors and their goals. Yet one suspects that “the real world” is occasionally invoked as a rhetorical strategy specifically to avoid such questions.

When looking at a number of issues in the historical development or comparative analysis of hand combat systems, we might instead benefit from enlarging our conceptual vocabulary to include ideas like “credible threats” and “costly signals.” They remind us that we cannot ignore the fundamentally social nature of a lot of violence in our quest to finally capture reality.

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If you enjoyed this discussion you might also want to read: Kung Fu is Dead, Long Live Kung Fu: The Martial Arts as Voluntary Associations in 20th Century Guangzhou

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“Peking Police Force” (of the older Qing variety). Keystone Viewing Company, 1919. Source: Digital Collection of the Library of Congress (Public Domain). Given the popularity of these slides, this was probably one of the most widely distributed images of traditional Chinese swords in the West during the 1920s. Unfortunately I have yet to find a copy of this side in decent condition to add to my own collection. Note the variety of blade profiles apparent in this photo.

The Creation of Beijing’s Police

Given that this is a holiday weekend, what follows is brief but topical. Labor Day is an ideal time to look back and remember some of the hard working individuals who helped to both promote the practice of the martial arts and contributed to the construction of their image in the collective imagination.  Unfortunately the contributions of police organizations in the development of the Chinese martial arts is often overlooked.

In this post I would like to take a closer look at a couple of images recording specific moments in the building of modern law enforcement institutions in early 20th century China. New methods of “scientific” police work were adopted first in Beijing, and soon spread to other major cities, following the destruction and massive social disruption that accompanied the Boxer Rebellion.

Initially each of the foreign powers involved in this dispute was responsible for establishing some form of law enforcement in their respective occupation zones. For the most part this does not seem to have been viewed as a high priority, though certain countries (notably the UK and Russia) had previously raised private military, paramilitary and law enforcement organizations of their own. Some of these had even fought on their behalf during the Uprising.

In the aftermath of the fighting, many western powers where simply content to hire displaced soldiers and other individuals off of the street to act as rudimentary police officers. The Japanese took a different approach. Having just completed a major round of law enforcement reforms of their own (based largely on French and Prussian models) they were eager to demonstrate the advantages of the new “Japanese model.” In little time they managed to establish a highly professional force and created a law enforcement academy. Their efforts later became the foundation for Beijing’s first modern municipal police department.

Prior to this time law enforcement in the city had been left to groups of soldiers which were specifically assigned to the area (and periodically rotated out in a mostly futile effort to prevent corruption) as well as local guards units, yamen officials and their personal. Nevertheless, both of these forces, the older Qing troops and the modern Japanese inspired civilian police units, had at least one thing in common. They shared an apparent devotion to the sword as a central tool of law enforcement.

It is not particularly challenging to find pictures of law enforcement agents, or members of para-military groups, armed with swords and walking the streets of China’s cities. I suspect that these images would have been familiar to at least some western readers curious about the state of urban life in China during the early 20th century. Perhaps the most common of these images were the grisly postcards and tourist photos depicting judicial executions, usually by decapitation with a sword. Yet Western consumers also had the opportunity to purchase magic lantern and stereo-view slides showing Chinese law enforcement officers displaying long and heavy blades for inspection.  Both of the images reviewed in today’s post fall into this later category.

It should go without saying that these were not the only weapons that police officers in cities like Beijing, Shanghai or Guangzhou carried. A great many other officers were issued clubs (some in the form of long walking sticks) and police departments certainly had access to modern firearms. Indeed, images of patrolmen walking the streets with rifles in the early Republic era are also pretty common. But there can be no doubt that the sword retained a special cache.

Perhaps it would be worthwhile to stop and consider the reasons why. These may suggest something about the nature of the ongoing relationship between Chinese law enforcement agencies and the traditional martial arts during the early 20th century.

To begin with, many of the law enforcement officers that one encountered during the final years of the Qing or the early Republic period were former Manchu Bannermen or displaced soldiers. The aftermath of the Boxer Uprising led to unemployment among soldiers, and the termination of the Bannermen’s stipends in 1905 forced both groups to look to the new law enforcement organization as a potential means of employment and a way to regain some lost social status.

Sabers have never struck me as the most effective law enforcement tool. But in purely practical terms they existed in abundance, and practically everyone being hired into the new police forces was already trained in their use.

There is also another issue to consider. Many Chinese law enforcement reformers looked directly to the Japanese model for both inspiration and technical guidance. As we have already seen, fencing (or Kendo) was an important part of both the development and subsequent ideology of Meiji era law enforcement in Japan. Indeed, the Japanese exhibited just as much enthusiasm for the sword as a tool of law enforcement as the Chinese. I am thus forced to wonder if at least some of the embrace and retention of the sword among Chinese law enforcement personal stemmed from their initially close reliance on Japanese organizational and training methods.

Were these swords ever used in self-defense or the apprehension of criminals? Newspaper articles, court cases and eyewitness accounts from the period all indicate that it was not uncommon for a police officer’s sword to be unsheathed. Consider the following:

Police Violence and Moral Theater

Given the degree of discretion intrinsic to the role of mediator and buffer, a policeman might abuse his power. Police brutality was a particular feature, as we have seen, of the relationship between policemen and rickshaw pullers. An extreme example took place one afternoon in February 1925 when a policeman accosted a rickshaw man who had just dropped off a fare. The policeman shouted, “Get the fuck out of here fast. Don’t you know you are blocking traffic?” The puller, who was still trying to catch his breath, replied angrily, “Let me tell you something. You don’t scare me, I’ve done police work myself. I was a policeman for three years. I know the regulations. I parked my rickshaw on the proper side of the road. How is that blocking traffic?” The quarrel between the two became heated and a crowd gathered to watch. But, as the newspaper account of the incident lamented, the bystanders “looked on without even lifting a finger.” Finally, in anger, the rickshaw man turned to grope in his rickshaw for a club he kept there. As he did, the policeman drew and raised his sword. When the rickshaw man whirled around, club in hand, the policeman struck the puller in the temple with his blade. The rickshaw man fell bleeding to the ground and died almost instantly. Horrified by what they had witnessed, the crowd turned and fled, with people crying out that a policeman had killed someone. A nearby patrolman and his sergeant heard the commotion and hurried to the scene, where they arrested the policeman. The local prosecutor’s office could not immediately identify the dead man. But the department announced that it would supply a coffin and pay the costs of the puller’s funeral.

A rough sort of justice, or injustice, sometimes prevailed on Beijing’s streets. Policemen with clubs or swords at their waists faced rickshaw men who kept clubs in the trunks of their vehicles, groups of laborers willing to fight as a gangs if provoked, students who fought for the right to present their views in public, the occasional common criminal armed with gun or knife, and most threatening of all, bands of armed soldiers accompanying sojourning militarists. On the other hand, the streets and public spaces of Beijing could also provide a congenial environment for confrontations in which policemen, willingly or not, played a central, mediating role. The success of the police depended, in part, on their ability to incorporate elements of moral showmanship into the actions they took. In Erving Goffman’s terms, the policeman was called upon to devote considerable energy to “dramatizing” the role he played so as to “manage the impressions” he made on both miscreants and audience. Since spectators and the accused were bound to have a strong sense of how a policeman as mediator or junzi manqué ought to behave, the patrolman filled a role “socialized” or “idealized” by public expectations. Policemen who misbehaved, stood mute, or said the wrong things risked becoming villains in these set piece social dramas.

…Police reformers in Beijing used the myth of government as a moral project, and policemen as junzi, to establish a police presence in the city with minimal reliance on coercion and a maximum appeal to residents for active cooperation in maintaining social peace. A policeman completing a training program of only a few months could hardly replicate a lifetime of self-cultivation by a scholar-official. On the other hand, even in dilute form, the Confucianist mentality, with its inclination to scold, meddle, and mediate, inspired effective police work. (Strand, 82-83).

Chinese police officers employed by the Russians, probably in Port Arthur. Circa 1900. Note the modern, western style swords, that have been issued to this unit. The transition to western arms was almost complete by 1890. Source: Image taken from a vintage stereoscope slide.  This would have been another easily available image of Chinese law enforcement.

The Sword as Moral Theater

David Strand’s work Rickshaw Beijing: City People and Politics in the 1920s (University of California Press, 1993) is exactly the sort of book that I like. It provides a focused social history of few groups in order to create a new lens for understanding a turbulent and important time in Chinese history. As the title of this work suggests, Rickshaw pullers are the major focus of the study. Yet Strand also has an important story to tell about the evolution and social function of Beijing’s modern police institutions.

As the previous quote notes, Beijing could be a difficult, even perilous, environment for law enforcement. The actions of police officers were often determined as much by the social expectations of the always present crowds as they were the logic of the situation at hand. This suggests that perhaps the swords of these patrolmen can also be understood as part of an ongoing social drama rather than as a simple budgetary expediency. Perhaps the sword was retained and displayed by law enforcement, at least up through the 1940s, because of its unique meaning in the social dramas of order and disorder explored by Strand above.

This also has potentially important implications for the ongoing relationship between law enforcement organizations and martial arts teachers during this period. With one or two exceptions I have yet to explore this relationship as deeply as I would like. Certainly police academies were important employers of martial arts teachers. Nor is it difficult to come up with a purely tactical explanation of this. Such organizations still rely on hand to hand combat training in the execution of their jobs. Yet one wonders what role social expectations played in the maintenance of these relationships in the 1920s and 1930s. Indeed, law enforcement’s engagement with the traditional martial arts actually seems to have increased as the first half of the 20th century wore on.  More importantly, what do these shifts suggest about the public perception of the martial arts at that moment in time?

Chinese law enforcement officers were often recognized by their swords. Yet the most important function performed by these weapons may have been to make real the relationship between the existing moral order (as imagined by society) and the new set of political institutions which were being rapidly developed by successive governments during this period. It may be that the sword survived so long into the age of the rifle and the handgun precisely because of what it implied about those who carried it.

Confiscated weapons. Shanghai Municipal Police Department, 1925. University of Bristol, Historical Photographs of China.

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If you ejoyed this post you might also want to read: Ip Man and the Roots of Wing Chun’s “Multiple Attacker” Principle, Part 1

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“Local Militia Shandong. 1906-1912 by Fr. Michel de Maynard.

“No man can do justice to another’s human total.”
-Victor Turner, The Forest of Symbols (1967, p. 150).

Introduction

If culture is understood as a system of interlocking signs, a complex of meanings, beliefs and practices that function as “man’s adaptive mechanism” in an ever changing world, it is hard to ignore the power of words. Nor can we deny the centrality of memory as communities grapple with the twin problems of meaning and power in the complex societies in which they are embedded. Indeed, the keeping and perpetuation of this collective memory is often a highly charged topic. In some instances anyone is free to enter the fray, while in other situations only certain individuals have a legitimate right to curate or interpret this corporate knowledge.

The saying that “knowledge is power” is not simply a truism. It is a profound reality that every politician, social reformer, religious leader or community organizer is forced to wrestle with. The “problem” with knowledge is that it knows no boundaries or borders. It is nearly infinitely reproducible, and yet ever so prone to mutating in unpredictable ways. It is perhaps the most slippery of all forms of human capital. And yet it is vital.

Nowhere are these possibilities and dilemmas more obvious than in the realm of martial arts studies. Often there is a tendency to get too caught up in the minutia of an individual study, to focus strictly on historical issues in a certain dynasty, to write a paper that discusses only folklore, or to look exclusively at problems of agency and embodiment in the gym. More rarely in the academic literature, fraught as it is with preexisting theoretical debates and publications pressures, do we step back and take a look at the big picture. Yes, every martial artist is indoctrinated into a certain understanding of history, just as their bodies are trained to echo the sedimentary deposits of previous social, national and economic upheavals. But there is almost always something more at stake.

These are simply two (self-reinforcing) sides to the same coin. A close reading of both embodied practices, or patterns of esoteric cultural transmission, lead to the same set of questions. Given that the martial arts are voluntary actives, why do individuals seek out these often difficult, painful and expensive practices? How do they contribute to the creation of new “adaptive mechanisms” in the actual lives of the individuals who practice them? Or to put the question slightly differently, why do some people choose to become experts in “martial culture?” What social situations do they emerge from, and what do they hope to accomplish?

Lastly, how does all of this change when we add the figure of the anthropologist, social scientist or historian to the mix? What happens to a community when a new source of information or memory becomes available? This question is especially interesting as the sources of legitimacy that gives credibility to an academic project are often quite different from anything available to the more traditional teachers and masters of the art.

Nor are most of the authors writing in these area’s pure outsiders or “armchair theorists.” Many of them can draw on years, if not decades, of personal practice as they draw up their theories. And yet these academic projects, while bringing a certain type of recognition and transparency to the art which many will find helpful, are almost always focused on questions different from those that consume the attention of most practitioners.

What responsibilities, if any, do students of Martial Arts Studies bear towards the communities that they study? More specifically, should we strive to produce academic work which (while not compromising its basic integrity) is both intellectually accessible and physically available to the communities that helped to produce it? In short, as D. S. Farrer recently asked, does martial arts studies have a responsibility to engage in “studies with” our key informants rather than simply “studies of” questions that motivate only the academy?

I should say at the outset that this is a question that has arisen from time to time here at Kung Fu Tea. Paul Bowman has already argued that hand combat practices imagined within the confines of academic theory will always, by necessity, be a distinct “disciplinary object” and hence bound to disappoint most practitioners. And I think that his answer basically holds true for many higher order discussions that seek to problematize the practice of the martial arts using the tools of philosophy, cultural theory or even broad overviews of social history.

Yet to my mind these questions become much more pressing when we look at a different class of research projects. Do our responsibilities change when we instead switch to detailed discussions of specific and recognizable communities? Anthropologists concerned with the ethics of field work have long wrestled with the responsibilities that exist between an ethnographer and his informants. Likewise sociologists and historians who focus on specific communities often find themselves being called upon to explain key events to outsiders or to act as advocates in times of crises.

In my reading of the literature it seems that the idea that one can maintain an objective relationship with the community being investigated has long since passed. Advocates of reflexive ethnography have instead demonstrated the value of turning the lens back on the researcher to expose some of her possible attitudes and biases as she moves through the process of learning as a better interim solution to these dilemmas. Yet are there advantaged to going beyond these simple exercises in reflexivity and considering that perhaps the subjects of one’s research should also be part of the audience that one is writing to? What would this look like in the field of Martial Arts Studies?

A typical market place demonstration featuring socially marginal martial artists.

Muchona the Hornet and Social Marginality

It is not uncommon to come across an interesting idea when sitting down to read a recent publication in the Martial Arts Studies literature. Yet in my experience the much more important ideas begin to flow when (through happenstance or poor planning) you find yourself reading two totally unrelated texts at the same time.

Over the last week I have made a couple of futile efforts to sink my teeth into Prof. Lee Wilson’s recent book Martial Arts and Body Politic in Indonesia (Brill, 2015). I had been looking forward reading this book for a while. After all, there are not that many other individuals coming out of political science departments who are writing on the martial arts. And so far I have really like what I have seen.

Unfortunately I haven’t actually managed to read all that much in absolute terms. This is mostly my own fault as I have been spending lots of time on the road, in the gym and working on other projects. But in all fairness, it is also clear that this book is not going to be an easy read. The basic ideas behind the text are fairly accessible, and the author is engaging with theorists (Geertz, Anderson, Foucault) that most political scientists, anthropologists and social theorists will already be familiar with. Indeed, these names have all come up in the course of a well-developed debate on the nature of power in the Indonesian state, and Wilson makes an impressive argument that a better understanding the historical development and practice of Penak Silat can actually bring clarity of this ongoing conversation.

In itself this is very exciting. It is great to see Martial Arts Studies being used in a sophisticated way to clarify a high profile discussion with broad theoretical implications for a number of fields. I think that many of scholars will probably get a lot out of this book.

Yet I doubt that many practicing martial artists will walk away from it feeling equally excited and invigorated. Admittedly, I am only two chapters into the project, so it may be too soon to judge, but this is a text that never fails to use abstract jargon when a clear statement of a simple idea could have sufficed. Again, the basic thrust of Wilson’s argument is not all that complicated, yet it is protected by a disciplinary fence that seems almost designed to keep the (academically) uninitiated out.

This struck me as rather odd. And it is interesting to stop and consider why. I am no stranger to baroque jargon. It is the stock and trade of academic writing. From the “R values” of statistical research to the canon of critical theory, most scholars end up becoming “multi-lingual” just so we can read all of the articles, written from different theoretical perspectives, in a single issue of our favorite journals.

Judged by these standards the jargon in Wilson’s book is not particularly remarkable. If anything it reads a bit like a dissertation. It wasn’t until I picked a totally unrelated book that my concern started to come into focus.
In the Company of Man: Twenty Portraits of Anthropological Informants (Harper, 1960) is a now classic collection of chapters in which a prior generation of anthropological theorists wrote what amounted to personal essays discussing their relationships with, and the contribution of, their key informants. One can almost think of it as a forerunner of the more “confessional” school of ethnography that later became popular.

Perhaps my favorite essay in the volume is titled “Muchona the Hornet, Interpreter of Religion” by Victor Turner. This is a fascinating paper that I think should be required reading for anyone who is doing ethnography related to the Chinese martial arts. It should go without saying that Muchona is not Chinese (he lived in what was then Rhodesia) and he was not a martial artist. Rather he was a chimbuki, or a spiritual doctor, who had been initiated into a large number of local cults or medicine societies that dealt with the treatment of both biological disease and what anthropologists call “culture bound syndromes.”

Muchona was also one of Turner’s most knowledgeable and important informants. In this essay Turner reflects on his friend and colleague, asking what made Muchona an expert of esoteric Ndembu religion and medicine. Certainly he was philosophically minded. That is important. Most western anthropologists spend their lives investigating a class of highly abstract questions that their fellow countrymen care little about. Is it so odd then to discover that the average Ndembu farmer, school teacher or office worker also has relatively little interest in this same class of issues? Almost by definition a good informant is someone who is an expert on things that most people do not care for and know little about.

We have a word for such people in the social sciences. They are described as being “marginal.” Indeed, no concept has been tossed around in discussions of the Chinese martial arts with quite as much vigor as that of marginality. How do individuals come to be seen as marginal? Do the martial arts act as pathway out of economic marginality? Or do they in fact reinforce an individual’s social marginality? Can Kung Fu be understood as an alternate pathway for self-creation for marginal teenagers?

Turner’s essay is deeply human and moving. It’s a profound reminder that there is almost always an emotional cost associated with really getting to know another person. But it is also a brilliant discussion of why marginal individuals, specifically those who sit both inside and outside the dominant social institutions of life, are so often exactly the sorts of informants that an anthropologists needs.

Muchona’s story is instructive in this respect. To begin with he was not actually a fully accepted member of the tribe that he lived with. He and his mother had been captured in a slave raid while he was a child. Muchona had an unusually close relationship with his mother, and it was she who had insisted that he be inducted into a number of medical groups as a child. Yet she died young leaving him to negotiate a life of slavery.

At about the age of 30 Muchona managed to buy his freedom and established a career as a healer among the Ndembu. He moved through a number of communities and was thus exposed to a variety of local languages and cultural systems. This gave him a comparative understanding of the area’s beliefs that most of his fellow villagers did not share.

Nor was his intelligence (which Turner informs us was truly great) always appreciated by his neighbors. Muchona managed to carve out a niche for himself as an expert in esoteric matters. Yet the better elements of local society always looked on him as both a buffoon and a potential threat. Turner’s sudden interest in the village “Witch Doctor,” and his extensive patronage of someone who was clearly “socially inferior” (even if he was also an acknowledged religious and medical expert) did not do much to improve Muchona’s social position. In fact, it even led to some instances of tension and a witchcraft accusation towards to the end of Turner’s stay in the community.

It is clear from this essay that Turner wrestled with the ethical implications of this relationship with Muchona. What had started out as a simple matter of economic exchange (Turner payed Muchona-who was a religious professional-for the tutelage needed to complete his research) quickly became a friendship. Muchona himself may have learned quite a bit about the anthropological method from his work with Turner.

He probably acquired a new set of concepts including ideas like “culture” and “symbolism” (as used by anthropologists). Not only was Muchona teaching Turner about Ndembu religion, but as he answered questions, organized lectures and discussed the material with someone from a different background he learned to understand his own society differently.

In a simple sense we might say that Muchona was made complicit in the project of objectifying his own society. That is certainly true as far as it goes. But Turner also notes that the depth of his understanding of this material evolved as the relationship progressed.

Why? Muchona the Hornet gained a new asset, something that he had never had before: a student and a friend. Whereas the villagers saw him as essentially a specialized (and low-caste) craftsman, when he was with Turner Muchona became a philosopher. Suddenly he, a marginal individual, was empowered to act as the interpreter for Ndembu religion. Of course Muchona was never a fully accepted member of Ndembu society. He was always a bit of an outsider. Yet it was that exact quality that provided him with the motivation to really wrestle with what he saw in the local environment.

Turner’s return to the world of writing and teaching ended his relationship with Muchona. As his essay makes clear he was worried as to what would become of his friend and fellow student of religion. With Turner, Muchona had been a philosopher who had come to see his world differently. What would happen when he was forced back to being the village “Witch Doctor?” Turner had gleaned critical insights from his informant, but at what cost?

As a personal essay I think that this is a brilliant piece of writing. But equally important is its role in foreshadowing a weakness with the sorts of overly “confessional” ethnography that would follow in the coming decades. So much of this essay focuses on Turner’s relationship with Muchona, and even his feeling about certain events, that it fails to take into account some more fundamental structural issues which can be seen emerging from behind the corner and the cracks of his narrative.

To begin with, Turner’s relationship with Muchona was always mediated by two other figures. They are the ones who we must look to in order to answer the fundamental question that this post starts off with. The first of these figures is a local social and political informant named Kasonda. He has a long standing dislike of Muchona, a low status member of his own community, which he expresses in the form a vicious rumor campaign.

The other figure is named Kashinakaji. He is almost invisible in Turner’s account, yet he is actually the linchpin of everything that follows. Kashinakaji is both a Christian and the senior teacher at the local mission school. This provides him with a healthy amount of social clout as the Ndembu villagers fully appreciate the value of a solid education in their children’s prospects for getting ahead in the world.

Yet Kashinakaji enters our story during a crisis of faith. As a child he was totally isolated from the “pagan elements” of his own culture. Lately he has started to ask uncomfortable questions about the larger workings of the mission system and has started to doubt the Christian talking points on the value of the local traditions. It is he who decides to initiate a study of local religion, he who introduces Turner to Muchona (who had only seen him once before in passing), he who provided the actual translation of these discussions and he who smoothed over the situation with the local villagers when Turner’s interest in Muchonda raised suspicion. And while Turner and Muchonda may have recognized each other as fellow travelers on the esoteric pathways of religion and ritual, Kashinakaji also developed a sympathy and respect for his fellow villager.

The one disappointing aspect of Turner’s essay is that it focuses so tightly on his personal relationship with Muchonda that it fails to recognize that a more fundamental shift is in progress. Was Muchonda really left alone and marginal when Turner left? Probably no more than he ever was.

After all, during the preceding months he had acquired a powerful new friend and supporter in the form of Kashinakaji. Kashinakaji’s influence in the community, while substantial, was probably limited by his lack of understanding of his own culture. Yet he gained tools for thinking about culture in abstract terms from Turner, and a huge body of more specific knowledge from Muchonda. And Turner’s involvement in these discussions was really only possible because there were other individuals in the community who were increasingly interested in these same matters who invited him to participate in the discussion since it facilitated what they were already planning on doing.

At the time that Turner left Muchonda was already an older and somewhat sickly man. It seems entirely possible that his story might not have had a happy ending. Yet was he more marginalized because of his contact with Turner? Clearly the answer has got to be no. The pushback from the villagers that Turner describes (somewhat deflected by Kashinakaji) is actually pretty good evidence that the status quo had been upset. More importantly, Muchonda had become part of a conversation that could possibly have far reaching effects, regardless of what the final few years of his own life held.

A martial arts performance at a marketplace in Shanghai, circa 1930. Source: Huan Fei Hung Museum.

Martial Arts Studies: “Study With” vs. “Study Of”

While the details are unique, the basic structure of this narrative should sound familiar to many students of martial arts studies. Hand combat teachers are frequently (though not exclusively) marginal individuals living on the edge of their own communities. This is often the case in China, and even throughout South East Asia. While martial values may be seen as important in the abstract, for both cultural and tactical reasons the individuals who convey them are often viewed as somewhat “expendable” by the rest of society.

While lacking the dramatic backstory of Muchona’s childhood in slavery, this means that many martial artists are also by necessity “inside outsiders.” They are forced to navigate multiple competing cultural systems (or perhaps multiple interpretations of the same set of cultural values). While many individuals may never stop to think about these issues in explicitly philosophical terms, some will. And Victor Turner’s essay should help to remind us that their insights may be critical to not just understanding the details of martial arts culture, but the larger social systems that it is embedded within. In fact, as I was rereading the details of Muchona’s life I could not help to notice so many parallels with informants who have helped to advance the discussion of the martial arts.

This brings me back to the first few chapter of Lee Wilson’s book. I think that the robustly academic nature of his writing stood out to me because so much of what we see in martial arts studies is written with a dual audience in mind. Certainly we expect that most practitioners of a given style will ignore what we write on it. For most individuals the academic discussions of the culture, history or sociology of the martial arts are not all that relevant to their actual practice.

Yet we all have our own Muchona. Those of us who have immersed ourselves in specific communities for years at a time have found fellow travelers on the martial way who share not just our passion for practice, but our hunger for understanding what it all means. For that matter, many of us have witnessed the growing excitement when a key informant discovers that their interest in the martial arts suggests other historical, cultural or philosophical areas for exploration. Indeed, a hunger to find meaning in life has drawn many individuals to the traditional fighting systems, just as it has to the other systems of esoteric knowledge that anthropologists, like Victor Turner, have studied.

One might argue that there is a danger in empowering the Muchonas of the world. They are, after all, marginal individuals. Their interests, like those of the Martial Arts Studies researcher, likely do not reflect the actual beliefs of the community in practice. I can write any number of essays stating that the “Red Boat Opera Rebels” are basically historical fiction and it won’t really affect anything that happens in a given Wing Chun school. This folklore is just too essential to the identity of the art.

Or is it? Maybe the greater anxiety is that as academic narratives enter the mainstream, and as the Muchonas of the community are progressively empowered and heard, we will increasingly feel their sting. Will the academic study of thee martial arts fundamentally change them? Could the demystification of these communities even hasten their eventual demise?

Again, these are questions that anthropologists and sociologists have dealt with for some time. Even some historians have increasingly become suspicious that no matter how much time they spend in the archives they fundamentally end up writing books about the future rather than the past.

Turner’s essay is instructive on this point. Reading between the lines it is clear that he has entered Ndembu society at a time of change. While his work focuses exclusively on Ndembu religion, powerful members of the community are Christians and have been for some time. Yet the mission system is showing signs of strain, and suddenly there is new interest in esoteric knowledge.

This reminds us that culture is not a static thing. Only in that way can it fulfill its role as an “adaptive mechanism.” The ability to adapt and change is a feature rather than a bug in cultural systems.

And it is this underlying process of change that point to Kashinakaji the school teacher, rather than Muchona the local expert or Turner the anthropologist, as the central figure in the entire episode. It is Kashinakaji who is struggling with what it means to be Ndembu in the post-colonial period. Turner will leave and at some point the older Muchona will pass on, and it will be Kashinakaji’s responsibility to take what he has learned, adapt it to the circumstances that he finds himself in, and relate some elements of it to the community at large.

The traditional Chinese martial arts currently find themselves at a crossroads. Certain models of economic and social development have played themselves out, and some individuals are actively questioning what these systems mean in the current era. Or as the cultural theorists Megan Morris recently put it in a conference address, “What is the point of Kung Fu?”

This is a question that must be answered by each generation for itself. Indeed, the survival of the enterprise depends on it. It would be foolish to think that our era is somehow uniquely exempted from the task simply because we have better technical tools to “preserve” the past. The question at hand is really one of social meaning.

While insightful I doubt that the work of martial arts historians and anthropologists actually contain the answers to these questions. It will be up to a new generation of reformers, teachers and entrepreneurs to work this out for themselves within their local communities. Yet a better understanding of the fundamental social, cultural, economic and political forces at work may be a precondition for better decision making. Properly understood, comparative and historical accounts can offer models of both success and failure.

Many of the individuals who engage in these sorts of participant-observation ethnographies count themselves as serious members of the communities that they study. The development of reflexive ethnography suggests that a certain involvement in promotion and growth of these pursuits may ultimately be both acceptable and ethically laudable. Making a conscious effort to produce academic studies that are accessible to certain members within these communities may be one of the best ways to accomplish this goal. While many of us find ourselves writing, at least in part, for our own personal Muchonas, we cannot neglect the more important task of reaching out to the Kashinakajis of the coming generation. As the layers of social marginality around the martial arts are deconstructed, the University may yet play an important role in the advancement of these “traditional” systems of knowledge.

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If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: Martial Arts Studies: Answering the “So what?” question

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Statue with Sword and Wine Gourd. Another figure in China’s long tradition of eccentric warrior-sages. Source: Vintage German Postcard.

Introduction

Our essay for today is a guest-post of sorts, reblogged from Paul Bowman’s always excellent (and aptly named) Martial Arts Studies.   He sent me a link to this post and I have been giving it a fair amount of thought since then.  Readers of Kung Fu Tea, particularly those who are interested in the history of the Chinese martial arts, will enjoy his straight forward and refreshing approach the thorny issues that arise when we talk about the origin accounts of individual styles.

I was also interested in this essay as it began with a very generous engagement with a prior post that I published dealing with the problem of lineage, social organization and artificial kinship structures in the Chinese martial arts.  After reading through Paul’s argument I began to outline a post that would address some of the issues that he brought up as well as hopefully clarifying the competing ways that we think of “lineages” in conceptual terms.  Or perhaps it would be more proper to say I would like to make an argument about how we might want to unpack this term and go forward with it in the future.  I will also explore the nature of hyper-real history as it appears in lineage myths and how it tends to actually function on a social level.

Yet after doing my initial writing on that post I decided that it was not going to do justice to the conversation that is currently unfolding.  At least not yet.  Instead I have included Paul’s full remarks below so that readers can take the time to fully absorb his argument, on its own terms, rather than relying on my own summary of it.  For that matter, those really interested in this subject will want to start by going back and reviewing David Brown’s chapter “Body-experience Lineage in Martial Arts Culture” which appears in Keith Gilbert’s edited volume Fighting: Intellectualizing Combat Sport (Common Ground, 2015).  My own contribution to this discussion actually started off as a critical response to Brown’s argument.  Sometime next week I hope to explore the differences in Brown’s, Bowman’s and my own approach to the concept of lineage as a way of exploring some of the many things that this common concept denotes.  As Paul will remind us a simple word, such as “leaf,” can serve to conceal the infinite variety of specific leaves that one might actually encounter while walking through the woods.  But in the mean time, please take a few moments to enjoy an important essay which asks us to consider a martial artist’s relationship with history.

On Knowing Your Lineage

As part of a larger reflection on transmission and lineages in martial arts, Ben Judkins recently pondered two attitudes towards lineages in martial arts circles. His own discussion covers more ground and a wide range of themes and issues around community, identity and the transmission of martial knowledge, but I want to focus on the two issues he identifies early on in the article.

The first attitude is the one he has long been most familiar with: that of knowing at least something about the long linear narrative story of one’s martial art – the tale told by its practitioners, that starts from its origins, passes through legendary masters and sequences of teachers, and culminates in one’s own instructor. The second attitude was one he encountered only recently, when talking to a kickboxing instructor. The kickboxer knew nothing about the history or lineage of what he was practicing. He knew about his own instructor, obviously, but not about anything or anyone further back.

Because of his long involvement in traditional Chinese martial arts (TCMA), where lineage-narratives seem to matter so much to so many practitioners, Judkins evidently found this insouciant attitude towards history rather surprising. He certainly did not deem it representative of his own experience of traditional stylists’ relationships with their own martial arts.

As I say, Judkins’ discussion is not entirely structured by these two attitudes, but I want to reflect on them further. For, it got me thinking. I myself have tried my hand (and foot) at a range of martial arts over the years, and Judkins’ surprise at certain styles’ or stylists’ lack of reflection on their own history made me realise that I had never really thought about the topic of martial artists’ relationships to history. However, what jarred with me, on reflection, was my sense that, contrary to Judkins’ starting position, in my experience, many practitioners of traditional styles seem to have little to no awareness of either the actual or the mythological history of the style they study.

For instance, my first Shotokan karate instructor demonstrated next to no knowledge of either the history of karate, nor of the rationales underpinning many of its conventions. For example, when, as beginners, we once asked him why we had to bow on entering and exiting the dojo, he said something about keeping the ‘room gods’ happy. Worse, some of the other ‘knowledge’ he imparted – innumerable times, in every class – went on to have much more embarrassing consequences for me. What happened was this. For many years after my first foray into karate, I believed myself able to count to ten in Japanese. It was only when, quite recently, I was greeted by a confused look on the face of a Japanese child, in the company of her father, a visiting Japanese dignitary, his wife, and several fluent Japanese scholars, that I realised that none of the sounds coming out of my mouth made any sense to Japanese speakers.

So we should be careful what we take on trust. Of course, quite how we verify the status of the ‘knowledge’ being passed on to us is another matter – a huge question, which I will only be able touch on briefly and tangentially, below. For now, some questions about lineage will be foregrounded.

Many years after taking karate classes, while I was studying taijiquan, I did encounter the attitude that Judkins describes – the one he characterises as commonplace in TCMAs – in which teachers and students learn lineage narratives and certain selected anecdotes about famous figures in ‘their’ lineage. However, that attitude seemed to me to be particularly prominent only among certain sorts of practitioner: senior (male) instructors, some other men; but very few women, maybe none; and not many of my peers. In fact I was probably the most widely read of my peers on matters of TCMA and taiji history. But none of the names of the key figures in our lineage would ever stick in my head – not because they were Chinese names (although that didn’t help), but rather because most kinds of factual information don’t stick in my head. Principles, theories, arguments normally do; names and dates don’t.

My instructor was one of the few who certainly knew the official histories and characteristics of different styles of taiji, kung fu and Xing-I, etc., especially those of the styles he practiced. But other than him and the other senior instructors in the association, no one else seemed to know or care about taiji’s history. Indeed, whenever there were conversations about any aspects of taiji other than practical, technical and aesthetic matters, my classmates would often express the most vague and nebulous ideas about ancient misty mountains and mystical magic. (To be fair, had I not encountered the work of Douglas Wile very early in my studies, I would almost certainly have remained just as orientalist as my peers (Wile 1996, 1999).)

Anthropologists have termed this kind of attitude allochronism (Fabian 1983). Allochronism refers, ultimately, to imputing a timelessness to something, and thereby refusing to acknowledge that it has and is always within a history. History, in this sense, refers to a process of change, movement, modification, development, transformation, and even of huge tectonic shifts. Accordingly, allochronistic perspective do not allow the object to have a history, in this sense of having developed and changed.

My argument, then, is that a focus on lineage often functions as a force of allochronism. That is to say, allowing a martial art to have a history can be very different to knowing its lineage. For, this sense of history implies change, even massive and radical transformation and revolution. Lineage-thinking, on the other hand, does not as easily lend itself to an understanding of ongoing transformation.

In the case of taiji, Adam Frank (Frank 2006) argues that there have been massive changes in its form and content, even in comparatively recent history. As he observes, if one reads any of the ‘Tai Chi Classics’ (the nineteenth century taiji manuals that are often claimed to be very much older than they are), it is very difficult to recognise much about taiji as we know it or think of it today. If one were to try to reconstruct a martial art based on the evidence of these manuals alone, one would be likely to come up with a very different beast to anything walking the Earth called ‘taiji’ today. As Nietzsche argued, one word, one name – let’s say, to use Nietzsche’s own example, the word ‘leaf’ – covers over and denies an infinite array of differences between this leaf and that leaf (Nietzsche 2006). The same goes for the name ‘taiji’. One name; many things; and different things at different times.

The key point is, taiji has a history. In Adam Frank’s work, he presents the current shape and characteristics of the taiji forms currently practiced around the world as palimpsests of different additions and modifications that have taken place in different periods for different socioeconomic, ideological and political reasons. To cap it off, we might add, all of these historical residues of different versions of taiji have come to be elaborated and performed according to contemporary understandings of what taiji should look like and be like – and contemporary understandings are accompanied and in large part enabled by fantasy constructions of what the past ‘was like’. Taiji has been rewritten and can and will continue to be rewritten and transformed.

This kind of proposition is very different from focusing on the lineage of a contemporary style. For, most commonly, the attribution of a lineage goes hand in hand with the idea that its current form is a direct or pure transmission from some mythic founding father. Jacques Derrida rightly connected this kind of approach with a certain kind of valuation of ‘insemination’ (Derrida 1981). In other words, those who would make a massive lineage claim that invokes, say, Zhang Sanfeng or Bodhidharma, are strongly associating their current practice with that of a great founding mystical character.

Ultimately, the value of lineage is dependent on what we think happens in a teacher-student relationship. The simplest understanding of a teacher-student relationship would propose an image of something like the teacher passing an idea from his or her brain into the student’s brain, as if passing a baton in a relay race through history. The student is the successor or inheritor, who ideally goes on to pass the baton to the next student, and so on and so forth, through time. The baton is the knowledge, which moves intact from teacher to disciple. This is what Derrida would call the ‘metaphysical’ conception of pedagogy, or teaching and learning.

The fact that in martial arts the baton to be handed down largely takes the form of embodied physical propensities might refer us back to Derrida’s metaphor of ‘insemination’ (as the seed has to be put ‘into’ the student, and cultivated), at the same time as it might equally account for the long history in martial arts literature of the theme of the secret text or training manual (Liu 2011). The secret text is of course ideally only to be read by those qualified to understand it and use it wisely (the top student), for others will only misunderstand and hence misuse and abuse it.

Ushiwara Maru training with the Tengu, who were reputed to be masters of swordsmanship. By Yoshikazu Utagawa. Source: Wikimedia.

This is one common conceptualisation of pedagogical relations. But it is deeply problematic. An awful lot more goes on in teaching than perfect transmission. Derrida proposes that what is considerably more likely than insemination is ‘dissemination’ – the scattering of incomplete parts and parcels, picked up and understood and applied, used and abused, in myriad unpredictable and partial ways. For Derrida, everyone is in a way an impostor who’s stumbled upon a text that they then go on to use in their own improper and incomplete way. Inevitably, the ‘purist’ response is to regard such processes as far from ideal, and to reassert the value of the strictest methods of uncontaminated transmission (whether conceived as insemination, or as baton passing). But the Derridean contention goes further. Derrida argues that pure unmodified transmission (repetition) is an impossible fantasy at best, and that what always happens is the introduction of alteration, however slight (reiteration).

In this sense, Derrida proposes a theory of inevitable historical change. Some might call it ‘corruption’. But, in a sense, that’s what time always makes happen anyway: variation, drift, alterity, otherness, difference.

The idea of lineage is often deployed to try to insist that such change doesn’t happen – hasn’t happened – in order to confer a status on the present by an appeal to an ancient and mythological past; one that says ‘what we are doing now remains essentially identical to the way it was done at the moment of its pure and magical birth’.

In light of this kind of institutional politics (or policing), it seems to me that the attitude of Judkins’ kickboxer to his own history, or lack of it, is in a way a kind of liberation. After all, it evokes no creation myth, no mysticism, no sense of divine right. Certainly, Judkins himself appears to find it at once surprising and refreshing. So he asks us to reflect on the range of differing possible attitudes that martial artists may have to history and/or lineage (although his own interests are expressed in terms of learning about different types of martial arts community).

To reiterate, in my experience of TCMAs, it always seemed to me that the vast majority of practitioners had only a very vague and shaky relationship with the notion that their styles had either a history or a lineage. Rather, most practitioners seemed most inclined invoke vague allochronistic ideas, about ‘Nature’, ‘Taoism’ or ‘the East’. Those who did believe that they knew their history, those inclined to talk about it, discuss it, dispute it, had one thing in common. They were all (in my experience), universally, and ‘to a man’, men.

I also recall that, at the time I was regularly turning up at classes, the fact that I didn’t (and don’t) have an exhaustive working knowledge of the key figures that made up my own stylistic genealogy would often worry me. Why can’t I remember these Chinese names? Why don’t I study this genealogy and learn it properly? Am I not a proper martial artist? Am I not a proper scholar? A proper man? And so on. Such questions would vex me. But now it gives me pause for thought, raising questions not only of knowledge but also of its perhaps gendered character.

Yet I am ill-inclined to argue that such knowledge, such information gathering, collection, enjoyment, and so on, is essentially ‘masculine’. However, I have often quietly regarded this sort of interest as somewhat ‘nerdy’. But nerdiness is not an exclusively male preserve. For instance, in the past I have attended many film studies conferences, and film studies conferences are absolutely brimming with fact-stuffed film nerds, and the conversations are incredibly nerdy, and overwhelmingly organised by the competitive display of knowledge; yet film studies is a field populated at least equally in number by women.

So, in the end, I wonder whether it is because Judkins is a scholar that he was so surprised to encounter someone without any kind of scholarly relationship to their practice. As we know, Judkins always strives to establish a rich historical, political, economic, sociological and cultural understanding of any martial art. So his approach to kickboxing – or anything else – is always likely to start from the premise that kickboxing has a history: he may not know all of the main details yet, but presumably Judkins would also anticipate that kickboxing will have a comparatively recent and very Western history, at least in its current form and under its current name. Moreover, as a certain type of scholar – one who knows very well that ‘lineage narratives’ all too easily ignore or deny real histories, and all too often work mythologically or ideologically – Judkins will be able and inclined to situate both the practice and its attitudes within a complex history (rather than a lineage).

To my mind, this kind of scholarly engagement with history (especially when combined with a critical attitude towards lineage) is both liberating and immanently political. It is certainly better overall than either simply ‘knowing’ a lineage or, conversely, simply dwelling in ignorance and indifference.

But better for whom? I would propose: for everyone.

The knowledge that martial arts do not exist and develop in isolation but in a complex ecology; that their development is not subject to a linear chronological unfolding, but is much more subject to cross-fertilization in encounters with others and otherness in a spatial present; the iconoclastic revaluation of founders and masters as figures who have been transformed into myths; and the insistence that histories and lineages proceed according to forces of dissemination rather than simple communication, and that these histories and lineages are always worked up and worked over in the present imagining of the past; all of this is better than blind faith in linear history or lineage transmission.

Consequently, rather than either a simple knowledge of history or even a critical knowledge of lineage, I would prefer more people to have a better theory of history and understanding of cultural processes and logics.

In such a purview, we are definitely going to lose more than a few heroes and heroines, saintly founders and Taoist Immortals; we are also going to lose the supposed feminist origins of some arts, some dragon slayers, some drunken monks, more than one temple, and many gallant fighters of oppression. Some really important invincible figures will turn out to have been defeated, and others may never even have fought at all. But all of this remains infinitely better than believing in myths and legends that prime people to fall into traps of ethnonationalistic jingoism, or into believing myths about cultural superiority or uniqueness, or that this or that practice is historically and ideologically clean and pure.

Truly valuable knowledge of martial arts history and culture is essentially a knowledge of cultural transactions, hybridizations, grafts, mimicry, emulation, differentiation, call and response, ideological agendas, cultural management, political struggles, war-torn borders, and military, educational, sporting, police and consumer institutions, as well as the power of media myths and cultural discourses of all orders.

So, should we learn ‘our’ history, the history of our practices, and of what we involve ourselves in? In what way should that learning be carried out?

I will give one quick case to consider, in concluding. An old friend of mine – we used to train in taekwondo together – is now devoted to krav maga. Krav maga, as many will know, is often regarded as one of the most efficient and brutal martial arts available. Doubtless many of its own practitioners will not know or care or think much about its history; or, if they do, for many that history will boil down to one or two factoids: the one about it being devised for fighting Nazis in the Jewish ghetto, and the one about it being used as the basis for the hand to hand combat training of the Israeli military.

When I once asked my friend how he felt about training in a style so closely connected with the Israeli military, he immediately sensed my implication and launched into a quick pre-emptive counter: Well, how did you feel, he asked me, about training in taekwondo? Did you feel that you were being ideologically aligned with Korean nationalism?

At the time I thought, touché, and let it go. But thinking about it now I would have to answer: yes. The syllabus in taekwondo involved learning ‘the correct interpretations’ and ‘meanings’ of the forms (kata). These ‘correct meanings’, which we had to memorize and regurgitate verbatim in lessons and at gradings, all related to massively mythologized and ultimately nationalistic ‘facts’ and other fabulations about ‘ancient Korea’. These were things that I was entirely happy to believe. Indeed, I thought I was learning some pretty cool stuff. Outside of the formal syllabus, these ‘meanings’ were accompanied by what I now view as hilarious apocrypha, such as the one about taekwondo having developed into a jumping style so that heroic unarmed Koreans could kick Samurai off their horses, and so on.

We were all happy to believe it. To that extent, we were happily being inserted into ideological discourses via the ventriloquizing of beliefs disseminated by more or less unknowing disseminators.

To what ends? Politics and ideology are rarely, if ever, endgames. All that matters is hegemony in the realm of ideas, beliefs and discourses. And rather than perpetuating creation myths and narratives that are at one and the same time uncannily childish and eerily ethnonationalist, it would seem better to insist less on knowing a list of famous names and more about the ideological character of the present discourse, of where it seems to come from, what it seems aligned with, and where it would want to transport us.

References

Derrida, J. (1981), Dissemination, London: Athlone.

Fabian, J. (1983), Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object, N.Y.: Columbia U.P.

Frank, A. (2006), Taijiquan and the Search for the Little Old Chinese Man: Understanding Identity through Martial Arts, New York and Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

Liu, P. (2011), Stateless Subjects: Chinese Martial Arts Literature and Postcolonial History, Ithaca, N.Y.: East Asia Program, Cornell University.

Nietzsche, F. (2006), On the Genealogy of Morality: A Polemic, K. Ansell-Pearson, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Wile, D. (1996), Lost T’ai Chi Classics of the Late Ch’ing Dynasty, New York: State University of New York.

——— (1999), T’ai Chi’s Ancestors: The Making of an Internal Martial Art, New York: Sweet Chi Press.

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If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read: On Weapons Training by Paul Bowman

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Bruce Lee sketching on the set for Game of Death. Photograph: Bruce Lee Estate. Source: The Guardian.

Introduction

Welcome to “Chinese Martial Arts in the News.”  This is a semi-regular feature here at Kung Fu Tea in which we review media stories that mention or affect the traditional fighting arts.  In addition to discussing important events, this column also considers how the Asian hand combat systems are portrayed in the mainstream media.

While we try to summarize the major stories over the last month, there is always a chance that we have missed something.  If you are aware of an important news event relating to the TCMA, drop a link in the comments section below.  If you know of a developing story that should be covered in the future feel free to send me an email.

Its been a while since our last update so there is a lot to be covered in today’s post.  Let’s get to the news!

Annotated pages from a martial arts manual once owned by Bruce Lee and recently sold at auction.  Source: bloomsburyauctions.com.

News and Events from all Over

Our leading story today will be of special interest to Bruce Lee fans and collectors.  In fact, its really remarkable how many news items he managed to show up in over the last few weeks.  We are quickly approaching his 75th birthday and the cultural relevance of the Little Dragon shows no sign of diminishing any time soon.

The Daily Mail recently reported that an important book from Lee’s private collection was auctioned earlier this month by Bloomsbury in London.  The text appears to be a 1950s-1960s era Kung Fu manual that Lee studied and made extensive notations in, outlining the evolution of some of his various theories and ideas.  He then gave the book to his close friend and student Taky Kimura.  The book recently sold at auction for an eye watering 52,000 British Pounds (roughly 80,800 USD) including fees.  The Daily Mail erroneously identifies the text as a Wing Chun book that he learned his art from.  But the few pictures provided indicate that Wing Chun was not the subject of this manual.  (Nor have I come across any Chinese language manuals on Wing Chun from the late 1950s or early 1960s.  If any readers know of one please let me know).

This points to what I find to be the most remarkable aspect of this story.  In all of the reporting there doesn’t seem to be much interest in the actual title, author or content of the manual itself, let alone how it may have substantively influenced Lee’s thinking.  The original entry in the auction catalog is slightly more helpful.  It dates the book to the early 1960s and identifies it as a “Mantis Kung Fu” manual, but it also provides no information on its actual title or author.  And somewhat inexplicably the catalog even managed to flip the cover of the book upside down?  So while the results of this auction and the subsequent reporting indicated a continued interest in Lee as a cultural phenomenon, they also point to a shallow appreciation of his role as a martial artist.  Could we even imagine a similar case in which a large auction house sold a heavily annotated volume from Einstein’s library and subsequent reports totally neglected to mention what the title of the book was, or why its owner might have found the volume to be so interesting?  Still, this might be a fantastic resource for those interested in the evolution of JKD.

Three Qilin heads, at a 2006 Monkey God festival in Hong Kong. Dr. APhoto credit: Sam Judkins.

Anyone who is going to be in Hong Kong between now and the middle of October will want to be sure to take some time to visit the first Hong Kong Culture Festival.  This is especially true for individuals who are interested in the Hakka fighting styles or Qilin dancing.  The event is being supported by Hing Chao’s International Guoshu Association (you can find periodic updates on their Facebook group) among others and a wide variety of venues will be hosting events across the city.  Some of the most interesting items on the itinerary include a public Kung Fu performance to be held at Victoria and Qingyin Park on September 26-27, a meeting of the Kung Fu and creative/fashion industries at the Full Moon Party on the 25th (at HK Polytechnic University), and a Hakka Unicorn Dance and Kung Fu Carnival at the HK Cultural Center on October 18th.

If you have a chance to attend any of these events I would love to hear how they went!

A group of African disciples study the traditional arts at Shaolin.

There were a couple of interesting stories touching on the topic of Kung Fu diplomacy making the rounds over the last few weeks.  As regular readers will already know, various Chinese media outlets tend to produce quite a few of these stories both as reflections of China’s growing cultural influence abroad and as part of its public diplomacy strategy.  Usually these stories are short and unremarkable, which is what makes today’s entries so valuable.  They are much more detailed and tend to be explicit about the cultural values that these programs are hoping to promote.  They also tend to be a little more transparent about the actual actors promoting these efforts.

The first of these stories looks at the growth of a successful Chinese martial arts program at a high-school in Kenya.  These particular classes are run by the local Confucius Institute (which is coordinating an ever greater number of martial arts classes around the globe).  Its also interesting as it speaks to some of the anxieties that both Kenyan and Chinese parents might share when deciding to allow their children to enroll in Wushu classes.  This one is definitely worth the read for anyone interested in how China is using the martial arts to promote its public image abroad.

If anything the second Kung Fu Diplomacy story is even more interesting.  This reports focuses on a one day conference held in Helsinki between various Finnish officials and individuals from the tourism industry and a team from Zhenzhou (a city about 50 miles away from the Shaolin Temple in Henan).  The actual article itself is little more than a note, but it includes a link to a five minute video discussion of the conference which is well worth watching.  In addition to a peak at the sleek promotional materials that Zhenzhou has put together (unsurprisingly they are interested in promoting themselves as a gateway to northern China’s various martial arts destinations), we are treated to the rare spectacle of actual diplomats holding forth on the success and broader importance of Kung Fu diplomacy.

One of the issues that this report does not bring up, but may nevertheless be important to contemplate, is the long term effect of individual cities or regions conducting their own public diplomacy campaigns.  Will this diversity of approaches ultimately strengthen the appeal of Kung Fu diplomacy?  Or will it further erode the central government’s  ability to promote a single, carefully crafted, image of the martial arts?  These will be critical issues to watch in the coming years.

Not everyone is equally happy with this ever tightening association between Kung Fu and Chinese culture.  This particular blogger from Montreal would like to remind you that the vast majority of Chinese people don’t study the martial arts, and that formal Kung Fu training is totally unnecessary to smack you upside the head the next time you ask them about it.  One suspects that not everyone will find these sorts of  self-Orientalizing exercises to be equally charming.

A new student being accepted as a disciple in Chengdu. Source: http://www.ecns.cn

Another tried and true genera of martial arts reporting is the photo essay.  In a sense this is very understandable given the visually spectacular (or sometimes odd) nature of the many of the traditional martial arts.  This week’s update has one entry for both of these categories.  The first of these essays focuses on elegant images of a Shaolin performance team rehearsing on a beach in Bognor Regis one week ahead of their appearance on stage in the UK.  These are the sorts of pictures that everyone has seen before….and they are spectacular.

The other photo essay was shot in Chengdu.  It focuses on a local school with an interesting tradition.  Kung Fu lore is rife with tales of students being forced to endure countless hours in the horse stance, or some other sadistic ritual, before being accepted as full students in their school of choice.  Not to be outdone this local teacher requires his students to hang from trees for an hour, to prove their dedication, before being accepted.  So I guess we can file these photos under “odd things that martial artists do.”

John Tsang. Source: SCMP

Which is not say that Kung Fu is all hanging from trees and having fun.  In a recent blog post reported in the South China Morning Post John Tsang (HK’s Finance Secretary), who apparently studied Kung Fu as a youth, warned that the martial arts were on the verge of being reduced to just another fashionable hobby.  He lamented the fact that in the past individuals studied Kung Fu as a way of making a living, where as now the arts risked becoming shallow and distorted in the hands of fair weather students.

Tsang, who studied kung fu at a young age, said historically martial arts were about making a living or even survival, but today they had become a hobby and viewed as fashionable.

“Master Li Tin-loi said, ‘in the past, people only asked you which school of kung fu you practised. But today, people ask you how many forms you can perform. It seems the more you know, the better’,” Tsang wrote.

The actual transition that he seems to be referring to was already complete by the 1920s, well before his time.  Statements like these may be an important reminder of how Kung Fu is idealized and understood in the public imagination.  This then leads to the odd phenomenon that Kung Fu has been “dying” since literally the day that these more modern approaches to the art came into being.  This fear of the disappearance of “tradition” appears to be baked into the very DNA of Kung Fu.  More immediately his remarks seem to have been in support of the upcoming Hong Kong Culture Festival discussed above.  So what better way to support a festival aimed at the preservation of “traditional culture” than to publicly question its ultimate viability?

It seems that even fans of the iconoclastic Bruce Lee are being forced to worry about historical preservation.  The Business Insider recently ran an update on the saga to determine the fate of the actor’s Hong Kong residence.  Fans want the site to be preserved and possibly turned into a museum, while real estate developers are much more interested in the land that the building sits on.  You can read more about the current state of the debate here.

Meg from Rocket News. Source: http://en.rocketnews24.com

Lastly, what sort of smart phones do Shaolin Monks really want?  One intrepid Japanese writer decided to find out.  (Hint: iPhones, but not for the reason you would suspect.)  Click to learn more!

The Assassin. Source: Toronto Film Festival

The Martial Arts on Screen

The Vancouver Sun recently ran a short note reporting that the Birth of the Dragon (the much anticipated Bruce Lee biopic) is set to start shooting in their fair city next month.  Hopefully we will be seeing from pictures from the set soon.

Are you wondering what martial arts film to see next?  If so Slate would like to make a suggestion.  They recently ran a piece calling Assassins “a new martial arts masterpiece.” That certainly got my attention.  This film, set in the 9th century Tang Dynasty, is supposed to be beautifully shot.  It is about to make its North American debut at the New York Film Festival.  Hopefully it will start making the rounds of art house theaters after that.

Into the Badlands by AMC.

If you prefer a more “classic” approach to your Kung Fu Films, AMC has some news that may inspire you to program your DVR.  To prepare the way for their new series “Into the Badlands” the networking is starting a “Kung Fu Fridays” in which some of your favorite films will be replayed on late night TV.  Click here to check out their schedule.

Kung Fu fans will also be happy to note that we have a new set of production photos for Ip Man 3.  These shots feature both Donnie Yen and Mike Tyson, but the promised CGI generated Bruce Lee is notably absent from the lineup.  This production has led to a legal dispute with the Lee estate which is contesting their rights to use the dead actors image.  However, the studio says they are going ahead with the project.  We will know how all of this turns out soon enough as the film is set to open on December 25th 2015.

Taiji Quan being practiced at Wudang. Source: Wikimedia.

Martial Arts Studies

Following the theory that the best new books are free ones, I am happy to announce that the Brennan Translation Blog has just released two new English language translations of classic Chinese martial arts training manuals.  This is exciting as these texts as they are literally the primary source documents of our field.  Even if a given manual does not speak directly to a style that you happen to be practicing (or researching) at the moment, thy often contain other information that makes them a critical resource for understanding the evolution of Chinese martial culture.

The first of these texts is DESCENDED FROM WUDANG – THE TAIJI BOXING ART by Li Shoujian (1944).  The second is titled SINGLE DEFENSE-SABER by Jin Yiming (1932).  As always, both of these books look fascinating.  Be sure to check them out.

Paul Bowman also released an important essay on his blog Martial Arts Studies.  In it he asks whether you know your lineage?  Take a look to figure out what is really at stake in this seemingly simple question.  While you are there you might also want to checkout the advance copy of his recent interview with Gene Ching of Kung Fu Tai Chi magazine on the development of Martial Arts Studies.

Luke White has also stepped up to offer us another free read.  He just posted a copy of his recent article article “A ‘narrow world, strewn with prohibitions’: Chang Cheh’s The Assassin and the 1967 Hong Kong riots” to Academia.edu making it available to the public.  Obviously film studies students will be interested in this paper.  But his discussion of the background of the 1967 riots might be helpful to a much broader readership.  We often forget that this was a critical moment in Hong Kong’s modern history and it certainly had an impact on the development of the city’s various martial arts schools.

Globalizing Boxing by Kath Woodward. 2015 edition, Bloomsbury Academic.

It looks like Kath Woodward’s book Globalizing Boxing (first released in 2014) is about to get another printing that should help to make it accessible to a wider audience.  The publisher’s blurb sounds fascinating:

Boxing is a traditional sport in many ways, characterized by continuities in the form of practices and regulations and heavy with legends and heroes reflecting its traditional/historical values. Associations with class, hegemonic masculinity and racialized inclusions/exclusions, however, sit alongside developments such as women’s boxing and involvement in Mixed Martial Arts.

This book will be the first to use boxing as a vehicle for exploring social, cultural and political change in a global context. It will consider to what degree and in what ways boxing reflects social transformations, and whether and how it contributes to those transformations. In exploring the relationship it will provide new ways of thinking critically about the everyday.

Kath Woodward is Professor of Sociology at the Open University.  This new edition began shipping a couple of weeks ago.

Finally, readers should also be on the look out for Lauren Miller Griffith’s upcoming volume Legitimacy: How Outsiders Become Part of the Afro-brazilian Capoeira Tradition.  This volume is due out some time in January, but it sounds like it might be a little expensive….so start saving now.  Still, it tackles a set of questions are central to many ongoing research programs within martial arts:

Every year, countless young adults from affluent, Western nations travel to Brazil to train in capoeira, the dance/martial art form that is one of the most visible strands of the Afro-Brazilian cultural tradition. In Search of Legitimacy explores why “first world” men and women leave behind their jobs, families, and friends to pursue a strenuous training regimen in a historically disparaged and marginalized practice. Using the concept of apprenticeship pilgrimage-studying with a local master at a historical point of origin-the author examines how non-Brazilian capoeiristas learn their art and claim legitimacy while navigating the complexities of wealth disparity, racial discrimination, and cultural appropriation.

Personally I cannot wait to see how she treats the concept of pilgrimage in relation to martial arts tourism.  Unfortunately the cover art for this book is not yet available, but you can view her table of contents here.

A rare shot of Ip Man enjoying a cup of Kung Fu Tea. Few individuals in the west know that the venerable master was a big fan of cafe culture and often spent hours with his students in local restaurants after class.

Kung Fu Tea on Facebook

As always there is a lot going on at the Kung Fu Tea Facebook group and this last month has been no exception.  We looked at an antique Dao from the personal collection of a reader, discussed some vintage footage of a Chinese martial arts demonstrations and and asked what Martial Arts Studies owes the Kung Fu Community?   Joining the Facebook group is also a great way of keeping up with everything that is happening here at Kung Fu Tea.

If its been a while since your last visit, head on over and see what you have been missing.

Introduction

Every practicing martial artist knows that the most deadly attack is the one that you did not see coming. A successful ambush is extremely difficult to counter. And this is precisely what makes the subject of “history” so dangerous. So much appears to be revealed, but if we push a little harder, what is really there?

This problem is not the property of any one historian in particular. It is the nature of the exercise itself. The book in front of us claims to relate the true nature of events that occurred many years ago. Yet the ideas therein will insinuate themselves into our understanding of the present and aspirations for the future, often with striking little critical reflection.

The very best examples of the discipline will be conscious of these pitfalls. They will begin by presenting a clear discussion of the author’s own “theory” of history. Their pages will relate information only after critically interrogating the proper sources. Most importantly, they will be clear about the nature of the gaps separating any two visions of the past and present. Some events must remain beyond our reach, and not every “lesson” of the past has an analogue in the present.

By in large this not the sort of history that martial artists get. Lorge, Wile, Henning, Shahar, Kennedy and handful of others have brought these “best practices” to the discussion of the development of the Chinese hand combat systems. Yet the conversation remains overwhelmed by the voices of practitioners steeped in a very different understanding of the nature and purpose of history.

From time to time I am contacted by individuals who have questions or want to discuss the history of various Chinese martial arts styles. Yet when these individuals begin to lay out their facts or puzzles, it quickly becomes apparent that there is little actual “history” here. That would imply independent sources embedded in, and speaking to, larger social events. Instead what they have is an ongoing dispute between lineage/creation myths.

As Paul Bowman points out so effectively in a recent essay, a lineage story is not actually the same thing as history. Sometimes we approach it as a type of proto-history, or maybe history done badly. Yet these sorts of “folk histories,” as many anthropologists have previously reminded us, are a very different animal.

To Bowman’s way of thinking they are also uniquely dangerous. After discussing some of the inevitable costs that would accompany the turning away from lineage mythology in favor of more academic history he observes that:

“…all of this remain infinitely better than believing in myths and legends that prime people to fall into traps of ethnonationalistic jingoism, or into believing myths about cultural superiority or uniqueness, or that this or that practice is historically and ideologically clean and pure…..Politics and ideology are rarely, if ever, endgames. All that matters is hegemony in the realm of ideas, beliefs and discourses. And rather than perpetuating creation myths and narratives that are at one and the same time uncannily childish and eerily ethnonationalist, it would seem better to insist less on knowing a list of famous names and more about the ideological character of the present discourse, of where it seems to come from, what it seems aligned with, and where it would want to transport us.”

Bowman is not the first author to warn that myths of lineage may (and have been) used to promote unsavory aims. Still, his warning is interesting in a number of respects. Rather than focusing only on the sudden emergence of “lost lineages” or other types of economically questionable behavior, he notes that the ideological and political costs associated with the idea of lineage may be very high.

While most martial artists would say that they are dedicated to the ideal of peace, Bowman points out that the fundamental building blocks of our corporate identity have often been tied to historical processes that are far from benign. Some of these identities even seem to have been constructed to reinforce political and social conflict. Once this has been realized it is not only prudent but necessary for us to ask where all of this is intended to lead us.

It is hard to argue with the specific examples that Bowman outlines in his essay. But where do we go from here? Would the Chinese martial arts community be better off if it sought to distance itself from its reliance on “lineage?” This is an idea that has been contemplated from time to time since at least the 1920s. Yet is it even possible to imagine the sort of move away from lineage towards history that he seems to call for within the “folk art” tradition?

Before we can answer this question it is necessary to take a moment to clarify what we mean by the term “lineage.” Martial Arts Studies as a research area remains under-conceptualized, and this is true of the current conversation as well. The following essay will look very briefly at the origins of lineage as an organizing concept within the Chinese martial art. (Discussion of “lineage” more specific to other arts, such as Japanese Jujitsu or the Filipino fighting styles, will require their own detailed investigation and I am hesitant as to whether we can easily generalize across all of these unique understandings to speak of “lineage” as a universalizing concept). It will then introduce three related, though distinct, versions of this concept as it has been used within the current debate. Lastly I conclude with a few thoughts about the likely fate of lineage in the Chinese martial arts.

Lineage in the Chinese Martial Arts

One could produce a fair sized study on the origin and variety of lineage networks seen in the Chinese martial arts. Still, for the purposes of our current discussion a few basic facts will suffice. First off, the current hegemony of lineage as an “organizing concept” within the folk martial arts of China is more recent than one might think. I suspect that this way of thinking probably goes back only to the beginning (or middle) of the Qing dynasty.

Why? Clan/lineage associations have been a major organizing force throughout Chinese society, and particularly in the South. Yet as historians such as David Faure have shown, these social structures were the result of specific ritual innovations in the Ming Dynasty (which opened the way for new forms of corporate land ownership, and hence social organization) and did not really succeed in penetrating all levels of society until well into the Qing. Once these sorts of structures were popularized they could spread to other areas of society where they were adopted as a model for institution building, such as the martial arts.

Literary evidence also helps us to date the spread and popularity of the idea lineage within the martial arts. Kung Fu novels written at the end of 19th century in Guangdong clearly make use of the concept. Yet earlier classic martial arts works such as “Water Margin” (a work that has been called the “Old Testament” of the Chinese martial arts) shows no knowledge of lineage as a way of organizing (or training) its heroes. In fact, most of them learned the fighting arts either in the military or through a life of banditry.

This suggests the late imperial (and mostly Qing) origins of lineage as a widespread organizing concept within the Chinese martial arts. This concept was certainly available during the 1910s-1930s for appropriation by the nationalist cause. Yet its origins ultimately lay in the creation of new forms of social organization in the pre-nationalist era. (Again, see Faure for a painfully detailed discussion of the evolution and spread of larger and more formal clan lineage associations during the Ming and Qing).

Three Visions of the Lineage

Establishing these facts is important as it will give us some basis for evaluating the various claims advanced by students of martial arts studies as they discuss the origins and nature of lineage. As Bowman (quoting Nietzsche) reminds us, a single word can obscure a great deal of difference between underlying objects. Classification is not the same as thick description.

Let us begin by reconsidering David Brown’s chapter “Body-experience Lineage in Martial Arts Culture” which appears in Keith Gilbert’s edited volume Fighting: Intellectualizing Combat Sport (Common Ground, 2015). In some way’s Brown’s theory of lineage most closely adheres to the concept’s genealogical origins. Further, his essay inspired a response by myself, which in turn touched off the current discussion.

Readers should note that Brown does not seek to speak to lineage in the abstract. As the title of his chapter makes clear, he is interested in “Body-Experience Lineages” in the martial arts. This provides some helpful clarification as to the nature of his project, yet it does not do much to modify the concept under discussion.

Brown draws on the current academic literature and even attempts to examine some of the social and economic aspects of lineage within the martial arts. Nevertheless, his entire discussion is best understood as an attempt to update the more traditional view of the subject in such a way as to make it theoretically acceptable and useful. As a side effect of this process, he also makes what was originally a culturally defined phenomenon oddly (and very improbably) universal.

For Brown lineages exist to resolve the inherent contractions that arise within the traditional martial arts due to their nature as “embodied” forms of knowledge. To begin with, individual bodies grow old and die, yet the “style” is (theoretically) immortal and unchanging. How then can it perpetuate itself through time?

The bodily interaction of a teacher and student allows for nuanced postures, pressures and timings to be conveyed that are critical to the actual practice of these arts. Such details are too subtle to be conveyed through written text or video. In this way physical capital, trapped in the life-history a single individual, can be conveyed to a successor.

Browns process by which lineage capital is conveyed bears more than a passing resemblance to what Bowman (via Derrida) describes as the “insemination” model of pedagogy. In this model the essential DNA of a practice can be transferred between student and teacher ensuring that the resulting style will be true to the original founder’s genius regardless of the number of generations that pass. Of course this is also exactly what most Chinese lineage stories want to assure their audiences. So while Brown couches his discussion within the social scientific literature, his actual understanding of lineage reads almost like an apology (or perhaps an explanation) for some of the more traditional ideas on its nature.

Still, by invoking the problem of death, Brown makes the process seen within the Chinese martial arts both necessary and universal in nature. All sorts of embodied fighting arts are facing the same problem. And they also have teacher student contact. So Brown informs us that almost identical lineages can be detected throughout the world of the martial arts. From the traditional Japanese fencing schools to modern MMA training camps, he sees the emergence of universal patterns of “Body-technique Lineages.”

To my way of thinking this is where his model breaks down. As I point out in my own response to this essay, Brown is not just interested in saying something (trivially) true about the interaction of students and teachers. He wants to go on to expand this to a more general discussion of how the transfer of knowledge becomes the basis of social organization within almost all of the martial arts.

And yet in actual practice this is something that is not shared or universal. There are a wide range of different methods of social organization seen within the martial arts. As I argued previously, these seem to have more to do with the accidents of culture, history and social pressures than they do with universal processes of death and pedagogy.

The forms of lineage seen in the Chinese martial arts emerged at a specific point in time in response to much more basic transformations that were happening within Chinese society. It is interesting to note that certain body technologies (such as opera performance and the martial arts) adopted modifications of the lineage system as forms of social organization. Yet lots of other crafts and physical practices continued to be conveyed without the creation of lineage structures. For instance, we tend not to see strong lineages in cooking, yet it is also a socially valued craft that depends on embodied capital. Individuals certainly know who taught them how to cook, or what kitchen they learned in, but they tend not to organize themselves into elaborate lineages. Instead we see the emergence of specialized guilds and later restaurant workers unions.

While there may be “lineages” of sorts within Italian, Japanese and Chinese fencing schools, we should not let the obvious parallels within these practices blind us to the many important differences between them. Nor should we automatically assume that all practices, or even all martial arts, within China will automatically form the same sorts of lineage practices. Lastly, elements of specific lineages may be “remembered” or “forgotten” for personal, social or economic reasons that appear to have nothing to do with the fighting system at hand. After all, these are structures that were explicitly created to make new forms of economic organization possible in a rapidly evolving social landscape. It would be odd if they were not highly adaptable in their actual behavior.

This brings us to the third approach to lineage, advanced by Paul Bowman. In many ways it is just as “political” as the understanding of lineage that I advanced above. Yet as the quotes at the start of this essay indicate, Bowman is deeply suspicious of the ethnolinguistic identities and rivalries embedded within the lineage stories that accompany many martial arts today.

While critiquing Brown I related a personal story meant to illustrate the variety of approaches to questions of lineage seen between various fighting systems in contrast to his assertion that such concerns were really “universal.” Specifically, I noted my surprise upon interviewing a kickboxing instructor about his school, only to discover that he had no clear understanding of his own arts origins or history. I contrasted this with the widespread nature of historical discussions within the Chinese martial arts, driven by lineage concerns, as a basic way of establishing one’s identity within the world of the more traditional fighting systems.

Or to put it another way, one is a kickboxer because you train and compete as one. Yet you are only a Wing Chun student because of your Sifu, your teacher’s teacher and so forth. And if you publicly doubt this basic rule of the Kung Fu community, there are entire internet discussion boards full of thousands of practitioners who will happily remind you that your identity in the art is entirely determined by the “authenticity” of your teacher’s practice and training. You may privately think about your practice however you wish, but your public identity is something that is thrust upon you by a well understood set of lineage-based discourses.

At this point something very interesting happens in Bowman’s discussion. While acknowledging the essential difference in the approach to history often seen between TCMA and other western combat sports, he calls for a little more reflection on exactly who within the average Kung Fu school actually invests scarce resources in this sort of knowledge.

While Bowman remembers being lectured on lineage history in his Taiji classes, he confesses to not actually retaining much of what he learned at the time. Names, dates and pithy stories just didn’t seem as important as concepts and practices. Nor was he alone in this assessment. Bowman did seek out Wile’s works on Taiji, but his classmates showed even less interest in the origins of their style than he did. In fact, only the head teacher and a handful of senior instructors actually invested the resources necessary to learn the lineage history in all its detailed glory.

This is an important observation. I have to confess that his experience largely matches my own in the Wing Chun community. While it may seem that every person encountered in an on-line discussion board is a grand master of esoteric historical theories, it is well worth remembering that these individuals are outliers. 90% of the students who you meet in a brick and mortar school will not be able to keep the relative positions of Leung Jan and Chan Wah Shun straight in their own lineage chart. They are there for the workout and the chi sao. And as I argued in a recent post, many really important ethnographic informants are valuable to researchers precisely because they are marginal outliers within their own community, and not actually representative of its daily values. Bowman has pointed to an almost textbook example of this principle.

He then goes on to note that his classmates tended to fall back on vaguely “Orientalist” notions of “Daoism” and “The East” on the odd occasion when they found themselves forced to discuss, or explore the implications of, the origins of their art. In their grasping efforts he detected a strong strain of “allochronism,” a term that theorists have used to describe the historical flattening of some process or institution so that it comes to be seen as “timeless,” unchanging” and “essential.” By asserting that something has “always been,” allochronism denies it the opportunity to have a history of its own, or to interact with other historical or social processes in any meaningful way. Such objects are reduced to mere images, used in the building of other identities (most notably nationalism) but otherwise removed from the realm of critical examination.

This then leads to the main conclusion of Bowman’s essay. Lineage structures, as they exist now, are not simply a complication in how we view an art’s history. They are a force for allochronism that denies the very possibility that these arts have ever evolved or changed in important ways.

Yet what one loses in historical validity may be more than compensated for in the realm of “fictive power.” The architects of Asian nationalism (in Japan, Korea and China among other states) all realized the immense benefits to be gained from the cooptation of the state’s “traditional” fighting arts.

The historical irony is that the fighting systems of these states are deeply connected to one another. Through processes of both peaceful and violent exchange innovations spread across the region. Both teachers and insights cross boundaries in ways that later reformers steadfastly refused to acknowledge. A rich history of exchange has been forgotten to make way for “pure” fighting traditions, each a reflection of a newly imagined “national spirit.” It is not hard to detect in the stories that emerged from this period the seeds of the jingoism and ethnolinguistic conflict that Bowman warns against.

The Future of Lineage

Before going on I would like to return to one of Bowman’s earlier points. As he noted, not everyone in the average TCMA school is equally interested in the detailed history of their style, regardless of whether it is understood in mythological or more academic terms. Even in the traditional martial arts communities, which defined themselves through lineage, most students invested very little time and resources into these claims. How should we understand this, and what might it suggest about the actual function and place of lineage in these schools?

For Bowman the essential problem with lineage as it actually exists in a variety of arts is its emptiness. Far from pointing students towards a deeper appreciation of the radically contingent ways in which these arts have developed, it too easily slips into the corrosive realm of ideology. Indeed, it is this lack of engagement with the actual puzzles of history that makes “lineage myths” so easily hijacked by those attempting to politicize the martial arts and establish their own hegemonic discourse.

Still, I am not yet convinced that lineage must always point towards allochronism, or that it is even particularly friendly to it. Indeed, making martial arts communities available for this sort of appropriation required a tremendous amount of work on the part of specific reformers and modernizers in China, Japan and Korea during the early 20th century. I am not sure that there was anything inevitable about this process. The actual tragedy of the situation appears to be that specific martial artists fought hard to make it happen, and in so doing contributed to some of the region’s more problematic developments in the modern era.

Nor were they equally successful in all instances. Some elements of the traditional martial arts community’s (often those more closely associated with debates about regional rather than national identity) resisted these trends. While we absolutely do see this “flattening” of history in the service of nationalism in some arts (again, Bowman’s examples drawn from Taekwondo are instructive), there remains other directions in which lineage identities could have evolved.

More specifically, when looking at the myths of the southern Chinese fighting arts that I am most familiar with, there is very little indication that these stories tend towards allochronism as it is usually understood. Rather, these stories exhibit a profound interest in the “historical” questions of how a given style was created and evolved over time. Was it created by a man or a woman? Who was the first ancestor to incorporate pole fighting into the system? Was it important that a given individual was a salt smuggler? How did everything change with the outbreak of the Taiping Rebellion? When did the different sub-lineages within the larger clan come into being? What does the normal salute mean if we use the other hand instead?  Why?

Far from exhibiting a disinterest in the evolution or development of an art, many of the lineage histories are utterly obsessed with these questions. They certainly seem to be aware that the martial arts change and evolve over time (though Bowman is correct in asserting that they usually attempt to protect some “core” vision of the system). The issue then is not that they ignore history, rather that they fictionalize surprising amounts of it.

Nor is it just the history of an individual style that are produced through creative of means. Very often the larger framework of supposed political, economic or social events that frames the functioning of these styles are also created whole cloth. I have always suspected that this is one of the reasons that so few martial artists questioned their lineage myths. They fit seamlessly into a larger mosaic of folk histories that inform much of the popular world view. The result is a self-reinforcing of tautology of remarkable durability.

For these reasons I do not detect the sort of absence of history or historical curiosity that allochronism might suggest. Instead we see the emergence of a realm in which historical events have been transformed into competing “brands” of esoteric knowledge, each of which promises you a privileged window onto the hidden reality of past. It is almost as though history has been “privatized” in the commercial sense of the term.

It might be worthwhile to consider the various ways in lineage histories and folklore (and even the ever present body of “secret techniques”) might function when understood as a repository of esoteric knowledge. The social benefits of having a store of hidden insights are immense. Most obviously, such individuals can defend the legitimacy of their own lines of transmission while attacking the legitimacy of others. The economic aspects of this are too obvious to merit much discussion. But beyond that, lineage offers a common language in which complex relationships between schools can be explained, bridged or breached.

One strongly suspects that the stories of the past that are commonly told reflect to some degree the configuration of social power in the present. To master this body of knowledge is to become a specialist in identity and group interaction.

And yet as Bowman reminds us, most students will never do this. Why? As with any body of knowledge, there are very real costs in terms of times, resources and relationships required both to access and master it. For students who come to a martial arts class to get in shape, or to learn how to fight, the game is literally not worth the candle. Yet the calculus changes for senior students thinking of branching out to start their own school. Suddenly these esoteric concerns become personal and primal.

On a slightly deeper level I would avoid the assumption that just because most students do not invest the resources to master their lineage history that it is unimportant to them or has no impact on their identity. After all, the martial arts do not just exist as an embodied practice. They also swim in a rich social discourse comprised of movies, novels, stories, comic and video games.  Lineage has been one of the main tools by which students relate to this larger body of martial culture.

In my own experience I saw many instances in which my Wing Chun brothers, less interested in history than myself or my Sifu, would come to class with rather detailed questions both about our style, or life back in “the good old days,” after watching either new or classic Kung Fu movies. These classmates seemed to sense that as the master of esoteric knowledge relating to both Wing Chun and the Chinese martial arts in general, my Sifu was the correct person to approach with these questions. (In this case they were very lucky to have an instructor who had a deep interest in both the mythological and academic history of the Chinese martial arts.)

Why invest personal resources in gaining this information for yourself when you have easy access to specialist in it? And better yet, through your access to that specialist, you have an opportunity to become the next generation in the ongoing story. While many of my classmates had only the foggiest grasp on the specific details of Wing Chun’s history they all seemed to appreciate, on a more emotional level, that they were part of a historically grounded process. The specific details could be left to a specialist in that matter.  Yet they still reaped the benefits from this association.

As students came to my teacher with questions, his status within the community was reinforced by his access to esoteric historical (and at times technical) knowledge. Likewise, the very fact that this body of knowledge was so detailed and complicated as to make individual mastery difficult seemed to increase its value to the students. So far from being an ideology that erases history, a lineage based view can help to establish an economy of esoteric facts within a style which further strengthens and reinforces the institution on a social level by providing a medium of cultural exchange.

This is not a foreordained outcome. In cases where an art has been strongly tied to a nationalist cause all knowledge seems to become public memory. It is the collective act of “remembering” and “forgetting” that forges these broadly shared identities. Here the allochronsistic pressures that Bowman describes are much more clearly visible. Of course this is also a historically bounded process. In Japan the identification of the martial arts with nationalism begins as early as the 1890s. In China the process doesn’t reach the same fevered pitch until the 1920s-1930s. In Korea it had to wait until after the close of the Second World War.

What future will the idea of lineage continue to play in the Chinese martial arts? It is interesting to note that a number of reform movements, including the Jingwu Association, Guoshu and the later Wushu programs in the PRC, have all attempted to supplant a traditional understanding of lineage and the teacher-student transmission method with something more universal – and easily put at the disposal of the state.

It is difficult to argue with Bowman’s conclusions on the nature of lineage in actual discussions of the martial arts. Very often it does function as an agent of exclusive ethnolinguistic identities that erases history in its wake. Such lineages seem to function as little more than vehicles for ideology.

And yet the ideologies that they are most concerned with are also the products of specific moments in time. If we were to accept Brown’s view, which located the genesis of lineage in the challenges of embodiment there is simply no escaping the problem lineage. It should be everywhere and always, a universal throughout the history of the martial arts. Yet clearly this is not the case. Their appearance is bounded by both historical and cultural variables.

Bowman’s more ideological reading of lineage might indicate that this is an idea whose time has come and past. To put it bluntly, it is not clear that this sort of mythmaking has been good for either the martial arts or the world at large. What is needed are new understandings of the martial arts that will allow us to build common identities grounded in a realistic understanding of our actual differences. While our traditional readings of lineage are not up to this task, Bowman suggests that a more sophisticated theory of history or cultural discourse will be able to make a positive contribution.

While I share many of Bowman’s concerns, my own reading of lineage sees its origin not in the details of pedagogy or ideology, but as a reaction to a specific moment in Chinese history. The sorts of lineages that emerged in China are not always directly interchangeable with similar structures seen elsewhere and we might want to resist the urge to use terms like “folk history” and “lineage history” interchangeably. Of course how much of their unique nature they retain as they transition through the global environment is another question all together. One suspects that it varies rather dramatically from school to school.

Yet there may be some reasons for optimism when thinking about the future of lineage within the Chinese martial arts. No matter how they may have been appropriated and used in the recent past, it is worth remembering that these structures started off as an institutional innovation designed to allow the creation of larger organizations than would otherwise be possible. And the meta-discourse around lineages has, at various times, allowed for the construction of vibrant “communities” of martial artists where there might otherwise have been only a bleak competitive marketplace.

I do not think that in the current era lineages are likely to survive as the ultimate guarantors of either “martial excellence” or the “purity” of one’s transmission. Martial arts studies is problematizing many of these concepts. Yet that is probably just a drop in the bucket compared to the vast sea of information that now exists on places like Youtube. That alone will make many of the standard claims of past generations obsolete.

The socially constructed nature of the “lineages” suggests that this institution could be reimagined in ways that avoid the pitfalls of ideology on the one hand and short-sighted competition on the other. Nor will this be the first time in recent history that these institutions will have been forced to evolve to survive.

One of the great strengths of the Chinese martial arts has been their ability to create remarkably flexible and resilient communities. The need for such groups is just as great now as it ever was in the past. In all honesty I am not sure whether the next generation of lineage-based institutions will do much for our understanding of history, but I really hope that they continue to provide the basic social tools to bring together diverse students and schools into larger and more vibrant communities.

oOo

If you enjoyed this piece you might also want to read: Lives of Chinese Martial Artists (13): Zhao San-duo—19th Century Plum Flower Master and Reluctant Rebel

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Chinese Fencing. Shanghai, pre-1911 image. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

Introduction

While many of the vintage images introduced in this series have focused on martial themes, characters or weapons, few of them have attempted to reveal scenes of martial artists simply practicing their craft.  And the vast majority of early postcards and photos of Chinese boxers which do exist focus on marketplace demonstrations rather than the actual training or use of the martial arts.  That is what makes today’s image so important.  Its one of the few postcards that I have come across that purports to show Chinese hand combat practitioners engaged in training (or possibly a match).  It is also interesting as it is one of very few such images that I have encountered more than once, suggesting that this may have been among the more popular and widely spread representations of Chinese boxers available to either tourists or interested parties in the west.  But what exactly is this a picture of?

The first version of this postcard that I came across was actually labeled the “Chinese Challenge.”  It bore an image of two gentlemen, holding swords, engaged in some sort of activity while staring intently at one another.  A third individual, possible a referee or some sort of by-standard, was sees standing between the two of them, intervening in the action.   The postcard itself offers few contextual clues as to how we are supposed to interpret the scene.  Its clear that this was a posed image taken in a photographer’s studio, rather than a candid shot taken on “the street.”  Notice for instance the carpet and uniform backdrop behind the combatants.

We have a few clues that might shed some additional light on the origins of this photo.  On the back of the photo we see a note that it was edited by “Kingshill.”  The Kingshill Publishing Company was located in Shanghai and produced a large number of postcards from approximately 1900-1940.  Some of these cards are marked “Kingshill Publishing Company,” others “Edited by Kingshill” and still others are simply unlabeled.  In a few cases these cards also bore one or two dragon stamps on the front of the image that were specific to this company and may have acted as an informal trademark.

The vast majority of cards distributed by Kingshill focused on scenes showing city life and the landscape around Shanghai.  Martial themes were not particularly common.  In fact, this is the only such image that I have run across by this publisher.  Kingshill seems to have produced a series of images showing various urban trades (barbers, tinkers, shoe repair men. etc.) in the early 1900s.  While these cards went to some lengths to present a “natural” scene, most were actually photographed in a studio.  I personally suspect that this image was produced as part of this larger series.  If so it suggests something about how the tourists and expats who originally purchased these cards viewed the city’s various martial artists.

Chinese Challenge. Shanghai, edited by Kingshill Trading Company. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

The fact that all of these images were produced within a studio immediately calls into question their value as historical documents relating to the actual practice of the Chinese martial arts.  Photographers owned larger numbers of props and costumes (including exotic looking weapons) and it was not uncommon for them to simply hire local individuals to act as models for shots that they composed themselves.  In these cases market demand, rather than a detailed appreciation for history, likely determined the nature of the final photograph.  This makes it impossible to guess whether the individuals in the present image are actually martial artists at all.

Their weapons were real enough.  The individual on the left is armed with jian.  When looking at an expanded section of that image we can even get a sense of the richly ornamented hilt of this weapon.  The fencer on the left, however, is armed with a dao.  Its more difficult to discern the details of his weapon due to the angle that he is holding it.  Yet its flat pommel, distinctive guard and rather narrow blade are all visible.

Perhaps the single oddest aspect of this photograph is the posture of the two fighters.  Both have placed their “weak” (or unarmed) hand on their hip.  This posture is much more commonly seen in western swordplay than anything I am familiar with in the Chinese martial arts.  Western students might put a hand behind the back or on the hip for a variety of reasons.  Most obviously it reduced the chances of the weak armed being cut in the engagement, while also forcing the corresponding shoulder back and thus narrowing the profile of the target presented to the opponent.  In contrast many Chinese schools seem to favor holding the weak hand high, using it for balance, and sometimes even having both hands forwards.

I am not enough of an expert to declare that no Chinese school of jian or dao work ever adopted the posture seen above.  Yet given the overall composition of the image one strongly suspect that the photographer who supplied the weapons to the models also posed them in a manner that he suspected would appeal to western consumers.  Thus this image may actually present a hybrid of authentic Chinese weapons combined with western expectations of what “proper fencers” should look like.

A detail of the swords in this image. Note that one model holds a jian (left) while the other appears to be armed with a dao (right).

Dating the Image

Given the hair styles of the individuals in the image, it is clear that this photo was taken sometime prior to 1911.  But is it possible to say more than that?  While mailing and trade cards were produced and collected from about the 1880s onward, true postcards bearing a photographic image on one side did not really become popular until about 1900.  We also know that many of Kingshill’s subjects were found in the Shanghai area.  So at minimum we strongly suspect that this card was produced and marketed in Shanghai sometime between 1900 and 1911.  But can we be more specific than that?

To date a postcard more accurately it necessary to turn it over and look at the back.  This effort already revealed the card’s publisher and likely place of origin.  Of course stamps and postal cancellation marks can offer up a wealth of detailed information, including the exact date that a card was sent (almost always within in a year of its sale), where it was sent from, and the identity of its intended audience.  Sometimes one even gets lucky and finds some first-handed commentary on the card’s subject.

Martial arts related postcards are not my only interest.  Occasionally I collect vintage Christmas images and I have often been struck by how much social data rests on the backs of these cards.  Yet this same pattern does not seem to hold with the images of Chinese martial artists that I have been sharing on this blog.  Almost none of the postcards that we have been discussing here have ever been mailed.  And those that have been sent have often “lost” their stamps, and hence dates.  Why is this?

When looking at the backs of these unused postcards its not uncommon to discover that they were at one point glued or fitted into scrap books or photo albums.  So while almost all Christmas postcards were bought to be used, it seems that many examples featuring Chinese themes were purchased by tourists as souvenirs, and hence were never actually intended to be mailed.  Instead they illustrated journals and filled out scrapbooks.  As a result they have survived in relatively great numbers, but without any postal data that might help in dating them.  And it seems that stamp collectors, interested in exotic Chinese specimens, also relieved a number of these cards of their stamps at some point in time.

So how else might we attempt to date a vintage Chinese postcard?  Recently I had the good fortune of discovering a second, slightly different, edition of the same image that helped to provide another piece of the puzzle.  At first glance this  card appears to be a later modification of the initial image.  It shows the three figures in a smaller offset circle to the left side of the card’s front.  One suspects that the scene is supposed to be reminiscent of a moon gate.    The title of the scene is also slightly different.  What was once a “challenge” is now labeled as an example of “Chinese Fencing.”  In this new context one wonders if the individual in the center is supposed to be seen as a fencing master working with two of his students.  In this case we might now be looking at one of the only vintage images that I have come across purporting to record a moment of martial instruction.  While most of the background has been cropped out, we can still tell by the carpeting that this is the same studio shot discussed above.

Yet this card’s most valuable assets can only be seen once we turn it over.  Readers should notice a number of differences between the versos of these two postcards.  To begin with, “Chinese Fencing” has an undivided back, with instructions that only the recipient’s address is to be recorded on the backside of the card.  Suddenly the offset image on the front makes sense.  That is where the sender was expected to record his or her message.  In contrast the card labeled “Chinese Challenge” looks much more familiar.  It has a divided back with the right side being reserved for an address and the left for a short message.

Verso of “Chinese Fencing.” Note the undivided back. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

Verso “Chinese Challenge.” Note the divided box, and the place for writing a brief message. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

Many of the first postcards produced featured an undivided back and restricted the inclusion of a message on that side of the card.  This format was adopted by the US and other Western countries in 1901 and was used continuously up through March of 1907.  After that the major Western postal carriers changed their regulations regarding postcards.  They then adopted the split back, which has continued in use up until the present.  These early split back postcards were often manufactured by German printers to very high standards.  But after the outbreak of WWI much of this production shifted to American printers.  They tended to leave a white border around the card’s image in an effort to save ink.

With these facts in mind we can now say something more definitive about the production dates of these two postcards.  The “Chinese Fencing” card is (somewhat ironically) the older of the two.  It was produced in Shanghai sometime between the spring of 1901 and 1907.  Given the popularity of themes dealing with the Boxer Uprising in these years one might guess that it was likely printed closer to the start of this period than the end.  Yet this image appears to have been fairly popular.  Sometime between 1907 and 1914 it went through another print run (probably in Germany).  At this point the format of the card was modified given the expectation that a message would now be included on the back rather than the front.  It was now possible for the publisher to use the complete image rather than just part of it.

This suggests that the picture used was taken sometime in the years following the Boxer Rebellion and was in the possession of “Kingshill” who subsequently reused it in a number of cards.  It was not unusual for stock images to be recycled in this way.  In fact, cards showing martial artists from the 1910s-1920s seem to have been reprinted with some frequency up through the 1940s.  While these were never the most common themes seen in collections of Chinese ephemera, they have exhibited a surprising degree of “staying power.”  No doubt this is because they reflected western preconceptions about the nature of Chinese boxing more than they accurately represented the rapidly changing opinions on such topics found within Chinese society during the late Qing and Republic eras.

oOo

If you enjoyed these images you might also want to read: Collecting Chinese Swords and other Weapons in late 19th Century Xiamen (Amoy)

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Plum Flower Maiden Dancing from Pole to Pole. Circa 1880. Source: Wikimedia (though I believe that Stanley Henning was the first person to publish this image in his essay for Green and Svinth.)

“The way in which we read the document depends on what we have read before.”

Evelyn S. Rawski, October 1, 2015, “Crossing from Nation to Region: China in Northeast Asian History.”

Introduction

Recently I had the opportunity to hear the noted Chinese historian Prof. Evelyn Rawski deliver a guest lecture at Cornell.  Among her many accomplishments Rawski is best remembered for her early social histories as well as for her groundbreaking work to establish the “New Qing History.”  To the best of my knowledge she has never actually written about the Chinese martial arts, but its the work of scholars like her that provide the basic framework of understanding that makes our field of study both decipherable and interesting.

Yet the most powerful idea in her talk occurred when she began to discuss the training of graduate students for the sorts of multilingual, multi-sited archival research necessary to truly think about problems in regional terms.  Nationally focused areas of study limit the number of perspectives that any one scholar tends to bring to complex topics.  After all, if we have spent our entire career studying political history from the Chinese national perspective, and we run across a new document detailing regional competition, will it ever be possible for us to read it as anything other than yet another national narrative?  Rawski contends that what we get from of our primary sources is very much dependent on all of the things that we have read before they ever enter our hands.

Her line of argument struck me as it seemed to speak so directly to a problem that I had been thinking about.  Globalization is a theme that emerges repeatedly in discussions of Chinese martial studies.  Indeed, vast systemic pressures helped to shape the specific forms that Chinese hand combat systems took in the late 19th and early 20th century.  They created new economic and political openings that martial arts reformers could exploit at exactly the same time that rapid social change was cutting off the institutions that had once supported these practices.  Then in the second half of the 20th century these same global forces allowed for these fighting systems to thrive in the West where they took on new meanings as they were appropriated into the local cultural and commercial landscape.

It is not surprising then that a number of scholars have decided that this expansion of the Asian fighting systems could potentially reveal much about the underlying processes of globalization and the ways that identity moves, hybridizes and is appropriated in its wake.  While the journey of practically any “traditional” art might illustrate these points, the popularity of Wing Chun, due in no small part to its fortuitousness relationship with Bruce Lee, makes it a particularly interesting case.  One of the main points that becomes evident as we look at Wing Chun’s “journey to the West” is that the discourse that has surrounded this art has never spoken with a unified voice.  It has never been just one thing.  Rather, multiple groups have contested the questions of what this art is, and what it should become, for reasons of their own.  Nor has this debate been stable over time.

In some cases this evolution has to do the progressive steps in the interpretation and cultural appropriation as outlined by Krug.  Yet if we look at this process on a more detailed level what quickly becomes apparent is that rather than a single dominant narrative what we often see is a dynamic process driven by the logic of strategic competition rather than simply cultural appropriation.  Yet it seems that we often miss the complexity of what is going on in these movements.  Why?  It could be that just as Rawski warned, we tend to read them from a single perspective.

To illustrate this possibility I would like to take a closer look at the early three volume instructional set produced by K. T. Chao and J. E. Weakland titled Secret Techniques of Wing Chun Kung Fu (Vol. 1-3) written between 1976 and 1983.  Each one of these three volumes explores the techniques, applications and concepts found in one of the style’s three unarmed fighting forms (Siu Lim Tao, Chum Kiu and Bil Jee).  I briefly addressed the first of these books as part of a short series of posts looking at the evolution of the earliest print discussions of Wing Chun in the West.  In the current essay I would like to discuss the content of the series as a whole, explore some issues in the way that its treatment of the art’s history evolved between the first and third volumes, and place it within its proper context.

On one level its easy to look at the work of Chao and Weakland and to see it as an example of the “Orientaliztion” of the discourse surrounding Wing Chun in an attempt to make the art more attractive to western consumers as interest in the system was spiking in the early 1980s.  Indeed, the difference in tone between these works and prior discussions of Wing Chun, both in Hong Kong and the West, is fascinating.  Yet I argue that rather than thinking of these moves as part of a process of cultural appropriation or coercive mimeticism, it is necessary to see them as responses to other specific actors in the environment.  The various strains of the Chinese martial arts which made their way to the West did not all share the same values or goals.  Nor can we place them all on a neat and tidy two dimensional continuum.  What arose from this process of strategic competition and innovation was different from what had gone before.  At least some of the new approaches that emerged were the product of the same sorts of forces that have always shaped the development of the martial arts.

Secret Techniques of Wing Chun Kung Fu. Hardbound 1st edition. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

From Ip Man’s Modern Fighting System to the “Secret Techniques” of Wing Chun Kung Fu

I have always been a little surprised that Wing Chun’s many amateur historians have not taken more interest in the early publications that documented the spread of this art from Southern China to both North America and Europe.  While there has been a lot of emphasis on the critical role of Bruce Lee in all of this, there has been much less interest in the extensive paper-trail of books, magazines and ephemera that both helped to commercialize and (for our purposes) document practically every step of this journey.  This is all the more interesting as the modern history of Wing Chun is notoriously fractious with many divisions existing not just between lineages but also more basic historical theories and philosophical disagreements about the very purpose of the art (and possibly the TCMA in general).  How then did a relatively simple art from a small group of closely linked schools back in Hong Kong yield such a diversity of outcomes?

Take for instance a very basic question.  What is the purpose of Wing Chun?  Is it primarily a self-defense art?  An efficient and modern system of hand combat?  Or is it really best understood as a cultural project?  Something rooted not in the modern realities of street fighting but in the timeless philosophy of Chinese culture?  Is Wing Chun meant to be a “way of life” on a deeper spiritual level? 

One would think that such questions would be easy to answer in strictly empirical terms.  After all, most Western Wing Chun practitioners today trace their lineage back to Ip Man, and he only died in 1972.  He had many students and apparently he even gave a couple of interviews.  Ip Man’s children are still alive today and his followers have produced a raft of instructional manuals and historical remembrances.  A museum was even built to preserve his personal affects.  Its hard to find that many other masters of the same generation whose teaching careers have been quite as well documented as Ip Man’s.   And yet when we look to this vast body of popular writing for guidance on our basic question we see a vast range of opinions.  Chao and Weakland’s three volume set on the Secret Techniques of Wing Chun Kung Fu is interesting precisely because these books document a moment when a powerful new strand of discussion came to dominate the public imagination of the art.

Before delving into the specifics of those observations we should provide a more general introduction to their work.  The initial volume in this series (covering Siu Lim Tao) was released in 1976, three years after the explosion of the “Bruce Lee Phenomenon” making it one of a handful of early works on the Wing Chun system available to the English language readers.  The first of these books was Clausnitzer and Wong’s 1969 volume (unique because of its extensive discussion of the social setting of Ip Man’s schools).  The most widely read was James Yimm Lee’s Wing Chun Kung Fu (basically transcriptions of Bruce Lee’s early Wing Chun curriculum).  I have discussed the contents and contributions of these books at length elsewhere and I will not repeat those discussions here. Its sufficient to say that both were meant to be basic introductions to the system which sought to demonstrate the style’s opening form, provide a short discussion of some core concepts, and outline a few basic two-man exercises that if done faithfully would allow the reader to begin to feel some of the basic energies used in Wing Chun.  Yet both books functioned more as an advertisement for the system than anything else.

The task that Chao and Weakland set for themselves was much more ambitious.  While the authors start out by stating that is impossible to actually learn Kung Fu from a book, they then outline a detailed curriculum that would allow a small group of people working together to basically do just that.  Each of the three volumes began with a short introductory discussion.  This is often historical and distinctly philosophical in nature but other topics, such as the traditional Wing Chun Maxims (Vol. 1) or basic Qigong practices (Vol. 3), were also included.

In point of fact no actual “secrets” about the Wing Chun system were revealed in the three books.  What was offered was a fairly complete curriculum of self study roughly modeled on the progression  of movements, concepts, two-man exercises and forms used in the Ip Man schools back in Hong Kong.  Perhaps the greatest pedagogical innovation seen in these books is that individual techniques and applications were introduced and drilled extensively before the student was finally introduced to the completed form.  The authors state that forms practice will be more meaningful if the nature of each movement is thoroughly understood before repetitive practice is undertaken.

I have always been interested in the speed with which Wing Chun spread across North America in the late 1970s and early 1980s.  Given the rather limited number of individuals from Hong Kong with actual teaching experience one might be forgiven for thinking that this would have been a slow and arduous process.  Yet I suspect that the detailed curriculum of study outlined in this series of books, along with some seminars and a relatively brief period of formal instruction, probably jump-started the teaching careers of a good many individuals early in the decade.

The other innovation had to do with how all of this information was discussed (rather than simply its quantity and organization).  The authors state in their preface to the first volume that their purpose is to correct the errors of the popular articles and books that have already appeared on Wing Chun to that point.  In their view these are ignorant of the true principals of the art as taught by Ip Man.  Beyond that they hope to convince their readers “that there is more to the art than one might assume after viewing modern popular “Kung Fu” films.  It is more than a fighting technique.  More properly, it could be called a “way of life.”

One suspects that it is this extended body of arguments that form the actual “secrets” of Wing Chun, rather than the details of how various two man drills are to be organized.  In truth much of that same information (if in lesser quantities) was already made available in both Lee’s and Clausnitzer’s  volumes.  And the basic discussion of concepts offered by Chao and Weakland is actually pretty similar to what one might find in these previously published books.

The most glaring differences between these volumes and their predecessors seems to have been their answer to the basic question of what Wing Chun really was.  Clausnitzer drew on his interviews and experiences in Hong Kong to note that Ip Man explicitly argued that Wing Chun was best understood as a modern fighting system, and that his students were among the most progressive and open group of individuals that one was likely to encounter within the traditional martial arts scene.  He even went so far as to argue that its relatively streamlined and modernized nature made Wing Chun well suited for success in the global marketplace.

Lee’s volume, much like its author, is famously down to earth and taciturn.  After a one paragraph review of the art’s origins the book moves right into a detailed discussion of its conceptual foundation and training drills.  While James Lee was as well versed in the Shaolin mythos as any other western practitioner of the Chinese martial arts of the period, he seems to have consciously excluded any discussion that might be extraneous or distracting from his more practical concerns.  The result was a slim volume that is virtually timeless.  Having said so little (but including many clear photographs) there is pretty much nothing in the book that can go out of date.

Chao and Weakland frame their discussion of Wing Chun in an entirely different way.  Rather than advertising the art’s modern credentials or devastating combat efficiency they instead present it within a rich cultural framework.  They go to lengths to argue that Wing Chun can only be understood through, and as an extension of, Chinese philosophy.  While the art itself claims Shaolin roots, the authors seem oddly partial to philosophical Daoism.  The front matter of their first volume manages to quote both Lao Tzu and Zhuang Zhou and attentive readers will also be able to detect instances where these works have been paraphrased and inserted into the text without direct attribution.

Occasionally Daoist discussions occur in rather odd places.  For instance, the authors saw fit to add two new school rules to the traditional set laid down by Ip Man, each of which took the form a quote from one of these classic Daoist works.  And when discussing the details of kicking and counter-kicking in Vol. 2 readers are sagely reminded:

“Deal with it before it happens.” (Lao Tsu) Remember the Wing Chun maxim: Prevent a kick with a kick. “There is no greater catastrophe than underestimating the enemy” (Lao Tsu).  Watch your opponent carefully to detect any shift which would indicate an intended kick.  The best rule of course is to kick first, but if you cannot then block his kick with one of your own before he can generate power.  Crowd your opponent and never allow him to get set….” (Vol.2 p. 82)

This is all good advice.  It represents a line of instruction that many generations of Wing Chun students have received.  Yet I would venture to guess that most of us got the discussion without the explosion of maxims and aphorisms seen here.  Its not clear what these proof-texted quotes really bring to the problem at hand.  Yet it is typical of the authors to attempt to integrate them into their discussion of the actual details of the system.

I personally doubt that many of these references had their actual origin with Ip Man.  The few actual quotes from the grandmaster included in the volumes all tend towards a sharp sense of humor rather than protracted flights of philosophical fancy.  This is not a surprise as most period accounts of Ip Man’s personality specifically mention his caustic sense of humor.  A few note his traditional education and Confucian bearing.  Indeed, Ip Chun has explicitly argued that anyone seeking the “philosophical roots” of Ip Man’s thought should start with the Doctrine of the Mean.  But I have yet to see an extended discussion of his thoughts on Daoist philosophy outside of the basic metaphors (the Five Phases, etc) that are common to all of Chinese popular culture.

The discussion of Wing Chun provided in these books also differs from other popular manuals in its self-conscious feeling of erudition.  In addition to the Daoist works mentioned above the authors quote Carlos Castaneda, T. S. Elliot, Spinoza, and even the Taiji Classics.  This may be less surprising when we remember who the they were.  K. T. Chao earned a law degree from a University in Taiwan and later studied at Cambridge in the UK.  Weakland is a professional Historian who worked at Ball State University, making him one of the very first American academics to write about the Chinese martial arts.

History plays a critical role in the way in which the practice of Wing Chun is framed, contextualized and presented to the readers of these volumes.  Again, this is something of a depart from previous works.  The story of Yim Wing Chun had certainly been published before, but individuals like Bruce and James Lee were not primarily interested in these sorts of discussions.  And Clausnitzer and Wong’s treatment of Wing Chun focused on the art’s future rather than its past.  Volume one in the present series begins with a multiple page discussion of Wing Chun’s history.  This  starts with references to the actual building of the historic Shaolin Temple in Henan.  It then introduces the origins of the “animal styles” of Kung Fu and moves on to the myth of the destruction of the temple and the creation of the Wing Chun system.

The next section introduces a discussion of the Wing Chun maxims.  The overall impact of these sayings is to lend the art a slightly archaic feeling (students are first informed that “Because of the deceptive appearances monks and nuns, women and scholars are the most dangerous practitioners of Kung Fu.”)  The section is even introduced with a quote taken from the Tai Chi Classics (as well as another nod to Zhang Zhou) which help to underline the essentially “balanced” and “internal” nature of Wing Chun.

The second volume (published in 1981) omits any introductory historical material in favor of more philosophical quotes.  Yet in the third volume (1983) the historical discussion returns in an expanded form.  It seems that two new sources of information have become available to the authors.  First, a more detailed version of the Wing Chun origin story, written by Ip Man and  found among his papers after his death, had been published by the VTAA.  A few of the details of this version of the story clashed with elements of the account previously published by the authors and we can see their efforts to rectify those aspects of the myth.

It also appears that one of the authors had an opportunity to work with some of the documents that are held by the Wade Collection at Cambridge University.  The end result was a much more detailed historical discussion in which additional information about the historical creation and rebuilding of the Shaolin Temple were appended to the sorts of myths that had long been popular with martial artists.  To this was added references to much older material, such as the myth of the temple’s salvation by a pole wielding giant at the start of the Ming dynasty, and even detailed references to Cheng Zhongyou’s pole fighting manual written by the important 16th century martial scholar.    In an attempt to explore and rectify the various accounts of Shaolin’s destruction the authors introduce a longer variant of the story taken directly from accounts of Triad initiation dramas.

The progression of the historical discussion from the first to the third volumes is significant.  The authors are clearly uncomfortable endorsing the historical validity of the style’s creation myth, yet they do not attempt to offer any alternative to it. Nor do they simply throw it out when they encounter more reliable information about the history or the development of the Chinese martial arts elsewhere.  Instead they try to integrate this new information into a larger, and more detailed, narrative.  The end result is story that sounds more accurate and reasonable, yet is still built on mythic foundations.

Its also interesting to note what never comes up in any of these discussions.  The work of Tang Hao, or any of the other early historians of the Chinese martial arts, is never referenced even though it was available in Taiwan. So while the authors were attempting to do historical research they were essentially forced to start from scratch.  Still, by the standards of popular publications of the early 1980s a lot of fascinating information had been presented.  Elements of what they uncovered anticipated the later discussions found in Meir Shahar’s work on the Shaolin Temple and Ter Haar’s discussion of the shared Shaolin mythos of both martial artists and gangsters.

Figure 1: Early Wing Chun Publications by Year and in Social Context

Wing Chun Articles and Books by year. Source: chinesemartialstudies.com, 2015.

The Evolution of a Secret: Debates Within and Without

While many readers have valued Chao and Weakland for the training tips, these were not the most unique aspects of their book.  Instead their emphasis on Wing Chun as a culturally bounded mode of self-actualization, detailed historical discussion and emphasis on arcane knowledge (whether maxims, Daoist thought or discussions of Qigong exercises) all set their work apart from other early treatments of the art.  Those tended to focus instead on its simplicity or combat prowess.  How were these differences likely read at the time?

Given the disapproving comments in the text about Kung Fu movies and “previous books and articles,” one suspects that on a certain level this project was taken as a rejoinder to Bruce Lee and the vision of the Chinese martial arts that he had sought to promote.  While clearly dependent on the groundswell of interest in the Asian fighting systems that Lee had helped to create for its economic success, its interesting to note that he receives no direct mention in these books.  This is another point of departure from the works of both James Lee (heavily advertised using Bruce’s image within the pages of Black Belt) or the earlier volume of Clausnitzer and Wong (1969).  We can even see in this training program a direct embrace of the traditionalism that Lee worked so hard to reject and very little of the scientific method of experimentation that he sought to promote.  It might then follow that these works are best read as an attempt to “Orientalize” Wing Chun to better promote it to a new generation of Western students in the wake of the Bruce Lee Phenomenon.

Yet if we read these works only in the shadow of Lee and the small Wing Chun literature that came before, do we fall into the sort of trap that Prof. Evelyn Rawski warned us about?  Lee’s approach to the Chinese martial arts was never the only one to circulate in the West during the 1970s.  Nor did the debates that he is best remembered for capture the totality of the discussion that swirled around the Chinese fighting systems.  Other individuals with their own concerns had also arrived in the West and were actively promoting their theories by the time that Chao and Weakland began to write their book.  In fact, it might be the case that the innovations in this work are better understood as a response to these other discussions than as a direct attack on Lee or the more modernist camp within the Chinese martial arts community.

Consider for instance the renown painter and Taijiquan teacher Zheng Manqing (Cheng Man-ch’ing) who arrived in New York City and established his own martial arts schools in 1964.  Of course Sophia Delza had already been teaching Wu style Taijiquan in New York since 1959, and the artistic, philosophical, political and medical concerns of these practitioners were fundamentally different from the issues of efficacy and pedagogy that Lee was best known for.  Nor would many people have been introduced to these perspectives without the pioneering work of Draeger and Smith.  Smith was also a student of Zheng and helped to facilitate his relocation to New York.  He co-authored an early manual with his teacher (1967) and promoted him in his articles, letters and the 1974 book Chinese Boxing: Masters and Methods.

Its hard to overstate the impact of this last volume on a generation of Chinese hand combat students in the West.  Smith’s account of his martial arts exploration in Taiwan was widely held up as the best thing available on the Chinese martial arts and the gold standard by which all other martial artists and writers could be judged.  This position of prominence was further cemented by the encyclopedia titled Asian Fighting Arts (later the Comprehensive Asian Fighting Arts) coauthored with Draeger.  These are probably the sorts of books that individuals like Chao and Weakland were concerned with as they most closely matched their own concerns and temperament.

Anyone with a passing familiarity with Smith’s work will already know of his dislike for the commercial appropriation of the martial arts in America.  He appears to have detested Bruce Lee and pretty much everything ever published in magazines like Black Belt.  Smith very much promoted himself as the arbiter of good taste and “real” talent in the Chinese martial arts.  He had little good to say about the indigenous fighting styles of Guangdong or Hong Kong.  Nor was a he ultimately much of a fan of the “external” Shaolin styles.  Instead Smith promoted the martial excellence that he perceived in his own teacher and the internal martial arts more generally.

Recall that Chao and Weakland’s first volume was released in 1976.  Smith’s Chinese Boxing made a big splash of its own in 1974 and 1975.  All of this happened in years when precious few books about the Chinese martial arts of any kind were available to the reading public.

Thus when we see Chao and Weakland going out of their way to map Daoist discussions onto Wing Chun, to argue that it is an “internal art” (a category of discussion that was not particularly relevant at the time and place of its creation) and even quoting the Taiji Classics at the start of their book, one senses that they may have been much more interested in establishing their legitimacy with sorts of readers that followed Smith rather than those who are more interested in Lee.  Their contention that Wing Chun is best understood as a deep cultural project and “way of life” is then not so much a rebuke to Lee or any other Wing Chun authors as it is an attempt to gain legitimacy in the eyes of an entirely different discourse being promoted by a different group of martial artists.

Ultimately this is important as the conversation that Chao and Weakland helped to promote has never ceased.  In this way the discussion within the American Wing Chun community began to move beyond simple questions of how best to achieve results, to deeper disagreements on the nature of the system itself.  Ironically the critical figuring in making this happen may have been an author and expert on the TCMA who never really discussed Wing Chun at all.

Nor do these questions show any sign of nearing a resolution.  Their ongoing presence serves as a warning against the assumption that a single discourse will always dominate the discussion of the martial arts in the global system.  Instead a variety of reformers and teachers have exercised their agency to apply the martial arts to a wide variety of problems dealing with topics as diverse as practical self-defense, self-actualization, national identity formation and even public health.  Each one of these strains has an ability to find its own way along the pathways of global exchange.  Together they remind us of the necessity of looking at the broad picture when approaching any given text.  The sorts of lessons that we can draw from a source are closely tied to what else we might have read (or seen, or practiced) before.

oOo

If you enjoyed this you might also want to read: Lives of Chinese Martial Artists (12): Tang Hao – The First Historian of the Chinese Martial Arts

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Prof. Maofu Gong of Chengdu Sport University. This photo is used by permission of the owner.

Introduction

Prof. Maofu Gong is an Associate Professor of Sports Culture at Chengdu Sport University.   He is also a visiting scholar with the Cornell University East Asia Program where he is working on a project titled “The Transmission and Development of the Chinese Martial Arts in America.”  I recently had the great privilege of meeting Prof. Gong and discussing his views on martial arts studies and the state of the folk martial arts systems in Southwest China today.  Luckily he agreed to stop by and talk about his background and some of his research with the readers at at Kung Fu Tea.  I suspect that we will be hearing a lot more about his work in the future.

Kung Fu Tea (FKT): Can you tell us a little bit about yourself? Where are you currently teaching?

Prof. Maofu Gong (MFG): I was born in Pizhou of Jiangsu province. As you know, my hometown is located at the hub of a militarily important area since ancient times. It was a warlike region. And most of the people have some interest in the martial arts.

I became interested in the martial arts when I was a child. Before 2004, I lived in my hometown. In 2004, I graduated from Xuzhou Normal University (Jiangsu Normal University) from which I received a degree in Chinese martial arts higher education. Then I was accepted by the Wushu department of Shanghai Sport University. After another 2 years of study, I got my Masters degree.

In 2006, I became a professor in the Wushu department of Chengdu Sport University. I then became attracted to the folk Chinese martial arts. So I decided to begin to research them. During my PhD research from 2008 to 2011, (completed at Beijing Sport University) I investigated the Qingcheng style. After that, I published my book “Inheritance, Development and Communication: Chinese Folk martial arts”.

KFT: How did you first become involved in the martial arts? And how did you later become involved in their academic study?

MFG: As you know, there was a Wushu Fever (from 1982 to the early of 1990s) in China when I was a child. At that time I saw some martial arts films, such as “Shaolin Temple”. I was deeply impressed by these martial arts performances. When I learned that there was a master teaching the martial arts (specifically Hongquan-one of the Changquan styles- Mantis Boxing, broadsword, spear, stick and nine section whip) in a village near my home, I went to ask him whether he could teach me. To my surprise, he agreed to do just that. I was so lucky!

However, I was only able to practice certain basic skills of Changquan and stick on some days because of my parents’ wish that I continue to pay my attention on my academic study. Although I followed my parents’ suggestion, I was still able to see my master on weekends when I had free time. I also tried to find some martial arts book for self-study. From that time on I have been involved with the martial arts.
As for my academic study of martial arts, that dates back to my university years. As an undergraduate I was able to major in martial arts. Later, I decided to pursue additional studies after obtaining the bachelor’s degree. Again I had to decide what I should study. I found that the martial arts were still my favorite subject. As a result, I was accepted by the Wushu department of Shanghai Sport University, and I started my academic martial arts career.

KFT: What Wushu disciplines or folk styles is your background in? What do you currently practice?

MFG: Many years ago I practiced some mantis boxing, nine section whip, changquan, stick, spear, sword, broadsword, taiji, and so on. More recently I am interested in taiji and baji quan.

Prof. Maofu Gong. Source: used by permission of the owner.

KFT: Can you tell us a little bit about the martial arts environment in Chengdu? What sorts of styles are most popular? What are the strengths or weaknesses of the martial arts in that area of China?

MFG: The martial arts environment in Chengdu is very strong. There have been many famous martial artists in Chengdu as it is the cultural, political, economic and educational center of Sichuan province. For example, Ma Zhenjiang, Liu Chongjun, Mabao, Houtan, Peng Yuanzhi, Zheng Huaixian, Zhu Guozhen, Zhang Yingzhen, Wang Shutian, Li Yaxuan, Lan Suzhen, Xiao Yingpeng, Lin Mogen, Zhong Fanghan and Fu Siqi all practiced here. There are also a number of popular styles (Menpai/Liupai) in the region, such as Huanglin pai, Sengmen, Zhaomen, Yang style Taiji, Xingyi, Bagua, Emei quan, etc.
Many of the Chinese martial arts have been practiced in Chengdu, but, undoubtedly, the Emei martial arts are the most prevalent and define the area’s strength.

KFT: Let’s talk a little bit about your academic research. What sort of field work have you been doing in Chengdu?

MFG: For the last six years I have mainly focused on the Qingcheng martial arts. I did my field work in Chengdu, Du Jiangyan and Luzhou. I then published my book titled “Inheritance, Development and Communication: Chinese Folk martial arts” (中国民间武术生存现状与传播方式研究) in 2012.

KFT: So what brought you to the USA?

MFG: As you know, the Chinese martial arts have been transmitted to all of the world, especially the USA, as part of the process of globalization. So, I wanted to see the state of the development of Chinese martial arts in America.

KFT: What sorts of research projects are you working on here?

MFG: My current project is: “The Transition and Development of Chinese Martial Arts in the US.”

KFT: Can you tell us a bit more about your current book project?

MFG: I am interested in the transmission and development of Sichuan folk martial arts culture. I am trying to conduct an interdisciplinary project looking at the history, culture anthropology, sociology and culture communication of these styles. Maybe, I will publish the book next year.

In that book I will show the cultural change of Sichuan folk martial arts, discuss the expression of the subjectivity of folk martial arts, the intervention of the state political power and the role of the folk martial arts culture. And I will try to pay more attention on the masters’ daily life.

Prof. Maofu Gong. Source: Used by permission of the owner.

KFT: What is your impression of the current state of martial arts studies as an academic project in China?

MFG: Martial arts study has a long history in China. And it involves many disciplines including history, philosophy, communication, aesthetics, cultural studies, sports training, biochemistry and so on. The current question for martial arts studies in China is how to break the stereotypes. I think that martial arts studies in China should increase its emphasis on the folk styles and interdisciplinary approaches.

KFT: What sorts of trends are we currently seeing in the Chinese language literature on the martial arts? Any trends that stands out as particularly important?

MFG: In recent years more and more Chinese scholars focus on the style (menpai/liupai), individual, group and village of the Chinese martial arts. They try to get a breakthrough by introducing some methods of cultural anthropology and oral history. I think the “逝去的武林：1934年的求武纪事”（Shi Qu De Wu Lin：1934 Nian De Qiu Wu Ji Shi）is one of the good achievements in this respect. From the dictation of Zhongxuan Li who was a master of Xingyiquan, the book described many little-known Xingyiquan’s facts having historical value for reader. Besides that, I think my book “中国民间武术生存现状与传播方式研究” (Inheritance, Development and Communication: Chinese Folk martial arts) should be one of the examples of the trend. On the basis of a considerable amount of fieldworks, in-depth interview and participant observations, I described the historical development and the contemporary living status of the Qingcheng Wushu. You can see the interaction of the master, media and the local government in the folk martial arts, the contradiction among the inheritors, the opinion coming from social elites and the cultural constructions of the Qingcheng inheritors in the book.

KFT: Who are some Chinese scholars of martial arts that, in your opinion, western researchers should be paying attention to? What sorts of work have they done recently?

MFG: In my opinion, many Chinese scholars have accomplished much in martial arts studies, including Ma Mingda, Qiu Pixiang, Dai Guobin, Cheng Dali etc. Their research mainly focuses on the history and cultural studies of the Chinese martial arts. Ma Mingda, a historian and a famous master of the Tongbeiquan, has published many papers and books on Wushu history. The book, “说剑丛稿” （Shuo Jian Cong Gao, of Professor Ma has an important value for the Wushu history.

KFT: Tell us a little bit about the current state of Wushu in China. I know there has been a big debate about the inclusion of Wushu in the Olympic Games. In your view, would that ultimately be good for Wushu? What does it need to do to continue to progress?

MFG: It’s a big question. As far as I can tell, in China the administrative institutions are still paying more attention on the competitive aspects of Wushu. Yet increasingly some people have realized that the Chinese martial arts are also a kind of cultural resource. And many ordinary people still love the Chinese martial arts.

I don’t think that the emphasis on Olympic competition is good for Wushu. Going down that road the Chinese martial arts will lose many things. I think that trying to make more people love and practice Wushu is really the most important thing.

KFT: Occasionally we see articles or blog posts claiming that the traditional martial arts are dying in China. Do you think this is the case? What sorts of challenges are the folk styles facing at this moment in time? What sort of hope do you see for the future?

MFG: I don’t think so. If you visit the Chinese folk societies, you will find that many martial artists practice the traditional styles. They love it. The most challenging question for the folk martial arts is how to adapt. As you know, people are very busy; they have to earn a living, and have to do a job. They need the time and the funding to develop the martial arts inherited from their master. Nevertheless, I think that the folk martial artists will keep the skills and cultural core of the Chinese martial arts alive.

KFT: The last time we talked you mentioned your interest in Bruce Lee. In your view, what is his continued significance for students of Chinese martial studies?

MFG: In my opinion, the Bruce Lee phenomenon suggests important puzzles for the Chinese martial arts and martial arts studies. It illustrates how the Chinese martial arts have melded with the western culture, the role of ordinary people in transmitting the martial arts to abroad and why did the western people accept Chinese martial culture.

KFT: So what sorts of project should we expect to see you working on in the future?

MFG: In the next year, I will publish my second book about the Chinese folk martial arts. After that I will mainly focus on the Chinese martial arts as culture capital and a type of the intercultural communication.

KFT: Thanks so much for stopping by Kung Fu Tea! We look forward to hearing much more about your work in the future.  You will have to keep us updated on your progress.

Prof. Maofu Gong. Source: Used by permission of the owner.

oOo

If you enjoyed this interview you might also want to read: Dr. Daniel Amos Discusses Marginality, Martial Arts Studies and the Modern Development of Southern Chinese Kung Fu

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Shaolin Masterclass. Photo by Jack Latham. Source: FT.com

Introduction

For readers in the United States, happy Columbus Day!  And what better way to enjoy your three day weekend than getting caught up on the latest martial arts news.  “Chinese Martial Arts in the News” is a regular series of posts here at Kung Fu Tea in which we take a look at both what is being said about the TCMA by the media and how they discuss it.  Of course there is always a lot going on, so if I have missed a major story feel free drop a link to it in the comments below.

Before delving into our main discussion there are a couple of quick items to consider.  On a personal note I would like to thank Mark Stoddard and Kathy Joe Connors of the North East Wing Chun Student Association for inviting me to visit their weekend training workshop with Kenneth Chung held recently in Rochester, NY.  Anyone interested in the spread of Wing Chun in North America will already be familiar with the important role that Chung played in promoting the art.  It was certainly an honor to have the opportunity to meet and briefly talk with him.

On a less happy note, Stanford Chiou recently brought it to my attention that Alexander Lim Co, an important teacher of the Chinese martial arts in the Philippines, is in need of heart bypass surgery.  Readers may recall that we discussed one of his books here.  A “go fund me” campaign has been set up to help with his expenses, but it is very much in need to your support.  Please consider donating to this cause.

Its been a while since our last update so there is a lot to be covered in today’s post.  Let’s get to the news!

Chao and Lam Chun-fai at the launch of their book about kung fu, Hung Kuen Fundamentals: Fok Fu Kuen , in 2013. Source: SCMP.com

Chinese Martial Arts in the News

Our first set of stories hail from the always interesting pages of the South China Morning Post.  The paper recently ran a profile of the shipping scion and martial arts preservationist Hing Chao.  Anyone who follows the Hong Kong Kung Fu scene will probably be familiar with at least one of his various projects.  In 2013, Chao co-authored Hung Kuen Fundamentals: Fok Fu Kuen with Lam Chun-fai.  He also promoted the short lived (but very high quality) Journal of Chinese Martial Studies.  Most recently he has been in the news for his work with this the Hong Kong Culture Festival.

The piece in the SCMP is basically biographical in nature.  Chao discusses the origins of his interests in Chinese culture, his background in the martial arts, and a few of the projects that he has worked on.  Its a short piece but a nice introduction to one of the high profile personalities in the fight to promote and preserve southern Kung Fu.

For those of you interested in heading a little further south, the SCMP also ran an article on the growth of interest in Lethwei by Myanmese women.  Again, its a short piece but I found it to be an accessible introduction to a style that I did not know much about.  And the article also manages to touch on some of the issues of identity, gender and nationalism that will be of interest to students of martial arts studies.  Click here to read more.

Sarah Chang, five time US National Wushu team member and actress. Source: nbcnews.com

NBC News recently ran a profile of Sarah Chang, a five time US National Wushu Team member and actress who currently trains and works in Beijing.  The article discusses Sarah’s introduction to Wushu as a child growing up in McLean Virginia, some questions regarding gender in Wushu training and her plans for the future.  Overall it is a nice discussion of one woman’s journey into the realm of the martial arts.

Eric Lee on the cover of Inside Kung Fu in 1980.

On October 10th the Martial Arts History Museum (in Burbank California) had a night of events dedicated to Eric Lee.  Lee was one of the first practitioners of the Chinese martial arts to compete in the Karate tournament circuit and later moved into film.  The museum offered the first screening of its new biographical film dedicated to Lee’s career, held a reception in his honor and finished up with a Q&A session with Eric Lee himself.  Its news releases like this that sometimes make me wish that I lived close to Burbank.

As one might expect, Eric was not the “Lee” to make the news in the last month.  As is typical there were a number of Bruce Lee stories.  Perhaps the most substantive was the reminder that the Wing Luke Museum has just mounted the new items for the second season of their three year “Bruce Lee Experience” exhibition.  In keeping with the mission of this museum the exhibit seeks to contextualize Lee’s career and examine some of his contributions to the evolution of the Chinese American identity and community in the US.  If you are in the area this sounds like something that you may want to visit.

Shaolin Masterclass, stick training. Photo by Jack Latham. Source: FT.com

As we reported last month, one of the Shaolin Temple’s performance teams is currently in the UK gearing up for a series of theatrical performances.  A reporter from the Financial Times decided to drop by their training space and join a class, with predictable results.  Still, the article is more detailed than most of these sorts of pieces and I particularly enjoyed the candid discussion of the young monks as to how much of their public performance reflected “real” martial arts training versus a more theatrical approach to movement and acting.  As always these kids make for a great photo essay.

There were also a number of Shaolin stories of a more contentious nature.  On October 4th the South China Morning Post reported that the embattled Abbot Shi Yongxin (dogged by accusations of both sexual and financial improprieties as well as rumors of an official investigation) reappeared at the Shaolin Monastery in Henan.  He is reported to have addressed a group of 30 pilgrims who were visiting the temple and instructed them “to focus more on spiritual development and less on physical indulgence because ‘human bodies are temporary but the spirit is immortal.'”  Not to be outdone the Want China Times reported on the 10th that a group of the Abbot’s main accusers, who had taken their case to Beijing but had since been forced into hiding, had also resurfaced to give interviews.  It was reported that they were still cooperating with authorities and that the graft probe against the Abbot was still ongoing.

Sascha Matuszak recently updated the Fightland Blog on a couple of highly anticipated matches pitting Chinese Mixed Martial Artists versus their Japanese counterparts.  Apparently things did not go well.  His title stated simply that “Chinese MMA Faceplants.” I assumed that this was a metaphorical exaggeration…until I watched the clips that were included with his report.  It turns that his choice of words was actually a straight forward description of how one of the fights ended.

The Assassin, directed by Hou Hsiao-Hsien. Source: nytimes.com

Chinese Martial Arts in the Entertainment Industry

Without a doubt the martial arts film that is currently getting the most good press is Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s Tang dynasty drama The Assassin.  The New York Times dedicated a fair amount of space to a discussion of the visual style and impact of this film.  It sounds stunning.  It even looks like the director did some interesting things with his fight choreography to reach his particular vision of “realism.”  This film is definitely going onto my “list,” though there is no word yet on when it will be reaching an art house theater near you.

If Kung Fu films are more your thing, or you are fan of the recent Ip Man franchise (and who isn’t), you will be happy to learn that the teaser trailer for Ip Man 3 has just been released.  It features both Donnie Yen, reprising his role as Ip Man and Mike Tyson.  But before you sit down for this film, Ip Man has a few helpful suggestions for a more enjoyable viewing experience.

Kim Bum, recently cast to play Bruce Lee in an upcoming Chinese drama. Source: http://www.kpopstarz.com

A new dramatic series is about to begin filming in China titled “Yip Man and Bruce Lee.”  I haven’t heard a lot about this project yet.  But there was just an announcement that Kim Bum has been cast to play Bruce Lee.  Click here to read a little more about the project.

Exotic medical ingredients at a market stall for herbalists in Xian.

News From All Over

A lot of people were surprised when the 2015 Nobel Prize in medicine went to Tu Youyou, a researcher at the Academy of Traditional Chinese Medicine in Beijing who has spent her entire career researching traditional Chinese medicine.  She was honored for her research into non-traditional (and very successful) treatments for malaria.  But given that traditional medicine has never before been on the radar of the Nobel Prize Committee, does this recogonition signal a serious shift in the way that TCM is perceived around the globe?  Marta Hanson, an Associate Professor of the history of medicine at John Hopkins University tries to answer that question is an extended piece which ran in Fortune.

In preparation for the 2020 Olympic Games Japan (the host nation) is recommending a number of sports for inclusion.  Two of these are Japanese national pastimes, baseball and karate.  But what sort of Karate sparring system is best suited to international competition?  The Wall Street Journal tackled that question in a recent article.  It will be fascinating to see whether the IOC allows a third Asian martial art (along with Judo and Taekwondo) to enter the competition.  For a little background on the selection process (as well as the likely fate of Wushu’s bid) see this article in the New York Times.

Stephen Chan delivering the conferences opening keynote. Source: http://martialartsstudies.blogspot.com/2015/06/conference-2015-and-2016.html

Martial Arts Studies

Advanced registration for the Second Annual Martial Arts Studies Conference to be held at the University of Cardiff (July of 2016) are now open.  Better yet, the organizer has just released the initial list of confirmed speakers including Phillip Zarrilli,  Ben Spatz, Adam Frank, Paul Bowman and myself among others.  Given the success of last year’s conference this is definitely one event that you will want to get on your calendar.  Don’t forget that this year you can also win free registration by entering the short film competition.  And if you are interested in the interdisciplinary study of the martial arts, be sure to join our new and improved email list!  Just click here to register.

Now With Kung Fu Grip! How Bodybuilders, Soldiers and a Hairdresser Reinvented Martial Arts for America. By Jared Miracle. McFarland & Company (March 31, 2016)

Some of you may remember Dr. Jared Miracle from his guest posts here at Kung Fu Tea.  I was very pleased to discover that his new book Now With Kung Fu Grip! How Bodybuilders, Soldiers and a Hairdresser Reinvented Martial Arts for America (published McFarland & Company) is now available for pre-order on Amazon.com with a release date of March 2016.  This promises to be a vital work for anyone interested in the social history of the Asian martial arts in the West.  Here is the blurb from the publisher:

Why do so many Americans practice martial arts? How did kung fu get its own movie genre? What makes mixed martial arts so popular? This book answers these questions for the first time with historical research. At the turn of the 20th century, the United States enjoyed a time of prosperity but feared that men were becoming soft. At the same time, the Japanese government sponsored research to develop the best fighting techniques for its new empire. Before World War II, American men boxed and Japanese men practiced judo and karate. Postwar Americans began adopting Chinese, Brazilian, Filipino and other fighting styles, in the process establishing a masculine subculture based on physical and social power. The rise of Asian martial arts in America is a fascinating untold story of modern history, from the origin of karate uniforms to the first martial arts themed birthday party. The cast of characters includes circus strongmen, professional cage fighters, an award winning comic book artist, the inventors of judo, aikido and Cornflakes, and Count Juan Raphael Dante, a Chicago hairdresser and used car salesman with the “Deadliest Hands in the World.” Readers will never look at taekwondo class the same way again.

For me this is a long awaited book and I am really looking forward to seeing Jared’s discussion of a critically important subject for students of martial arts studies and the history of popular culture.

Bruce Lee Graffiti. Source: Wikimedia.

Catherine S. Chan recently posted a paper to academia.edu that will also be relevant to anyone interested in Bruce Lee or the globalization of the Chinese martial arts.  It is titled “Smudging Economy and Culture: The Commodification of Bruce Lee.” The abstract is as follows:

Four decades after Bruce Lee’s untimely death, the image of the martial artist continues to strive in the realms of popular culture and international society. As an acknowledged martial artist, film star and sometime philosopher and writer, Bruce Lee is commonly credited for transforming the conventional Fu Manchu portrait of Chinese people in the eyes of Westerners to that of a respectable Kung Fu master.

Stripping Lee clean of the yellow tracksuit and nunchucks, one point remains unbeatable: the image of Bruce Lee sells. This paper seeks to explain and comprehend the influence and success of Bruce Lee through the concept of celebrity commodification, breaking down the barrier that separates economy and culture by identifying the components that serve to intertwine. From the existence of a myth to the norms of pseudo-individualization, Lee’s status as a celebrity-icon shall be analyzed to reveal how capitalist marketing rides on the coat-tail of socio-cultural developments in order to effectively produce a cultural ‘kudzu’ that in turn, aims to persist and cash in for as long as possible.

Alex Channon and Christopher R. Matthews have been kind enough to post the introductory chapter of their recent edited volume Global Perspectives on Women in Combat Sports: Women Warriors Around the World (Palgrave 2015), on-line for your perusal.  It is titled “Approaching the gendered phenomenon of Women Warriors” and you can read it here.

Did you know that there is a “Budo-lab” at Chapman University (in California) hoping to advance the study of both Hoplology and Martial Arts Studies by becoming “the very first center in the United States to specifically focus on examining the role of both combative behavior and martial arts in modern societies”?  The center currently counts Andrea Molle (Political Science and IRES), Michael S. Wood (World Culture and Languages, Japanese) and Alexander Bay (History and Asian Studies) as permanent members.  Head on over to their homepage to read more of their mission statement and to check out their current research projects.

Lastly, I am sure that many readers of Kung Fu Tea are already familiar with Daniele Bolelli’s always thought provoking writings on a variety of topics related to the martial arts.  He has a new book coming out (just in time for Christmas) titled Not Afraid: On Fear, Heartbreak, Raising a Baby Girl and Cage Fighting  (Disinformation Books, December 1, 2015).  Here is the blurb:

An assortment of Chinese teas. Source: Wikimedia.

Kung Fu Tea on Facebook

As always there is a lot going on at the Kung Fu Tea Facebook group and this last month has been no exception.  We remembered the life of GM Chen Qingzhou, saw a great discussions of Ming era weapons and read a new translation of Jin Yiming’s 1932 manual on the single dao.   Joining the Facebook group is also a great way of keeping up with everything that is happening here at Kung Fu Tea.

If its been a while since your last visit, head on over and see what you have been missing.