***I am excited to introduce the following guest post by Alex Channon and Christopher Matthews.   Readers may recall that in my 2017 MAS Conference Keynote I called on the field to dedicate more theoretical and empirical attention to the problem of violence.  Channon and Matthews have been ahead of this curve, and the following essay makes valuable contributions to our understanding of the paradox of violence within the process of martial arts training itself. Enjoy!***

Love Fighting Hate Violence: An Anti-Violence Program for Martial Arts and Combat Sports

Alex Channon, University of Brighton
Christopher R. Matthews, Nottingham Trent University

The following post is an edited version of a book chapter published in Transforming Sport: Knowledges, Practices, Structures (Routledge, 2018). It offers a discussion of the theoretical underpinnings of the Love Fighting Hate Violence project – an anti-violence advocacy campaign that we launched in 2016. It also details some of the early developmental work undertaken as part of this project to develop a coaching toolkit aimed at helping coaches, teachers and others to deliver anti-violence education through martial arts and combat sports activities.

Introduction: Paradoxes, Assumptions and Silences

Martial arts and combat sports (MACS) occupy something of a paradoxical place in Western culture. On the one hand, it is often claimed that training in such activities provides a particularly meaningful route to developing valued psychological attributes such as discipline and respect, echoing the oft-cited mantra of sport’s ‘character-building’ qualities (see Theeboom et al. 2009). This is certainly the case with respect to participation in the so-called ‘traditional’ (read, ‘Asian’) martial arts, around which pacifistic philosophical discourses have long been constructed to insulate them from critiques of ‘celebrating violence’,[1] while promising (Western) practitioners access to unique, often esoteric, orientalised visions of spiritual self-transformation (Bäck and Kim 1982; Fuller 1988).

Sport-oriented fighting disciplines – such as boxing – are met with similar claims, wherein exposure to the rigorous training regimes required of pugilism is thought to impart lessons in discipline that are particularly valuable for social groups often associated with the sport – namely, men drawn from lower socio-economic backgrounds, and/or those who are at increased risk of engaging in crime (Leslie, 2008). Elsewhere, various self-defence practices are popularly argued to represent opportunities for the empowerment of women, specifically through enhancing their (perceived as well as actual) ability to defend against (men’s) sexual violence (e.g., Criado-Perez 2014). Although such notions may at times appear to draw on or help to sustain various sexist, racist, or class-based stereotypes, they nevertheless constitute discourses suggestive of a positive social role for MACS, relative to possibilities for containing or reducing violence. Such notions often feature in popular advocacy promoting these activities to children and adults alike (see, for instance, Parsons 2013).

Yet, the supposed barbarity of (in particular) full-contact fighting sports, including boxing, kickboxing and mixed martial arts (MMA), leads many social commentators to call for them to be banned, if not heavily regulated (e.g. Sarre 2015; see also Mayeda and Ching 2008). The ready association of such activities with ‘violence’ often has implications regarding gendered, racialised or class-based stereotypes (Haynes 2015; Rana 2014), potentially marginalising both the activities themselves, and those social groups with whom they are most often associated.

This aversion to the ‘violence’ of MACS is not limited to sportised disciplines either; a moral panic over an impending explosion of street violence following the development of the 1970s and ‘80s ‘kung fu craze’ in the USA, UK, and other Western nations, suggested wide social unease with the prospect of (particularly) young men practicing ‘deadly’ fighting techniques popularised by action movies of the time (Goto-Jones 2016). Similar concerns appear more recently within reaction to young children’s involvement in MMA (Nye 2013).

As such reasoning often asks, if a person has no pressing need to use martial arts to fight, then why would they bother to practice fighting at all (see Foster 2015); and moreover, if one specifically wants to avoid violence, would it not be preferable to advocate against violence rather than to practice its techniques oneself? It is our view, as subcultural ‘insiders’ who have participated in several different fighting disciplines, as well as scholars with a long-running interest in understanding these phenomena, that each of these perspectives represent somewhat simplified distortions of a more complex reality.

To begin with, we argue that unchecked assumptions about the positive value of MACS are, very often, deployed in misleadingly optimistic ways. This scepticism is borne out by research which paints a rather ambiguous picture of the social value of these activities; for example, while some work has shown that practicing boxing can be a useful component of crime desistence programs (Deuchar et al. 2016; Wright 2006), other work has argued that despite such outcomes, there is an associated potential for it to exacerbate existing criminal behaviour (Jump 2015).

Scholarship arguing that learning a martial art can promote discipline, as well as other positive social-psychological outcomes in children, is offset by that which identifies more ambivalent, or even potentially negative outcomes (see Vertonghen and Theeboom 2010). Similarly, women’s experience of ‘empowerment’ through learning to fight has been shown to be contingent on the specific features of their practice, and cannot be taken for granted as a generalised outcome of any and all MACS practices (see Channon and Matthews 2015). While positive possibilities certainly do exist in these various respects, their failure to be realised automatically across the full spectrum of MACS activities suggests there is more to these relationships than is often implied.

Further to this, and as discussed later, we are similarly critical of the simplistic association between MACS and the supposed promotion or celebration of violence. However, despite this we do not believe that such a connection is entirely non-existent. Rather than accepting that the practice of fighting is always fundamentally ‘violent’ itself, here we are specifically interested in how various forms of harm can be done to MACS practitioners in ways which are not obviously the consequence of direct interpersonal acts (e.g., one person punching another). On closer examination, several normalised aspects of MACS training regimes and subcultures reveal morally questionable practices which may indeed be taken to constitute ‘violence’, albeit of a different type (see Matthews and Channon 2017 for a discussion of sports violence typologies).

In competitive or otherwise highly disciplined spaces, high training intensities, restrictive dietary regimes, the endurance of potentially debilitating pain and injury, and drastic weight cutting practices (Crighton, Close and Morton, 2016; Spencer 2009; 2012) present the possibility of doing damage to the bodies of MACS practitioners in ways which could be argued to constitute a form of ‘self-inflicted’ violence; one that is subculturally produced, normalised and legitimated (see Curry and Strauss 1994). In this sense, questions around the degree to which a person may be well-enough informed to give their consent to participate in inherently risky sports practices are important to ask.

While the risks involved in full-contact fighting are reasonably plain for all to see, the risks of severe dehydration to make competition weight, or of repeated sub-concussive trauma following long-term courses of high intensity sparring (etc.), are less immediately obvious. In fact, such acts are often framed as necessary elements of practice or, in the typical parlance of many sports practitioners, ‘just part of the game’, which members of such subcultures must accept and endure in order to maintain a place within them. We argue that harmful outcomes arising from certain practices within fighting sports that are not solely the consequence of fights themselves constitute a key ‘silence’ in this field, being rarely challenged by moral critiques focusing on the more readily apparent ‘violence’ of competitive fighting.

With these points in mind, we developed the Love Fighting Hate Violence (LFHV) project as a deliberate means of both questioning and intervening into these issues. Taking the paradoxical status of MACS vis-à-vis ‘violence’ as a starting point, we have sought to use practitioners’ often implicit knowledge of the ethical integrity of martial artistry to construct a rationalisation of the morality of such activities. This work was undertaken in order to develop an intervention strategy that can apply such logic towards transforming existing practices, both to better realise the positive outcomes assumed of MACS, while also challenging practitioners to tackle some of the more subtle forms of violence that can exist within them. Before discussing the specifics of the project itself, we offer a theoretical elaboration on the distinction between fighting and violence that rests at the heart of the project’s philosophy.

Resolving the Paradox: An Interactionist Approach to Fighting

Having both practiced various fighting disciplines for a combined total of 20 years, and conducted several academic research projects pertaining to MACS, we are interested in how the conflation of discourses around fighting and violence are interpreted by diverse groups of practitioners. In our experience, many who train for either competitive, self-defence, or other reasons, are often very quick to assert that they are not ‘violent’ people, and that their martial art is not a ‘violent’ activity (see Abramson and Modzelewski 2011; Channon 2012; Matthews 2014). Indeed, while training in MACS involves deliberately performing techniques which can be used with violent purpose, the meaning constructed around such training by practitioners themselves often posits a directly non-violent epistemology (Bäck and Kim 1982; Fuller 1988). As one critical contributor to the LFHV blog put it, martial artists engage with violence as a subject of study rather than as an object in itself (Hall, 2016).

Within such discussions, the importance of upholding an identity as honourable, civil, respectful, etc. in the face of the stigmatising effects of being seen as ‘violent’ illustrates that resolving this paradox has meaningful consequences for the self-image of MACS practitioners – which is itself a useful phenomenon with respect to developing interventions into the field of practice. In this section, we outline our theoretical grasp of how this resolution can be understood.

Fights as Social Encounters

Taking as our starting point the assumption that a fight is a fundamentally social encounter, interactionist sociology provides a fitting means of understanding the interpersonal dynamics of such moments and the meanings that may be constructed around or through them. In this sense, the social interaction of a fight can be seen as taking place within frameworks that render it meaningful in particular, socially-specific ways (Collins 2008; Goffman 1967). Such conceptual work best begins with the recognition that a fight (imagined here as constituting some form of ‘mutual combat’) is but one form of interpersonal violence, and can be differentiated from – for example – an assault (taken to imply a one-sided attack). Importantly, while these definitions have important legal consequences attached to them (Jackson-Jacobs 2014), such a divergence of meaning is also a highly salient component of the social accomplishment of identity.

Here, fighters may variously be seen as valiant, villainous, or anything in between depending on how they comport themselves while fighting, or how their audience is given to understanding what they do. This is certainly the case within sports involving apparently ‘violent’ or aggressive physical exchanges (Baird and McGannon 2009; Matthews and Channon 2016), but is equally applicable to non-sporting, or ‘real’, fights. Who one fights against, how one chooses to fight, whether (and how) one initiates a fight, the reasons one fights to begin with and the ends towards which one works while fighting (among other factors) all stand to impart such meaning. Given the high moral stakes often involved in apparently ‘violent’ actions, these are likely to confer honour or disgrace on the individuals involved, depending on the meanings established within the socio-cultural contexts within which any given action takes place (Collins, 2008).

For instance, in the United States, Hirose and Pih (2010) argued that novice MMA spectators interpret certain techniques used in the sport as unmanly and dishonourable, stigmatising fighters who rely on them to win. Gong (2015: 614) described how practitioners of ‘no-rules’ fighting in California “selectively deploy self-restraint as a trope central to their moral world”, comparing themselves favourably to other competitive martial artists by virtue of their (assumed) self-control while fighting in otherwise apparently rule-less settings. Further, Jackson-Jacobs (2013) showed that American youths sometimes deliberately manufacture conflicts to morally justify themselves while engaging in ‘real’ street fights, even though they actually started those fights for fun. In the UK, with respect to a range of martial arts, Channon (2013) argued that some British men’s aversion to being ‘the kind of man’ who ‘hurts women’ led them to avoid working at high intensity when training with or competing against female partners/opponents, while Matthews’ (2014) work with English boxers identified ways in which they socially construct ‘appropriate’ training practices that enabled them to channel what they considered to be their ‘natural’ aggression, because of similar concerns.

Given such immanent consequences of fight behaviours for fighters’ social identities and moral standing (Goffman 1967), the construction of meaning around fights, fighters and fighting in fact goes a long way towards shaping – either overtly, explicitly and consciously, or covertly, implicitly and pre-reflexively – the actual behaviour of people when they fight. Far from always being a chaotic, lawless eruption of violent hostility then, fighting is usually governed by social conventions acutely oriented towards socially-constructed, specific, moralistic meanings (Collins 2008; Gong 2015).

In particular, the act of starting a fight to begin with requires the successful co-action of two (or more) people (Jackson-Jacobs 2013) who recognise and understand the cues suggestive of engaging in a (certain kind of) fight. Continued cooperation is necessary to sustain what might be socially recognised as a ‘fair fight’, which, despite its dangerous, unsettling and confrontational nature, nevertheless represents a significant degree of harmonious co-action between antagonists in order to continue to count as ‘fair’. As Collins writes,

Agreed-upon limitations in a fair fight come about as a shared orientation, a tacit or even explicit communication between the fighters. Even when they are trying to smash one another into unconsciousness, or to kill one another, they are keeping up a level of solidarity in their mutual agreement… It is this structure that… allows the fight to proceed, indeed to proceed with enthusiasm. (2008: 198-199)

In this sense, even when it involves extremely high stakes, fighting is often shaped by performative, rule-bound and ritualised interactions, imbued with multiple layers of meaning which have immanent consequences for fighters’ social identities (whose ‘fault’ was the fight; who won the fight, or won a moral victory through it; was the fight fair, or the conduct of the fighters honourable; etc.). The social scripts by which different types of fights are rendered meaningful therefore become a crucial object of analysis for understanding the sociology of fighting, which itself represents a key moment in the development of LFHV as a logically coherent idea. Specifically, it leads us to ask how the construction of meaning around the behavioural comportment of fighters can be implicated in the question of what makes something violent, or not.

Consent and Violation

In addressing this question, LFHV presupposes that a fundamental difference exists between the interactional dynamics of fighting encounters which involve mutual consent, and those which do not. We argue that consenting to participate does not, by definition, involve a violation of either fighter’s person – one of the key elements of what we take to be constitutive of ‘violence’ (see Matthews and Channon 2017) and thus of a crucial moral boundary among fight behaviours. Akin to, but not a direct manifestation of, Collins’ (2008) discussion of the ‘fair fight’ above, ‘non-violent’ fights have an often highly ritualised dimension that enables them to take place in ways which do not preclude individuals’ ability to determine the conditions of their continued engagement or disengagement.

Essentially, such fights are characterised by interactions which do not involve a threat to, or loss of, either party’s individual agency; in Jackson-Jacobs’ (2013) terms, they do not challenge the ‘interpersonal sovereignty’ of either fighter. Rather than being oriented towards domination or destruction, such fights fundamentally respect the personal integrity of the fighters – even if, ironically, they consist of actions which mimetically approximate the domination or destruction of the other (Matthews 2014; Matthews and Channon 2017; Mierzwinski and Phipps 2015).

In this sense, the interactions occurring within such ‘non-violent’ fights take on distinctly different qualities to those seen within others, as antagonists’ reasons for fighting shape their orientation to each other and determine the nature of the experience of the fight itself. Here, fighting may be enjoyable (Hollander 2015; Matthews, 2014; Wacquant 2004); it may promote skill development or the cultivation of self-knowledge (Jennings 2010; Spencer 2009); it may become a means of mutually testing ability or of competing for a prize; or even a way of entertaining an audience through either genuine or staged competition (Smith 2014).

In all such cases, fighters work together to varying degrees so they might achieve some end that both agree to mutually pursue, most often according to implicit or overt rules and codes that provide a framework for recognising the parameters to which each party has consented. Thus, the purpose of such a fight is not to violate one’s opponent, but to cooperate with them in accomplishing an interactive performance of some kind, which may be more or less mutually beneficial in various ways, even if it involves actions which might be experienced or characterised as violations under most other conditions.

The types of fights we are describing here are almost exclusively to be found within the practices common to MACS. [2] Importantly though, this theorising does not rest simply upon a differentiation between fights taking place in legally legitimised settings, or those which have formalised sets of ‘rules’ (such as boxing matches), versus those taking place outside and/or in an unregulated manner (such as bar brawls). Rather, it requires us to attend to the interactional dynamics of fights, and to the degree to which any such interaction is shaped by mutually-understood parameters to which both parties have consented. It is entirely plausible that certain actions or structural norms existing within formal combat sports settings could involve numerous violations of individuals’ moral rights, including even actions occurring within the formal rules governing the activity, as alluded to above.[3]

Thus, by unpicking the symbolic reference points within the interactional performances of fighters, we move closer to grasping how it is that someone might see no contradiction in loving fighting but hating violence. More to the point, by recognising the imminent consequences that fight behaviours have for fighters’ social identities – and accepting that, for many MACS practitioners, claiming a ‘non-violent’ or even ‘anti-violent’ ethos can be an important element of identity work – we argue that there is a potent motivation to demonstrate one’s ethical credentials within and through MACS spaces.

It is with a view to operating within such a social milieu that LFHV has been developed, as both a device for encouraging reflection but also a pedagogical platform for anti-violence education and advocacy, capitalising on the implications that resolving the MACS-violence paradox has for practitioners’ identity construction. We explore the initial work we have undertaken in this regard in the final section of this chapter.

Questioning Assumptions and Breaking Silences: LFHV as Pedagogical Intervention

LFHV’s theoretical underpinnings led us to develop and refine a manifesto for the project. The manifesto represents the core message of LFHV. So far, it has served as the basis for discussion and debate among a community of academics and practitioners in person and on social media, as well as inspiring a number of essays hosted on the LFHV website’s blog. However, while this has provided an important point of reference for the development of the project, it does not offer much in terms of directly effecting positive transformation within and among the practitioner communities that LFHV was developed with and for.

In order to apply the ideals of LFHV in a more tangible and impactful way, we have recently developed a coaching toolkit that seeks to provide MACS practitioners with a resource useful for tackling the two key issues outlined at the start of this post – namely, the assumed positive outcomes of MACS training, and the silencing of certain types of violence within them.

The coaching toolkit

Working in collaboration with a group of experienced coaches and teachers, we built the LFHV toolkit around a ‘values-based teaching’ methodology; specifically, that which was developed by our colleagues at the University of Brighton through the highly successful ‘Football 4 Peace’ project. Such an approach emphasises educational outcomes which centre on imparting values, rather than developing fitness, skills, or other typical objectives of sport coaching. As such, the LFHV toolkit enables coaches and instructors to adapt their regular training practices with a specific view to delivering moral education.

In this way, it presupposes a break with the assumption that developing self-discipline, respect for others, and similar moral qualities is a guaranteed consequence of any and all training practices, instead pointing to particular methods that might be used to directly work towards achieving such outcomes. Although we do not suggest that there is any universally effective way to ensure that desired learning outcomes of this type can be attained, we argue that purposefully pursuing them through a dedicated approach, as opposed to passively expecting them to just happen, is more likely to yield positive results.[4]

In addition to this generic values-based approach, we drew inspiration from the popular ‘Teaching Personal and Social Responsibility’ (TPSR) model of physical education (Hellison, 2011), specifically by framing the LFHV toolkit around three progressive ‘levels’ of development, and with a view to the concept of ‘transfer’, which relates to the possibility of delivering lessons within a sporting context that carry over into participants’ lives more widely. Using martial arts, combat sports, and related activities as devices for engaging young people in moral education, our aim was therefore to create a resource that will enable coaches to teach lessons specifically on the importance of consent, both within and outside of MACS practice.

Our reasoning is that, given its centrality to the moral differentiation between interactions characterised as either ‘fighting’ or ‘violence’, there is a valuable opportunity to teach young people about how to recognise, obtain, and give consent, through the medium of MACS activities. To facilitate such teaching, each of the toolkit’s progressive levels contains suggestions for types of practical activities, as well as topics for discussion and reflection.

The first of these levels, which we named ‘Places to Fight’, centres on understanding the spatial boundaries of MACS, and the role of formalised training centres and competitive arenas as places wherein fighting behaviours are ritually legitimised. By attending to organisational factors external to the individual, teaching activities and reflective discussions emphasise how rules in place ‘at the gym’ frame the act of fighting and protect the welfare of fighters. These incorporate mini games or drills that emphasise certain ‘ritualised’ interactions, like the touching of gloves or bowing to opponents, as markers of respect or indications of one’s preparedness – and willingness – to fight.

Workshop-like activities are also included where young people creatively suggest and refine different rules that will help their club promote specific values, like respect, safety, or others, while allowing reflective discussion to draw out the explicit lessons that are intended within any given exercise. More specifically then, the key goal at this level is to understand that tangible rules, norms and rituals function as a kind of apparatus for recognising what it is that training partners mutually consent to when preparing to engage in ‘non-violent’ fighting practices.

The second level, ‘Fighting Together’, draws attention more closely to the interactions within MACS training and competition, and the degree to which trust is essential to effective participation. Here, the central issue of interpersonal consent is foregrounded, as teaching exercises focus on ensuring each person understands what their partner agrees to do with them within any given practice. Such exercises can be used to highlight the often difficult nature of knowing precisely what someone else consents to without properly communicating with them first. Here, one particular exercise sees sparring activity with ‘rules’ figured out by individual pairs, with frequent partner rotations requiring attention to any new partner’s specific requests, as well as adaptations to intensity, balance of defence and attack involved, and other adjustments specific to working with partners of differing abilities.

This emphasises the importance of shaping behaviour around the characteristics of any given interpersonal relationship, rather than forcing through one’s own interpretation of propriety onto any and all similar types of interaction. As with the first level, brief, reflective discussions are advocated as a way of reinforcing the intended learning outcomes of such exercises. At this stage then, participants are led to consider that establishing mutual, consenting relationships with others is central to the difference between violent and non-violent interaction.

The third and final level, ‘Fighting for Yourself’, extends the idea of consent to encourage personal reflection on what it is that each practitioner hopes to achieve from their training, and where they should be comfortable with setting personal boundaries for engagements with others. Teaching at this level enables coaches to tackle what we have identified above as a key ‘silence’ in many MACS spaces – the subtle encouragement of damaging behaviours among practitioners, often accompanied by externalising the responsibility for welfare and health protection to coaches, doctors or others. Because of its focus on empowering (particularly young) practitioners to take control over this aspect of their participation, the third level of the LFHV toolkit goes some way to answering critiques over the morality of participation in risky sporting activities, as briefly outlined above.

Activities here involve exercises whose goal is to normalise and de-stigmatise the act of ‘tapping out’ or ‘taking a knee’, and position these as crucial elements of any mature practitioner’s behavioural repertoire. The key learning outcome at this point revolves around strengthening individuals’ sense of self-determination in the face of potentially manipulative or coercive demands from others. Again, this objective can be supported through the use of reflective discussions between coaches and practitioners.

While these different levels of teaching may be animated by a great number of actual practical activities, our approach has been to suggest some specific exercises, but to otherwise leave this relatively open for interpretation among the coaches/instructors making use of the toolkit. As we continue to develop this in collaboration with our partners, suggested or indicative exercises will be elaborated for different MACS disciplines, but we nevertheless encourage flexibility and reflexivity in their application, given the divergent needs of differing groups of practitioners. It is our hope that this coaching toolkit will allow theory to manifest in practice in diverse ways, while effecting positive change throughout the various sporting spaces that comprise the field of MACS.

Summary

The interplay between MACS participation, fight behaviours, and the construction of identity, combined with the peculiar social dynamics of ‘non-violent fights’, creates an opportunity through which to promote moral pedagogies within various fighting-based sports. LFHV represents a purposeful means by which coaches, instructors and practitioners can construct and maintain positive self-images in the face of widespread stigmatisation of MACS as ‘violent’, by providing a clear platform upon which to develop specific, anti-violence pedagogical interventions. At the same time, its core theoretical reasoning brings into view forms of violence which are rarely centralised in mainstream moral critiques of MACS, and as such can contribute to their eradication.

In sum, LFHV is an initiative which aims to positively transform combat sport, but moreover to instigate positive transformations in young people’s lives through combat sport. It aims to do so principally by leveraging practitioners’ commitment to a non-violent identity for themselves and their practices towards tangible, pedagogical outcomes. While it remains very much in its infancy at the time of writing, its reception to date among key stakeholders across a wide spectrum of MACS disciplines is encouraging; the actual effectiveness of its application in practice is a question for future research, which is the challenge that now lies ahead of us.

To find out more about the LFHV project, please take a look at the website and follow us on social media, including Facebook (@LoveFightingHateViolence) and Twitter (@LFHVofficial). The LFHV coaching toolkit will be formally launched on 15th June 2018, at a one-day coaching workshop held at Nottingham Trent University. For more information on this event please contact either Christopher R. Matthews or Alex Channon directly.

About the Authors

Dr. Alex Channon is a Senior Lecturer in Physical Education and Sport Studies at the University of Brighton, having previously taught at Loughborough University, the University of Greenwich and Syracuse University. His research interests encompass various thematic issues within the sociology of sport and physical education, focusing primarily on martial arts and combat sports.

Dr. Christopher R. Matthews teaches on various courses related to sport science where he focuses on the sociology of sport, qualitative research, critical studies of gender, social theory as it relates to sport, health and physical activity. He is actively research a variety of topics including concussion, men’s power, sports violence, drug use and physical activity.

References

Abramson, C.M. and Modzelewski, D. (2011) Caged morality: Moral worlds, subculture, and stratification among middle-class cage-fighters. Qualitative Sociology, 34(1): 143-175.

Bäck, A. and Kim, D. (1982) ‘Pacifism and the Eastern martial arts’. Philosophy East and West, 32(2): 177-186.

Baird, S.M. and McGannon, K.R. (2009) ‘Mean(ing) to me: A symbolic interactionist approach to aggression in sport psychology’, Quest, 61(4): 377-396.

Channon, A. (2012) ‘Western men and Eastern arts: The significance of Eastern martial arts disciplines in British men’s narratives of masculinity’, Asia Pacific Journal of Sport and Social Science, 1(2-3): 111-127.

Channon, A. (2013) ‘‘Do you hit girls?’ Some striking moments in the career of a male martial artist’, in R. Sánchez García and D.C. Spencer (eds.) Fighting Scholars: Ethnographies of Habitus in Martial Arts and Combat Sports, London: Anthem.

Channon, A. and Matthews, C.R. (eds.) (2015) Global Perspectives on Women in Combat Sports: Women Warriors around the World, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

Collins, R. (2008) Violence: A Micro-Sociological Theory, Oxford: Princeton University Press.

Criado-Perez, C. (2014) ‘Suggesting women learn self-defence is the opposite of victim-blaming’, New Statesman, available at http://www.newstatesman.com/society/2014/06/suggesting-women-learn-self-defence-opposite-victim-blaming (accessed 20.4.17).

Crighton, B., Close, L.G. and Morton, J.P. (2016) ‘Alarming weight cutting behaviours in mixed martial arts: A cause for concern and a call for action’, British Journal of Sports Medicine, 50(8): 446-7.

Curry, T.J. and Strauss, R.H. (1994) A little pain never hurt anybody: A photo-essay on the normalization of sport injuries’, Sociology of Sport Journal, 11(2): 195-208

Deuchar, R., Søgaard, T.F., Kolind, T., Thylstrup, B. and Wells, L. (2016) ‘‘When you’re boxing you don’t think so much’: Pugilism, transitional masculinities and criminal desistance among young Danish gang members’, Journal of Youth Studies, 19(6): 725-742.

Farrer, D.S. and Whalen-Bridge, J. (2011) ‘Introduction: Martial arts, transnationalism, and embodied knowledge’, in D.S. Farrer and J. Whalen-Bridge (eds.) Martial Arts as Embodied Knowledge: Asian Traditions in a Transnational World, Albany, NY: SUNY Press.

Foster, D. (2015) ‘Fighters who don’t fight: The case of aikido and somatic metaphorism’, Qualitative Sociology, 38(2): 165-183.

Fuller, J. (1988) ‘Martial arts and psychological health’, The British Journal of Medical Psychology, 61(4): 317-328.

Goffman, E. (1967) Interaction Ritual: Essays on Face-to-Face Behavior, London: Transaction

Gong, N. (2015) ‘How to fight without rules: On civilized violence in ‘de-civilized’ spaces’, Social Problems, 62(4): 605-622.

Goto-Jones, C. (2016) The Virtual Ninja Manifesto: Fighting Games, Martial Arts and Gamic Orientalism, London: Rowman and Littlefield International.

Hall, N.R. (2016) ‘Being honest about martial arts and violence’, LFHV Blog, available at http://lfhv.org/2016/12/21/being-honest-about-martial-arts-and-violence/ (accessed 20.4.17).

Haynes, N. (2015) ‘UnBoliviable bouts: Gender and essentialisation of Bolivia’s Cholitas Luchadoras’, in A. Channon and C.R. Matthews (eds.) Global Perspectives on Women in Combat Sports: Women Warriors around the World, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

Hellison, D. (2011) Teaching Personal and Social Responsibility through Physical Activity, 3rd edn, Champaign, IL: Human Kinetics.

Hirose, A. and Pih, K.K. (2010) ‘Men who strike and men who submit: Hegemonic and marginalized masculinities in mixed martial arts’, Men and Masculinities, 13(2): 190-209.

Hollander, J. (2015) ‘Outlaw emotions: Gender, emotion and transformation in women’s self-defence training’, in A. Channon and C.R. Matthews (eds.) Global Perspectives on Women in Combat Sports: Women Warriors around the World, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

Jackson-Jacobs, C. (2013) ‘Constructing physical fights: An interactionist analysis of violence among affluent, suburban youth’, Qualitative Sociology, 36(1): 23-52.

Jackson-Jacobs, C. (2014) ‘Competitive violence and the micro-politics of the fight label’, The Sociological Review, 62(2): 166-186.

Jennings, G. (2010) ‘Fighters, thinkers, and shared cultivation: Experiencing transformation through the long-term practice of traditionalist Chinese martial arts’, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Exeter.

Jump, D. (2015) ‘Fighting for change: Narrative accounts on the appeal and desistance potential of boxing’, ECAN Bulletin, 26: 10-15.

Leslie, C. (2008) ‘Boxing is the best way to stop violence in kids’, The Guardian Politics Blog, available at https://www.theguardian.com/politics/blog/2008/apr/14/boxingisthebestwaytostop (accessed 29.4.17).

Martinek, T. and Hellison, D. (2016) ‘Teaching personal and social responsibility: Past, Present and Future’, Journal of Physical Education, Recreation and Dance, 87(5): 9-13.

Matthews, C. R. (2014) ‘Biology ideology and pastiche hegemony’, Men and Masculinities, 17(2): 99-119.

Matthews, C.R. and Channon, A. (2016) ‘“It’s only sport”: The symbolic neutralization of “violence”’, Symbolic Interaction, 39(4): 557-576.

Matthews, C.R. and Channon, A. (2017) ‘Understanding sports violence: Revisiting foundational explorations’, Sport in Society, 20(7): 751-767.

Mayeda, D.T. and Ching, D.E. (2008) Fighting for Acceptance: Mixed Martial Arts and Violence in American Society. New York, NY: iUniverse.

Mierzwinski, M. and Phipps, C. (2015) ‘“I’m not the type of person who does yoga”: Women, “hard” martial arts and the quest for exciting significance’, in A. Channon and C.R. Matthews (eds.) Global Perspectives on Women in Combat Sports: Women Warriors around the World, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

Nye, J. (2013) ‘Inside the outrageous world of child cage fighting’, MailOnline, available at http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2487527/Inside-world-child-cage-fighting-Boys-trained-attack-MMA-arenas.html#ixzz4fXOlkO2N (accessed 20.4.17).

Parsons, T. (2013) ‘Boxing should be taught in every school’, GQ Magazine, available at http://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/article/tony-parsons-boxing-mike-tyson-carl-froch (accessed 20.4.17).

Rana, J. (2014) ‘Producing healthy citizens: Encouraging participation in ladies-only kickboxing’, Etnofoor, 26(2): 33-48.

Sarre, R. (2015) ‘Why boxing and cage fighting should be banned – but won’t be’, The Conversation, available at https://theconversation.com/why-boxing-and-cage-fighting-should-be-banned-but-wont-be-38901 (accessed 20.4.17).

Smith, R.T. (2014) Fighting for Recognition: Identity, Masculinity, and the Act of Violence in Professional Wrestling, London: Duke University Press.

Spencer, D.C. (2009) ‘Habit(us), body techniques and body callusing: An ethnography of mixed martial arts’, Body & Society, 15(4): 119-143.

Spencer, D.C. (2012) ‘Narratives of despair and loss: Pain, injury and masculinity in the sport of mixed martial arts’, Qualitative Research in Sport, Exercise and Health, 4(1): 117-137.

Theeboom, M., De Knop, P. and Vertonghen, J. (2009) ‘Experiences of children in martial arts’, European Journal for Sport and Society, 6(1): 19-35.

Vertonghen, J. and Theeboom, M. (2010) ‘The social-psychological outcomes of martial arts practise among youth: A review’, Journal of Sports Science and Medicine, 9(4): 528-537.

Wacquant, L. (2004) Body & Soul: Notebooks of an Apprentice Boxer, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Wright, W. (2006) ‘Keep it in the ring: Using boxing in social group work with high-risk and offender youth to reduce violence’, Social Work with Groups, 29(2-3): 149-174.

Notes

1. Farrer and Whalen-Bridge define martial arts as “the things done to make the study of fighting appear refined enough to survive elite social prohibitions” (2011: 2); a compellingly sociological observation of the discursive construction of martial arts, often overlooked within more technically-driven definitions.
2. Interestingly, Jackson-Jacobs concludes his exploration of non-sporting ‘competitive violence’ by noting that “some may question whether competitive fights of the type I describe are violence at all” (2014: 182). Indeed, the negotiation of consent and violation, although not centralized in his analysis, is key to grasping this ambiguity.
3. As we argue in our 2017 paper, the issue of ‘consent’ needs to be interrogated widely here, specifically relative to forms of violence that are not strictly interpersonal/physical.  For example, the structural violence embedded in commercially exploitative combat sports organizations, whereby professional fighters’ health is risked for the sake of promoters’ profits, becomes an important consideration here.
4. This assumption is reasonably well supported by research on the efficacy of explicitly feminist pedagogies used in self-defense teaching as a route to women’s empowerment (Hollander 2015), and through the successful proliferation of sport and exercise programs such as Football 4 Peace, and the various interventions based on the TPSR approach mentioned below (Hellison 2011; Martinek and Hellison 2016).

The Master Said: “I transmit, I do not create. I trust and love the ancients…”
-Confucius, The Analects 7.1

I’m not in this world to live up to your expectations and you’re not in this world to live up to mine.
-Bruce Lee (Quoting Fritz Perls)

Introduction

When describing a cultural practice anthropologists sometimes differentiate between “emic” and “etic” accounts. To oversimplify, an emic account is one that comes from inside the group. It is a subjective description of how something functions from an insider’s perspective. An etic account is usually produced from an outsider’s point of view. It often poses as an objective description of why something “really” happens. Thus an anthropologist and her key interlocutors may give two very different accounts of the same phenomenon.

Perspective matters. One does not have to be committed to cultural relativism to understand why some actors might view the same process differently. Indeed, I have often noted a very similar division within discussions of the martial arts. Basically there are three groups of individuals who might want to talk about these fighting systems on a more abstract level. First we have practitioners themselves. Next we have members of society who know about the martial arts, and may even interact with them on a discursive level, but do not actually practice them. And then you have students of martial arts studies.

I will return to this last group at the conclusion of this essay. For the moment, lets focus on the perspective of martial artists and how they may differ from their non-practicing neighbors and fellow citizens.

Within the traditional fighting systems of China and Japan, “history” plays an important role organizing the identity of any school or community of practice. This isn’t necessarily the sort of history that general readers in the West might be familiar with. Instead what practitioners tend to discuss are lineage traditions in which the pedigree of the current generation of martial artists is laid out in extensive detail.

Occasionally these genealogical discussions are accompanied by a body of folklore which attempts to distill the “life lessons” of past masters into a handful of legends. In the case of the Chinese martial arts these kinship ties between the living students and the departed masters may even be memorialized on a wall of photos found in a school’s “ancestral shrine.” Ritual observance serves to both cement relationships within the current body of the school, as well as to remind individuals of their relationship with the past.

As Paul Bowman has observed, not every martial artist is equally interested in, or able to, absorb the full details of this folk history.  Yet the very existence of such a “history” cements the identity of school in the present, and thus those with little knowledge of such matters (new students) are typically expected to defer to the individuals who have mastered the arcana (the instructor and senior students). In any case, the basic ideological argument is clear. A perfect fighting system was created at some moment in the past (by the Yellow Emperor, during the Song dynasty, fighting pirates in the Ming, or in a warehouse in LA), and the role of the instructor is to convey a stabilized set of practices. Students are expected to absorb such lesson’s rather than to innovate. Indeed, this basic pedagogical theory is seen in all sorts of subjects throughout the Confucian world.

If the process of transmission within each generation is perfect, then outside events rarely need to enter into a school’s history. Many schools pass over major events in Chinese social history in absolute silence. It can be a challenge to figure out which generation lived through the collapse of the Ming or saw the rise of the Taiping Rebels. If any solid sources exist, historians can sometimes figure this out (Doug Wile’s work on the Taiji Classics comes to mind). Yet unless these events directly imperiled the transmission of the tradition, they tend not to make it in the folklore.

The end result is something of a paradox. This allochronistic haze means that it is possible to extensively study the “history” of a given Chinese martial arts, yet learn practically nothing of the nation’s actual social, political or economic development. From an emic perspective the traditional arts appear to exist in an eternal “once upon a time in China.”

Still, this development is not entirely negative. While we often focus on the secrecy of the traditional arts, in truth these systems spread very quickly from the final years of the Qing dynasty onward. If all that mattered was one’s interest, physical ability and loyalty to the school, than the martial arts were free to function as fairly open pubic institutions.

Yet that is not how their neighbors typically perceived them. A quick survey of martial arts novels, radio programs, early films, operas and even newspaper articles suggests that the rest of society tended to view these practices as always sectarian and exclusive. These stories also obsessed over precisely the sorts of political and social questions that are largely missing from lineage accounts. Society demanded that the martial arts represent their interests and identities, in either a local or national guise.

Ultimately this version of history may not be much more informative than individual lineage accounts. When looking at contemporaneous documents its clear that having proved one’s revolutionary credentials by “standing up to the Qing” played much better in post-1912 stories than it did in pre-1910 novels. Yet the basic point remains. As the martial arts increasingly came to be seen as avatars for regional and national identity in the Republic period, the public expected that they would respond to and be involved with the pressing issues of the day. As the Jingwu reformers noted, the ultimate destiny of kung fu should be noting less than “national salvation.”

This politicization of the martial arts tended to create new pressures around questions of identity. If such a thing as “Hakka arts” can exist (as opposed to a set of local arts taught in predominantly Hakka villages), should it be taught to Cantonese students? If kung fu was really a means for “national salvation” should Chinese teachers take Japanese or Western students? And was it it even possible for foreign students to “master” such quintessentially Chinese practices?

While actual martial artists were less likely to be defined by such concerns, the ways that these practices came to be talked about by non-practitioners became increasingly politicized during the 20th century. And once political leaders in both Japan and China decided to adopt these practices as tools of nationalism and state building, this difference in perspective ceased to be merely academic.

Yet the lineage based understanding of martial arts “history” persists. Despite the pressure from national reformers on the one hand, and the academic students of martial arts history on the other, when two Wing Chun students first meet they will ask about lineage. This remains the defining feature of their mental map of the traditional hand combat community.

It would be easy to dismiss this view as historically outmoded or of “no use in the octagon.” Yet it remains an oddly persistent social fact. What sort of theoretical lens can be brought to bear in explaining this pattern? And how might that same lens help us to understand the social meaning and emergence of new schools, lineages and styles?

For instance, were Bruce Lee’s attempts to establish Jeet Kune Do in his adoptive home of America fundamentally similar to, or different from, the strategies that his teacher had employed in creating his own approach to Wing Chun after fleeing to Hong Kong? Setting the obvious generational issues aside, what can we make of the way that they discussed these efforts? If we can locate a theoretical lens which provides insight into these questions, it might also suggest some overlooked truths about the nature of the traditional martial arts themselves.

Harold Bloom and the Importance of Misreading the Masters

Before we can delve any further into these questions it is necessary to take a few moments to think about Western Romantic poetry. More specifically, we are interested in the process by which this poetry has been read and criticized by successive generations of critics, consumers and especially other artists. During the 1970s Harold Bloom built one of his seminal arguments around an observation structurally very similar to the one that I outlined above. As he obsessively studied the Romantic poets he noted that there seemed to be some fundamental differences in how the critics read these works compared to the ways in which other poets approached and understood them. He outlined his ideas in two, basically impenetrable, books. The first of these was titled The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (Oxford UP 1973) and its companion volume was A Map of Misreading (Oxford UP 1975).

In these works Bloom proposes that poets have a bit of an adversarial relationship with the past. One would not necessarily guess this when you read their poems which are full of intertextual engagements, allusions and borrowings. Bloom found the relationship between Milton and the Romantic poets to be particularly interesting in this regard. Like the Confucius quote above, the Romantic vision claims to transmit the glory of a forgotten past, rather than a new and innovative vision of the present. Yet in truth Confucius won students, and the Romantics earned readers, precisely because they were innovative. Again, this situation seems to echo the common case of martial styles that while only a few decades old, claim to transmit the wisdom of past millennia.

Bloom notes that the received body of literature can be a hindrance to the creativity of young poets who, seeking to establish themselves, must find a unique (rather than purely derivative) voice. One learns to be a poet by reading other poets. Yet you cannot appeal to an actual audience without having something original to say. Being too deeply steeped in the received canon can complicate this process.

Younger poets deal with the anxiety over the influence of past masters in a number of ways. Drawing on Freudian psychology, Spanish Kabbala and a close reading of the Romantics, Bloom proceeds to outline six strategies by which new creators seek to deal with the legacies of their predecessors.

You can find a quick synopsis of each of these approaches on Wikipedia. But to really get a sense of what Bloom was attempting to accomplish (and the complexity of his work) I would instead suggest investing some time into Edward Said’s 1975 review of A Map of Misreading, published in the literary section of the New York Times. Said captured Bloom’s essential insight (drawn from Luria’s Kabbalistic theory) that the process of creation starts with an act of withdrawing, followed by a rupture with the past and an attempt to establish a new synthesis.

This process can take on several different basic forms, but certain fundamental strategies seem to be dictated by the laws of human psychology and the basic structure of effective rhetoric. Hence it make sense to speak of a “map of misreading” rather than an infinite spectrum. As a social scientists (and someone who does not seek to speak on literary criticism with any authority) I think I would prefer the term “typology.”

Putting the “Art” in the Martial Arts

The first point that must be established before going forward is whether Bloom’s typology can be profitably applied to the traditional Asian martial arts. On the surface this is not immediately evident. Obviously he was engaged in an explicitly textual study in which he examined the dependence of one poem upon another. Drawing his conclusions to their natural endpoints, Said notes that for Bloom the poem as the traditional object of critical analysis (a stable text with a knowable interpretation produced by a single author in response to documented personal or social events) vanishes, and all one is left with is a genealogy of literary relationships, both positive and antagonistic in nature, streaming through the generations of writers.

It goes without saying that hand combat is not poetry (though in China many classic martial arts manuals were accompanied by extensive poetic discussions). Still, once we reach a certain period it becomes clear that like writers, the creators of new martial arts styles and lineages wanted to be acknowledged for their skill and remembered as “masters.” Indeed, self effacing talk of humility notwithstanding, this was essential if one wished to establish an economically viable school that could succeed in a competitive marketplace.

It is also clear that by the early 20th century at least some martial artists were starting to see their performance styles as a type of identity work. In many cases their promotion of a style of physical culture was meant to argue for a specific definition of either regional or national identity. But in other cases it was clear that skills were also expected to reflect one’s individuality, drawing closer to the western definition of artistic expression. Bruce Lee discussed this notion at length, and the work of other contemporaneous Chinese martial artists, actors and fight choreographers suggests that he was not alone in this understanding. Thus there are both structural and social reasons to expect that the literary strategies that Bloom noted may find important parallels within the modern Chinese martial arts.

The second issue that must be addressed is the potential scope of this model. In the initial drafts of this argument Bloom seemed to suggest that these anxieties were a modern phenomenon (hence their association with the Romantics). This position has since been revised and he now claims to finds traces of the same process in the early modern period as well.

I suspect that a full investigation would reveal something similar within the Chinese martial arts. It would not be hard to argue that individuals like Jet Li, Bruce Lee or even Ip Man exhibited many of the tendencies that Bloom has noted. They have all structured discussions of their careers in such a way to argue that they should be regarded as masters of “the tradition.”

Yet as I read through Blooms various arguments, I am also reminded of the early Qing biographies of late Ming martial artists, and even the boastings of figures like Yu Dayou and Qi Jiquang. Both of these individuals also suffered visible anxieties about their dependence on such low class individuals as prior generations of boxing masters (even if some of those masters might be found at the Shaolin Temple) and employed very predictable rhetorical strategies to deal with it. As such Bloom’s typology might, in some cases, be a useful critical lens for thinking about discussions as far back as the Early Modern period in the West, or the Late Imperial era in China.

Still, my personal research interests lay mostly in the first half of the 20th century. Lee would seem to be the obvious case of a Chinese martial artist who sought to establish himself as a master by adopting the trappings of the Chinese tradition, while simultaneously reacting against it. Indeed, it is very hard not to read his eulogy to the “Once Fluid Man” in anything other than Oedipal terms.

Whether the intended target of his criticism was his father (a traditional trained operatic performer and student of Taijiquan) or perhaps even Ip Man (the only individual that Lee ever called “Sifu”) is unclear. Lee performed his basic filial duties towards his father (no matter how strained the relationship) and, according to his wife, continued to hold Ip Man in great respect.

Perhaps the true target of his anger was not an individual teacher per se, but an entire system of martial development that had become inward looking and failed to keep pace with global developments. Indeed, Lee seemed to supplement his still incomplete training in Wing Chun (he never learned the system’s swords, and hence much of the actual footwork) by turning to Western sources (olympic fencing and boxing) rather than other Chinese arts that were available in the area. In this sense Lee’s basic complaint about the state of the “classical mess” is very similar to the critique of the Guoshu reform movement of the 1930s.  Yet he shows less cultural confidence (or chauvinism) in his search for solutions.

Bloom identifies a very similar rhetorical strategy on the part of number of poets which he (in reference to Lucretius) terms “Clinamen.” For our purposes I would propose that we could just as easily think of this as “the sharp left-hand turn.” Basically the young poet (or martial artist) deals with their anxieties of influence by directly attacking their predecessors. He or she tends to claim that the masters were on he right path until they made a fatal mistake, leaving them a spent artistic and cultural force. The newcomer’s job thus combines innovation in the present with the restoration of a past as it should have existed. Not only would Lee’s hybridized art be superior to the traditional Chinese schools of his own day, but by clearly seeing and dealing with the central failures of the tradition, he would establish himself as a master worthy of acknowledgment.

There were several elements in Lee’s life and career that made this more confrontational rhetorical strategy a good fit. On a psychological level he had exhibited problems with traditional models of authority from a young age. Indeed, his parents encouragement to start over in America should probably be understood as a tacit acknowledgement of that fact. Further, while located on the West Coast, Lee could not continue his Wing Chun training. He progressed and evolved as a martial artist, but increasingly this was in dialogue with the theories, techniques and practices that were commonly available in post-war America.

Ip Man was a much more traditional person that Bruce Lee in a purely cultural sense. He had been born into Southern China’s “new gentry” and received both a Western and traditional Confucian education. Yet the myth-making that surrounds him (mostly a product of the many films that have come out in recent years) tends to obscure the fact that when it came to the martial arts, much like his most famous student, Ip Man was very much a modernizer.

He believed, and explicitly stated in his interview with R. Clausnitzer, that Wing Chun was fundamentally a modern combat system. Ip Man’s teaching methodology relied on practical sensitivity drills (including Chi Sau) and a certain amount of actual street fighting, rather than pure forms practice. In that sense its not surprising that Lee and Ip Man maintained their master-student relationship.

Yet its interesting to note that Ip Man would explicitly characterize his practice as “modern” in a rhetorical sense. This implies a clear differentiation between his teaching and other “traditional” forms of kung fu that one might find in Hong Kong. Nor is it clear that Ip Man’s teachers, let alone more distant figures such as Leung Jan, would have been able to understand, or accept, such a claim. Ip Man also sought to innovate and express himself through his own understanding of hand combat.

Still, the older master was more limited in his rhetoric. He was also likely influenced by the ideals of the Guoshu movement. For instance, Ip Man abhorred secrecy within schools and always spoke out against legendary tales of wandering monks with fantastic powers. One can only guess what he would make of his ever more fantastic resurrections on the big screen. Yet he also lived in an environment where people actively linked the local martial arts with both regional identity and Chinese nationalism. Further, he was surrounded by people who either knew what Wing Chun had looked like in Foshan during the 1930s, or who may have studied one of its many regional cousins.

As such Ip Man’s rhetorical strategy had to be more measured. Rather than claiming to break with the past he instead positioned himself as someone who “completed the work” of his predecessors. While his approach to teaching Wing Chun was new and innovative, he still kept the basic forms and exercises. As I have noted elsewhere, the metaphysical terminology of the system was simplified, but the actual names of the techniques do not appear to have been changed. Those who were familiar with Foshan’s Wing Chun schools (including Ip Man’s own children) expressed surprise when they saw his classes. Yet he claimed only to complete and properly implement what was already inherent in the art. Bloom refers to this strategy as “Tessera”, meaning a fragment from which the missing whole can be reconstructed.

These basic discussions do not exhaust the Bloom’s typology or their usefulness to the analysis of the Chinese martial arts. Consider again the opening quote from Confucius. If there had been a general consensus on what the “wisdom of the past” was, or that this was all he actually taught, there would be no reason to make this assertion.

In point of fact Confucius was an innovator. His understanding of the connection between “ritual” and “humanness” was a departure from how those terms were generally used at the time. Yet rather than accept the title of “creator” he instead embraced the totality of (a certain vision) of the influences that came before him, in effect allowing himself to function simultaneously as the missionary and author of this wisdom. In this way the totality of the received tradition was co-opted rather than refuted.  Yet it was also rebranded in an unmistakable way. Bloom notes a similar strategy in other places and refers to it as Apophrades or the “return of the dead”. Of course, it is not at all clear that this theory was meant to apply to classical authors, so it would be best not to push the hunt for parallels too far.

Conclusion

What new facts about the Chinese martial arts has this exploration of Bloom’s Anxieties of Influence suggested? First off, modern students of Wing Chun should be suspicious of popular narratives that see Ip Man as a traditional Chinese gentleman and Bruce Lee as a hot headed reformer who rejected his teacher’s transmission. In point of fact both men were reformers who believed that the Southern Chinese martial arts were best expressed as modern fighting systems capable of holding their own in a global context. Both figures wrestled with the inherited tradition and looked for rhetorical and embodied strategies to establish themselves as independent masters. Further, the strategies that they adopted reflected both highly personal psychological factors (Lee’s conflicts with authority figures/Ip Man’s frustrations in exile) as well as the communities that they were embedded within (California vs. Hong Kong).

Rather than seeing Ip Man’s Wing Chun as a set, stable, object of study, and Bruce Lee’s Jeet Kune Do as an easily defined derivation, Bloom would suggest that what really exists is a single continuous conversation dominated by a battle for influence between successive generations of teachers and students. Rather than a stable body of techniques, Wing Chun is basically a set of human relationships defined by both an obligation to those who came before and a persistent desire to innovate.

Perhaps this should cause to reflect again on the dichotomy between the etic and emic visions of the martial arts that opened this paper. At first it would appear that the more “objective” view of the non-practitioners is closer to the “truth.” While the masses may get the nuances of history wrong, at least they are asking about the right sorts of variables.

Yet to the extent that this asks us to take for granted the existence of set, stabilized objects called “Wing Chun,” “JKD” or “Taijiquan”, perhaps we should rethink this conclusion. In truth each of these styles changes, blends and bleeds from one generation to the next. I suspect that the lineage based view survives within the martial arts precisely because it captures something fundamental about the actual experience of being a member of these communities. And its something that Bloom sensed as well. .

Nor are students of martial arts studies exempted from these same processes and fears. Perhaps no area of life seems more beset by the anxiety of influence than modern academics. I suspect that Bloom came upon this theory at least in part because he was a professor who had once been a graduate student. In his own approach to literary criticism he strove to create an original vision, one that would separate him from his previous teachers and mentors.

Academic communities also tend to be small places where theories that may appear to be discrete and stable to the outside observer are understood as basically ongoing conversations and debates by those who are on “the inside.” The great utility of Bloom’s argument is that it provides us with a tool for understanding not just the rhetoric that surrounds the practice of the martial arts, but their scholarly study as well.

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: Do the martial arts unite or divide us? Kung Fu and the production of “social capital”

oOo

***We remember the martial arts through many mediums.  Countless videos can be found on YouTube.  Novels, opera and film have sanctified the heroes of the past.  Books have archived the wisdom of countless communities.  Yet over the last century no medium has come to define our memory of the past to the same extent as photography.  Today’s guest post, by Abi Moriya, recalls the life and contributions of one teacher through the rich visual record that he left behind.  Readers might think of it as an ethnographic photo-essay, documenting a unique moment in the transmission of the Chinese martial arts.  Yet it is also a poignant personal reflection on the complexities of the relationship between teachers and students.  All of the photographs in the following essay were either taken by Moriya or have been provided courtesy his private collection. Enjoy!***

Remembering Peng Hanping (彭韩萍): Images of a Teacher

by Abi Moriya

I had many doubts before writing this article. Every black letter on this white background seemed, suddenly, overly important. Eventually, I wrote it based on my own feelings, through my own prism.

When I went to Taiwan on the Chinese New Year, 1987, I didn’t know much about the Chinese internal martial arts. As you may recall, this was prior to the era of internet and globalization. We recorded, with devotion, episodes of the B.B.C’s documentary, “The Way of the Warrior” (1983) from Jordanian TV. Watching this was the first stage of my journey in learning with my teacher Hong Yixiang, a leading figure of one of the episodes. Thirty years later, I feel my knowledge has expanded, but it is clear to me that the fabric of the Chinese martial arts is so broad and deep, that even a complete lifetime will not be sufficient in comprehending it. But the practitioner should not recoil; on the contrary, he must dive into to a never-ending journey.

Upon my arrival to Taibei, I stayed a walking distance from New Park. At that time, it was one of the best spots if you wanted to watch public martial arts. The park was a playground for different groups and individuals: practicing on their own, within groups, for the martial aspects, and for health cultivation. Watching this variety, my spirit was elevated. I remembered some of the groups who had appeared in “The Way of the Warrior”, and now, came alive right in front of me. One of the largest groups practiced the “shaking method”, or doufa, a method of exercises which was related to qigong, but actually looked like a fast form of gymnastics. This was quite popular and attracted a big audience. The instructor would shout the name or number of the exercise with a funny megaphone, and then the whole group would follow.

One of the most impressive figures in the park was Peng Hanping, known to all as “Xiao Peng”. He was short, athletic, and had a supreme esthetic motion. When he was twenty six years old he started to teach a small group of local students, with both empty hand and weapons. After approaching him, he then became my weaponry teacher during the 80’s. There is not much written material about him, so I now do my best to bring forth as much information as possible.

Xiao Peng began to practice martial arts at the age of fifteen, with some classmates. Already, at this early stage, he showed a true passion and woke up every day at 05:30 in order to practice before school. His first teacher was Liu Yunqiao, the renowned Bajiquan teacher, from whom Xiao Peng learned and polished his basic skills.

However, after an unknown period with Liu, Peng went on to study with teacher Wei Xiaotang, from whom he learned “Eight steps praying mantis”. Teacher Wei left China at the beginning of the communist period, a short time after his wife passed away. In Taiwan he worked as a cook, until he began teaching martial arts. He was known as a skilled martial artist and a short tempered teacher. Xiao Peng learned with him during the years 1980-1985, until teacher Wei passed away. Although he learned “Eight steps praying mantis” only for five years, his result was a deep understanding of the basics and principles of the style. His movement was characterized with supreme dynamic, power and speed. He looked as if he was ready to disengage from the law of gravity. In order to complete his education he also learned Ditangquan, from teacher Han Dexian.

At the young age of twenty six, Xiao Peng started teaching on a daily basis, in New Park from morning to midday, regardless of the weather. Aside from that, he was teaching a few lessons a week, in a few high schools.

When I met Xiao Peng he had already learned, from teacher Zhang Kezhi, southern fist and “Eight Drunken Immortals”. Zhang made a name of himself as a martial artist and teacher of “Five animals southern Shaolin” (aka “Taiwanese Hung-Gar”). This style arrived to Taiwan in 1946 with Zhang’s teacher Lin Jiakun, who was a commander in the national army. Zhang Kezhi was what we would call a “character”. Since he was at the park every day, he would “take over” the class from Xiao Peng, stroll around in kicking leafs, or spend time in his other hobby – pushing hands with the Taiji teachers in the park, which he always performed well.
In addition, Xiao Peng learned Northern Eagle Claw from the elder teacher Zhong Fusheng. As far as I know, he was the last (and informal) student of this teacher.

However, the daily routine in the park began to change with the arrival of a “storm”, this time not a typhoon. At that point of time, all the martial arts we were exposed to were traditional ones. Far away in Beijing, a young American named Jeff Falcon went to train with the Beijing wushu team, and afterwards arrived to Taibei. He demonstrated movements we had never seen before, and also taught private classes to foreigners. To our great amazement, he challenged Zhang Kezhi to a duel; fortunately this never happened, but filled us with tremendous excitement for a while.

Eventually, even though the number of the local students dropped, Xiao Peng’s group in the park grew and ultimately had more foreigners than Taiwanese. He started to make a name out of Taiwan. First, he was invited to perform at the “Masters Demo” in the Wong Tat-Mau international tournament in California. I competed in this event in 1991, and I considered it a great honor. I was told his demonstration of praying mantis and three-sectional staff was well accepted. A few years later he was invited to the Bercy martial arts festival in Paris, where he demonstrated praying mantis, drunken fist, and the chain whip. Both flexible weapons in those demos were taught to Xiao Peng by his teacher, Zhang Yingchun.

At the end of the 80’s I went back to Israel. To my great surprise, while watching the Israeli television, which only had one channel, I saw Xiao Peng! What were the odds??? I was still going to Taibei once a year, but somehow felt I could no longer learn with Xiao Peng. I had always viewed him as a symbol of traditional culture, and when he changed I did not feel positive about it. Today, I feel I was just building too many expectations on the shoulders of this young teacher who was, in essence, only human like all of us. Xiao Peng opened a pub in Taibei. One evening in July 1999, while leaving the pub in a hurry for a meeting he had a motorcycle crash which ended his life. He was only thirty seven years old.

Epilogue: Xiao Peng, in his own words, 1990:

“Gongfu for me is an art, a philosophy of life, a struggle against oneself! The means we use, the time and effort we invest are not easy at all. This is very hard work. This tradition, which passed from generation to generation, went through many changes along the years. Nowadays, it is rather easy to learn different traditions such as Shaolin or Wudang, what was impossible before. I can divide gongfu to three layers:

Zhen真. How can we use gongfu for martial or health purposes ?

Shan善.The supreme philosophy: what are the reasons I study and research through my gongfu.

Mei美. Gongfu is an expression of aesthetics and beauty.

Taiwanese society is subject to monstrous transformations. All turn away from old traditions in favor of Western models. Success in school and at work guarantees a high standard of living. The result is a huge pressure on the shoulders of young students. From a very young age one is prepared for this way of life. Progression and development are the guarantee of success. The child has to learn and adapt to life in society. In such a society there is no place for leisure time. The chances of making a living from gongfu are slim. We train every day, we are dirty and sweaty. Social acceptance is however only the clothes with a white collar. It’s really hard to learn gongfu, trying to live from it. Learning professional gongfu means to experience life fully. We are forced to sell our art as a product! I am in the fortunate position that I can make a living through teaching gongfu. I do not earn much, but I am happy! The secret is direct teaching from teacher to student and an open heart without restriction”.

About the Author: Abi Moriya is a professional coach and researcher whose involvement in the martial arts spans four decades. In addition, Abi is a teacher of Qigong and Chinese Traditional Medicine. He is a senior member of the Martial Arts discipline at the Nat Holman School for Coaches and Instructors, Wingate Institute, Israel.

Structure and Agency

Contrary to popular opinion, nature does not love parsimony. This frequently repeated opinion is more an aesthetic judgement on the part of some scholars rather than an empirical observation about the actual functioning of the natural or social worlds. When looking at questions as complex as the global spread of the Asian martial arts, we should treat single variable explanations with a high degree of caution.

History is not a series of isolated events. Rather, it is our understanding of a process that emerges when many streams meet and converge. Yes, American servicemen were exposed to Judo and Kendo during their occupation of Japan. But that doesn’t really explain why they would want to practice these arts once they got home.

Bruce Lee touched off a firestorm of cross-cultural desire. Yet the actual instruction of the following wave of students was left to teachers who often had a very different philosophy of the martial arts. Lee is credited as one of the 20th century’s most influential martial arts instructors, yet he actually had very few students. All of which is to say, it is easy to forget about the cultural soil that supported the spread of the martial arts if we become captivated only by the brilliance of its flowering. Students of martial arts studies must also be concerned with the roots.

Simply saying “its complicated,” isn’t always helpful. Theories that involve too many variables, or those which are unclear about their interactions, risk becoming subjective descriptions, rather than explanations, of some event. If we are only interested in the subjective experience of a single instance, what an anthropologist might call “thick description”, that is fine. Yet if we wish to explore the realm of causality we need a way to think about the work that our variables perform.

When theorizing about mass social movements, I have sometimes found it useful to think in terms of “supply” and “demand.” If we are speaking about consumption decisions within an economic market (why does someone decide to spend their hard earned cash on “Wing Chun” lessons?) this behavioral model can be very helpful. As researchers we are led to ask, how did they first find out about this practice? What social forces led them to decide that this was a desirable good? And what sorts of global economic and political exchanges made the establishment of Western Wing Chun schools possible in the 1980s but not the 1930s? After all, the art was pretty popular in southern China during both of these periods, but it only enjoyed a global spread in one.

Even when we leave behind questions directly touching on market rationality, this same analytical structure makes some sense. The immediate objection might be that we error in the assumption that self-aware actors exists in isolation of larger economic, social and cultural systems. Much of our “agency” may be an aspect of how we subjectively experience our lives, rather than an objective fact. If we have learned nothing else from the last century of sociological theorizing, it is that in the long-run such systems are responsible for constructing all of us.

Nevertheless, grand theorizing doesn’t always get at the most interesting questions. It is easy to multiply examples. Why did some working class Chinese martial artists become ardent members of the Communist Party while others supported the KMT? And how did they understand their physical experience of these hand combat systems as unique expressions of very different visions of what modern Chinese society should be?

In my own ethnographic field research I have been forced to wonder why some students walk into the Western style boxing gym, while others head to the Wing Chun/JKD school that sits literally next door to it. You cannot walk down the street without making a choice. Both schools basically teach the art of throwing a better punch, yet their students develop very different identities. Systems exist, but it is also impossible to ignore the very pressing experience of agency.

Rather than thinking only of “supply” and “demand,” at times I think we can get closer to what is going on by reframing the discussion in terms of “push” and “pull.” We all make choices. Yet rarely are they as free and unconstrained as we might think.

For instance, the emergence of a new media discourse promoting trans-national desire as a model for personal and community liberations (e.g., that awesome new Bruce Lee movie that all of your friends are talking about), might very well increase the glamor and attraction of the local Judo school. Such media representations are a powerful mechanism for the reproduction of desire.

On the other hand, certain institutions (say the US military during the 20th century) might use their organizational capabilities to make specific behaviors possible or compulsory. Yet even when something is not directly mandated, it can still bleed over in complex or unexpected ways (what social scientists call externalities). Indeed, you did not have to join the Army in 1941 to learn Judo or Karate. Rather, the US military unintentionally ensured that every small city in America would be stocked with instructors in the Japanese martial arts.

As a general rule, where the forces of “push” and “pull” overlap, rapid social change becomes possible.

Scouts as Vanguards of the Martial Arts Revolution

We must be cautious when actually constructing our historical narratives. Not every social organization functions by pushing a “supply.” How an organization functions is likely to be effected by the political and social institutions that it is embedded within. Thus we may see very similar groups working in unique ways in different environments.

This, of course, brings us to the international scouting movement. I was only involved in scouting for a few years when I was growing up. But reflecting back on that time I am struck by the degree to which the organization functioned as an engine for the reproduction of desire.

One desired to earn badges, to gain more senior ranks and to go on costly adventures. One desired camping gear emblazoned with the BSA logo, friendships and most of all to be part of this vast cosmopolitan adventure linking youth from around the globe. And while we knew that in a sense all scouts were equal, we were always fascinated by the differences in uniforms, appearance and regulations that you would occasionally encounter. The scouting movement managed to reproduce a sort of nationalist narrative while at the same time promoting an intensely globalized view.

All of this came flooding back when I ran across a brief mention of “Chinese sword dancing” in a 1935 New York Times article. The piece provided a short account of three groups of scouts (from Japan, China and Utah) who had attempted to travel to New York City for an international jamboree that was to be held in Central Park. Due to the difficulties of their journeys they missed the actual event. Still, the city rolled out the red carpet for them and it was very interesting to read about their exploration of Manhattan (they had lunch in Chinatown). The article, however, was dominated by a single large photo showing the group of Japanese and Chinese scouts siting on the steps of city hall watching one of their members perform a complex double saber routine. It was captioned “An Oriental Accomplishment Not in Western Boy Scouts’ Curricula.”

I was struck by this photograph and statement. On the one hand I am sure that it succeeded in the reproduced of desire within its target demographic. I cannot imagine a red-blooded American 12 year old who, upon seeing this photo, would not want to pick up six feet of sharpened steel and give it a ago. And yet the caption was careful to draw a very neat distinction between “us” and “them.” Western scouts were defined explicitly as the sort who do not play with swords.

Yet such an assertion is problematic in a number of ways. I have come across an early 20th century photo of Japanese-American and Caucasian Boy Scouts in California practicing Kendo together. And historians of the Scouting movement will be quick to point out that the Man-At-Arms program was one of the original merit badges offered by the Boy Scouts.

Any scout who forgot the requirements for this particular accomplishment could simply check the back of this handy cigarette card (which now mostly served to remind us that the early 20th century really was a very different time). There we read:

“To qualify for this badge it is necessary for the scout to attain proficiency in two of the following subjects: –

Single-stick, quarter-staff, fencing, boxing, ju-jitsu, gymnastics and wrestling.”

The same requirements were laid out in the earliest American release of the scouting handbook. Interestingly, on this side of the Atlantic the merit badge was dropped from the subsequent 1911 edition of book. However, it continued on in both Europe and many other countries around the globe. Anyone interested in learning more about what this training program might have looked like in the interwar years is invited to check out this PDF of a 1925 merit badge book.

Single stick and jujitsu were both options, but perhaps that should not be a surprise given the place that these exercises enjoyed in Edwardian society. One can even come across the occasional photo of British Scouts hard at work at their training. And while American scouts may not have been able to earn any merit badges in these subjects, I suspect that boxing and wrestling remained fairly popular activities on an informal level.  Interestingly, the American Boy Scout program clarified its prohibition against martial arts training in 1974. One suspects that this may have had something to do with the sudden popularity of Bruce Lee and nunchucks among their target demographic. Still, specific exceptions were left in place for Judo, Akido and Tai Chi.

Thus Western scouts were no stranger to the Asian martial arts. An essay titled “‘Always prepared’- the Boy Scouts and self-defence” on the Bartitsu Society blog noted that the early inclusion of the Man-at-Arms badge likely reflected something fundamental within the organization’s founding vision. In 1906 Baden-Powell was deeply impressed with a martial arts exhibition given by Sadakazu Uyenishi (formerly of the Bartitsu Club). The following year Jiujitsu was included among the skills practiced at his very first Scouting gathering on Brownsea Island. It is thus no surprise to find that the activity was promoted among early scouts.

How it was understood by those same individuals is always the more difficult question. Reading through the 1925 Master-at-Arms manual, I was struck by the fact that Western boxing was introduced with a full three paragraphs of material lauding the moral education that the “sweet science” would impart to young pugilists. The section of jiujitsu contained no such preamble. Nor were Kano’s similar ideas about Judo ever referenced. Instead, the Japanese martial art was treated almost as an addendum to wrestling. While the existence of other fighting systems was advertised, readers were left with no doubt as to where the author’s cultural loyalties lay.

The situation in East Asia also seems to have echoed Baden-Powell’s original vision. As was noted before, Japanese scouts do not appear to have been strangers to Kendo gear. Likewise, Scouting generated a fair amount of interest in China during the pre-WWII period. It was promoted by multiple physical culture reformers as exactly the sort of strenuous activity that was necessary to build a strong nation.

Chinese intellectuals, always concerned with the nation’s public image, made sure that the West would know that China was participating in the global scouting fraternity. Gunson Hoh’s 1926 English language volume, Physical Education in China (Shanghai, the Commercial Press), includes a surprising number of photographs of both Boy and Girl Scouts. Better yet, images of Girl Scouts with swords and poles are used to illustrate his historical discussion of the evolution of the Chinese martial arts in the first chapter of this volume.

Institutions and Context

Such images would have been immediately familiar to scouts around the globe. The ox-tailed sabers of Chinese children, or Japanese Kendo gear, represented a difference of degree rather than kind. European scouts had their jujitsu and single stick, while American troops remained far from pacifist. Scouting managed to have a leveling effect. Its participants were encouraged to see jiujitsu, fencing, boxing and Chinese sword dancing as equivalent activities. And yet they never became interchangeable. An American Boy Scout might practice Kendo with his new Japanese friends, yet the activities remained framed by the era’s nationalist discourse.

What was the ultimate impact of the global scouting movement on the spread of the martial arts, both Asian and Western? This would be an opportune time to return to the distinction laid out in this essay’s introduction. Rather than making vague gestures towards the manifestly militaristic nature of the era’s engagement with traditional combat training, an interesting dichotomy arises. The answer to our question depends in large part on where one lived and the way in which scouting intersected with more elite political or social forces.

In Europe and Asia during the 1920s, scouting seems to have fallen on the “push” side of the equation. These were coherent institutions that had both the resources and manpower to introduce large numbers of young people to a variety of fighting systems. Some of this was cosmopolitan in nature, but there was clearly a degree of emphasis on the reproduction of “national culture.” Thus a young Chinese scout might very well be called upon to execute a complex sword dance on the steps of New York’s city hall before being taken to Chinatown for lunch. And while Baden-Powell may have ensured that a shadow of the Bartitsu Society lived on in his organizations promotion of jiujitsu, it was boxing, wrestling, fencing, single stick and quarter-staff clearly defined the ideal “Man-at-Arms.”

This was not the only way that scouting functioned. The BSA dropped the Man-at-Arms merit badge early on, and thus abandoned much of the organization’s ability to “push” combative activities. Still, by continuing to cultivate a cosmopolitan and global identity, it was ensured that some young scouts would be exposed to Kendo, Chinese Boxing and Europeans doing Jiujitsu. All of this would be seen within the context of exciting recreational activities overlaying a more fractured reality of national rivalry and global competition.

Sadly these American children were not able to study Jiujitsu within their own troops (at least not on an official basis). But it may not be a coincidence that they would make up the generation of soldiers who would enthusiastically embrace the Asian martial arts while stationed in the Pacific, and then go to great lengths to bring these practices back into their civilian lives.

History, as we have seen, is a complex thing. Certainly we choose, but it both pushes and pulls us.

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: Defining Wing Chun by What is “Missing”

oOo

Of Boy Scouts and Kendo

A recent post focused on the role of the global scouting movement in promoting the spread of the Asian martial arts during the first half of the 20th century. In that essay I mentioned a photograph of Japanese-American and Caucasian scouts practicing Kendo together in California during the 1920s. Yet observant readers may have noticed I did not actually include that photo in the post.

Sadly I had misplaced that particular photo so it didn’t make it into that piece. But it recently resurfaced as I was shuffling through my collection. Better yet, I came across another related item which also helps to add detail to our understanding of Kendo in America prior to 1941.

I quite like the first of these press photos. In it we see two figures seemingly locked in a bind. Both boys wear a complete set of kendo gear over western clothing and shoes. While Kendo is traditionally practiced barefoot, the shoes are probably necessary in this case as the boys are practicing on an asphalt rooftop. While the publisher’s caption doesn’t say where the photograph was taken, our young combatants are framed by a well-developed cityscape in the background. The composition of this photograph is excellent, and it lends a real sense of drama to this moment of martial exchange.

The publisher’s complete caption (pasted to the verso of the photograph) reads as follows:

AMERICAN BOYS ADOPT JAPANESE GAMES

Japanese Boy Scouts of the Pacific Coast have taught white scouts some of the sports of ancient Japan. Here are a couple of the scouts practicing the ancient Samurai sport of sword play with bamboo swords.

April 17, 1928

While brief, this caption is quite revealing. It is likely that any Boy Scout of this age would have been born in the United States, yet the author seems unsure as to whether they should rightly be classified as “Americans” or not. If one were to read this description too quickly it might be possible to assume that it is discussing the visit of scouts from Japan to California, when in fact this was an exchange between two local troops, both comprised of US citizens. This same sense of self-inflicted confusion as to the actual identity of Japanese-American citizens would bear tragic fruit following the commencement of hostilities in the Pacific.

The irony is that whoever organized this activity likely believed that throwing scout troops from the white and Japanese-American communities together would lead to a greater sense of understanding and civic empathy. That sort of bridge building has long been a core function of the Boy Scouts. Yet rather than simply educating the public about their community, practices such as Kendo could be interpreted as markers of the “indelible strangeness” of the Japanese American community.

Nevertheless, the popularity of Kendo expanded rapidly on the West coast after the 1920s. Anyone interested in an overview of this period should be sure to check out Joseph Svinth’s 2003 chapter “Kendo in North America, 1985-1955” in Thomas and Svinth’s Martial Arts in the Modern World. This chapter is an excellent example of the ways in which a focused study of martial arts communities can make important contributions to our understanding of local and regional history. Svith’s comparison of the ultimate fate of the pre-war Kendo communities in the USA and Canada is also a nice case study in the politicization of the martial arts.

As Svinth notes, during the late 19th and early 20th century American kendo was mostly dominated by visiting elites from Japan rather than local immigrants. The expense of establishing schools, hiring instructors and importing gear from Japan was more than struggling local communities could bear. Yet by the end of the1920s things start to change. The growing economic security of the Japanese American community, as well as the immigration of a handful of instructors from Japan, set the stage for a kendo boom. By the middle of the next decade there were dozens of clubs up and down the west coast of Canada and the US, most of which were led by local instructors. The following photograph, also collected from a newspaper archive, records this moment in history.

JAPANESE FENCING

Los Angeles.

[A] new sport gains vogue in America, Kendo, the Japanese art of fencing with bamboo swords finds enthusiastic devotees in Los Angeles, under T. Shimo who is said to conduct the only class in the ancient sport outside of Japan. Young American born sons of Japanese residents are his pupils but so many occidentals have been attracted by the spectacular fencing that Shimo may break the traditional president and initiate a class of Americans, anticipating future international competition. Heavily padded headgear, gloves and breastplates are used to prevent injury in the sword duels which call for a high degree of skill and physical endurance. These young Japanese fencers, shown with Shimo. Have been studying under the fencing master for two years at Los Angeles.

1/18/33

One of the basic questions that Svinth attempts to tackle in his chapter is the actual popularity of Kendo on the West Coast. Certain sources indicated that more than 10,000 people were studying Kendo by the end of the 1930s. Svinth, however, is unconvinced that a handful of clubs could support such numbers. He views such reports as a self-reinforcing cycle of over-enthusiasm on the part of ambitious Kendo instructors and latent “yellow peril” fears on the part of Western reporters and government officials who were predisposed to worry about the growing strength of the Japanese American community.

The caption that circulated with this photo seems to touch on many of these same issues. It is certainly true that the practice of Kendo in America expanded rapidly between the time of our first and second photographs. At the same time there is an air of self-serving exaggeration in all of this. If Shimo’s class really started in 1931 it was far from the first Kendo class in Southern California, let alone “outside of Japan.” Still, it would be interesting to know if his plans to expand instruction to the local Caucasian community ever came to fruition.

Svinth notes that by the middle of the 1930s local merchants had started to stock Kendo gear and this dropped some of the economic barriers to participation. Proud parents, eager to use Kendo as a means of preserving their national identity, were quick to take formal photos of their children in Kendo gear and send them to relatives in the US and Japan. Unfortunately, between the internment of these citizens in North America, and the firebombing of Japanese cities, few of these photos now survive. Thus the newspaper photographs discussed here are an important visual record of what is largely a lost era of martial arts history.

While Kendo has a healthy following on the West Coast, Svinth notes that in the US the entire art had to be re-introduced and re-organized following the Second World War. While young students during the 1930s may have viewed their practice as a way of competing, winning trophies and making friends, their parents tended to associate these practices strongly with Japanese cultural identity. It was this sort of identity work that inspired the community to throw its support behind the rapid expansion of the practice in the first place.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor this became the source of an immediate crisis. All of the West Coast kendo schools were shut down and many of their instructors were detained by both the Canadian and US governments. Faced with a crisis of identity, many Japanese-Americans responded by destroying anything too closely linked with traditional Japanese culture or militarism. This included the burning of Kendo gear, photographs, books and the destruction of ancestral swords. While some individuals continued to practice Judo in the internment camps (which was deemed permissible as the art was adopted as part of American military training in 1943), Svinth notes that Kendo was largely shunned except by those seeking a form of passive resistance.

Such a path was not that popular in the American camps, where large numbers of young Japanese-Americans enlisted to fight in the pacific. As a result Kendo largely faded as part of the community’s identity. Its popularity in the second half of the 20th century was due to its re-introduction by returning veterans who had studied the art in occupied Japan, or later immigrants. Interestingly the path of peaceful resistance proved to be much more popular in the Canadian camps. As a result much of the pre-War Kendo community managed to survive in that country.

Conclusion

Its comforting to think that the more two communities learn about each other the less likely conflict becomes. This hope often functions as an implicit assumption within many discussions of value of the global spread of the Asian martial arts. It is simply one more facet of the ever-popular paradox of the “fighting arts” functioning as a pathway for peace.

Political scientists, however, have known for quite some time that greater empathy does not always lead to more peaceful outcomes. Sometimes additional information just ends in more finely calibrated attacks. Simply put, the exchange of knowledge (embodied or otherwise) never happens in a vacuum. Structure matters, and so does discourse. One must think carefully about the larger frameworks surrounding martial exchanges to understand likely outcomes.

The case of kendo’s rapid expansion on the West Coast in the early 1930s is an interesting case study. While press coverage of these clubs may have created a more informed reading public, it probably wasn’t a more sympathetic one. Perhaps things would have been different if greater efforts had been made to racially integrate classes. Indeed, both of the photos discussed above hint hopefully at that possibility. But in an era when Kendo itself was being promoted as a way to reconnect with one’s Japanese roots, and American life was dominated by the institutions of segregation, such an outcome was unlikely. Still, the visual record of these historical moments lead us to wonder about what might have been?

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to see: Conceptualizing the Asian Martial Arts: Ancient Origins, Social Institutions and Leung Jan’s Wing Chun.

oOo

We take the “concrete and palpable” presence of a thing to attest to the reality of that which we have made it to signify; our fantasies find confirmation in the materiality of things that are composed more of objectified fantasy than physical stuff.

Nicholas Thomas, Entangled Objects (Harvard UP, 1991), p. 138

Introduction

Strange images occasionally emerge from the annals of kung fu history. This “strangeness” has many sources. Perhaps the most exciting is the shock of discovering something totally new. In all honesty, the historical documentary record on these fighting systems is so thin that the emergence of a single well placed source can still disrupt our understanding of what was going on in a given region or time period. It is heady stuff, and probably why so many document finds of dubious origin have emerged in the last few years (often tied to efforts to create a new tourist destination).

Yet strangeness has many sources. More common is encountering a known practice or personality in a totally unexpected setting. The rapid pace of modernization and westernization that swept over China in the early 20th century ensured that the Republic period was a cornucopia of such images.

Without a doubt my favorite of these is the frequent appearance of Jingwu’s modern martial artists decked out in nothing but leopard or tiger skins. Of course Chinese soldiers and martial artists have a long history of dressing themselves in the colors of predatory cats, or wearing “tiger crowns.” That is very much a part of traditional Chinese culture going as far back as the archeological record can take us.

Yet China’s “Pure Martial” movement was not trying to draw on this long and illustrious train of cultural associations. Rather, their representatives would take to the stage, perform a demonstration, or pose for press photos, dressed explicitly in the feline trappings of the stereotypical Western strongman. It all becomes even stranger once we realize that these colorfully clad individuals are often the same middle-aged merchants, clerks and bankers who funded the movement and provided its administrative background. It seems that everyone wanted to get in on the act.

So how did these images come about? What were audiences at the time meant to take away from them? And what theoretical concepts do they suggest that might help us to understand the relationship between communication and social change with the fighting arts more generally?

Walter Camp Goes to China

Before returning to our leopard print martial artists, I would like to introduce another moment of strangeness that emerged from my recent archival research. As we unravel this mystery we may gain the conceptual toolkit necessary to interpret a number of other puzzles within the presentation and spread of the Chinese martial arts. And once again, it all starts with a photograph intended for an English speaking audience.

This time the photo appeared in the North China Daily News, a British run newspaper that was widely read throughout China’s port cities. This newspaper even earned a following among China’s educated elites (many of whom read English papers) and news editors in the West. From time to time it would cover events in the martial arts world, and in the March 13, 1935, issue I was surprised to find a photo of three individuals practicing Taijiquan in a public park.

There was nothing surprising about the subject matter of the image. But few of the treaty-port newspapers ran many photos, and I don’t think I had ever seen such a detailed image of the Chinese martial arts in the North China Daily News. Unfortunately this photograph didn’t accompany an article, but the caption read:

“Chinese Clerks Do Their “Daily Dozen.” Interesting scenes are to be witnessed on the Bund any morning these days where, inspired by the growing interest in athletics, scored of Chinese clerks practice boxing as part of their morning exercises before going to work. These postures were snapped in the Public Gardens.”

On a purely factual level it would be hard to argue with anything in this brief but revealing discussion. Between 1933 and 1937 the KMT found a renewed enthusiasm for China’s traditional martial arts. The Central Guoshu Institute was busy organizing events, creating clubs for office workers in the cities and classes for workers in outlying areas. Martial arts manuals were being published at a rapid rate and China’s fighting systems were being promoted at home and abroad. Any substantial movement by the Japanese was liable to inspire the creation of a wave of “Big Sword” militias. But what are the “Daily Dozen,” and what do they have to do with the traditional Chinese martial arts?

The short answer would be nothing at all. The Daily Dozen was an exercise program created by the noted coach and “father of American football” Walter Camp. Initially developed in conjunction with the American military towards the end of WWI, this set of exercises was supposed to be a light workout that warmed up the muscles while promoting flexibility and a full range of motion. Camp’s program was never meant to be a complete fitness routine. Rather, it was designed as a way to physically and mentally prepare soldiers for a day of training without causing excessive fatigue before they could get to the task at hand. The entire set of exercises could be completed in eight to ten minutes.

Camps’ innovation proved to be very popular within the military where there was concern with what we might today term a lack of “functional fitness” among the recruits. After leaving the service many soldiers and officers brought his exercises with them into civilian life. In an economy obsessed with Taylorism, all sorts of American businesses began to promote the Daily Dozen as the key to an enhanced and energized workforce. Camp eventually wrote a pamphlet and released a set of recordings to promote his practice. Throughout the 1920s and 1930s the Daily Dozen became a fixture of global physical culture.

Importantly, the North China Daily News was not the first to frame the martial arts by associating them with Camp. That honor seems to have gone to members of China’s elite, Western trained, physical education community. In 1923 Gunson Hoh (then a student at the YMCA training college in Springfield Massachusetts) wrote a thesis on the topic of physical education in China. This included some discussion of the martial arts. But his biggest contribution was an English language description of the “Eight Pieces of Brocade,” complete with traditional woodcuts, modern photographs and training advice, all promoted as the “Eight Graceful Daily Exercises.” Hoh explicitly framed these as the Chinese response to Camp’s Daily Dozen. In so doing he hoped to show that traditional Chinese physical culture had always been as “progressive” and “scientific” as the modern Western trends that were then making their way into Chinese life.

Hoh’s academic work was amplified in multiple places. In 1926 Shanghai’s Commercial press released an expanded version of his thesis, printed in English, titled Physical Education in China. This work appears to have circulated fairly widely (one can still find copies of it in general circulation in American university libraries) and it also promoted the Eight Pieces of Brocade as China’s version of the eminently modern Daily Dozen. This same theme was picked up by Snowpine Liu in a 1933 article that he wrote for the English language Journal of Health and Physical Education, which drew on Hoh’s earlier publications but did not properly credit them.

This framing of traditional Chinese physical culture with reference to Walter Camp is interesting in a number of respects. To begin with, while descriptively plausible on a surface level, the more one knows about the history of this practice, the less it seems to have anything to do with Camp’s actual project. And one suspects that Hoh would have understood this. So why bring the two together?

The historian and anthropologist Anthony Pagden has addressed similar questions in his own work on colonialism and global encounters. In European Encounters with the New World (Yale UP 1993) he noted that the first act of engagement that occurs when Westerners encounter something strikingly new and different is almost always a mistranslation, or misconceptualization. Almost by definition one’s received linguistic and cultural tools will not be well suited for dealing with something radically new. As such, the work of cultural translation usually starts by finding categories that appear similar so that descriptive exploration can begin. Hopefully, through an iterative process of refinement, this eventually leads to a better understanding of why the two seemingly like activities are actually different, and maybe not even comparable.

This is certainly something that we have seen in our historical exploration of the Chinese martial arts here at Kung Fu Tea. Early Western observers of these practices, such as Alfred Lister, tended to classify these practices as “Chinese Boxing,” a choice that said more about the growing popularity of pugilism in Europe than any inherent similarity of these schools of practice. Lister and others then proceeded to be disgusted when Chinese martial artists “wasted” their time with weapon’s practice and refused to put on gloves and spar like a decent English “pug.”

Yet by the 1920s and 1930s more thoughtful Western reporters writing in the treaty port press were noting that in fact there were some key similarities between Western and Chinese Boxers. They could be seen in the almost ascetic discipline of the athletes, and hours spent shadow boxing and drilling. While for Western athletes this was only one part of the training that inevitably led to a prize fight in a local theatre, Chinese pugilist had concentrated exclusively on the development of these activities as an expression of a different set of values and desires. In short, while writers in the 1870s and 1930s might both refer to “Chinese Boxing” in their articles, the actual substance of that understanding evolved from focusing on a mode of fighting to a broader appreciation of disciplined training.

The current case is interesting in that it forces us to add to Pagden’s insights on how new and novel cross-cultural experiences get framed in the first place. Rather than always focusing on the Western actors, Hoh’s work reminds us that at times the “foreign other” also becomes involved with (or contests) this process of cultural translation. By associating the Eight Pieces of Brocade (and by extension the other elements of martial training which he discussed) with the Daily Dozen, Hoh was making both a descriptive claim (e.g., this is a non-exhausting set of health related exercises suitable for middle class people) as well as an ideological one (there is nothing inherently incompatible between traditional Chinese and modern Western physical culture).

Of course Hoh was not primarily a martial artist. He was actually much more interested in Western athletics. But as a Chinese student at an American University he found himself giving an account of all aspects of China’s traditional physical culture in his academic work.

Still, his ideological formulation of these issues would have been deeply appealing to the modernizers and rationalizers who were responsible for running the Central Guoshu Institute. Not only did this pave the way for promoting modernized martial arts training among middle class professionals, but by invoking Walter Camp’s name an additional argument could be made for integrating their use within military training.

All of this goes a long way towards explaining our newspaper photograph. Certainly the editors of the North China Daily News would have been aware of the “Daily Dozen” in the mid 1930s. More importantly, some of China’s own physical education reformers had been employing Camp as a metaphor for their preferred understanding of the country’s traditional practices for more than a decade.

This leads us to the possibility of strategic mistranslation. Invoking Walter Camp would quickly convey to Western readers an image of what solo Chinese practice might look like using a metaphor they were likely to find attractive. Yet Hoh himself was deeply influenced by a vision of the supremacy of Western athletics that had been crafted by Camp and others like him. Thus we can think of this metaphor as a case of strategic mistranslation in which Hoh, aware of how desperately Chinese elites at the time sought legitimacy in the eyes of Western society, played out his own vision for what modern Chinese physical culture (and martial arts) should become.

Rather than bringing this metaphor into line with actual practice through a process of better translations, these elites instead sought to bring the Chinese martial arts closer to the global vision of physical culture epitomized by Walter Camp’s Daily Dozen. Indeed, this framework would seem to explain Chu Minyi’s efforts to reform Taijiquan into a more “modern” system of “Tai Chi Calisthenics” (complete with standardized calls). He would go on to promote his vision both in China and on the world stage.

Within the context of early 20th century Asian history, it should be understood that the process of transcultural framing outlined by Pagden went both ways. Both Western and Eastern intellectuals became involved in the process of framing certain activities in a transcultural context. Yet the implications of this went well beyond generating better understandings. Employed strategically, this process could be used to localize foreign concepts, promoting very specific visions of what modern Chinese society should be through the cultivation of a certain theory of physical practice.

Bruce Lee Goes to the Theater

Interwar fitness fads were not the only, or even most common, ways in which the Asian martial arts were framed and culturally translated. This brings us back to those wonderful images of Jinwu’s amateur martial artists and financial backers refuting the “sick man of Asia” troupe while dressed as Western strongmen. While the primary audience for these photos were domestic, Jingwu was unique in the degree to which it sought out coverage of its movement by the foreign language press. In either case, its important to remember that these images were not consumed by either Chinese or Western viewers within a cultural vacuum.

Chinese martial arts reformers seeking to increase the legitimacy of their practices, both at home and abroad, were acutely aware of the precedent that the Japanese fighting systems had already set. By the 1920s the Western public was familiar with practices such as jujitsu and judo. The popular press even carried carefully reasoned discussions of the differences between these systems. And both students and readers around the globe wondered whether these fighting systems might not contain the secret to Japan’s success in its global political competition with the other imperialist powers. In shorts, Japanese political messages and its military successes in Asia framed global discussions of its martial arts, and these fighting systems seemed to provide a measure of legitimacy to Japan’s success in other spheres.

The logic of these interconnected messages were apparent to Chinese reformers within the martial arts, all of whom sought to win some of this legitimacy for themselves. Individuals like the warlord Ma Liang made sure that the foreign members of the press at his many wushu demonstrations were informed that China was the real home of his jujitsu, and that his men had nothing to fear from Japan’s many martial artists.

Yet how were the Japanese martial arts actually promoted in the West? Aside from the glowing reports of President Roosevelt and frequent discussions in the press, many people got their first exposure to the martial arts in vaudeville or music hall theaters. Such shows would host displays by traveling wrestlers and martial artists who, critically, displayed their practices along side western fighters and strongmen. Sometimes these same theaters would host novelty exhibitions in which Western boxers would square off against Japanese fighters. In fact, these sorts of shows were even popular in Chinese cities like Shanghai.

The Jingwu Association’s appropriation of the Western strongman outfit, while seemingly strange at this historical distance, actually makes perfect sense. They were struggling to win some of the domestic and international legitimacy that the Japanese martial arts had already achieved. And within the global context these were practices that were framed by, and made familiar through, a vaudevillian logic of display and entertainment. On a deeper level, one wonders if this was also another act of intentional mistranslation which sought to not just localize a set of global symbols, but to further a specific vision of what the Chinese martial arts should be in the process.

This theoretical framing of the Chinese martial arts might be an important concept to bear in mind when thinking about other periods in global transmission. Indeed, I have often wondered if this framing marked the first half of Bruce Lee’s career in America. When looking at accounts and images of his famous early appearances (such as the 1964 Long Beach Tournament) its hard not to see echoes of the older vaudeville performance tradition in some of his displays and techniques.

In sense that makes perfect sense. Lee came from a performing family. His father spent his life on the opera stage and Lee spent much of his childhood appearing in Hong Kong films. But more generally, theatrical displays of amazing physical prowess were in large part, how Americans learned about new fighting styles in the era before the martial arts film boom of the 1970s and 1980s. All of this puts Lee’s enthusiasm to escort Diana Chang Chun-Wen during part of her American tour in a slightly different perspective as it more directly suggests that he was still following the old pattern of theatrical demonstration. Indeed, Charlie Russo has argued quite convincingly that it was one such demonstration gone wrong which led directly to his seminal altercation with Wong Jack Man.

Ironically it was Lee’s career which seems to have marked the conclusion of this approach to framing the martial arts. His appearances first on television and then film allowed for the emergence of a more dynamic, violent and seemingly “real” vision of the Chinese martial arts within the public imagination. In a sense it was no less theatrical for its move from the stage to the screen.  Yet what came next would seem lightyears away from Chu Min-yi’s stilted “Tai Chi Calisthenics” or Jingwu’s businessmen posing in leopard skin leotards.

Each of those efforts had made sense given the discourses that dominated discussions of the martial arts in the interwar years. Yet TV and then film not only made it possible to frame the martial arts against a number of different cultural trends, they practically mandated it. The worlds of vigilante superheroes, secret agents, gangsters, colonial injustice and racial conflict all exploded onto the screen. Each of these frames led to the emergence of new cultural associations with the Chinese martial arts. It was these, all mediated by Lee’s striking screen presence, which kicked off a new wave of cross cultural desire.

In conclusion, we can never really talk about the martial arts in a state of pristine isolation. These practices are a cultural phenomenon, and as such they derive their meaning from a vast range of other symbols and practices (most of which remain invisible or unexamined) which are used to frame them. This essay suggests that the choice of framing devices is rarely random. In some cases it is necessary to facilitate a deepening process of cross cultural understanding, such as the evolution of the term “Chinese boxing” between the 1870s and the 1930s. In other cases frames may be adopted as strategic miscommunications that attempt to contest or change the social meaning of a practice, as seen with the sudden enthusiasm for Walter Camp in the 1930s. Finally, Lee’s career, which seems to straddle two eras, suggests that the popularity of martial arts depends in large part on the often unexamined symbolic associations that surround them, rather than their execution on a purely technical level.

Lee is often credited as a genius as for knowing when to abandon aspects of his traditional training that no longer worked. Yet it may have been his enthusiasm for detaching the martial arts from their roots in theater and even early martial arts film, attaching them instead to the then popular stories of superheroes (the Green Hornet) and spy thrillers (Enter the Dragon) which forced Western consumers to reconsider the desirability of the Asian martial arts.

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: Through a Lens Darkly (29): Savate: French Kickboxing and the Military

oOo

Men fighting men to determine worth (i.e., masculinity) excludes women as completely as the female experience of childbirth excludes men….The female boxer violates this stereotype and cannot be taken seriously—she is parody, she is cartoon, she is monstrous. Had she an ideology, she is likely to be a feminist.

                                                                 Joyce Carol Oates, On Boxing, 1987

On Negative Findings

Exploring history, like every sort of adventure, has it difficulties.  One of these might be termed “the problem of foreknowledge.”  When we write about popular history we usually want to understand how events or trends were experienced by a specific group.  And yet the very fact that we know enough about such people to ask specific questions suggests that there will be a gap in perspective that cannot be bridged.  After all, we typically know how the story ends.  Our minds are already filled with historical narratives and theoretical frameworks even before we sit down with our primary source documents.  We may want to know why certain events happened, but in broad strokes we are usually pretty clear on what must happen.

On the most fundamental level a historian cannot vicariously experience the events that his subjects lived.  While we may try to suspend some aspect of our foreknowledge, or to empathetically place ourselves in their perspective, we are bound to fail.  The brain’s need to impose order on the perceived chaos of the world will never really let us experience the radical uncertainty that defines the emotional reality of our subjects.  Thus my understanding of the year 1933 will be fundamentally incommensurate with the lived experience of this chaotic and transformative period in the Chinese martial arts.

Understanding the limitations of our perspective, we can strive to ask better questions about the past. Rather than only asking about the perspectives and trends that carry the day, its also important to make the effort to explore history’s dead ends and reactionary whiplashes.  Even if these movements failed, they ultimately shaped the lived experience of many people and paint a richer image of the struggles, fears and debates that define an era.

One of the areas where this can be particularly helpful is in our discussion of gender and the martial arts.  Knowing that women currently participate in all sorts of combat sports, there is a temptation to read this situation onto the past.  And certain early 20th century movements, including Kano’s Judo and the Chinese Jingwu Association, did go out of their way to promote the message that women should take up these reformed and progressive practices.  Yet it is also undeniable that there were many fewer women in the traditional martial arts at the start of the 20th century than there would be at its conclusion.  So what forces and attitudes shaped this evolution?

The danger on the other side is to dismiss too easily the work of feminist reformers in China or the UK, or to assert that somehow women were always excluded from the martial realm.  I have written several posts over the last few years documenting early female Chinese martial artists and revolutionary leaders.  To say that something was rare should not be taken to mean that it was never contested. Indeed, the fact that women were so often the targets of social violence suggests that this was a realm that could never be totally escaped.

The coming of Western imperialist ideologies that promoted competitive sports, progressive ideas about social reforms and feminism in the early 20th century set the stage for an explosion of female participation in the martial arts across Asia.  Yet similar trends could be seen around the world.  Women in the UK were taking up jujitsu with the same enthusiasm that their sisters in major American cities were embracing “executive boxing” classes. 

Rather than simply assuming that female participation in the Eastern martial arts would always be viewed as inevitable or “natural,” its important to remember that within parts of Asia this trend (which we ironically assume to be “oriental” in origin) was perceived as another foreign import.  At a time when communities were struggling to redefine their social and cultural identity, female participation in the combat sports was actively debated and contested.  

Nor was this Western intrusion always seen as a positive development.  This was particularly true within some of the more conservative Chinese expatriate communities of South East Asia.  Consider, for example, the following article which appeared in the Straits Times in September of 1933:  

Chinese Boxing Belles Will Not Be Encouraged

Although the younger generation of Singapore Chinese may favor the emancipation of their womenfolk, they intend to draw the line at their girls taking up boxing.

Up-country, this intrusion into the realm of masculine sport, seems to have caught on.  The other day four young Chinese girls gave a boxing exhibition, and from a box-office point of view the venture was a success.

“I am sure the older and more sober-minded among us will do their best to put a stop to this sort of thing,” said a well known Singapore Chinese.

Mr. Tay Lian Teck said that he would not countenance any attempt to encourage local Chinese girls to take up the sport.  “Some of the ultra-modern Chinese girls probably will not listen to any advice on the subject,” he added.

A member of the local boxing Board of Control said that it was unlikely that any public exhibitions of girls boxing would be sanctioned, unless it was of the nature of a burlesque show, on which case the Board would have no say in the matter

“Women are not physically suited to the sport,” said a Singapore doctor. 

“It is just a stunt,” a boxer declared.  “I don’t believe any woman can box.”

Singapore girls themselves are not very interested in the controversy.

The Straits Times. September 10th, 1933.  Page 10.

At first it is not clear what sort of activity the author wished to address as The Straits Times would also use terms like “boxing exhibition” when discussing the eras frequent traditional martial art events.  Still, the interview with a member of the local boxing commission leads us to suspect that the women in question were actually students of western pugilism, even if the article seems to have been intentionally vague on that point.

In any case, an exhibition of female boxing was controversial enough to inspire ongoing public discussion close to a week after the actual event took place.  Mr. Tay Lian Teck was at the time president of the Singapore Football Association, a Municipal Commissioner and a member of the Chinese Board of Commerce.  The article went out of its way to both line up expert opinion against female boxing and to mock “ultra-modern” women who might find enjoyment in it.

Unfortunately this piece is more of an editorial than an actual report.  It lacked any of the critical details about the exhibition that so aroused the ire of respectable Chinese society within Singapore.  But after a bit of exploration I found this account of the exhibition that seems to have inspired the debate: 

Malacca Boxing

Johnson’s Success: To Bouts for Girls

(From Our Own Correspondent.)

Malacca, Sept. 4.

The Malacca City Park, which has been closed for two months, reopened recently.  A record crowd witnessed a boxing promotion of six contests there last night when How Diamond (9.6) and B. S. Ang (9.9) figured in the main event of the evening.

The fight was marked by hurricane hitting on the part of both boxers and the verdict went in favor of Joe Diamond at the end of the tenth round.  The winner sustained a cut over the right eye at the end of the third round and had to receive medical attention.

The preliminaries included two bouts between girl boxers.  Results: Miss Low (5.6) drew Miss Kee Lian (5.8) over four rounds.

Miss Goh (7.8) drew Miss Yong (7.4) over four rounds.

George Bong beat C. C. Tay over 4 rounds.

J. Rahman beat Kid Willard, the seconds throwing in the town at the end of the third round.

Dixie Kid knocked out Emble in the third of a four round bout.

The Straits Times, 5th of September 1933, page 15.

Shorn of its editorial bite, it is interesting to read about the actual exhibition in question.  Two all female fights appeared on the expansive undercard.  It may also be important to note that all four of these female fighters were in fact Chinese.  I haven’t been able to locate any other accounts of fights by these women in the local press, but it would certainly be an interesting question for further investigation.

The conservative editorial slant of The Straits Times on this question was not shared by all of the treaty port papers.  While the Singapore Free Press did not cover the actual event it evidentially got wind of its organization and commented on the upcoming contests in an editorial column of their own that ran on July 10th.  

******

We lift a very different pen to comment upon the manners and habits of the modern Chinese miss, but we cannot Lind our eyes to the fact that radical changes are taking place among young ladies of to-day—changes that may well cause astonishment, if no other sentiment, among the more conservative of our Chinese communities.  The latest step in the direction of emancipation among Chinese girls in Malaya takes them to the boxing arena where they will test their prowess in the noble art.  The days when Chinese girls were practically confined to the house and garden except on the occasion of the Chap Got Meh are long past, and there is evidence that Malaya is losing its place as the last sanctuary of Chinese conservatism.  Weddings and funerals on the old lines are becoming more an more rare and the system of collecting rentals by the lunar month is falling into disuse.  We suppose we ought to welcome this accumulation of evidence of the advancement and enlightenment of the Chinese in Malaya—but somehow the sentimental element in the human composition cannot witness the jettisoning of this and that tradition and convention without a feeling akin to melancholy.

******

Singapore Free Press. Monday, July 10, 1933.

Conclusion

While paternalistic in tone, this paper took a much more positive view of female participation in combat sports.  Yet on a fundamental level its fundamental assumptions were not all that different from the Straits Times.  Both saw these contests through a political lens that linked them with an intrusion of Western modern values into Singapores otherwise conservative Chinese community.  And while they differed on the ultimate desirability of these moves, both perceived something fundamentally disruptive within these developments.  A line would be crossed from which one could not retreat.

In conclusion, these articles remind us that while we in the West often assume that female participation in the martial arts or combat sports reflects intrinsic Japanese or Chinese cultural values, that may not always be the case.  Indeed, the movements that were most welcoming to female students tended to be those that embraced modernity.  Further, more conservative elements of Chinese society in South East Asia (and other places) identified these trends as reflecting an undesirable intrusion of Western values.  

This debate is important as it clearly illustrates the politicization of the Asian martial arts at a local level.  Its easy to point to the Guoshu movement on mainland China, or the Japanese government’s appropriation of Budo, as examples of the traditional combat systems being implicated in nationalist projects.  Yet this debate about the propriety of female boxers in South East Asia reminds us that individuals within local communities also sought to mobilize the martial arts to promote their own (often contradictory) visions of what modern Chinese society should be.  If we were to ignore the more reactionary voices within the historical record, we would miss the degree to which the nature and form of these practices was actively contested.

oOo

If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read: Remembering Yim Wing Chun, the Boxer Rebellion and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

oOo

T’ai Chi Ch’uan is not a by-product, as it were, of any other art-dance form; it is not derived from ancient Chinese commemorative dance [ritual], folk, or classical Chinese theatre dance [opera], and does not resemble them in dynamics, rhythm, or structure.  T’ai Chi Ch’uan is a complete entity, composed to answer the needs to which it is directed.  Total in concept, it is a synthesis of form and function.  With the elements of structure and movement so consummately composed, it is an art in the deepest sense of the word.  Aesthetically, it can be compared to a composition by Bach or a Shakespearean sonnet.  However T’ai Chi Ch’uan is not art directed outward to an audience.  It is an art-in-action for the doer; the observer, moved by its beauty, can only surmise its content.  The experience of the form in process of change makes it an art for the self.

Sophia Delza. 1963. T’ai Chi Ch’uan: Body and Mind in Harmony, 4

An Unlikely Discovery

A chance encounter in a used bookstore recently inspired me to think a bit more deeply about the process by which the Chinese martial arts found a place in American popular culture during the 1960s.  Or more precisely, the process by which one very specific vision of these fighting systems succeeded while others, representing different sets of social values, receded into relative obscurity.  While scanning the shelves I came across a copy of Sophia Delza’s first book, T’ai Chi Ch’uan: Body and Mind in Harmony (1961).  I initially read her introduction to Taijiquan while researching a longer biographical essay on her life and career that I posted here on Kung Fu Tea a few years ago. (Incidentally, if you are wondering who Delza is, you might want to check out that link before going on.)

Upon flipping the book open I was pleasantly surprised to discover two things.  First, it was an original first edition (my working copy was a later reprint.)  Second, it was both inscribed and signed by the author, whose handwriting was every bit as artistic as one might expect.

In all honestly the inscription is a little hard to make out. But it appears that in 1963 she signed a copy of the book for a certain Dr. Abisch “With great affection and warm memories for our common experiences in China (and here!)”  One suspects that there is probably a fascinating, and sad, story behind their friendship.  Local obituaries reveal that a Dr. David Abisch died in a small town near Ithaca in 1990.  Born to a Jewish family in Austria in 1905, he received his MD from the University of Berlin in 1930.  Abisch practiced medicine in Germany for the next nine years until the rise of the Nazi regime forced him to flee to Shanghai.

Unfortunately China was far from stable during the middle decades of the 20th century.  I have yet to find much information on his career in China, but it appears that Dr. Abisch continued to practice medicine until he was once again forced to become a refugee following the rise of the CCP.  In 1951 Abisch arrived in Brooklyn NY where he remained as he completed his American medical residency.  After that he moved to the small village of Newfield (just south of Ithaca and Cornell University), where he lived until his death in 1990.

The inscription informs us that Delza and Abisch met in Shanghai.  This is not surprising when we recall what first brought her to the city.  Following the end of WWII the US government sent her husband to Germany to work on refugee resettlement.  In 1948 he was transferred to Shanghai to work on the same issues there.  It was during this time that Delza, already well known as a performer in America, began to study both traditional Chinese opera and Wu style Taijiquan with the famous Master Ma Yueling.  Apparently she stayed in contact with Abisch after they both returned to New York City.

I eagerly purchased the book and spent a couple of days trying to piece together its story.  Delza is such a critical (if often overlooked) figure in the history of the Chinese martial arts that it is exciting to come into contact with an artifact of her life.  It was so exciting that I decided to sit down and reread her book.

A Lonely Art

At first I intended to only review her introductory chapter.  But I found myself being drawn into her conceptual discussions and even the detailed discussion of the Wu style form.  Not being a Taijiquan practitioner, I usually skip this sort of material.  My interest is more in how Delza presented the Chinese martial arts an early Western audience rather than the actual details of what she taught.  But this time something about the text wouldn’t let me go.

Perhaps it was the still lingering details of Dr. Abisch’s precarious life-story.  Or maybe it was the realization that Delza herself had spent years living in mostly destroyed foreign countries at the end of WWII.  Yet upon rereading this text I was gripped by a feeling of profound loneliness.

That actually came as something of a surprise.  One can experience many emotions while practicing Wing Chun, but in my experience crippling isolation isn’t one of them.  That art is profoundly social.  As I have stated before, Wing Chun really only exists as a conceptual conversation between two individuals, one of whom seeks to hit the other.  Even when practicing with the dummy, one still imagines an opponent. 

Obviously Wing Chun and Taijiquan are different arts and some variation on this point is to be expected.  Wing Chun has its basic forms, but it is sticky hands (chi sao) that really constitutes the core of the modern (post-Ip Man) approach to the art.  In contrast, the solo forms seem to rest at the heart of Taijiquan’s instructional culture.  Within that system it is probably easier to spend hours at a time in perfect isolation, absorbed totally in the experience of your own bodily sensations.

One can certainly gain a sense of this from other work’s on Taijiquan.  Given that they both studied with the same community in Shanghai, it is interesting to compare Delza’s writings with Adam Frank’s Taijiquan and the Search for the Little Old Chinese Man (Palgrame 2006).  There is certainly a sense of isolation in parts of Frank’s ethnography, mostly as he discusses his exploration of the cityscape.  Yet his descriptions of Taijiquan itself is full of intense interactions with a variety of teachers, friends and classmates.  

Delza certainly enjoyed these things as well.  She was not a hermit, either during her time in China or the US.  During the 1950s and 1960 she gave demonstrations, performed Taijiquan on television (probably for the first time in North America) and started no fewer than three classes in the NYC area.  She was surrounded with both dance and Taiji students.

And yet all of these social facts quickly fade from her writings on her art.  As an anthropologist Frank was focused on the process of identity formation within communities.  Its not surprising that he focused on groups. Yet Delza’s background in dance seems to have led her in an very different direction.  In her writing we see a foreshadowing of the current interest in “embodied knowledge” which dominates so much of the current martial arts studies discussion.  

Realizing that she is speaking to an audience who probably has no familiarity with her subject, Delza is forced to explain Taijiquan (and the Chinese martial arts) in the most basic possible terms.  Yet rather than starting with their history or sociology (perhaps the most common approaches to these subjects in the 20th century) she begins by explaining what goals motivate the practice of Taiji.  This is then followed by an extensive discussion in which basic concepts are explored almost exclusively in terms of how they should feel when performed. Her work is notably tactile.

The goal of Delza’s Taijiquan seems to be nothing less than the resolution of the mind/body duality that undergirds so much of western life.  This is to be accomplished with the mindful performance of certain movements designed to elicit specific bodily sensations.  At times Delza’s practice seems to be a vehicle for the exploration of a vast internal country.

Two moves are necessary to maintain this approach.  While Delza acknowledges that Taijiquan can be taught as a more practical form of self defense, and that advanced practitioners in Shanghai practice push-hands (what she calls “joint hand operations”) she excludes all further discussions of these subjects (along with the mysteries of Qi) from her text as being topics unsuitable for novice readers.  This effectively narrows the scope of Taijiquan practice to the solo sets.

Secondly, Delza is quite careful to draw a clear distinction between Taijiquan and other (non martial) traditional physical practices that one encounters in Chinese society.  This tendency towards negative definition can be seen in the quote at the front of this essay.  Delza repeatedly drew on her experience as a dancer and student of Chinese opera to argue that Taiji was not related to, and could not be seen as derived from, the performance arts.

This assertion requires some consideration. In point of fact the traditional martial arts have been used as a form of public performance throughout Chinese history.  One only needed to celebrate New Years or go to a local temple festival to see elaborate martial displays. Further, martial arts often found their way onto the opera stage (and from there onto film).  This was where most people in China appear to have gotten their introduction to these fighting systems.  Given Delza’s interest in all of these subjects I think that we can safely assume that she knew all of this.

What really stands out in the introductory quotation are the questions of audience and intention.  Delza notes in a few places that while a spectator may watch the performance of Taijiquan, it is basically impossible for the uninitiated to guess what the practitioner is experiencing.  If the point of Taijiquan is to create certain physical sensations which encourage a process of personal transformations, the only valid audience for the art is the performer.  Meaning is conveyed through the practice of the form, but only reflexively.  

There may be another factor that drives this inward turn.  Rather than simply exploring embodied experience in the abstract (perhaps in response to Spinoza/Ben Spatz’s question of “what can a body do?”), Delza seems to be concerned with the problem of psychological anxiety. This is a problem to which her discussion of the art always returns.  Yes, the practice of Taijiquan can promote health in the abstract, but the driving need that she perceives is for a practice that promotes “a calming sense of well being.”  The demons she fights appear to be internal and emotional in nature.

A Different Vision of the Chinese Martial Arts

Such an approach to the Asian martial arts would probably come as a bit of a surprise to most American students of these systems during the 1960s and 1970s.  One only had to look at the covers of Black Belt magazine (the publication of record for the martial arts community) to get a sense of the enemies that plagued the imaginations of its readers.  By in large they were the sorts of problems that could be kicked in the face.  Perhaps a more charitable reading of the situation would be that a feeling of personal insecurity motivated many martial artists during the post-war period.

An exploration of the content of any one of these issues basically confirms this theory.  Occasionally William C. C. Hu might explore the finer points of Chinese history as it related to the martial arts.  Yet the vast majority of articles focused on winning techniques for judo matches and effective self-defense strategies.  One need not bother “reading between the lines” as the discussions are right there in text.  Readers experienced a type of fear that was both immediate and focused on physical and social threats of violence.

To the extent that the public was at all interested in the Chinese martial arts in the early 1960s, it was that they were seen as the forefather of Japanese Karate.  This was the decade of the great Karate vs. Judo debate in which advocates of the former style argued that its “more realistic” approach to violence made it the superior martial art.  Many of these early Black Belt articles on the Chinese martial arts, while also steeped in Orientalism, present a notable contrast to Delza’s understanding of Taijiquan.

Unfortunately there are not that many other English language books on the Chinese martial arts from this period to which we can compare hers in order to establish some sort of discursive benchmark.  Released in 1964 Robert W. Smith’s edited (and highly problematic) Secrets of Shaolin Temple Boxing (Tuttle) is one of the few reference points that we have.  In truth this slim work deserves a critical blogpost of its own.  

A (highly selective) translation of an untitled collected manuscript tradition, it covers a number of different subjects from basic exercises, to martial ethics to self-defense techniques.  Some of this material was meant for solo practice, while other sections discussed more practical matters.  Yet in the context of the current discussion this work is interesting in that all of its discussions point towards the existence of a broader “martial world” rather than dwelling on the abstract individual experience (or transformative power) of the martial art.  In short, like many manuals, this one accepted the existence of an often perilous martial realm and gave one the tools to succeed within this fundamentally social setting.  

Nor is this outward focus restricted to the Shaolin school.  Delza provides a brief historical appendix at the end of her book.  In a note at its conclusion she briefly lists a number of the works that she had translated when doing her research.  These included several Republic era Taijiquan manuals by authors like Ma Yueling (her teacher) and Chu Minyi (an important politician and tireless promoter of Taijiquan).

While reviewing these works it becomes clear that Delza structured the second half of her volume to reflect the format favored by these earlier authors.  Note that she follows the convention of the period by ending her discussion of the solo form with republished sections of the Taiji Classics.  Of course there are some notable differences as well.  Delza’s basic explanations are much more detailed than her Chinese sources, and she often touches on the feeling that a given movement should produce, rather than simply describing what is to be done.

The real difference between Delza and her Repubic era predecessors comes down to the question of intent.  At first blush it would seem that she is simply repeating the rhetoric on health that dominates Taiji sources from the 1920s-1930s.  Yet those discussions are framed as part of the larger political question of how best to strengthen the Chinese nation and fend off foreign colonialism.  An individual’s strength and well-being is only valuable so far as it promotes the collective goals of national modernization and collective security in the face of the imperialist threat.

In comparison, Delza’s text is notably apolitical.  No communities beyond the individual, atomized, practitioner are ever mentioned.  The need for improved health is taken as a given that requires no justification.  It is never rationalized as a pathway to economic growth or security.  Rather, the fundamental struggle is against a sense of personal anxiety and unease which afflicts Delza’s readers even though she cannot name its source.

Modern and Post-Materialist Values in Martial Arts

It would be incorrect to say that Delza’s efforts were a failure.  Her classes attracted a following in New York City, and she was acknowledged as a regional pioneer of the Chinese martial arts.  But it was not her vision of the Chinese martial arts that sparked the public imagination.  That task would fall to the more kinetic Bruce Lee and his stories of violently defending oneself against both personal and community exploitation.

Yet trends have continued to change.  Black Belt’s overly dramatic covers from the 1970s are now more likely to elicit a chuckle than any real enthusiasm to “Learn the Deadly Secrets of Mantis Kung Fu!”  Indeed, when you look at much of what is currently happening in the “mindfulness industry”, or the movement to promote Taijiquan as a health practice, its hard not to see Delza as something of a prophet, ignored in her own time.  How might we better understand this process of cyclic change?

The political scientist Ronald Inglehart would probably suggest that if Delza seemed to be a generation or two ahead of her time, she was.  Her project failed to thrive not because her views on the Chinese martial arts were wrong in some abstract sense.  They accurately reflected what most Taijiquan practitioners in Shanghai actually believed.  Rather, they were out of step with the social values that characterized American society in the 1950s and 1960s.

Over the course of several books Inglehart has examined the ways in which our environment shapes our political and social values.  His basic insights can be summed up in two statements, the “scarcity hypothesis” and the “socialization hypothesis.”  Together they generate a model for understanding how generational change can occur at the social level which may be of some interest to students of martial arts studies.

His first point (to simplify greatly) notes that money really can buy happiness, but only up to a certain point.  For most of our history humans everywhere lived well below that threshold.  As a result they tended to value the provision of basic goods necessary for survival, stability and security rather than more abstract ideals such as “self-fulfillment” or “social justice.”

The period of modern economic industrialization is significant as, for the first time in history, a majority of a country’s citizens might cross this threshold and move beyond concerns with basic security.  This process can be observed through large cross-sectional public opinion surveys, which inspired much of Inglehar’s work with the World Values Survey (WVS) project.  His findings demonstrate that beyond a certain point each additional dollar of income ceases to be a reliable predictor of “life satisfaction.”  But it should be stressed that this only happens after a certain level of material security was been achieved.  

This threshold is culturally constructed and so it tends to differ from society to society.  But in general, the citizens of rich Western nations increasingly find that “post-materialist values” (such as political participation, social belonging, a clean environment and a relaxed lifestyle) are the keys to a greater sense of well being.  It all makes a certain amount of intuitive sense.  First we want the stuff that money can buy, and then we start to yearn for those things that cannot really be purchased. 

Yet the relationship between economic scarcity and an individual’s social values is far from smooth.  We live in a world with material constraints, but they do not determine everything about us.  Identity must also be socially constructed and reinforced.  In practice this suggests that members of the same age cohort will often share broadly similar values for sociological reasons.  Further, once an individual matures their values tend to become stable, and are less responsive to short term swings in material wealth.  Thus state policy often moves stochastically as the process of generational replacements brings new sets of citizens into the political arena.

The generation of martial arts practitioners that dominated the 1950s and early 1960s were overwhelming the same individuals who had come of age during (or immediately after) WWII.  As children these people had experienced the economic privations of the Great Depression.  As young adults they experienced the existential uncertainty of war.  It is no surprise that society during the 1950s and 1960s would then be dominated by a set of materialist values.  Policies that promoted economic growth and physical security, at both the national and personal levels, were favored.

Sophia Delza clearly didn’t share these instrumentalist values. The daughter of a wealthy New York City family, she enjoyed a privileged upbringing.  This included trips to Europe, a college education and the freedom to dedicate herself to dance.  While her chosen career in the arts, and then her husband’s overseas political postings, exposed her to the world of economic struggle and insecurity, those things were experienced only after her adult identity had formed.  Delza thus seems to have approached the great modern struggle of the 20th century with what was actually a set of post-materialist values.  

Clearly some other individuals in New York shared her views and adopted her approach to the martial arts. Yet I find myself wondering what Dr. Abisch, made a refugee both by WWII and then the Cold War, would have thought of this?  The battle for self-realization and emotional contentment that she saw in Taijiquan may have seemed pointless to the veterans of the Pacific Campaign.  The vision of the Chinese martial arts that prevailed in post-war American popular culture was the one that you could find on the cover of Black Belt.

The gears of generational change are, however, relentless.  The problem of wealth inequality not withstanding, standards of living are vastly higher now than they were during the 1930s and 1940.  It is thus no surprise that the post-materialist values that Inglehart identified have come to dominate social debates.  We can even see evidence of this shift in the martial arts marketplace.

MMA is practiced not because most people fear for their safety while walking down the street.  Rather they desire the opportunity for dynamic self-creation and enjoyment that this popular combat sport offers.  The types of communities that emerge out these gyms and training camps are very different from what one might have seen in the world of professional boxing during the 1960.  Likewise, the rise of the mindfulness industry suggests that the nameless anxiety that so haunted Delza has become a much broader social phenomenon.  And while an interest in self-defense has never disappeared, increasingly its the desire to “get in shape” and “find a family” that draws students to the more traditional training halls.  

While not without his critics, I suspect that Inglehart’s basic insights can help to explain of these observations.  Better yet, his concepts (paired with the observations in the WVS database) might also be able to help us explain and predict the timing of these events in different countries.  For instance, a number of observers have noted that the shift in values that accompanied the liberalization of the economy in mainland China during the early 1990s undercut the popularity of the traditional martial arts while allowing new, more commercial, practices such as BJJ and MMA to thrive.  And yet Taijiquan remains popular with China’s professional elites as they search for new ways to deal with anxieties of modern life? Inglehart’s model may allow us to further interrogate the nuances of these seemingly contradictory trends.

It is clear that we are currently seeing major transformations within the traditional Chinese martial arts community.  Perhaps we are just starting to catch up with Delza. Her work reminds us that the these systems have never been just one thing.  The martial arts are always full of possibilities.  But we must better understand our own social values before we can predict what comes next.

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: Imagining the Chinese Martial Arts without Bruce Lee: Sophia Delza, an American Taiji Quan Pioneer.

oOo

Introduction

Welcome to “Chinese Martial Arts in the News!”  Lots has been happening in the Chinese martial arts community, so its time to see what people have been saying.

For new readers, 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 may 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 way too long since our last update so let’s get to the news!

News From Southern China

The South China Morning Post (SCMP) has published a number of interesting features of the TCMA over the last month.  The first of these is a treatment of Dog Kung Fu.  Given the current interest in ground fighting, there is a fair amount of curiosity regarding this particular school.  Still, I don’t think I have met a student of the style.  The SCMP suggests that my experience is not exceptional. The art is rare and its future looks uncertain.  Still, reading this account it is clear that relatively standardized narratives about the woes of Kung Fu have developed.  As unique as this art is, the way its discussed is notably similar to what can be heard in many other cases.  Just consider the articles opening paragraph on its origins:

Despite its unusual name, legend has it that the fighting style was developed by Buddhist nuns from southeast China’s Fujian province as a form of protection against the bandits and wild animals they met on their travels.

To most martial students, “the moves are not pleasing to the eyes”, but the technique was “extremely useful” in real combat situations, Li said.

The SCMP also ran a lengthy profile titled “Lion dancing: history, traditions and its special place in Hong Kong culture explained.”  This article is also worth reading as it goes into some detail on how students are recruited in modern HK, and the various ways in which the performance landscape has changed.  But this article also brings us back to the emergence of a now standardized narrative on “what has gone wrong in the martial arts” in Hong Kong and Southern China.  Consider the following:

He sees a lot of interest in the activity among primary school students, who find the lions cute, but few stick with it. “Sport is not as popular with young people today as when I was young,” he says. “Fewer young people take up sport as a hobby, and even fewer take up lion and dragon dancing.”….

He says the lack of space for lion and dragon dance groups to train is also a major problem – especially since the performances are noisy. “There is no government training ground for lion dances, so we can only train in factory buildings and open spaces in walled villages,” says Kwok.

But the SCMP still isn’t done.  Unsurprisingly the paper runs a number of stories on Wing Chun.  The most recent of these was an extensive profile which explored “How a French wing chun master in Taiwan trained by Ip Man’s nephew went from wayward youth to focused man of wisdom.”  Granted, the title is unwieldily, but it gives you a very accurate sense of what you will find in this piece.  This article is also well worth taking a look at.  The SCMP clearly gets this month’s award for excellence in the coverage of the TCMA.

Kung Fu Diplomacy

This last month also saw a particularly strong run of articles on the role of the martial arts in China’s public diplomacy campaigns.  As always, the various English language tabloids were a good source for this coverage.

The first of these articles is a little different from what we usually see.  It focused on the role of expatriate Chinese individuals in promoting these efforts and the policy making process.  This discussion arose from the case of Hong Weiguo, a New Zealand-based kung fu master who ended up giving an impromptu demonstration before the 13th National Committee of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC) in Beijing.  His exhibition was in support of his proposals urging the government to back efforts to have Taijiquan declared an official UNESCO intangible cultural heritage asset.

“The master brought one proposal to the CPPCC session this year, asking to speed up the process of applying to UNESCO to include tai chi on the intangible cultural heritage list. “What a pity that tai chi has not yet been recognized by UNESCO after a decade-long effort. It is a great vehicle of essential Chinese culture, body exercise and philosophy originating from Taoism,” said Hong. He expressed his hope that more people can understand the importance and urgency of securing the status of tai chi in the world, as well as his hope that the relevant government departments in China will consider forming a tai chi academy.”

There were also plenty of the more regular stories reporting on the efforts of various Confucius Institutes and Consular Officers to organize and promote classes that invariably taught not just Chinese martial arts, but also Chinese culture and critical life lessons.  A large percentage of these stories always seem to be set in Africa, though the Chinese government promotes similar policies in many other regions of the globe.  A nice example of one such story can be found in the aptly titled: “Chinese discipline of wushu bringing hope and happiness, as well as greater self-confidence, to some of Liberia’s most troubled youngsters.”

While the classes in this story were organized in the usual way, I was a bit surprised to see that the instruction was provided by a Russian, rather than a Chinese, martial arts instructor.  Of course Russia is one of the few countries to develop a domestic Wushu program capable of challenging China in global competitions.

Introduced to Liberia in 2011, wushu has taken its place among several martial arts in the country. The new school, funded by the Confucius Institute and the Chinese embassy in Monrovia, trains and recruits young Liberians.

Liberia’s Ministry of Youth and Sports believes the establishment of the school has strengthened cultural exchanges between the people of Liberia and China.

“The intention here is to bring our two countries closer together. Wushu is a major part of Chinese culture. The Confucius Institute is also helping to teach the language and culture of the Chinese people,” former Liberian sports minister Saah N’tow said at the opening of the school in Monrovia in early January.

So far, the school has enrolled more than 30 students. Although a few are irregular attendees, many are showing commitment to learning the sport.

Those interested in the Chinese government’s efforts to push Wushu may also want to check out this brief report.  This is a shorter discussion with lots of boilerplate quotes from local officials.  But it also includes a bunch of photos that are a bit more candid than what normally runs in these tabloid articles.  All in all they suggest that many of these events are still happening on a relatively modest scale.

News From All Over

Do you suffer from COPD?  There was a bunch of reporting in the last couple of weeks suggesting that Taijiquan might be able to help.

Regularly practicing Tai Chi — an ancient Chinese martial art form — can help improve respiratory function in people with chronic breathing problems, according to a new study. It could be a low-cost and easily accessible option….

The researchers found that this slow, methodical form of exercise is equivalent to pulmonary rehabilitation for improving respiratory function in patients with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). COPD is a chronic group of inflammatory lung disease that blocks airflow and makes it difficult to breathe.

Needless to say, there are always a number of new articles in this area. This piece in the Business Insider explores Taijiquan’s ability to stave off some of the more common problems associated with aging.  (Note that jogging comes highly recommended as well).

Of course no news update would be complete without a word about the Little Dragon and his continuing influence on popular culture.  It seems that the Wing Luke museum’s successful Bruce Lee exhibition has just been remounted with a new group of exhibits and was re-opened to the public.  There was also a special celebrity appearance to help kick things off.

“A Dragon Lives Here: Do you know Bruce?” continues its popular run with its fourth installment, featuring more of Bruce Lee’s personal effects at the Wing Luke Museum in the International District. Standup comedian and host of CNN’s “United Shades of America,” W. Kamau Bell provides a video introduction with Lee’s daughter, Shannon, to this latest installment. The latest exhibit opened on March 9 for patrons, and to the public the following day.

While we are on the subject of museums, it would probably be a good time to mention that I just found a new reason to visit Shanghai.  Apparently they have a museum dedicated to the TCMA located on the campus of the Shanghai University of Sports.  The article suggests that the there is an extensive collection of weapons in the display.  This sounds like it would make a great day trip for anyone in the area.

“The clash of swords, mystical forces that send people flying and secret scriptures depicting the stances for hand and weapon combat.

It’s all in the Chinese Martial Arts Museum, which takes visitors on a whirlwind tour of kung fu history with more than 2,000 collection items. The museum, inside the Shanghai University of Sports, is a journey into the world of ancient Chinese chivalry. A giant painted column, covered with auspicious clouds, stands upright in the center of the hall. Carved in a fist-holding salute pattern, it represents the spirit of kung fu etiquette and mutual respect.A Hero Born by Jin Yong review – the gripping world of kung fu chivalry”

“MMA fighters batter Wing Chun Masters in China”. So proclaimed the article in Bloody Elbow reporting on Xu Xiaodong most recent viral beat down.  Still, in the interest of accuracy we should probably fix a few of the problems with that title.  How about: “MMA (journeyman trainer) batters (basically unknown) Wing Chun (practitioner) in Japan.”  Yeah, that is better.  

One suspects that the last of those points is really the most significant.  The Chinese government has made it pretty clear that it is not interested in this sort of thing and that there will be consequences for those who continue to (as they see it) “humiliate the nation.”  Hence Xu’s last pummeling was actually staged in Japan, with all of the weirdness that one would expect from a Japanese reality TV event.  (A red carpet, really?)  

Still, the cultural signaling that went on in this bout was absolutely fascinating.  The Wing Chun guy wore shoes and looked as though he walked off the set of an Ip Man movie. Xu went barefoot and dressed like he was showing up for a training session at his gym.  While I find the actual fight relatively devoid of deeper meaning (as all acts of violence ultimately are), it was very interesting to see the way that these fighters sought to frame what they were about to do. Clearly they went to lengths to argue no, this wasn’t just a reality TV beatdown, but that their punches actually conveyed deep cultural meanings and critiques.  I suspect that Xu’s various spectacles would provide rich material for someone writing in the tradition of Roland Barthes.

The Guardian just posted their review of the recent translation of the groundbreaking Wuxia novel, Legend of Condor Heroes (A Hero Born) and…they really liked it.  Actually they loved it.  Seriously, drop what you are doing and get a copy now.  Here is their final thoughts on the work (the whole review is well worth reading):

“It seems incredible that this is the first book in the Legends of the Condor Heroes series to come out in English, but better late than never. As I read Anna Holmwood’s vibrant translation – gripped by the unashamed narrative zest and primary-coloured fairytale world – I felt a slight regret that I was coming to this novel in my fifth decade. It would be a wonderful initiation into a lifelong enthusiasm for China, its history and civilisation, its vast and chronically misunderstood presence in the world. The first book ends with Guo Jing embroiled in an incipient love triangle, and approaching the trial by combat that has been his destiny since birth, while the Song dynasty dangles by a thread. Other volumes can’t come soon enough. My one quibble is that as the heroes swept back and forth across China and the Mongolian steppe, this reader’s pleasure would have been greatly enhanced by a map.” 

Martial Arts Studies

Its time to update your links because the UK based Marital Arts Studies Research Network has a sharp new webpage (thanks Hugh!) which now matches the look and feel of the journal.  This is where you can come for all of your updated news on conferences and other projects.

http://mastudiesrn.org

Speaking of conferences, its time to get your proposals in for this summer’s Martial Arts Studies conference focusing on the cultural legacies of Bruce Lee.  His impact can be seen in all sorts of places within the martial arts and popular culture.  Check out this link for more info on the conference.

Readers should also be on the lookout for a number of new books in the next couple of months.  Here are a couple of the highlights that will be of interest to readers of Kung Fu Tea.

Fan Hong (Editor), Gwang Ok (Editor). 2018. Martial Arts in Asia: History, Culture and Politics. Routledge. Released May 9th, 2018.  Price $140.

The reawakening of Asian martial arts is a distinct example of cultural hybridity in a global setting. This book deals with history of Asian martial arts in the contexts of tradition, religion, philosophy, politics and culture. It attempts to deepen the study of martial arts studies in their transformation from traditional to modern sports. It is also important that this volume explores how Asian martial arts, including Shaolin martial arts and Taekwondo, have worked as tools for national advocate of identities among Asians in order to overcome various national hardships and to promote nationalism in the modern eras. The Asian martial arts certainly have been transformed in both nature and content into unique modern sports and they have contributed to establishing cultural homogeneity in Asia. This phenomenon can be applied to the global community.

The chapters originally published as a special issue in the International Journal of the History of Sport.

Fan Hong is professor in Asian Studies at Bangor University, UK. Her research interest is in the areas of gender studies and cross-cultural studies with special reference to China and Chinese sport.

Gwang Ok is regional board editor of The International Journal of the History of Sport and editor of Asia Pacific Journal of Sport and Social Science. He is editor in chief of The Journal of Korean Alliance of Martial Arts and Korean Journal of Golf Studies. He has published in The International Journal of the History of Sport, Korean Journal of Physical Education, Recreation and Dance, and The Korean Journal of Physical Education.

Mark S. Williams. 2018. Martial Arts and the Quest for Legitimacy: The Sport vs. Spectacle Divide. McFarland. May 16th 2018.  $35 USD

Mixed martial arts or MMA is widely regarded as the fastest growing sport. Events fill stadiums around the world and draw vast television audiences, earning strong revenue through pay-per-view at a time when other sports have abandoned it. In 2016, the Ultimate Fighting Championship was bought by the massive talent agency WME-IMG for $4 billion. Despite this success, much of the public remains uneasy with the sport, which critics have denounced as “human cockfighting.”

Through an exploration of violence, class, gender, race and nationalism, the author finds that MMA is both an expression of the positive values of martial arts and a spectacle defined by narcissism, hate and patriarchy. The long-term success of MMA will depend on the ability of promoters and athletes to resist indulging in spectacle at the expense of sport.

Mark S. Williams is a professor of political studies at Vancouver Island University in British Columbia.

Zhouxiang Lu. 2018. Politics and Identity in Chinese Martial Arts. Routledge.  Release June 2018.  Price $140 USD

Chinese martial arts is considered by many to symbolise the strength of the Chinese and their pride in their history, and has long been regarded as an important element of Chinese culture and national identity. This book comprehensively examines the development of Chinese martial arts in the context of history and politics, and highlights its role in nation building and identity construction in the past two centuries. It points out that the development of Chinese martial arts was heavily influenced by the ruling regime’s political and military policies, as well as the social and economic environment. From the early 20th century on, together with the rapid transformation of Chinese society and influenced by Western sports, Chinese martial arts began to develop into its modern form – a performing art, a competitive sport and a sport for all. It has been widely practiced for health and fitness, self-cultivation, self-defense and entertainment. After a century of development, it has grown into an important part of the international sports world and attracts a global audience. It will continue to evolve in an era of globalisation, and will remain a unique cultural icon and national symbol of China.

Lu Zhouxiang is Lecturer in Chinese Studies within the School of Modern Languages, Literatures and Cultures at the National University of Ireland Maynooth, Ireland.

Finally, a number of Kung Fu Tea’s readers may be interested to learn that Stanley Henning, long a leading voice in the historical study of the Chinese Martial Arts, has released a much anticipated collected volume of his many articles and chapters.  That is great news for the field and anyone looking to critically assess his contributions to the current discussion of the martial arts.  The bad news, however, is that this work seems to only be available in China.  As such, you will have to hunt to find a way of ordering it.  Or better yet, get your local university library to order a copy.  Librarians are good at that sort of thing, and doing so will ensure that his articles remain available for future researchers.  I have not had a chance to see this book or its table of contents, but click here for a detailed review.

It also seems that more than one publisher is seeking to get Henning’s previous works back into circulation.  While hunting (unsuccessfully) for a copy of Chinese Martial Arts: History and Practice, I came across a different collected volume of his greatest hits.  This one includes only his articles published in the late Journal of Martial Arts Studies, but it is easily available on Amazon.com.

Kung Fu Tea on Facebook

A lot has happened on the Kung Fu Tea Facebook group over the last month.  We have read about the Virtual Ninja Manifesto, explored early Wushu performance and reveled in the comedy stylings of Master Ken! 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!

Regulating Kung Fu in Canton

The brave new world of electronic databases and digital humanities is certainly opening many doors to new and exciting types of research.  Increasingly scholars can sit down at any university terminal and access previously unimaginable numbers of primary documents, in more languages than one can count, in libraries around the world.  This has had a profound effect on the way that research is conducted.  While scholars may have struggled in the past to get access to a handful of sources necessary to complete a project, increasingly I am finding that the big challenge is coming up with better ways of screening and analyzing the deluge of documents.

Still, one must be careful that the informational filters are not woven too tightly.  A few months ago I was searching digitized newspaper collections from South East Asia for information about how China’s performance in the 1936 Olympic Games, including their widely touted martial arts exhibition, was viewed.  This region was a frequent target of “Kung Fu Diplomacy” during the 1920s and 1930s, so I thought it might be interesting to see how local elites were responding to China’s efforts to win over Western audiences with the same strategy.  Being a political scientist these are the sorts of questions that keep me up at night.

While looking through my search results I came across the following short notice:

BOXING SCHOOLS:

Two $500 Guarantees Required in Canton

In order to prevent civil disturbances which may be stirred up among various Chinese boxing schools as a result of their contests, the Bureau of Public Safety in Canton has drawn up a set of regulations governing [the] organization of these boxing schools in the city, thus restricting their activities.

Under the new regulations, boxing schools are required to produce two guarantors who are duly registered business firms with at least $500 in capital each.  As a result of these restrictions, some of the schools have been closed voluntarily while others are forced to remove outside the municipal limits.

It is understood that restrictions will be applied to those boxing schools in Honor Island as well.

The Straits Times, July 11, 1933 page 5.

My initial impression upon reading this notice was confusion followed by a pang of disappointment.  This story was dated three years before the event I was interested in, and it made no mention of the Olympics.  I am still unsure why some algorithmic daemon decided that I needed to see it.

The disappointment stemmed from the fact that, while seemingly unrelated to my current “Kung Fu diplomacy” book project, this was exactly the type of source that would have been helpful when I was researching my 2015 history of the southern Chinese martial arts.   Unfortunately these resources had not been made digitally available when I was working on that book.

Still, I doubt that this notice would have changed anything about my conclusions.  There were multiple attempts made to regulate and restrict the practice of the folk martial arts of Guangdong province in the late 1920s and 1930s.  In general they seem to not have been very successful (which is probably why this particular effort eluded notice).  Nor were they always a product of a concern for public safety.  In my previous study (co-authored with John Nielson), we discuss at some length a much more serious effort, backed by the provincial government, which would have banned the creation of any non-Central Guoshu Institute associated school.  That effort did get recorded in Chinese language histories of the region.  

Among practitioners there is a common belief that the restriction and regulation of the traditional Chinese martial arts was a policy unique to the ethnically Manchu government and their efforts to prevent rebellions by the Han people.  While its true that the Qing restricted martial practices at certain points, the same can be said of the Ming dynasty before them and the Republic that came after.  A wide variety of Chinese governments have sought to regulate the martial sector in an attempt to promote their own policy goals.  As such this 1933 effort should not be seen as a surprise, and I quickly forgot all about it as my attention returned to the Olympics.

How Wing Chun Became a German Martial Art

Recently, however, this incident has been on my mind.  My curiosity about the policy was sparked by a different project.  Two colleagues were kind enough to invite me to work on a paper with them looking at the early history of Wing Chun in Germany.  This particular paper is focused on the 1970s and 1980s and the creation of the EWTO.

The subject is interesting for a number of reasons.  Bruce Lee’s rise to superstardom ensured that Wing Chun would be among the best globally known Chinese arts (surpassed only Taijiquan).  Still, the system has not been equally successful everywhere.  While the art is popular in the USA and Canada, its success in Germany has been spectacular in comparison.  I suspect that there are more Wing Chun students (or former students) per capita in Germany than anywhere else in the world (including China). 

How did this come about? This sort of variation in outcomes is important to social scientists as it suggests a mechanism to explain the successful globalization of trans-cultural practices more generally.

Yet when you first sit down to start thinking about this outcome, a puzzle immediately presents itself.  Many of the specific factors that appear to be the most important in the German case can also be seen in the story of Wing Chun in every other Western country.  In my discipline, such variables are said to be “systemic” in nature.  The advent of a global film industry after WWII ensured that Bruce Lee was not just famous in Hong Kong or America.  He was famous everywhere.  Likewise, the transition from a manufacturing to service based economy that gripped the German economy in the 1970s and 1980s was not unique to that state alone.  Similar trends could be seen in every advanced capitalist economy as increasingly open flows of foreign direct investment pushed manufacturing jobs to Japan and then other parts of Asia.

In short, the economic forces of globalization, and the types of social dislocation that they created, can go a long way towards explaining the success of Wing Chun in every market I can think of.  One might even see the explosion of interest in Wing Chun as a harbinger of the so-called “McWorld effect” where increasing flows of information, capital and culture homogenize vast areas of the global market.  Indeed, culture itself can be commodified.  As Slavoj Žižek suggested, even a practice as seemingly benign as Buddhism can be made complicit in the march of advanced capitalism.  We seek to escape technological and social entrapment by turning to seemingly “post-materialist” or “traditional” practices.  Yet all we really succeed in doing is self-medication through the purchase of a different set of consumer goods. In the strong formulation of the dilemma there is no escape from the neo-liberal logic of market rationality and its flattening effects.  

Still, I have always had my doubts about the imminent arrival of a homogenous McWorld.  While living in Japan as a student in 1990s I recall some of my American friends complaining that the country had become increasingly “Westernized,” resulting in what they saw as the loss of “authentically Japanese culture.”  Upon hearing these statements I often wondered whether we were living in the same country. 

Yes, there were a lot of red and yellow themed fast food restaurants in Japan that bore an uncanny resemblance to McDonalds.  But they also served hamburgers made of krill and green tea flavored milkshakes.  Yes, all of my Japanese friends wore jeans on the weekends.  During the 1990s they were the ultimate symbol of American consumer culture.  Yet it was also painfully obvious that the youth culture they were expressing through their fashion choices was quite different from anything that one might encounter in an American high school or college.  Certainly the Japan of 1994 bore little visual resemblance to the country in 1894, but what does? I remained unconvinced that my friends had somehow become less Japanese because of their engagement with global markets.  Granted, national identity, like all social identities, is a moving target.  But it seemed that they were simply using a different, hybridized, set of symbols to express what it meant to be Japanese at a very specific moment in time.

This suggests another model for thinking about globalization.  Rather than creating a single homogenous market, the increased flow of communication, capital and technology might induce a process of widespread cultural hybridization.  Individuals might gain access to both new technologies and cultural signs that would help them to both respond to the local dislocations that global markets bring, as well as to express a new understanding of what society’s relationship with the state should be.

Of course we have already seen this narrative within martial arts studies.  While modern martial arts schools frame their practices as timeless, historical analysis suggests that almost all of the practices that we currently possess are a product of modernity.  Andrew Morris has documented the ways in which the Jingwu Association harnessed the creation of a modern print industry in China to create the first truly national martial art brand.  Likewise Denis Gainty has argued that, far from being stooges of the state, Japanese martial artists drew on the tools available to them to advance their own unique vision of what modern society should become.  Aspects of this vision were adopted by the government, but only after decades of extensive lobbying.  The mere existence of structural variables does not rob actors of their agency.  Indeed, both of these factors, structure and agency, are deeply implicated in the modern practice of any fighting systems. (Incidentally, it was the need to balance these factors that, in part, led Wacquant to focus on the concept of habitus in his study of urban boxing).

What can the study of the martial arts reveal?  Again, different scholars will have their own research agendas.  But as a political economist I hope that they might tell us more about the strategies that domestic society adopts in the face of systemic shocks.  More to the point, what sorts of approaches are most likely to be successful (like the EWTO in Germany), and what can happen when they fail (say, the Boxer Uprising)?  We can learn much about the human costs of globalization by studying modern martial arts communities.

Much like my previous experience in Japan, I have come to suspect that while certain Asian martial arts can now be found pretty much anywhere in the world, they do not carry the same meanings, or function in quite the same ways, in all of the places where they have found a home. In my previous research I had an opportunity to think quite a bit about how Wing Chun functioned in Hong Kong during the 1950s and 1960s.  And in some broadly structural senses, both Hong Kong and Germany faced similar challenges.  Both areas found themselves rebuilding from one conflict while being caught up in a quickly escalating Cold War.  Both were impacted by the uptick of trade in the 1960’s and underwent profound social and economic changes.  And citizens in both areas eagerly turned to all sorts of martial arts (not just Wing Chun) in an attempt to deal with these challenges.

Yet the different historical trajectories, regulatory environments and market conditions in these countries had a profound effect on how the systemic forces of globalization were felt at the individual level.  The results of this within the martial arts community are fairly predictable.  While Wing Chun proved to be wildly popular in both Hong Kong and Germany, it developed along very different organizational and social lines, their shared love of Bruce Lee notwithstanding.  Indeed, the huge success of the EWTO’s Wing Chun in Germany reveals much about the specific currents of social anxiety that were starting to grip that nation in the late 1970s.

Conclusion

It is easy to look at the spreading influence of Western culture or economic institutions and predict that the long feared emergence of a homogenized McWorld is beyond the horizon.  Yet a close study of the way that the Asian martial arts have established themselves in specific environments, and the roles that they have been called on to fill, suggest that the picture is actually much more complex.

Yes these “traditional” practices are being extracted from their original cultural environment and marketed as consumer goods.  Yet when we set aside our romanticized notions of a timeless Bushido or Wude, we quickly discover that most of the arts that any of us will ever encounter never existed a pristine realm isolated from market forces.  It is precisely the potential emptiness of these practices as consumer goods that allows individuals in different countries to construct their own meanings and narratives around them.  It is this very emptiness that gives these practices their utility in a global market. The social networks that underlay martial arts organizations can be employed to solve unique problems in two different states, or they might address the same issue in two different ways within the same state. 

This last point returns our attention to the short notice in the Straits Times which introduced this essay.  While one can certainly track national level trends in technology or ideology within the Chinese martial arts, I have always believed that these practices are best understood through the lens of local, or regional, analysis.  One does not even need to compare far off countries to see how martial arts communities can evolve differently despite being subject to shared systemic forces.  Simply consider the case of Guangzhou (Canton), Foshan and Hong Kong, three commercial cities located along a single stretch of the Pearl River.

On a systemic level the geographical placement of these three cities dictated that each would be subject to shocks emerging from the global trade system.  And (partially in response to this) each developed a rich martial arts tradition in the late 19th and early 20th century.  Yet the brief notice in the Straits Times helps to illustrate just how different these communities could be.

In a sense its not a surprise that the local government would attempt to regulate the martial arts schools of Guangzhou by tying them to large local businesses.  In truth the martial arts within this city had always had a strongly corporate character.  Most schools had been backed by large guilds, merchant associations, lineage associations or secret societies.  Indeed, martial arts schools were often the means by which these social factions either provided public goods or contested the control of shared civic spaces.  All of this was most visible in the tensions that occasionally erupted around lion dancing, but the underlying trends were certainly visible in other places as well.

As the 20th century progressed increasingly these more traditional forms of social organization were rechartered as modern commercial corporations.  Hence a regulation like the one proposed in 1933 was really just a formalization of an implicit collective responsibility that had long been a feature of civic life within the capital.  Smaller groups were excluded from maintaining their own schools, and the larger organizations (which the local government relied upon) were reminded that any disturbances would be costly to all members of the corporate group.

Its interesting that the article states that a number of smaller schools were forced to reorganize themselves in outlying areas.  In his study of the growth and urbanization of Republic era Guangzhou, Virgil K. Y. Ho noted that the city’s residents tended to view outlying areas and the countryside as a dangerous and unregulated environment.  And while far from lawless, its clear that the martial arts community in Foshan was much less regulated than the capital.  Rather than shutting down kung fu schools that might compete with the agenda of the Guoshu program, local officials in Foshan seemed content to ignore them, or possibly co-opt them through the establishment of the regionally important Zhong Yi Association.  Indeed, one suspects that vibrancy of the city’s martial arts scene may have had something to do with the fact that many small schools were allowed to compete with relatively little oversight.

Once again, the administrative situation in Hong Kong was different.  While the British were generally content to stay out of associational life within the Chinese community, at times they felt forced to act.  One of the most important of these periods was marked by the growing fear of social unrest in the late 1960s.  Those who are interested in the topic can read about it in much greater detail in my book.  But the upshot of this fear was the creation of new laws designed to limit and control the behavior of local martial arts groups.

While the goal of the British civil servants was not all that different from their Cantonese counterparts three decades earlier, its interesting to consider how their efforts differed.  Chinese officials sought to control the behavior of martial arts groups by promising collective punishment against broader sectors within civil society that may not even have been directly involved in the martial arts.  That strategy probably never occurred to British bureaucrats trained in the Western, individually focused, legal tradition.

Rather than restricting schools based on size or social influence, the British required the creation of formal martial arts associations that could be registered with the government.  Further, every member of a school had to have an individual membership document that would allow any trouble causers to be quickly identified and held accountable.  

The city’s Sifus certainly got the message that they would also be held accountable for their students misbehavior.  And yet one suspects that this single instance of legislation is really just the tip of the iceberg, suggesting how radically different commercial and associational life had become on these two sides of the Pearl River. Rather than seeing Ip Man’s school in the 1960s as reflecting “primordial” Chinese or Confucian values, it is instead necessary to understand its development as a specific strategy for articulating what it meant to be a modern Chinese person within the context of post-war Hong Kong.

On one level such an assertion seems simple enough.  Yet a moment’s thought suggests that it problematizes a strong tendency to seek ever more ancient, authentic and legitimate expression of the “real” Chinese martial arts.  Indeed, all we are likely to accomplish is to multiply our knowledge of local traditions and temporally bounded expressions.  And that, I would argue, is a good thing.  The notion that a unified “Chinese” or “Japanese” (or “Korean” or “Indonesian”…) martial arts tradition ever existed is really a product of 20th century nationalist projects.  While martial arts studies scholars can certainly study these discourses, we should not unconsciously advance them in our own work.

An understanding of the martial arts that takes seriously the notion of hybridization will focus not just on the global spread of these fighting systems, but the process by which they became “localized” within a specific time and place.  Indeed, from a social scientific standpoint, how this occurred in Germany in the 1970s is every bit as interesting and informative as the ways in which Ip Man negotiated his own challenges in Hong Kong in 1950.  Good martial arts history is, to a large extent, local history.

I am not sure that this makes life any easier for students of martial arts studies.  It suggests, for instance, that study of the Chinese or Japanese (or Filipino, or historical European….) martial arts are not the exclusive province of a small group of area studies scholar.  Indeed, the critical sources may not always be written in Chinese and Japanese.  When we remember that we are dealing with modern practices within a global marketplace, the critical languages may turn out to be German, French, Swahili, Spanish, Russian and English. The theoretical toolkit necessary to deal with all of this may become equally complex as well.  

Many of the most interesting future projects within martial arts studies will require collaborations between teams of scholars with a diverse range of backgrounds and skills. We would not be the first field to come to this conclusion, and in some ways we are well positioned to tackle these projects given the robustly interdisciplinary nature of our project.  Yet an increased emphasis on regional and local questions is likely to reveal that the social impacts of the martial arts are far more complex and nuanced than most casual observers would ever suspect. 

oOo

If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read: The 19th Century Hudiedao (Butterfly Sword) on Land and Sea

oOo

Introduction

Its hard to think of a single individual who had a greater impact on the development of the Chinese martial arts during the all important years of the Republic than Zhang Zhijiang (1882-1966).  His name peppers the pages of works on physical culture and sports history.  Indeed, modern Chinese martial artists are still dealing with aspects of his legacy.  Yet it has proved almost impossible to find a single biographical discussion that really brings all of the aspects of his career together.

There are various reasons for this.  In mainland China the Guoshu program was displaced by the Communist sponsored Wushu movement during the 1950s.  This was an issue as Zhang had concentrated his energies on building formal institutions and organizations, rather than creating elaborate lineage teaching structures.  These were, in turn, tied to the fate of the KMT.

Or perhaps Zhang’s career was just too large to fit neatly into any of the historical boxes that typically seek to organize the contributions of Republic era public officials.  One can certainly find brief descriptions of his contributions to the martial arts in the histories of Morris (2004) or Kennedy and Gao (2008).  Other authors, interested in questions of crime and social history, tend to ignore Zhang’s martial interests and focus instead on his brief tenure as head of the national opium suppression committee.  Of course historians of the violent Warlord era know Zhang as one of the most trusted (and competent) followers of Feng Yuxiang, the “Christian Warlord.”   Yet those who focus on the history of Christianity in China are quick to point out that Zhang was just as important a missionary as his mentor, if not more so.  Indeed, it is possible to structure an entire discussion of his career that focuses almost entirely on his devotion to Christianity.

The following essay attempts to briefly bring together these various strands in an effort to help us better understand the personality and motivations of a key architect of the Guoshu movement.  As students of Chinese martial studies increasingly come to appreciate the importance of the Republic period it is necessary to deal with the historically, and at times ethically, complex contributions of individuals like Chu Minyi or General Li Jinglin.  The careers of individuals such as these stretch far beyond the confines of canned lineage histories that tend to dominate popular discussions.  Ironically, Zhang may be one of the least understood figures within his generation of martial arts reformers (at least in the West), even though his name frequently pops up in our period histories.

Biographical Sketch

Given the circumstances of his birth, one might have suspected that Zhang Zhijiang would inherit a certain penchant for organization.  Yet one probably would not have guessed that he would achieve such fame.  Born in 1882 to a landlord family, Zhang grew up watching his father function as a village elder in Zhili.  Given the family’s economic position, Zhang was provided a traditional Confucian education and he studied to become an examination candidate during the 1890s.  His studies can only be considered a moderate success as he was a awarded a low level Sheng-yuan degree, but this would not open a pathway to government service.

The family suffered a crisis in 1903 when Zhang’s father was required to produce two conscripts from his village for a newly formed imperial army unit.  Unable to do so he was forced to send his own son into military service.  At this point Zhang was 19 years old.

Military life seems to have agreed with the new recruit.  He impressed his superiors and, given his education, he was put on a fast track for advancement.  By 1907 Zhang was a platoon leader for the cavalry battalion of the 1st Mixed Brigade.  This turned out to be a fortuitous posting as it gave him a chance to meet another young platoon leader named Feng Yuxiang, often referred to by later historians as the “Christian Warlord.”  Zhang was eventually convinced to join Feng’s private “military studies society.”  

Things began to move quickly for he young soldiers in 1910.  After being radicalized by senior officers in their unit, both Feng and Zhang adopted anti-Manchu and nationalist sentients.  In October 1911, when the Wuhan Revolt broke out, Feng’s Military Studies Society attempted to launch a local armed uprising.  Zhang was sent to Shanghai to make contact with the Republic revolutionary leadership.  Both efforts seem to have failed and the two were forced to flee.

Still, there was no stopping the tide of history.  The Qing dynasty eventually fell, and the Republic was established in 1912.  This led to major reorganizations within the military that helped to launch Zhang’s career. 

In 1912 Chang Shao-tseng (one of Zhang’s former officers) was named the military governor of Shanxi.  Zhang was appointed as staff officer and advisor.  This posting lasted until 1914 when Zhang (needing a new job) traveled to Sichuan.  There he took up the position of advisor for Feng Yuxiang who was commanding the 16th Mixed Brigade.  Zhang would continue to serve as one of Feng’s most loyal followers for the rest of his career.

Zhang’s time in Sichuan was also important for more personal reasons.  Like many of the modernizers in his generation, Zhang had been personally agnostic on questions of religion or spirituality.  But while stationed in the Southwest he had a chance to work with individuals from the area’s protestant community.  Zhang was deeply impressed with what he saw.  Not only did this community have an unusual degree of enthusiasm for the national revolution, but they exhibited what he would go on to term “faith through actions.”  Indeed, this was a notion (based on his reading of James 2) that Zhang would return to throughout his career.  

Zhang was eventually Baptized in 1918 and went on to become both an enthusiastic and committed Christian.  He was an ardent believer in daily scripture study and distributed tens of thousands of bibles over the course of his career.  It should also be noted that Zhang’s conversion (at least according to some of his biographers) was earlier than Feng’s.  Both Feng and Zhang would promote Christianity among their troops and were known for the comparative discipline of their fighting forces.

Zhang’s early military career was also a time when he honed a near obsessive interest in the Chinese martial arts.  As with Christianity, in these fighting arts he saw an opportunity to reform and strengthen the nation by reforming and strengthening the individuals who comprised it.  He even a martial arts “conversion story”, and would often tell how he had been cured of partial lower-body paralysis by his dedicated practice of these fighting systems.  Zhang’s ardent desire to “save China” in a geo-political sense rested in a complex triangular relationship with his equally strong impulses to “save Chinese souls” and to “save the martial arts.”  Indeed, it may not be possible, or fruitful, to discuss these various aspects of his career in pristine isolation.

Between the late teens and the late 1920s Zhang would fight a number of battles on Feng’s behalf.  His career in this period is complicated enough that it would probably be better to leave it to the military historians.  Yet by 1927 Feng had decided that he was done fighting.  In that year he entered into an alliance with Chiang Kai-shek, effectively destroying the Wuhan faction of the KMT.  To cement the deal Zhang was sent to Nanjing to act as Feng’s personal liaison with the new government.  Zhang was then elected to the State Council of the National Government, and named the Chief of Senior Staff during the second half of the Chang’s Northern Expedition.

His activities in this final campaign marked the end of his military career.  In 1928 Zhang formally retired from active military and political affairs.  Of course the next steps in his career ensured that he would never be able to leave the political world too far behind.

The establishment of a more unified government provided Zhang with an opportunity to focus on his two great passions, religion and the martial arts.  In 1927, while giving a speech at a commemoration celebration for Sun Yat-sen, Zhang argued that anti-imperialist rhetoric aimed at Christianity missed the mark.  He noted that Sun himself had been a dedicated Christian, and there was nothing within the Three People’s Principals that ran contrary to Christian teaching.

In early 1928 both Zhang and Niu Yongjian (then the Governor of Jiangsu Province) approached the Central Committee of the KMT with a similar argument.  They again sought to discredit more radical voices within the anti-imperialist camp that were branding religion and missionary work as the “opium of the masses.”  More specifically, they advocated for policies banning anti-Christian banners and public speech.  On Feb. 26th the Central Committee passed a resolution along similar lines.

Zhang followed a similar strategy in his attempts to rebuild the Chinese martial arts.  He seems to have viewed the “traditional” and faction-riven state of affairs within the folk arts as a metaphor for the weakness of the Chinese society as a whole.  A campaign was necessary that would not just strengthen, but also unify, society while ensuring its loyalty to the ruling party. 

Working with the former Tianjin warlord Li Jinglin (famous for his promotion of the Wudang sword method) and Zhang Shushen (a fellow military officer), Zhang once again approached the KMT’s Central Committee.  This time he proposed the creation of a new national martial art organization and regulatory structure.  This request was approved and Zhang was named the director of the new institute which, while reorganized multiple times during the 1930s, would go on to dominate the national discussion of the martial arts during the Republic period.  Immediately after being named Zhang and his leadership team set about organizing the now famous 1928 National Martial Arts Examination.

Despite his initial attempts to “retire” from politics, Zhang continued to be assigned to other postings throughout this period.  His reputation for rectitude complicated his life when he was named Chairman of the National Opium Suppression Committee in 1929.  This position would soon find Zhang investigating a major scandal when a group of civilian police officers, working on tips from Zhang’s old mentor Feng, attempted to interdict a shipment of illegal opium in Shanghai only to discover that it was actually being transported by a larger and well armed military police unit.  

The incident and its political fall out was extensively reported in the press.  It seems that Feng was attempting to increase the value of his own opium operations by having the police take out his economic (and in some senses political) competition.  The incident further revealed that the KMT, its public rhetoric notwithstanding, was unwilling to follow its own pronouncements when it came to drug policy.  All of this led Zhang to publicly resign in disgust.

Geopolitical events, however, would conspire to keep the martial arts at the top of Zhang’s agenda.  On September 18th, 1931 Japan invaded Manchuria and quickly moved to consolidate its position in the region.  A few months later the Japanese Navy opened its own front with attacks on Shanghai.  All of this forced the KMT to shift from a policy of general anti-imperialism (much of which was aimed at the UK), to a more focused attempt to build relationships with the West while consolidating global public opinion against the Japanese.

The attacks on Shanghai were something of a public relations disaster for the Japanese.  While they could use their control of newswires and telegraph lines to manipulate the narratives about what was happening in Manchuria, the assault on Shanghai happened in the full view of the global press.  As a result Japan was forced to go on a public relations offensive in 1932-1933 sending both diplomats and cultural figures to cities across Europe and North America in an attempt to promote their vision of what was happening in Asia.

The KMT was fully aware of these developments and sought to counter these efforts with a diplomatic and cultural charm offensive of their own.  These efforts were, unfortunately, blunted by the military weakness of the KMT.  That ensured that certain steps to pacify the Japanese were necessary.  Still, the traditional Chinese martial arts would come to play an increasingly important role in burnishing China’s image on the global stage during the 1930s.  Much of this effort would be overseen by Zhang himself.

Japanese aggression seems to have generated a good deal of enthusiasm for the martial arts.  Many dadao or “big sword” units and training classes were created in the early years of the 1930s.  Zhang argued for increased martial arts training in military units during this period, and pointed to the importance of big sword troops in his promotion of the 1933 National Martial Arts Examination.

Yet 1933 also saw the advent of a more diplomatic and outward looking martial arts discourse.  Zhang embarked on a tour of southern Chinese cities designed to promote the Guoshu program.  He then headed out into South East Asia where he gave numerous talks and staged martial arts demonstrations.  Zhang’s efforts to boost traditional physical culture within the diaspora community seem to have been calculated to increase support for, and identification with, the Chinese state.

Zhang’s other missionary passions were not forgotten during this period.  In the aftermath of the Japanese invasion of Manchuria he created an institution called “Christian Bands of Ten for Saving China.”  Formally incorporated in Nanjing in 1934, this group sought to save the nation by strengthening the people.  In this case that was to be accomplished through a mixture of missionary work, regular Bible study and rigorous daily exercise.

This is only one area where Zhang’s interests in martial arts and Christianity overlapped.  Of course he also promoted the YMCA, which by the 1930s was often offering martial arts classes of its own.  And Andrew Morris notes that the Central Guoshu Academy’s training facility mandated that all students engage in daily bible study during its early years.  It would seem that for Zhang the martial arts had become the ultimate expression of his “faith in action” philosophy.

These attitudes may be important to bear in mind when evaluating some of Zhang’s choices.  While Morris explains Zhang’s 1934 decision to expel all female students from the Central Guoshu Academy (where there had been rumors of “improprieties” with male instructors) in terms of the KMT’s regressive theories of gender, Zhang’s fundamentalist religious background could also shed light on the decision.

In 1935 the government combined the Guoshu organization with other groups dedicated to physical culture to create a new institute that would pursue a unified approach to physical education.  Once again, Zhang was named the director of the newly reconstituted institution.   As part of the effort to both study the latest physical education movements, as well as to advertise the strides that China had made in this area (and the strength of its own martial arts movement), Zhang undertook a world tour in 1935 and 1936.  Accompanied by a KMT Secretary of Foreign Affairs, he visited major cities in US, Europe and South East Asia, promoting “cultural understanding” and the Chinese vision of physical culture at every stop.

Much of this tour must be understood in the context of the massive preparations that were then underway for China’s participation in the 1936 Berlin Olympics.  This was the first Olympic Games to which the nation would send a full sized, and properly funded, team.  As such it was meant to be something of a coming out party for the Chinese physical culture movement. 

Given the importance of the venue, and the efforts that China was making to impress the global community, Zhang and Chu Minyi decided that the Chinese martial arts should be represented at the games as well.  As such the Chu selected and trained a sizable demonstration team to give a martial arts exhibition, designed to educate Western audiences about the nation’s indigenous physical culture.  

By all accounts this martial arts display was well received.  The demonstration team then set off on a European tour, brining their educational program to a number of cities.  This all must have made a good impression as in June of 1937 the German Consul in China awarded both Zhang and Chu Olympic medals for their efforts on the behalf of Adolph Hitler.

This inauspicious honor set the high-water mark for Zhang’s cultural diplomacy efforts.  Renewed Japanese aggression in 1937 would shift any discussion of the martial arts in a much more practical direction.  After the ensuing invasion Zhang moved the (much diminished) Guoshu establishment to Chunking.  There he served on the People’s Political Council.  He used this new office to continue to campaign for the traditional martial arts, but public opinion shifted against him, and his views came to be criticized in the press.

Following the end of hostilities in 1945, Zhang returned to Nanjing before eventually moving on to Beijing.  He resumed his leadership of the now totally smashed Guoshu movement.  The once proud national organization had been reduced to handful of members.  With their funding cut, it was impossible to repair the damage that had been done to their venues, let alone promote new events.

Zhang seems to have tried to restore the glory of the Chinese martial arts by appealing directly to foreign audiences.  In 1947 he gave an extensive interview to the NY Times detailing the decline of the Guoshu movement, but also reminding the world of the cultural importance of the Chinese martial arts.  All of this read like a thinly veiled appeal to his own government made via Western media markets.  But it was not to be.  The era of the “National Arts” had come to a close.

In 1949 Zhang ignored the advice of friends to flee to Taiwan and instead decided to stay in Beijing.  Of course the pioneering martial arts historian Tang Hao made the same choice.  Ironically Zhang had ordered Tang to be arrested on suspicion of being a communist back in 1932 (Morris 2004).  But the decision seems to have worked out in a similar way for both of them.

With the rise of the PRC, Zhang quietly shed his past as a “Christian general” and resumed his retirement from political life.  He spent his final years researching and promoting his beloved martial arts, now in the form of Wushu.  Zhang died in Beijing in 1966 at the age of 84.

Sources:

Howard H. Boorman. 1967. Biographical Dictionary of Republican China, Volume 1. Columbia University Press.

Judkins and Nielson. 2015. The Creation of Wing Chun: A Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts. SUNY Press.

Andrew Morris. 2004. Marrow of the Nation: A History of Sports and Physical Culture in Republican China. University of California Press.

Frederic Wakeman, Jr. 1995. Policing Shanghai, 1927-1937.  California University Press.

Shuge Wei. 2017. News Under Fire: China’s Propaganda Against Japan in the English-Language Press, 1928-1941. Hong Kong UP.

Ying Fuk-tsang.  2011. “Zhang Zhijiang: A Christian General’s Faith in Action.” In Carol Lee Hamrin and Stacey Bieler (eds.) Salt and Light, Vol. 3: More Lives of Faith that Shaped Modern China. Pickwick Publications.

A representative sample of English language coverage on Zhang during the 1930s.  These articles was chosen because they focused on his work with the martial arts:

“Chinese Boxing Show” Hong Kong Daily Press. April 27th 1933.

Untitled. The Straits Times. April 21, 1933. Page 14.

“Chinese Gymnasts Tour South Seas With Chang”. The China Press. May 26th 1933.

“Chinese Boxing Expert Leaving on World Tour”. The China Press. August 12, 1935.

“Nanking General Will Lead Nation in Physical Culture.” The China Press. September 18 1936 (Some discussion of the “League of Ten for National Salvation.”)

“Hitler Awards Olympic Medals to Dr. Chu and Gen Chang Chih-kiang.” The China Press. June 19, 1937.

“Lean Days for Guoshu”. New York Times. November 2nd, 1947.

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to see: Lives of Chinese Martial Artists (20): General Li Jinglin, the “Sword Saint” of Wudang.

oOo

Something Old, Something New

Everyone has a favorite TV show, film genre or martial art.  So here is a quick experiment that you can carry out from the comfort of your own smart phone.  Head on over to YouTube, drop the title of your chosen passion in the search box, and take a look at what comes up.  If you interests are anything like mine there will be lots hits on Star Wars, Wing Chun and Rick and Morty (don’t judge).  

Now take a closer look at what you see.  What sorts of videos are actually populating your feed?  If your search results are anything like mine there will be a mixture of popular action clips (Rey and Kylo taking out the praetorian guard in Snoke’s throne room), instructional material (it seems that literally every Wing Chun school in existence now has their own version of the Six and a Half Point Pole form) and lots and lots of “theory videos.”  Indeed, YouTube has become a hub for distributing not just video clips of popular programs and practices, but extensive fan discussions as well.  

These fan theories can take various forms.  There are lots of film theories that attempt to ferret out the “secret” connections between characters, plot points or even franchises.  Others draw on trailers, advertisements and the release of merchandise to speculate about what will happen in upcoming episodes of a series.  And if we turn our attention to videos focusing on the traditional Asian martial arts, we will encounter many amateur sleuths attempting to reveal the “forgotten history” of some teacher, lineage or specific practice.

Once you start to pay attention to these “theory videos” you quickly realize that they have become ubiquitous, crossing all sorts of boundaries separating genres and practices.  They are now a near universal constant within popular culture.  Of course there has always been speculation about what really motivated Hamlet, or the fuzzy origins of Karate.  And in all honesty, I love those sorts of conversations. Yet something feels different about the current moment.  

Again, lets go back to our search results.  When I type in “Rick and Morty” I can find links to the official pay-per-view episodes, pirated episodes and video clips, but they are dwarfed by the number of fan produced videos commenting, theorizing and speculating on “what it all means” or “what will happen next.”  In a very real sense it seems that everyone has a theory.  The official content has been displaced from the center of the community.  The actual number of hours of this cartoon ever produced is minuscule compared to the amount of amateur content, mostly responding to other amateur critics, that has now been posted.

And as far as YouTube or Facebook is concerned, that is a great thing.  After all, they don’t really control the content or advertising streams around the original show.  But they can certainly monetize all of these fan produced theory videos.  The more you think about them, the less puzzling their prominence becomes.  Fans want to be part of the process of “creating” the story (or at least their small corner of the community that follows it), while social networks are only too happy to encourage this type of discussion because they can make a lot of money from it.  How much money? Just take a look the number of views those Star Wars or Rick and Morty theory videos get.  Fan theories are now big business (just not for the fans, ironically).

My interest in this process is two-fold.  On a structural level I have noticed that a lot of these “fan theories” are similar to the sorts of popular battles over martial arts history that have been going on for decades.  “Theorizing” is pervasive in both areas.  What are the effects of this?  How does our experience of the martial arts, or our treatment of martial arts history, change now that the internet has taken this type of conversation and turned the volume up to eleven?  Secondly, how should academics and other students of martial arts studies approach the fan theory phenomenon?  Rather than following our initial instincts to simply dismiss all of this as “bad history”, I argue that the self-referential nature of many of these narratives makes them an important source of information on the needs and desires that motivate the current generation of martial art students (particularly the ones who are interested in questions of identity, community and authenticity). 

Experiencing a Fan Theory

While my own training within Political Science focuses on questions of international relations and political economy, I have a number of colleagues who specialized instead on the messy business of winning elections.  What we have learned about the “dark arts” of political advertising and messaging on social media in the last few years is genuinely fascinating.  My recent research on public and cultural diplomacy (sometimes mistaken for the related field of propaganda) has led me to develop an interest in some of these questions.  Much of this may be helpful when attempting to disentangle the impact of pop culture theorizing within the martial arts.

Perhaps the first realization that we must accept is that every piece of media we consume has some impact on how we perceive our world.  This does not mean that we automatically rush out and buy the first product that we see advertised.  Persuading potential customers or voters is a tricky business.  But all of the messages that we have been previously exposed to frame our perception of each new piece of information that we get in significant, and sometimes perplexing, ways.  Hence any diplomat, advertising executive or political operative worth their salt thinks about the long game (lets call it “brand management”) and not just immediate returns.  Effective exponents of the martial arts have historically taken similar approaches.

Their patience is based on an understanding of the value of repetition.  A psychological observation called the “mere exposure effect” notes that people develop positive associations with claims or statements that they hear repeatedly, even if they do not fully understand them.  This principal is the basis of the tried and true political strategy of “coordinating your talking points.”  While watching two hours of Sunday morning news programing, a viewer might be exposed to various guests and reporters repeating the same pre-scripted talking point a dozen times.  The first time you hear the argument it is simply a rumor, but by Monday morning a significant percentage of the population will accept it as a fact.  Again, this is based simply upon their repeated exposure to the idea.  

This is disturbing as on a conscious level we all know that simply repeating a claim over and over does not make it true.  Yet on a subconscious level that does not seem to matter.  We often feel more favorably disposed to ideas simply because we have been repeatedly exposed to them.  Nor does intellectually knowing about the “mere exposure effect” do much to blunt its psychological impact.

All of this is important as most of us also inhabit a social “echo chamber” of some sort.  Certain theories or debates have a way of dominating on-line communities (e.g., in The Last Jedi we will learn that Han Solo is (or is not) Rey’s father; Wing Chun is structured this way as it was (or was not) invented by a woman, etc…).  Indeed, this may even be considered to be a core feature of the traditional Asian folk arts.  In his discussion of “folk history” Prof. Thomas Green (2003) noted that martial art communities are constructed, at least in part, through their acceptance of unverified narratives (e.g., historical legends) that are used to explain why certain things are done they way they are.   Green actually went so far as to question whether one could be a “real” member of a community if you rejected these folk theories.

In my personal experience, community boundaries within the Chinese martial arts in America are not drawn quite so strictly.  Rather, it seems that the community itself is defined through its acceptance of certain debates.  It may not actually matter much whether you accept or reject the historical reality of Ng Moy.  Your Chi Sao will be just as good.  Rather, to be a member of the Wing Chun clan is to acknowledge that you are part of the larger group that debates the question of whether she existed, and what impact she may (or may not) have had on the shared art.  In short, we define ourselves not so much by the acceptance of a legend, but rather through our interest in theorizing about it.  The advent of YouTube and Facebook has simply accelerated, rather than changed, this underlying pattern of identity formation.

Next we must consider the “confidence effect.”  It seems to me that most good fan theories on any subject (whether its Rick and Morty or the pre-history of Karate) operate by linking disparate facts in an attempt to prove a seemingly counter-intuitive hypothesis.  For instance, I recently saw a paper presentation arguing that, contrary to the accepted wisdom, Taekwondo wasn’t simply a localized adaptation of Japanese karate.  Rather, Japanese Karate was itself transmitted by mostly Korean refugees who washed up in Okinawa.  So without denying the obvious historical sequence of events that has now been documented by so many Korean and Western sports historians, one could still argue that Taekwondo is essentially an ancient Korean martial art.

On the surface this argument seems unlikely.  Indeed, it reads as a classic case of a theorist starting off with the conclusion that they wanted to reach (TKD really is Korean) and then finding a group of facts that fit the scenario.  Still, I loved the paper.  As I listened to it I learned all sorts of interesting facts about how the fishing and maritime trade industries in Korea worked, and how the Okinawan kingdom handled refugees.  

Of course, none of that really spoke directly to the question at hand.  If you want to know about the origins of Taekwondo its a lot easier to examine what was happening in Korea in the 1950s than to theorize about what may have happened in Okinawa in the 1850s.  Unfortunately, that is not the way the confidence effect actually works.  Rather, we are more likely to be confident in a theory the more tantalizing clues and pieces of information we are given, even if they don’t actually add up to anything.

In a famous experiment researchers asked respondents to predict the outcome of sporting events.  In successive rounds of the test they gave respondents more “facts” about the two teams.  Further, respondents were asked to rank their confidence in their predictions.  While the long lists of spurious facts about each team did nothing to improve the actually quality of the predictions made, everyone was universally more confident in the accuracy of their theory when they went into it armed with a well stocked list of “clues.”  It seems that the human mind is very invested in the discovery of clues, even if we have to make them up or convince ourselves of their significance.

This then brings us to our last psychological mechanism, the endowment effect.  This insight actually comes from experimental economics.  Simply stated, individuals very rarely feel comfortable selling an item for less than the price that they bought it for.  So if I were to ask you how much you paid for that coffee mug you might brag about only having paid $10.  If I asked you what it was worth you might well tell me $15, even though you just saw that very item (and probably many more like it), change hands for $10.  This isn’t just because people love a “bargain” (or rather, being convinced that what they just bought was, in fact, a bargain).  It happens because we endow items, identities and practices with intangible value simply because they are now ours.  They come to reflect the value that we place on our own ego.

Nor are we eager to reevaluate those prices.  In fact, we tend to psychologically isolate ourselves from information that suggests that these values are overstated.  This is an  important aspect of human psychology that all political operatives seek to exploit.  Once an individual adopts a political party or candidate as part of their identity, they will tend to discount or ignore any future information they receive that is critical of those institutions.  Hence politicians frequently attempt to reframe attacks on themselves as attacks on their voters.

The end result is that people tend to have a natural bias against new information, particularly if it challenges their current practices or community identity.  Its not hard to see similar trends within the debates that erupt between martial arts styles.  Once again, simply knowing about the endowment effect, or the “illusory truth effect” (the more frequently one hears an assertion, the more likely you are to accept it, even if its labeled as “just a theory”), does not make one immune to them.  Indeed, each of these mechanisms is deeply embedded in human psychology and helps to make us fundamentally social animals.  We define ourselves, in large part, by what others tell us.

Extended to their natural conclusion, it is easy to see how these theories or debates are not really the products of individuals.  Knowledge is always fundamentally social, and its exposition has consequences.  That is probably why theory videos, whether on the martial arts or the latest Star Wars film, are so popular in the first place.  We seek to be part of, and at the same time to influence, these communities.

The danger arises when we run into physical facts or historical discoveries that stand apart from these social discourses.  A striker will not always beat a grappler (or vice versa).  And we are always on the verge of new historical discoveries that could rewrite our understanding of a given community or era.  Just as holding too tightly to a favorite fan theory might lead to disappointment when a TV series goes in a different direction,  our pursuit of “effective self-defense”, “historically accurate swordsmanship” or “authentic history” will not always be well served by a propensity to engage in popular theorizing about the arts we practice.  Because these ideas are so easily conflated with our own identity, the temptation to ignore challenging new discoveries is immense.

The Creator and the Creation

Given my own interests, I am particularly concerned with how popular discussions might lead individuals to ignore or misread social history.  I worry that the sorts of fan theories that something like YouTube normalizes might complicate the growing popular discussion of the martial arts.  Responding to social media trends, certain shows and films have taken to leaving elaborate trails of breadcrumbs throughout their scripts.  Within the show this serves the purpose of “world building.”  But in the larger on-line discussion it is effectively a type of “fan service” that drives endless speculation.  These sorts of organic discussions are now seen as a critical way to maintain a fanbase even when new episodes or films are not being produced.

Yet actual history does not leave neatly marked trails of breadcrumbs, and the social significance of popular practices rarely follows a single, linear, narrative track.  The real world is complex.  History only rarely makes for a good theory video.  There are many narratives that might emerge from one event, nor is it always clear what sort of data constitutes a useful “clue” and what is simply noise.

Its also important to think carefully about our goals.  Most fan theories, whether on the martial arts or popular culture, seek to fill in the gaps in our understanding.  They wonder about events that occurred before the start of the film or which fall outside the accepted historical record.  They seek to clarify the relationships between characters which are left unresolved on screen or in the history books.

As such, much of this popular theorizing is based on what we in academics call “arguments from silence.”  And that is not an accident.  Rather, these productions are fascinating and highly creative attempts to fill in the gaps while still staying loyal to a group of known facts.

This is one of the areas where you can most easily perceive the difference between what might be popular or “folk” theorizing and its more academic cousins.  I specifically tell my students not to theorize about the empty spaces because, lacking evidence, such theories can never really be challenged or falsified.  And I try to practice what I preach.  

When working on the Creation of Wing Chun, my co-author and I actually cut multiple chapters of deep historical speculation on Wing Chun’s early origins from the manuscript because, in our judgement, the sources were just too thin to support a truly scholarly discussion.  As interesting as the subject may be, it was more important to focus on recent events in the 1910s-1970s.  Not only was this period well enough documented to allow for real theory testing, but it was also the proximate source of the Wing Chun community that exists today.  The key to maintaining a legitimate scholarly discussion is the ability to say, “we simply don’t know.” 

Those are my concerns as a social scientist.  At the same time, we should admit that falsification is not really the point of most pop-culture theorizing.  For instance, not many Star Wars fans were happy to hear that their theory about Rey’s parentage was wrong.  They didn’t just update their genealogical databases and move on.  Rather, they (in many cases) felt personally disrespected to a degree that is quite significant to students of cultural studies.

I am hesitant to simply reduce this vast body of popular discourse to “bad martial arts history” or “bad film studies.”  Again, I think that misses its larger significance.  The logic of what dictates a good “fan theory” is certainly different from anything that I would teach in a class on social scientific methods.  Yet such a logic does seem to exist.  Further, there is something undeniably creative and exciting about all of this.  If we are being honest, we would have to admit that this has always been one of the most dynamic and interesting realms of discussion surrounding the traditional martial arts.

In short, I think that students of Martial Arts Studies, particularly those with sociological and anthropological interests, probably need to pay more attention to fan theories.  They suggest a great deal about what certain types of student seeks to find within the modern martial arts.  Their concerns with legitimacy, authenticity and historical rootedness are topics that we can, and should, speak to.  Yet beyond those obvious issues we find in their narratives an attempt to cast the martial experience in such a way that it redefines the horizon of what is possible (and desirable) at this moment in history.  While we may not learn much about Taekwondo’s history (or Rey’s parentage) by watching these videos, their creators are telling us a great deal about how the martial arts function as an avenue for self-creation.

oOo

If you enjoyed this discussion you might also want to read: What “Everyone” Knows: Empowerment, Social Competition and Conspiracy Theories in the Martial Arts

oOo

Introduction

It is hard to think of a recent martial arts studies title that has been more successful in capturing the general public’s attention than Wendy Rouse’s (2017) Her Own Hero:The Origins of the Women’s Self-Defense Movement (NYU Press). The book presents a fascinating tale recounting the various ways in which women’s political and social struggles intersected with the popularization of both Eastern and Western martial arts during America’s Progressive Era (1890s-1920s).  Heavily empirical projects like this take years to research and write.  But the timing of this book’s release, coinciding as it did with the eruption of the “Me Too” movement, could not have been more fortuitous.  Still, it is the richness of the human stories that Rouse expertly weaves together which is the real strength of her work.

Such praise notwithstanding, not every book will please every reader.  This is particularly true when tackling a topic as broad as “The origins of the women’s self-defense movement.”  Any complex chain of events can be observed or theorized from many angles.  Further, your starting frame of reference may well effect your conclusions.

This point seems to underlay Godfrey’s recent review of Rouse, published in the journal Martial Arts Studies. It is generally positive, and well worth reading if you have been thinking of picking up a copy of Her Own Hero.  It should be noted that Godfrey has published and lectured extensively on many of the topics that Rouse touches on, so its fantastic to see a serious engagement between these two authors.

Still, I think that it will be clear to most readers of the review that there are some things about this book that irk Godfrey.  At the most basic level, the text of this book focuses almost exclusively on a detailed social history the women’s self-defense movement in the United States.  Indeed, historical frames of reference that are extensively explored (from Teddy Roosevelt practicing jujitsu in the White House to the Yellow Peril in California) which represent critical moments in American social history.  In many ways this book fits quite nicely within a disciplinary box marked “American History.”

But that is not what the book’s title promises its readers.  The notion of a “women’s self-defense movement” feels more global in nature.  Many critical martial arts pioneers (both male and female) were from the United Kingdom.  Given the UK’s structural place within the pre-WWI global order, that is not entirely surprising. And it was in the UK that a group of more militant suffragettes forged an association between the martial arts (in their case jujitsu) and the progressive women’s movement, that still captures the public imagination today.

In Godfrey’s estimation all of this is dealt with rather shabbily by Rouse.  At times she seems uninterested in some of these figures (labeling them all as “militant English suffragettes” when some were Scottish or Welsh).  In other cases the omissions may be more substantive.  Note, for instance, this critique:

“However, I would like to have seen a reference to Edward William Barton-Wright, who introduced Japanese martial arts to a mainstream audience in turn-of-the-century Britain. Barton-Wright drew together experts from around the world to his Bartitsu Club and influenced the development of martial arts overseas. Barton- Wright’s Bartitsu, an early mixed martial art, embraced a variety of fighting styles including French savate, boxing and jujitsu. Bartitsu most famously appears, as a typo, in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Adventure of the Empty House [1903] in which Sherlock Holmes tells a stunned Dr. Watson, who believes Holmes is dead, that he survived his tussle with his greatest enemy using his knowledge of ‘baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling’. What I find compelling is that, of all the weapons Holmes uses in the stories, it is his knowledge of Japanese martial arts which he takes to his most significant fight. How does Rouse view Barton-Wright’s promotion of jujitsu? How was his work received in the United States?…” (p. 85)

Godfrey, E., (2018). Book review – Her own hero: the origins of the women’s defense movement. Martial Arts Studies. (5), pp.84–87. DOI: http://doi.org/10.18573/mas.52.

This point struck me as particularly important.  It interests as it goes beyond any specific criticism of Rouse’s.  In thinking about this question I realized that I had never taken the time to sort out which sources on Bartitsu were actually available in America in the opening years of the 20th century.  Indeed, most of the discussions of this art focuses on events and articles published in the UK.  So what was known about Barton-Wright, and how important was he to the popularization of the Japanese martial arts, in a specifically American context?

While Bartitsu has never been the focus of my personal research or practice, it occurred to me that this was the sort of question that does not have to remain a mystery.  In practice an afternoon’s worth of work with electronic databases of turn of the century newspaper and magazine articles (while not enough to paint the complete picture) would give us a pretty good sketch of the strength of Barton-Wright’s influence in the US versus his stature in the UK.

What We Know

The obvious place to start this discussion is with a quick recap of what we know.  For readers whose interest’s run more towards the Chinese martial arts, Edward William Barton-Wright was a British Engineer who had an opportunity to study jujitsu while working in Japan for a couple of years.  He was very interested in the more practical applications of fighting (rather than competition).  Upon his return to the UK he began to teach and advertise what he terms a “New Art of Self-Defence” which drew heavily (and eclectically) from a variety of disciplines.  In addition to jujitsu his system focused on stick fighting (via Pierre Vigny), savate, western boxing and possibly more local forms of wrestling.  

Barton-Wright’s career as a promoter of the martial arts was actually quite brief, but he managed to open a club, publish a number of articles and give numerous lectures and public demonstrations.  He recruited at least three Japanese martial artists, one of whom would go on to help popularize judo in the UK after Barton-Wright had left the field.  Indeed, a quick survey of newspapers and magazines in the UK suggests that in the opening years of the 20th century he was an important figure in the global spread of the Japanese martial arts.  Readers who want to delve deeper into Barton-Wright’s career may want to check out both the Bartitsu Society as well as several of the pieces that have been published in the Electronic Journal of Martial Arts and Sciences.

Still, for many observers perhaps the most interesting aspect of Bartitsu was how quickly the entire thing managed to be forgotten.  There are probably multiple reasons for this.  Barton may have been “out advertised” by Japanese martial artists who were entering the musical hall wrestling scene.  While the Russo-Japanese war gave the martial arts a tremendous boost in 1904-1905, I suspect that the way they reframed the discussion in nationalist (rather than “scientific”) terms, probably didn’t help his project.  Outside of a single (widely read) reference in a Sherlock Holmes story, what could early 20th century Americans have known about this brilliant, but brief, flowering of martial arts enthusiasm?

The Sources

The answer to that question depends in large part on how many people subscribed to Pearson’s Magazine between the years 1899 and 1901.  This illustrated monthly, which seems to have been aimed at a mostly middle-class or lower middle class audience, is best remembered today for its literary aspirations.  George Bernard Shaw, among others, seems to have gotten his start in its pages.  However, swashbuckling tales and essays on solidly imperialists subjects (such as the ever popular Boer War) were common.  As such it is not a surprise to learn that at the turn of the century the magazine ran a series of articles which, in the words of its editors, focused on “men’s athletics”.  A notice in the December 1899 issue notes that in addition to Barton-Wright’s recently concluded series on “The New Art of Self-Defence,” and another author’s examination of “How to Drive,” future articles would focus on lifeguarding techniques and “How to Save from Drowning.” Clear the publication’s editor took a rather broad view of athletics and physical culture.  Still, its important to note that this early discussion of the martial arts was aimed at an audience defined by its middle class aspirations for culture and adventurous recreation.

By the time that Bartitsu had arrived on the scene, Pearson’s was publishing monthly editions in both the UK and the USA.  While most articles in the sister magazines were identical, occasional differences can be spotted indicating some effort to localize content.  In March and April of 1899, American Readers were able to read about Barton-Wright’s new self-defense system.  This initial material focused mostly on unarmed combat.  Two years later, in January and February of 1901 readers were introduced to the movement’s new ideas on “Self-Defense With the Walking Stick.”

Each of these articles was illustrated with a number of small photographs and included both introductory material and brief discussions of various practical techniques.  They are well understood as the four articles constitute the totality of the received historical canon on how Bartitsu was practiced at the time.  The UK and US versions of the articles are similar.  But for our purposes there is one critical difference.  In the American version readers could find a notice that Barton-Wright would soon undertake a journey to bring his system to this side of the Atlantic.  

Neither of those things were to happen.  Barton-Wright never took that lecture trip.  Nor is it clear that the American public ever learned anything more of Bartitsu.

In contrast, if one lived in London at the turn of the century it was unnecessary to collect back issues of Pearson’s to learn about Bartitsu.  The movement had a physical club/school that one could visit.  There were various public lectures and a fair number of discussions in the press if you could not make it to the school to watch a class.

In America the situation was fundamentally different.  Outside of the limited circulation of Pearson’s Magazine, my afternoon of electronic database searches at a major university wasn’t able to turn up much public discussion of Bartitsu at all.  While an initial Proquest search of UK journals returned several hits on periodical articles (other than those in Pearson’s), the US version of the same database revealed nothing.  And while newspapers in the UK and Ireland ran many articles on Bartitsu, those in US carried only two or three.

Even those would not have been very helpful to an American audience attempting to learn much about the movement.  Perhaps the most substantive piece I was able to turn up was published in the Chicago Sunday Tribune on April 2, 1899.  But rather than a substantive report on Bartitsu, this was a clear attempt to plagiarize the first of the Pearson’s articles.  The effort came complete with hand drawn copies of the original photographs and no mention of their actual source.  Other than that, Barton-Wright’s public pronouncement of a new mode of self-defense does not seem to have generated any public notice at the time.  There is no mention of either his name or system in the NY Times or even the Police Gazette.  Of course the NY Times nicely represented American aspirations to middle class respectably, while the Police Gazette ran frequent stories on wrestling and boxing.  It also published pieces on jujitsu.

At the same time there are numerous other discussions of the Japanese (and less frequently Chinese) martial arts happening in the American press. Teddy Roosevelt’s enthusiasm for jujitsu was well known, but Barton-Wright’s ideas or system does not seem to be part of these conversations. 

In my brief survey ,his name next appears on February 21 of 1901 in The Globe Toronto.  On page 10 there is a very short note in which we find Barton-Wright vouching for the skill of Vigney and his fighting ability.  A very brief mention of the eclectic nature of Bartitsu is made the notices opening sentences, but nothing more. The author of the piece doesn’t seem to assume much familiarity on the part of his readers.

Finally, on January 21 of 1902 the Baltimore Sun printed what might be the most important discussion of Bartitsu in the American popular press that I have yet located.  This piece actually turned to the previously discussed article in the Chicago Tribune (rather than Pearson’s original articles), for its basic discussions of jujitsu.  But it also relied heavily on the orientalize descriptions of Judo provided by Lafcadio Hearn. After that the topic changed to an account of a recent Bartitsu demonstration (featuring an unnamed Japanese instructor) at Barton-Wright’s club in London.

The overall attitude of the piece towards Bartitsu is somewhat hard to read. While the potentially eclectic nature of the exercise was mentioned (including all sorts of weapons and walking sticks), the article focused on the Japanese art of jujitsu.  This included a perfunctory nod to the idea of it being an “art of yielding.”  Yet the point that the author kept coming back to was the utterly mysterious and unknowable nature of the exercise.  Readers were sagely informed that its mastery requires long training, and there are many “tricks” to be mastered.  Still, there is nothing particularly underhanded or devious about this form of self-defense.  Rather, it just seems to defy the Western ability to imagine or describe it.  This 1902 piece was the last contemporaneous reference to Bartitsu, or Barton-Wright, that I could locate in the literature.

Conclusion

Before going on to draw any explicit conclusions, a few words of caution are in order.  I make no claims of being a student of Bartitsu.  Nor do I claim that this literature review was in any way exhaustive.  The Proquest databases that I was using, while the “industry standard” within University Libraries, are far from complete.  For instance the newspaper database had good coverage of the major national papers (NY Times, Washington Post, etc…) but only about 15 regional papers.  Much the same could be said of their collections of weekly and monthly serials.  As such, it would be better to think of what I have just presented as a randomly selected sample of what was (or was not) being produced in the American press rather than a definitive list of all sources.  And I am sure that the same cautions apply to Proquest’s databases of UK newspapers and magazines.  In short, I do not consider this conversation to be either definitive or complete.  Rather, this was all done in the spirit of an afternoon-long research experiment.

Still, I think that we can draw a few conclusions from this that shed light on Godfrey’s previous question.  While Barton-Wright’s “canon” was published on both sides of the Atlantic (thanks to Pearson’s Magazine) his impact on popular culture was much greater in the UK than in the US.  Indeed, one is reminded of the notice of the American tour that he never managed to make.  In retrospect it seems an apt metaphor of the subsequent invisibility of his fighting system on this side of the Atlantic.

This is not to say that Americans were unaware of, or uninterested in, the Japanese martial arts.  If you define your search terms more broadly its easy to find all sorts of late 19th and early 20th century articles on jujitsu, judo and even kendo.  Of course boxing, wrestling and single stick were also popular in America.  Rouse spends hundreds of pages pouring over and discussing these accounts, particularly as they relate to the women’s self-defense movement.  While Barton-Wright may have had an important (if brief) role in initiating this conversation in the UK, he seems to have been more or less absent from the ensuing debates that occurred in America.

That does not make early 20th century Bartitsu in any way uninteresting.  From a theoretical standpoint students of Martial Arts Studies know that the process of “forgetting” is just as interesting as “remembering.”  Both are critical forces that have shaped the emergence of the modern martial arts.  Yet perhaps this case speaks to another set of important questions as well.

Regular readers will be aware that over the last few weeks I have been wrestling with two competing forces within the social history of the martial arts.  On the one hand its easy to see them as “globalized” practices carried out by a trans-national community.  That is, after all, how they present themselves.  Our speech seems to suggest that there is something irreducibly “Japanese” about the “Japanese martial arts.”  And that shouldn’t change whether I am in Tokyo, London or New York.  Not only that, but in many cases shared organizational networks, pilgrimage voyages and orientalist aspirations are also anchored in the “home” country.

On the other hand, a close examination of any specific martial arts community suggests that these communities are forced to adapt to localized conditions (sometimes in dramatic ways) if they wish to survive.  Thus maybe we should imagine the spread of the martial arts as a wave of competing “localizations” rather than a homogenizing sort of globalization.  In terms of my own research, Foshan and Hong Kong were not that far apart, geographically speaking, in 1949.  Yet these two different cities, separated only by a handful of miles (and a much less permeable ideological barrier) had a profound effect on the sorts of martial arts communities that would thrive within their borders.

I wonder if there is an undercurrent of this debate running throughout our current case.  While not claiming that the US was totally isolated from trends in the UK, Rouse might be thought of as explaining the development of the women’s self-defense movement (and probably the adoption of the Asian martial arts as a whole) as running on a parallel track to what was occurring in the UK.  Perhaps she might say that even if Bartitsu was known by some early American readers, local forces had a larger part to play in how the public reacted to the introduction of these fighting systems.

Godfrey, on the other hand, seems to be asking us to reconsider what might be seen as an overly parochial turn in our discussion of these fighting systems.  Is there a logical reason that our discussions default to a national focus?  It is not just that the martial arts often function as transnational communities of greater or lesser coherence.  Their development tends to be driven by similar systemic forces in all their various environments.  A concern with Asian immigration and “muscular Christianity” were, after all, not exclusive American preoccupations.  

More importantly, the images, media and discourses that these communities generate easily slip the bonds of national markets and become free-floating tools for future appropriation.  While regional groups will use them to address their own problems, the combination of shared global pressures and discourses suggests that this flexibility is probably bounded in some important ways.

A quick review of period news sources suggests that Rouse probably lost little descriptive power in not focusing more of her discussion on Barton-Wright.  He probably had relatively little impact on how the public discussion of jujitsu was framed in the American media market (and none in the critical period after the Russo-Japanese War).  Still, the engagement between Godfrey and Rouse is a fruitful one as it asks us to consider the balance between the competing trends of globalization and localization within the spread of the Asian martial arts.

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: Bartitsu and Suffragette Jujitsu of the Early 20th Century.

oOo

Introduction

I first became aware of an article titled “The Ancient Art of Chinese Boxing” by Julius Eigner through a reference in the work of Stanley Henning.  I seem to recall that he was not impressed with its historical veracity, and neither am I.  Still, it has always struck me as a potentially important source.  We tell ourselves popular narratives in which the Chinese martial arts are “discovered” by the Western public on a fairly regular basis.  They were discovered in 1900 (the Boxer Rebellion), again in the 1930s, again in the 1970s, and even after the release of “Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon.”  At times I think the real mystery facing students of martial arts studies is not “how were these practices discovered” but, “how do they keep getting forgotten?”

Still, for certain sorts of actors this process of social forgetting is quite useful.  It allows the martial arts to be continually reintroduced to the public as a means to explain something critical about the Chinese nation or society at a given moment in time.  I doubt that the process of forgetting is ever totally complete.  Even if we are not conscious of what we used to know, culturally laden symbols and associations remain.  Those artifacts are the building blocks that the next round of diplomats, propagandists or advertising executives must work with as they attempt to reshape the martial arts in the image of their ideal world.  Yes, through the process of social creation we craft our reality, but never exactly how we want it.  History may be forgotten or negotiated, but it always exudes a certain invisible drag on the present.

Eigner’s work may not have much to say about the actual ancient origins of the Chinese martial arts, but it provides us with a very useful case study of how they have been packaged and presented to encourage individuals in the West to reimagine what China was, or might yet be.  This is the core aim of any public or cultural diplomacy strategy.  And by the middle years of the 1930s the KMT’s propaganda, foreign affairs and education ministries were fully engaged in this task.  So were the nation’s fledgling athletic and martial arts associations.  Indeed, these were critical tools as they could project an image of modernity and power directly into foreign stadiums and theaters as the Chinese state attempted to deploy the diplomatic charm of exhibition basketball games and martial arts demonstrations.  The basic theory behind Nixon’s “Ping Pong Diplomacy” was nothing new.  It actually has a long history in the diplomatic repertoire.

Nevertheless, it is not always practical to send out an athletic or martial arts team.  Nor can they visit every city.  To leverage the impact of these programs one needs to get high quality, sustained, media coverage.  A well placed story in a major Western paper could reach many more voters than the actual event itself.

Getting that sort of coverage, sadly, was always a challenge for the Nationalist government.  Shuge Wei has noted that prior to about 1935, the Chinese state lacked the key tools necessary to control its own political messaging or even to have an effective strategy for dealing with the press.  And after these tools were eventually put in place, one was still dependent on foreign reporters and editors (writing for either treaty port newspapers or as correspondents for the major national dailys) to get the message into the hands of the global public. 

One could tilt the playing field in various ways.  It was not uncommon for the national governments of the era to censor international cable traffic in an attempt to kill the rapid distribution of unfavorable stories.  More subtle intelligence officers might offer a large stipend to a friendly newspaper owner to encourage them to adhere to a certain editorial line.  But this dance was a delicate one as the major newspapers in North America or Europe were only going to pick up stories from “credible sources”, and that meant keeping government interference well out of sight.  Nor was the Chinese government the only state attempting to influence its national image through the press.

All of this brings us back to Julius Eigner’s curious (and by 1938 redundant) attempt to introduce the Chinese martial arts to the English speaking world.  Typically I discuss articles and then introduce them to the readers.  But this time it might be more effective study Eigner’s rhetoric before delving into a discussion of what this tells us about the complicated nature of “Kung Fu Diplomacy” in the 1930s.  Still, Henning’s cautions need to be remembered as you dive into what can only be considered an “unreliable narrative.”  Buckle up! 

The Ancient Art of Chinese Boxing

By

Juius Eigner

Although jiu-jitsu, the Japanese art of self-defence which originated from the Chinese boxing practices, is known practically all over the world, noting more than the mere fact that there existed such an exercise as Chinese boxing is known to the West.  Where this exercise, which justly may be termed strange and weird, comes from, what it means and what it aims are, seems to be still unknown.  Yet the story of its history constitutes a really fascinating tale, even though there is little known of actual facts.

Chinese boxing originally developed out of the practices of the Indian Yogi, at least this is generally the thesis upheld by scholars, although there is not much to substantiate it except a rather vague affinity.  When the first apostles of Buddhism came to China to make proselytes in “heathen” Cathay they brought with them, besides the holy scriptures and teachings of Buddha Gautama, the knowledge of strange physical as well as spiritual exercises from which Chinese boxing was to develop in later centuries.

These exercises had been developed and even elevated to a branch of science by the Yogi of India.  These holy men and religious fanatics were deeply revered all over India owing to their magic powers over the laws of Nature.  After many years of strenuous training, they had succeeded in liberating both body and mind from many of the rules and laws to which human life is subjected.  Assisted by a cleverly developed breathing technique they had become masters of Nature, and, thanks to these powers, the un-educated populace stood in awe before them.

Rare physical feats, such as the suspension in mid-air without visible means of support, the traversing of fire with bare feet without getting burned, the falling into sleep, a sort of trance rather which sometimes lasts for weeks, without visible adverse effects etc., are still observable in many parts of India.  Up to now Western science and psychology has not succeeded in unveiling the motivating power behind some of these strange phenomenon, although attempts have been made to deal with them as trickery and illusions.

The history of boxing in China is rather scanty.  Some data, however, has been preserved on a stone monument in the famous temple Tsao Ling Sau [Shaolin] in Honan, which dates back to 722 A.D.  This monument relates that the Emperor T’an Ta’ai Tsung of the T’ang Dynasty, once in need of brave and courageous men, called on the boxing monks of this monastery and had them incorporated into his regular army to fight against bandits.  These fierce, fighting monks in the subsequent battles discharged their duty so honorably and justified the confidence put into them to such a degree that the Emperor endowed them with a huge piece of land on which the monastery still exists.

Scholars of today assert that this temple became the cradle of Chinese boxing.  Through all of the centuries this temple enriched and enlarged the ancient boxing tradition through waxing and waning fortune.  Even today boxers consider it a distinction to be a pupil of the monks of Tsao Ling Ssu.

But following this first period of relative popularity, there came many lean years.  Periods of highest imperial favor alternated with those of relentless suppression.  During the reign of the last foreign dynasty on the dragon throne numerous edicts were promulgated prohibiting boxing throughout the country.  The reason for this last persecution, according to present-day historians, is the fact that the Manchu Emperors lived in constant fear of the revolutionary spirit of the boxers, which was especially rampant during this period.  Eventually, in 1900, a secret society which was given the name of the Boxers succeeded in gathering their forces, and the rising which bears this name took place, being deflected against foreigners in China instead of the Manchu Dynasty by a clever maneuver of the Empress Ch’u His.

The decline of Chinese boxing was due to the enmity of the Manchus towards the boxers, scholars assert.  It was only during past years that determined efforts were being made to restore this typically Chinese sport and give it a position which is deserved in a modern, growing nation.

Private individuals as well as official bodies combine to revive the ancient form of boxing.  The presence of a group of Chinese at the World Olympic Games in 1936 in Berlin, who showed to a bewildered audience the intricacies of Chinese boxing, formed a milestone in this modern development.  At the moment efforts are underway to select the best points of Chinese and Western boxing and to combine them into a new exercise for the delectation and satisfaction of the growing, athletically-minded generations.

Before starting to describe what Chinese boxing really consists of, a few feats which ancient boxers are said to have accomplished may be enumerated.

The story is preserved of a famous boxer who for years trained the muscles of his fingers in such a way that with the outstretched fingers of both hands he continuously hit upon the trunk of a huge tree. After having done this exercise for many years he had pierced the wooden trunks completely and at the same time had gained tremendous power.  It is said that with a light touch of his fingers he could kill a man or else throw him through the air for a distance of ten yards.  As the fame of the boxer spread he became so vain that his teacher found it incumbent to set him aright.  He demanded of his pupil that he hurl a man through the air.  The moment the man was flying through mid-air the old teacher jumped after him, succeeded in taking hold of him while still in the air and eventually brought him down lightly on the ground thus causing that he did not suffer the slightest harm.  The audience stood in awe as they witnessed this well-nigh incredible achievement of both the old teacher and his pupil.  The latter, it is related, from then on was again a modest man who eventually achieved a mental as well as physical balance of power which is the possession of all true boxers.

One more story of this kind may be related.  During the Ming Dynasty there lived a man in the province of Hunan who was master over his body to such an extent that physical laws seemed to have no effect on him.  Although Old and feeble, with a body ravaged by opium smoking, so the story goes, people from far and wide flocked to his abode to witness his incredible accomplishments, for he was able to fall asleep while actually floating in midair.

Practices of this kind, known scientifically as the transfer of the center of gravity, point directly to the Indian origins of Chinese boxing exercises.  For the practices of the Indian Yogi have resulted in similar and even greater feats of human conquest over the physical laws.  It must, however, be stated that modern Chinese boxing has no similar tales to tell.  

As all highly developed abilities in arts and handicrafts in China since times immemorial have been handed down from the father to only one son or from the teacher to only his favorite pupil, it sounds logical that the number of people who practice boxing in its original form is infinitesimal.  It is for this reason mainly that it is extremely difficult to get precise information on this strange and ancient art.

As already pointed out, it is in no way parallel to any form of sport as practiced in Europe or America.  In some way it resembles a graceful antique dance of extremely harmonic albeit difficult movements.  It may best be described by the following comparison.  Western boxing is an expression of the active, restless, fighting and searching philosophy of life of the Occidental, where as Chinese boxing just as exactly reflects the contemplative, passive, knowing and restful soul of Asia.

If any attempt at classification of Chinese boxing can be made at all, one may divide it into two distinct phases: the exoteric, or outer, and the esoteric, or innermost phase of complete mastery over the body.  The first may be roughly described as the attainment of physical power and fitness whereas the goal of the second school is the inward science of self-control.

The ordering of training in both schools is somewhat parallel, although there are minor differences.  The Chinese distinguish three separate stages.  The first stage, more strenuous and hard than the advanced forms, is primarily concerned with the hardening of the bones to their true strength.  The second stage is devoted to the training of the muscles until they become soft and flexible and instantly responsive to the will.  And finally the last stage is a lightening of the physical body through proper breathing which by this time has been scientifically established to coordinate with the lightening like actions.

After having gone through the three phases, until they have actually become subconscious, it is asserted, the adept of boxing will notice an agility of the body which is impossible to attain otherwise.  However, this agility is not only of the body, although it is essential to the darts and leaps demanded by his exercise, but it slowly imparts itself to the mind.  The thoughts which hitherto have been murky, dull and slow, eventually will become clear and keen.  Just as the physical movements are sure and certain as never before, so the mental and emotional capacities will become clear, sharp and crisp.

The attainment of this physical and mental fitness seems to activate the scores of people of all ages and walks of life who crowd the Shanghai public parks every morning at sunrise.  Clerks, students, shop employees all over the country can be see in idle moments, practicing the movements of their sport.  While doing these exercises, their faces seem set and stern, forgetful of the happenings around them, even happy.  If one is to believe them, they thereby gain strength, both mental and physical, for their day’s work.

But the true disciple of boxing is not satisfied with having reached this stage.  The true boxer regards it as insignificant to have attained physical mastery only, for the high spirit of fair play permeates even ancient Chinese sports and call it unfair to apply these noble principals to the uninitiated.  Further, as it is unworthy to harm one’s fellow beings, it is wisest to pursue these studies of mental control still further, striving for that illumination of mind which brings freedom to the individual.

Yet, with the present sketch, the problems of Chinese boxing have only been touched.  The fact, however, that with it attention has been drawn to this strange exercise, may justify the attempt.  Because Chinese boxing as so decidedly this Oriental touch which seems to defy all clear cut definitions and explanations it seems to ban impossible task for an outsider to unlock its mysteries.

Dissecting Julius Eigner’s “Chinese” Boxing

I sometimes think that the term “Orientalism” is overused; but it would be hard to think of a better-case study in Edward Said’s core concept than the explosion of inscrutable mysticism and “alien otherness” that we have just witnessed.  In Eigner’s account true Chinese martial artists are more like Jedi knights than the flesh and blood instructors who patrolled the hallways of the Central Guoshu Association.  His brand of “scientific mysticism” reminds me very much of the sort of the esoteric and occult discussions that were popular in the 1930s and 1940s.

How did Eigner come to his conclusions about the nature the Chinese martial arts and what was he actually trying to convey to Western readers?  On an even more fundamental level, was this supposed to be a positive view of the martial arts, something that would spark curiosity about this aspect of Chinese culture?  Or was it an attempt to dismiss a major movement in Chinese society as a “mere curiosity”?

Our first challenge in answering these questions is to ascertain who Eigner actually was.  That effort highlights how careful one must be in dealing with the foreign language reporting on China during this era.

Julius Eigner was a prolific journalist in the final years of the 1930s placing dozens of articles in important English language newspapers and magazines in both China and Europe.  Most of this material appears intentionally innocuous.  Eigner seems to have been something of a cultural critic.  He wrote reviews of tourist attractions which might interest foreign travelers and even critiqued trends in Chinese culture (such as changes in the world of opera).  We already encountered one of his articles while reviewing accounts of martial artists in the Miaofeng Shan festival. During the late 1930s he seems to have produced dozens of stories like that one.

Yet to the extent that Eigner is remembered today, it is for a handful of more politically relevant pieces.  In the February 1938 issue of National Geographic readers found a (still frequently cited) article titled “The Rise and Fall of Nanking.”  Started before the Japanese conquest of the city, this article provided critical context for understanding the depth of the ensuing destruction and death.  As such it helped to shape the American understanding of those horrific events prior to the nation’s entrance into WWII.  

Some discussions of this article identify Juius Eigner as an “American journalist.” While its true that he published dozens of articles in perfect English, that assertion is false.  Eigner was German.  Along with Robert Broese, he was one of the representatives of the German Transoceanic Service stationed in China.

Throughout the 1910s and 1920s Transoceanic had been a reputable newswire service that sold articles covering events in Europe to a variety of newspapers in Asia, North America and South America.  After 1933 the service was taken over by the Nazi party and made into a covert arm of their intelligence services.  None of this was known publicly (at least at first) and Transoceanic continued to claim to be an independent media outlet.  In reality it was spreading a carefully crafted mix of stories promoting anti-semitic sentiment and Nazi propaganda in various areas of the world.  

Eigner’s appears to have been sent to China after this fateful transition occurred. Nor did he hide his political sympathies.  In his memoirs Carl Crow, an American newspaper mogul living in China, disdainfully recalls Eigner lecturing him on the wisdom of Nazi policies. It would probably be more accurate to think of Eigner as a junior Nazi intelligence officer rather than a simple journeyman reporter with an interest in “slice of life” stories.

This fact may encourage us to take a much closer look at the work that Eigner produced and wonder if there may have been another agenda.  At first glance his writing on Chinese boxing simply seems to be poorly informed.  He motions to the Central Guoshu Association, but never names it.  By 1937 there had already been so much reporting on the Chinese martial arts in papers like The China Press that Eigner’s piece stands out as somewhat naive even by the standards of the time.  Again, this was an era in which the treaty port press in China regularly reported on local martial arts demonstrations and even wrote about policy changes coming out of the Central Guoshu Institute.  

While there is certainly a tendency in Eigner’s work to focus on the strange and inscrutable, his writings do not typically suggest that he was hopelessly naive.  To really get a sense of what is going on with this piece I think that it needs to be read side by side with another article, titled “The Chinese Soldier Today” that he placed in The China Journal in 1937.  Rather than transcribing a second lengthy piece I will simply summarize it as a glowing description of the professionalism, discipline, modern mechanization and ingenious tactics of the Chinese military in their fight against the Japanese.   And when these advantages were not enough, Eigner was willing to go on at length about the spirit and courage of the Chinese troops.

Its a well written article, and Eigner’s pictures of the Chinese weapons and training exercises are great.  (Indeed, he seems to have been a talented photographer).  Still, the tone of this discussion seems a bit out of place.  As noble as their spirits may have been, the Chinese didn’t win most of their battles against the Japanese during the 1930s.  Few others would probably describe the training, moral, leadership and equipment of the Chinese army in 1937 in such glowing terms.

If we remember that Eigner is not an independent journalist, but rather someone who represents the interests of the German government, this article makes a lot more sense.  The German’s had been critical partners in rebuilding and militarizing the Republic throughout the 1930s.  China was seen as a source of raw materials that the Germans badly needed, while the KMT saw in Germany a friendly power who could act as an effective role model in the militarization of their society. German cooperation with China did not really begin to fall apart until late 1937.  Thus Eigner had every reason to talk up the strength of Chinese military.  The credibility of Nazi military aid, training and strategic planning was being put to the test by the Japanese military and all the world was watching.

While he dwells on the topic of heroic bravery, there is nothing superstitious, Orientalist or otherwise inscrutable about Eigner’s discussion of the KMT’s fighting forces in 1937.  Yet by 1938 the situation has evolved.  Much of the official Sino-German cooperation had fallen apart after Hitler allied himself with the militarily superior Japanese in his struggle against the Soviet Union. Despite this move many Germans living in China remained personally sympathetic to the Chinese cause rather than Japan.

Still, the shift in alliances would have been a problem for Eigner.  The Chinese no longer fought with German support.  Nor was it possible to continue to pass off repeated Chinese defeats in the North as one “strategic retreat” after another.  The tone of his writing shifts.  Any discussion of Chinese fighting spirit is gone.  According to the 1938 article the Chinese are fundamentally a peaceful people, but also one living in the past.  They are honorable, observe the rules of fair play, and posses an ancient wisdom that is not totally incompatible with the aspirations of modern science.  But Eigner goes on to suggest that these are also not the sorts of individuals whom readers in North America should expect to fight in their own defense.  

It is almost remarkable that one could write an article about the Chinese martial arts in 1938 and not mention the tremendous excitement around the raising of big sword troops.  This was an image that dominated American newsreels and reporting on the Chinese war effort.  But that wouldn’t have been a part of the story that a German agent would be interested in broadcasting in 1938.  Instead we are treated to a reminisce of how bewildered the crowd at the 1936 Berlin Olympics was at the sight of a Taijiquan demonstration.  It was all “so mysterious.”  

Eigner’s goal was not necessarily to denigrate the Chinese martial arts, he just framed them in a very unique way.  His discussion fits quite nicely into the sorts of esoteric explorations that were popular in some circles in the 1930s.  At the time many readers probably found his description to be quite interesting.  But he was also using his examination of boxing to situate Chinese society in ways that were strikingly different from his treatment of the Chinese military (which, incidentally, never mentioned wushu) one year earlier.

Conclusion

The KMT used both athletic and martial arts programs as part of their formal cultural diplomacy strategy during the 1920s and 1930s.  Still, the number of spectators that any event could accommodate paled in comparison to the readers that could be reached through a well placed press account of these same practices.  That meant relying on foreign reporters to place articles in treaty port newspapers with the hopes that they would be picked up by major national dailys in the West.  It was always a long-shot, but the potential payoffs were seen as substantial.

Shuge Wei explored how this process unfolded in great detail in the recent volume News Under Fire: China’s Propaganda Against Japan in the English Language Press, 1928-1941. While this study never addresses the era’s martial arts discussions, it opens a fascinating window onto the larger world of bribes, threats and secret agendas that shaped much of the press coverage coming out of China during this period.  Indeed, Wei’s book is required reading for anyone seeking to use these sources in their own research.

Julius Eigner’s career as a journalist in China expands this conversation in two important ways.  First ,it strongly suggests that these sorts of machinations were not restricted to the daily newspapers.  Even respected monthly magazines could become the targets of state sponsored influence attempts.  Second, Eigner reminds us that the Chinese government was not the only player seeking to exercise a little “Kung Fu Diplomacy.”  Multiple other states had also determined that shaping China’s image on the global stage was a critical aspect of their own foreign policy.  

The manipulation of the image of the Chinese martial arts was a powerful tool for doing just that.  This was not a new strategy.  Governments had pointed to the threat of anti-Western Boxer violence to demand concessions at the turn of the 20th century, as well as to justify racist and exclusionary immigration practices at home.  The image of both the Japanese and Chinese martial arts had always haunted political discussions.  Eigner’s shifting treatment of Chinese culture between his 1937 and 1938 articles nicely illustrates how nuanced this process could be.  After all, a good propagandist doesn’t want to be seen.  His work is valuable to us today not for what he says (or does not say) about Chinese martial arts history.  Rather, he reminds us that even in the 1930s this was an important and politically contested space.  

oOo

If you enjoyed this article you might also want to read: Thinking About Failure in the Martial Arts

oOo

Introduction

Welcome to “Chinese Martial Arts in the News!”  Lots has been happening in the Chinese martial arts community, so its time to see what people have been saying.

For new readers, 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 may 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 way too long since our last update so let’s get to the news!

News From All Over

Our first story will be of special interest to readers who either practice Choy Li Fut or who take an interest in Foshan’s martial arts history.  Multiple Chinese tabloids ran a story titled “Across China: Kung Fu Master’s fight to pass on martial art.”  This generic title belies a much more interesting discussion of the individual behind the revival of Hung Sing Choy Li Fut in Foshan in the 1990s.  The article provides a brief sketch of the current state of the practice in the city, as well as offering some insight into the various foreign students who make the pilgrimage to practice (sometimes for extended periods of time) at this regionally famous school.  While short, this one is definitely worth checking out.

One of these same tabloids (Xinhua.net) also ran a revealing piece titled “Chinese Kung Fu wins hearts in Ningxia.”  It focuses on local government backed efforts to promote the study of the martial arts (and in particular the Chinese rather than Korean arts) by school children.  It hits a lot of the standard troupes (martial arts practice being good for “sickly” children, etc…) and some of the quotes from parents are great.  Here is the punch line:

“It is an obvious trend that more and more Chinese parents are sending their children to learn martial arts in recent years, and in Yinchuan, there are at least six Kung Fu training centers and the total number of students reaches 500,” according to Wang Liang, Executive Vice Chairman of the Ningxia Wushu Association.

According to Wang, all levels of government took measures to promote martial arts among students. In 2010, the Minister of Education and the General Administration of Sports jointly promoted Kung Fu to be taken as a course in schools.

“Many students and parents getting to know the martial arts through these courses, and when they want to take a course to build up a strong body, Kung Fu becomes a new choice,” Wang says.

Are you “Celebrating World Tai Chi Day?”  The global press certainly is.  Indeed, this annual event has been the big news generator over the last month or so.  But what exactly is being celebrated?  Our first article has some suggestions:

“Tai chi is a way to demonstrate how we should adapt to changes that come to us through outside forces. Being able to adjust to change with discipline, calm, grace, artfulness and good form is an important quality that should be valued in any society. Garri Garripoli, writing about qi gong specifically but with resonance for tai chi in general, said that it “is more than a set of exercises, it is an attitude that works to restructure one’s perspective on life, leading to balance and harmony with the world around us.”

The next article was also inspired by World Tai Chi Day, but it went in a more interesting direction.  “Meet Doreen Hynd, 92, tai chi chuan master.”  It profiles a longtime Taijiquan teacher who was recently honored by the United Nations.  As I was reading through this story I realized that it has a fascinating connection to Sophia Delza (someone whose contributions to the spread of the Chinese martial arts I recently discussed) that is worth checking out:

“Born in Australia in 1925, Hynd began her tai chi chuan training in the 1980s at Sydney University. In 1984, Hynd moved to the US and sought out Sophia Delza, who had spent many years in China studying under the famous tai chi chuan grandmaster Ma Yueh Liang, who was the senior disciple of Wu Jianquan, the founder of Wu-style tai chi chuan.

After Delza passed away in 1996, Hynd, by then Delza’s teaching assistant, carried on Delza’s mission of promoting tai chi culture and taught at places such as the United Nations, Carnegie Hall and the State University of New York.”

Next we turn to the “Kung Fu Diplomacy Files.”  Rather than simply encouraging foreign journalists to write (positive) pieces about the Chinese martial arts, the following articles suggest that it may be more efficient to simply introduce them to the practice directly.  The first of these notes that:

Reporters from around the world who are in China for a 10-month media fellowship programme recently downed their pens and diaries and put on sportswear at the Beijing International Chinese College. The internal gymnasium of the college became the venue for experiential lessons on the practical interpretation of Chinese Kung fu and Wushu, and how to handle Chinese martial arts weapons.

In a separate piece in Shine (formerly the Shanghai Daily) a Russian journalism intern writes a more introspective essay on what she has learned about achieving life balance from her study of Taiiquan with a local teacher.  This article seems to have been timed to correspond with the World Tai Chi Day celebration but it does not directly reference it.

I used to jog in the morning or in the evening, swim in summer and ski in winter — perennially engaged in all kinds of active sports so popular in Russia, my home country. Schooling is competitive too. I studied hard, because otherwise I wouldn’t enter a good university and then wouldn’t go abroad for studies. Fighting my imperfections, I was always ambitious to reach new horizons.

It’s probably a positive thing to set goals and reach them but I seem to have little time to stop and reflect: What do I truly need? Now tai chi seems to hint at an answer, by steering me to be more in harmony with the surrounding world.”

Our next stop is a bit of local news aptly titled, “Chinese Culture Night features martial arts, dancing, singing.”  While reviewing the news this last week it occurred to me that there are a few types of stories that I rarely report on.  I tend to focus on reports in major media outlets, or articles in Chinese tabloids aimed directly at an English speaking audience.  In contrast I have ignored a lot of the shorter pieces in local newspapers reporting on regional tournaments, or the opening of a new class at the community center.  Most of these stories are only of local interest, and a great many of them are basically small business advertisements.  But it occurred to me that news items like are also an important source of insight into the (sometimes contested) role that the martial arts play in Western culture. Indeed, they probably speak more directly to the lived experience of the martial arts than an elegantly written essay in the New York Times. 

This particular article struck me as important for two reasons.  First, it suggested just how stable the “Chinese cultural night” has been as a type of cultural performance in local American communities for close to 100 years.  Indeed, the format and content of the event described here, including the martial arts, are not all that different from those that I reported on in the 1920s.  Even the link with university students is a constant.  Second, the embrace of the martial arts as a key aspect of Asian American identity was interesting, as that sentiment is not always shared. (Also note here.)

The Chinese Culture Organization at Sacramento State held its eighth annual Chinese Culture Night on Sunday at the University Union.

The event took place in the University Union Ballroom and consisted of many performances celebrating Chinese culture. The event featured singers, musicians, and dancers — and also included magic tricks and martial arts shows.

Alex Tran, the president of the Sac State Martial Arts Club, shared his experience participating in the event.

“It was intense, our endorphins were rising high, and we were just ready to go,” Tran said. “It was crazy.” Tran said events like these are used to preserve Asian culture.

“As a Vietnamese-American, I would say it’s very important where our culture comes from. Like any culture in general, whether it be Chinese, Vietnamese, American culture,” said Tran before trailing off. “It is good to spread it so that it does not die off.”

Martial Arts in the Media

Disney’s much anticipated live-action Mulan story took an important step forward with this announcement.  (Also see here):

Donnie Yen, the international martial-arts superstar who was introduced to an even wider audience with his role as blind monk Chirrut Imwe in Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, has taken another high-profile role for Disney. This time, Yen will be working for the Mouse House proper, in the live-action remake of the company’s beloved 1998 animated film Mulan. Yen will play a new role, Commander Tung, who’s described as “a mentor and teacher to Mulan.”

Or, if you are more interested in the latest updates on Ip Man 4, we have got that covered too!  

Karate has been in the news quite a bit this last month.  The big announcement is that these two familiar faces are getting ready to relaunch their rivalry on YouTube’s streaming service.  So what should you expect as you revisit the Karate Kid?

“When Johnny resurrects the old Cobra Kai dojo, it triggers Daniel, a successful car dealer who misses the stabilizing influence of his late mentor, Mr. Miyagi (Pat Morita). As the rivalry reignites and finds proxy in young protégés, multigenerational resentments, confrontations and hook-kicks ensue.

“It’s a karate opera,” Mr. Schlossberg said. “There’s a fun sort of Hatfields and McCoys vibe.”

For a nice discussion of the fan theories and debates that really seem to be driving this project be sure to check out this post at The Tai Chi Notebook.  Also, check out this interview with Ralph Macchio in Slate.

As long as we are talking about Karate, it might be worth asking if the traditional martial arts compete with MMA?  I am not talking about in the ring/cage/octagon/pit.  Rather, can they compete as a modern media savvy sports franchise?  Well, these guys want to find out.

Finally, the South China Morning Post always has interesting martial arts coverage.  Be sure to check out an article titled “Ancient martial art that spawned Muay Thai undergoes a rebirth in Cambodia thanks to a tireless grandmaster.”  Muay Thai is very popular in Hong Kong, both as a competitive sport and an amateur practice.  As such, it gets a fair amount of coverage in local papers.  This report is an interesting case study on the revival and reconstruction of a popular martial art, with everything that this implies for the ways in which history is discussed and deployed.

Martial Arts Studies

As always, the martial arts studies community has been generating a lot of news.  The first, and most exciting, note would have to be the launch of a new venture out of Germany titled the “Journal of Martial Arts Research.”  Germany has been at the center of the growth of this field in recent years and this new project should ensure that many of the best articles being produced there will be brought together in one place.  Best of all, this will be another open access journal, freely available to anyone with an internet connection.  Articles will be published in German or English.  Watch this place for future updateds.

Would you like to celebrate the start of summer at a social gathering with other likeminded students of martial arts studies?  If so, I will be hosting a BBQ and Picnic on Sunday May 27th in Ithaca NY at the beautiful Myers Park.  This will be a great chance to meet new people, hang out, and discuss possible ideas for future projects, regional conferences or panels.  See here for more information and to RSVP.

Submissions are now closed for the 2018 Martial Arts Studies conference in Cardiff.  This year’s meetings will focus closely on Bruce Lee and his ongoing cultural legacy.  But you can still register as an attendee (which is really the best way to experience these gatherings.  Its all the fun with none of the stress).  Click here for the details.

Readers should also note that planning is already under way for the 2019 conference.  And there is some exciting news on that front.  It looks like those meetings may very well be crossing the Atlantic and happening in Los Angles.  Stay tuned for more!

Have you ever wanted to buy a copy of the groundbreaking Martial Arts of the World [2 volumes]: An Encyclopedia of History and Innovation, but you were scared off by the $200 price tag?  You can now access this incredible resource for free on “Kindle Unlimited,” or for less than $10 if purchased directly for your Kindle.  This is a fantastic resource which I often find myself consulting.

The first video article in the innovative new Journal of Embodied Research has been released, and it will be of special interest to anyone who follows HEMA.  Our friend Daniel Jaquet suits up in mediaeval armor and investigates what movement was really like! This makes great lunch time viewing.

As long as we are on the topic of articles, here are a few other recent papers that the readers of Kung Fu Tea might find interesting.  The first item is by George Jennings and Veronica Partikova titled “The Kung Fu Family: A Collectivist Metaphor of Belonging Across Time and Place.”  Unfortunately we only have the slides, and not the complete paper.  But the good news is that these slides are almost an entire paper themselves.

Next we have an essay by Alex Channon (first published at the LFHV Blog) titled “The Madness of King Conor: Athlete Hubris, Promotional Culture, and Performative Violence.”  This is a great read.  Be sure to check it out if you haven’t seen it yet.

Lastly, for the more philosophically oriented, Karsten Kenklies has shared a copy of the forthcoming article on Academia.edu: (Self-)Transformation as Translation. The Birth of the Individual from German Bildung and Japanese Kata, in: Tetsugaku: International Journal of the philosophical Association of Japan, Vol. 2

Abstract:

Pedagogical processes are always connected to translation. This is very obvious in those practices of teaching where knowledge is transmitted through mediation. However, processes of self-formation or self-education, and especially the development of individuality, don’t seem to be connected directly to processes of translation. The following paper suggests that processes of individuation, too, can be understood as translations. In contrasting two culturally very different positions — the German idea of Bildung and the Japanese practice of exercising kata — it should become clear that both cannot be understood without referring to a concept of translation.

Kung Fu Tea on Facebook

A lot has happened on the Kung Fu Tea Facebook group over the last month.  We have read about conspiracy theories in the martial arts, Nazi propaganda about the Chinese martial arts during WWII, and even daggers made from human thigh bones! 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!

***It is May the 4th, everyone’s favorite Star Wars themed, merchandise based, holiday!  As regular readers know I occasionally write about the Lightsaber Combat Community.  Here is an essay touching on the importance of rhythm in the practice of various martial arts that I first posted back in 2016.  Are you looking for something fresh on Lightsaber Combat?  Watch this space as I will have a new article appearing on the Kung Fu Tai Chi magazine webpage later this month, just in time for Solo: A Star Wars Story.****

A Tricky Step

Darth Nihilus* was grinning as he stripped off his fencing helmet and strode over to the open section of floor where I, and one of his more senior students, had been working on Shii-cho, the first of the seven classical forms of lightsaber combat.  He had agreed to review my form after class, but wanted to get in a few rounds of sparring first.  His smile suggested that he was happy with his performance.

While the lightsaber is unique to the mythology of the Star Wars universe, any martial artist would be quick to recognize Shii-cho as a variant of the “taolu” or “kata” that are the backbone of so many traditional Asian martial arts.  The resemblance is more than coincidence.  Shii-cho itself was created as a simplification of a much more dynamic taolu for the long, double handed, jian sometimes seen in Wushu competitions.

This complex mashup of Star Wars and the traditional Chinese martial arts was evident in the details of our training space.  The Central Lightsaber Academy meets in the same gym where Darth Nihilus runs his regular kung fu classes.  The neutral browns and blues of the room betray its former life as a retail space, as does its slightly cavernous feel.  The faux wooden panels on the walls, originally designed to accommodate retail shelving, have been seamlessly repurposed for a more martial mission.

Now the walls are filled with training gear (including racks of weapons and no fewer than three wooden dummies), as well as an abundance of photographs.  Large images of Dan Inosanto, Bruce Lee and Ip Man share space with many smaller snapshots chronicling the history of the Central Martial Arts Academy in its various incarnations.  These icons look out over a training space that is well equipped, but also showing the wear of a sizable student body.  They come, Monday through Saturday, seeking instruction in wing chun, JKD and kali.  Many comment on the comfortable and welcoming feeling of the space.

What visitors might find more jarring are the subtle intrusions of a far-away galaxy into this otherwise familiar scene.  These are most visible on Saturday afternoons when over a dozen students can be seen wielding blue, green, purple and red lightsabers.  Nor would you fail to notice a soundtrack from one of the Star Wars movies being played on a loop in the background.

A closer look reveals that a number of students (led by Nihilus) have formulated their own versions of Jedi or Sith training robes for the class.  Others prefer vintage Star Wars t-shifts.  And a few (myself included) stick with the branded t-shifts that so many kung fu schools use as their basic uniform. Choices in clothing and replica lightsabers can suggest what a particular student seeks from the class.

After giving me the signal I begin the first of the seven classic forms.  Shii-cho’s movement pattern is simple.  The swordsmen advances along a straight line in the first section of the form, turns and moves back along the same territory in the second, then reverses direction one more time before starting the third and final chapter.  The movements begin almost as a typology of different angled cuts and thrusts with a number of complementary blocks and guards.  These are strung together in more complex combinations as the form progresses.

Darth Nihilus vocally notes his approval as I finish the first and second section of the form.  After the third he hesitates.  “Ok, that is a lot better than last week, and I think you are 90% of the way there.  Let’s go back and look at your footwork and blade movement in one section.”

My heart sank.  Of course I knew exactly what section he was referring to.  At one point chapter three features a complex combination of attacks as the student drives forward.  I had been practicing this all week.  It begins with a broad slash coming over the left shoulder, followed with a lateral, circular, sweep of the blade around the head and ends with a decisive downward “angle seven” cut.  In itself this combination of cuts is not particularly complicated.

Nor is the footwork.  The sequence starts with a left side full step.  This is followed by a right side crossing step (which shifts the hips to the right), a left side half step (absorbing one’s forward momentum and bringing the hips back square) and finally a right side full step as the blade cuts straight down along the center line.

The complication arises when you attempt to put it all together.  It is not simply a matter of coordinating the hands with the feet.  Properly executed this particular combination has its own cadence, different from anything else in the form.  Only a few students in the class have actually mastered it to Darth Nihilus’ satisfaction, and it is a source of frustration for the rest.  This situation persists despite the fact that a large percentage of students practice their forms daily.

As other students in the room noticed that we were about tackle the third chapter of Shii-cho all eyes shifted to our floor space.  After a few quick attempts at clarification and some enthusiastic advice from onlookers, Darth Nihilus ignited his own saber and took the floor, indicating to the senior student that he too should pay attention to what was about to be said.

“Ok, try to think of it like this.  As you go through the opening movements of section 3 you are basically moving the same way you did in chapter 2.  But when you reach this point, the rhythm changes.”  He paused right at the cusp of the first cut in the combination for dramatic emphasis.

“As I go forward from here it has got to be like I am following a musical beat.  That is what is going to coordinate my hands and feet.  And if you do not figure out how to do that here you are going to have trouble when you get to some of the more advanced forms, like Soresu.”

At this point Nihilus broke with Shii-cho (form one) and demonstrated a single segment from Soresu (form three).  It required him to execute a number steps and turns as he spun his lightsaber around him in a plum blossom pattern.  If section three of Shii-cho was puzzling, this was like watching a dance.  But that was exactly his point.

“Once I get to this position I can’t stop.  If you stop or hesitate you fall out of time and then you can’t do it.  You just feel the music and keep moving on the beat.  It’s the same thing with Shii-cho.” He then resumed his performance of the first form.

“Your feet are basically fine, but when I do it this time I want to you watch the tip of my saber.  Note how it never stops moving.  It maintains a steady and continuous motion.  So keep your motions smooth as you move through space.”

Which is easier said than done.  While the blade tip moves smoothly the rhythm of the steps is distinctly broken.  Searching for a name to characterize this segment almost all of the students at the CLA have taken to calling it the “stutter step.”  For many of us it will take a lot more practice and correction before we intuitively “feel this beat.”

The Music of the Martial Arts

Over the next week I tried to integrate Darth Nihilus’ coaching into my daily practice.  Yet even more interesting was how he conveyed this advice.

I have been doing field work with the Central Lightsaber Academy for about half a year.  Almost all of the students have, at some point, struggled with this specific sequence of movements.  Nihilus has demonstrated and coached individuals through the form countless times, but something about his technique in this section is not legible to the class.  They see what he does, but they do not know how to make sense of it.

The study of the Asian martial arts is full of these sorts of puzzles.  It’s the challenge of mastering a different system of movement that keeps many students coming back week after week.  Yet prior to that day I had never heard Darth Nihilus use music as a metaphor to explain the timing of movement in Shii-cho.

I suspect that he came up with this particular explanation as a result of our collective inability to make sense of what we were seeing on that particular day.  Yet his words were also tinged with an air of revelation, as though he were revealing a deep truth about the martial arts that he did not want to bring into a normal class.  These were frequented by beginners, most of whom had no prior experience in the martial arts.  As Nihilius noted, many of these sequences came from types of wushu training that some people might find intimidating.  Yet they were now part of our lightsaber method. While Darth Nihilus focuses his teaching on wing chun during the week, he has studied a number of other Chinese arts.  The depth of his experience in this realm has proved handy when it comes to thinking about the lightsaber.

Yet his ability to “feel” the rhythm of a sequence of movements probably comes from someplace else.  Before becoming a full time martial arts instructor he was a professional musician who spent decades performing and touring.  When not playing with lightsabers or wooden dummies he can be found with a guitar.

This explains his heightened musical sensibilities.  One is reminded of the ancient stories of Spartan hoplites that turned to dance as an aspect of their military training.

Still, if Darth Nihilius is capable of identifying an underlying rhythm that ties these movements together, why do they remain such a paradox to his students?  Is it simply that we are less martially experienced or musically inclined?  Or is there something else going on?  What role does culture play in making certain movement patterns legible, even when most outward signs of that culture have been subsumed into something else?

While considering these questions I had the good fortune to reread a 2010 article titled “Rhythm Skills Development in the Chinese Martial Arts” by Colin P. McGuire (International Journal of Sports and Society, Vol. 1).  This is a relatively short paper and I highly recommend readers (especially those interested in lion dance) take a look at it.

I like this piece for a couple of reasons.  First, it speaks directly to some of the issues that have come up in my current field work with regards to the process of skills development, albeit in a very different environment.  This portability speaks to the general utility of McGuire’s approach.

Secondly, I have noticed a recent uptick of papers exploring the nexus of ethnomusicology and martial arts studies.   McGuire credits the early work of Greg Downey (2002,“Listening to Capoeira: Phenomenology, Embodiment, and the Materiality of Music.” Ethnomusicology, Vol. 46, No. 3 (Autumn): 487-509) in opening a space for this conversation.  Obviously students of Capoeira will have a special interest in the musical aspect of their art, as will many who study the fighting systems of South East Asia.

Yet McGuire reminds us that the traditional Chinese martial arts were often performed to musical accompaniment.  Solo forms work is sometimes accompanied by drums, gongs and cymbals in southern Chinese traditional village festivals.   These same instruments can also be found in the company of lion dancers at the Lunar new year, weddings and store openings.

What role has music played in the development of the southern Chinese martial arts?  Is its presence simply a cultural marker, a nostalgic remembrance of an earlier time? Or, for the kung fu schools that sponsor lion dance teams, does the musical training of students have an impact on their combative abilities?  Is it manifest in either the performance of taolu routines or patterns of attack and defense in kickboxing?

With a background in ethno-musicology and extensive experience in the Chinese martial arts McGuire is well positioned to investigate these questions.  Drawing on the theoretical literature of his field he introduces his subject matter in a way that is easily accessible for an interdisciplinary audience.   His writing examines both instruction and performance within TCMA schools, and demonstrates the utility of his approach for other students of martial arts studies.

Particularly important is the brief discussion of Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of “habitus” (introduced in the Logic of Practice). Wacquant and others have sought to anchor their understanding of embodied martial practice within this theoretical framework.  Yet as McGuire notes, this strategy has some shortcomings when considering the TCMA.

While Bourdieu envisioned a deeply embedded, subconscious, group of behaviors, Chinese martial artists often short circuit this process via rigorous self-examination and an emphasis on conceptual analysis.  What might have been truly subconscious in Wacquant’s boxing gym is more often named and reified in a Chinese martial arts studio. Nor, as Bowman has argued, is it always clear that the average martial arts hobbyist really dedicates enough time and effort to fully “rewire” their habitus.

At the CLA I am sure that the “habitus” that most students embody is that of your typical office worker, sales person or college student.   While a number of students have gained a fair degree of competence in the use of the lightsaber, none seem to embody the habitus of a “Jedi” (whatever that would be).  One rather suspects that the average amateur martial artists, practicing a few hours a week, falls closer to this end of the spectrum than Wacquant’s highly dedicated boxers, some of whom harbored professional aspirations.

Nevertheless, McGuire concluded that the concept of the habitus is not without value in understanding skills acquisition within the Chinese martial arts.  While the central concepts of kung fu practice are often reified and examined, the same cannot be said of the sorts of rhythms and phrasing that make up traditional Chinese martial music.  The inhabitants of Toronto’s Chinatown have often grown-up with these musical tradition and may accept them on a subconscious level.

Musical understanding is also something that can be both experienced and transmitted through the body.  McGuire argues that the idea of habitus may have a great deal of utility in exploring the link between performance based practices such as lion or dragon dancing, and their subsequent connection to the traditional martial arts.

To more fully explore these ideas McGuire examines the various ways that rhythm manifests itself in the percussive music that accompanies a lion dance as well as the cadences of attack and defense that are seen in sanda (Chinese kickboxing). In both cases he focuses on the concept of “following” and “leading” as a way of theorizing how the internalization of rhythmic structures makes the actions of another individual legible.  In the case of lion dancing these two modes facilitate complex cooperation between the drummer, head and tail dancer, and the other musicians.  When applied to fighting the same basic pattern recognition skills allow one to anticipate and counter an opponent’s movements, thereby stifling their intentions.

Conclusion: Finding your Rhythm

The general outlines of this process seem pretty universal.  It is not hard to discover specific rhythms in the footwork, combinations and drills of western boxing.  McGuire notes that Japanese Kendo players have been observed to follow very complex rhythmic patterns in their onslaughts.   And one suspects that most American martial artists are now familiar with Bruce Lee’s idea of the broken rhythm.

Yet in actual application the details of any one of these examples tend to be culturally bounded.  In the technical section of his paper McGuire, following Boyu Zhang, notes that the concept of “the metre” (a constantly repeating cycle of strong and weak beats) which structures modern western songs simply does not apply to many types of traditional percussive Chinese music including those seen within lion dancing.  This is probably one of the reasons why most Westerners find this type of music bewildering when first exposed to it.  It does not seem to progress in the way that one expects a song should.

When describing the sorts of rhythm used in lion dancing McGuire instead turns to the idea of “phrases.” He defines these as sequences of distinct rhythms that are progressively linked together in significant or meaningful ways.  Note that this is quite different from the idea of a fundamentally repetitive metre.

It may be this distinction that underlies the class’ problem with the third chapter of Shii-cho.  While one might view lightsaber combat as an American or Western martial art, many of the individual forms that are practiced were borrowed, in whole or part, from other Asian fencing systems.  Shii-cho itself has its roots in wushu performance, an area where rhythmic ability is important.

The first and second sections of this form have their own rhythms, ones that seem more accessible to western students.  Yet when this structure breaks in the third chapter, students find it hard to grasp the sudden change in pulse and timing.  The perception of “entrainment” that McGuire describes in his paper fails, and students default to what they are more comfortable with.

Unfortunately this does not just disrupt the aesthetic quality of their movement.  It also short circuits the martial effectiveness of their attacks.  When a different rhythm is imposed on this sequence, the movements take on either a defensive or confused character.

Darth Nihilus sits at an interesting position vis a vis the cross-cultural communication of these movement patterns.  As a professional musician he probably has a greater sensitivity to “musical” nuances than many martial artists.  And given the depth of his experience in the Chinese martial arts, he has already been exposed to instances where culturally specific rhythmic patterns structure movement.

His experience in both of these areas has opened a pathway for cross-cultural translation in a realm that most martial artists never consciously consider.  A new generation of initiates is being introduced to the traditional Chinese rhythms of blade work through their instruction in the seven classic forms of Lightsaber combat.

Other scholars have noted that deep cultural knowledge of certain sorts of music, or even common childhood games, can be a critical factor in determining one’s ability to effectively acquire skills in a specific fighting system.  Thomas Green found that distinct rhythmic patterns conveyed in both popular music and urban street games form an important element in some African-American vernacular martial arts.  Without this specific cultural familiarity it can be very difficult to excel in arts like Jail House Rock or the 52 Hand Blocks (2014, “White Men Don’t Flow: Embodied Aesthetics of the Fifty-Two Hand Block” in Fighting Scholars, pp. 125-140.)  This would seem to further support McGuire’s contention that there is an element of habitus embedded within our recognition of these musical patterns that structures our experience of a fighting system on a deep level.

We should also be careful not to generalize too broadly, or to “essentialize” what might be regional patterns into markers of national identity.  One of my initial challenges when starting lightsaber training is that the sorts of timing and movement patterns used are reminiscent of the northern Chinese martial arts.  Much of this is quite different from Wing Chun, which developed in the Pearl River Delta region.  Yet even within a region (say, Southern China) there will be a wide degree of variation.

As I read McGuire’s essay I felt some slight pangs of “lion dance envy.”  These performance traditions are a critical part of Southern Chinese martial culture, but they are not something that I have any first-hand experience with.  Ip Man discouraged his students from becoming involved with lion dancing during the Hong Kong period for a variety of reasons.  As a result many of the modern Wing Chun lineages coming out of Hong Kong still have nothing to do with the practice.

This does not mean that our art is without culturally determined types of rhythm.  The mook yan jong makes a distinctive “clacking” sound when struck, and the elaborate patterns of strikes in each chapter of the wooden dummy form have their own tempo, timing and rhythm.  After a while the sound of the dummy literally becomes “music to the ears” of wing chun practitioners.  The unique nature of the dummy also ensures that there is a close connection between the martial effectiveness of one’s attacks and your ability to grasp and replicate these percussive patterns.

The cultural nature of these traditions renders them invisible to many of the individuals that draw upon them in their daily martial practice.  It may take conscious effort on our part to bring questions of rhythm and aesthetics to the fore and discover the ways in which they are linked the martial strategies of our systems.  Yet doing so will improve both our practical and academic understanding of these fighting arts.  That is why I will keep practicing my Shii-cho.  Sometimes the hyper-real functions as a doorway to the historical.

*Following standard ethnographic protocol, the names of both specific people and places discussed in this essay have been replaced with pseudonyms to protect the confidentially of those who have generously assisted me with this research.

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: Sometimes a Cigar is Just a Lightsaber: Fetishism and Material Culture in Martial Arts Studies

The First of Five Photos by Horst Faas to accompany story on the practice of Tai Chi Chuan.

An older Chinese man practices the calisthenics called Tai Chi Chuan, sometimes called shadowboxing by Westerners, in the city of Shanghai recently.  The calisthenic is done voluntarily and often alone. (AP Newswire 1972)

Taijiquan on a Cold Day in 1972

Occasionally you get lucky.  You might find a photograph of the Chinese martial arts that distills a lot into a single image.  That is what Horst Faas, the famed German war photographer, was known for.  His photographs of the Vietnam war came to define the public perception of that conflict.  Those images were complex and politically challenging.  Perhaps we should expect nothing less from his photos of Chinese martial artists?

This particular photo, one of a series that ran along side an AP newswire article in 1972, managed to capture the complexity of the traditional martial arts in mainland China during the closing years of the Cultural Revolution.  It also hints at the contradictory attitudes of Americans towards them on the eve of the eruption of the Bruce Lee/Hong Kong film inspired “Kung Fu fever” of the later 1970s.  Every photograph captures a moment in time, but this was a particularly important one.

In the foreground we find a male martial artist dressed in a hat and mittens to stave off the cold.  He strides purposefully, advancing through a set of movements described to the Western audience as “Tai Chi Chun”, a Chinese form of calisthenics often practiced “alone and voluntarily.” (We will return to the significance of this last clause shortly).

Nevertheless, the dynamism of his movements seems to be swallowed up by the sheer scale of the setting.  Rather than the groups of martial artists that inhabit so many of China’s pubic spaces, here we see only a single individual in an impersonal space, dwarfed by an oversized propaganda poster in the background.  What mere traditional practice could stand in the face of such a “heroic” message?  The mythic worker in the background stands unmoving with his arm aloft, yet it is his ideological call that dominates the frame.  Undeterred and alone, a single martial artist carries on in the shadow of “the Revolution.”  This was Taijiquan in 1972.

The Thing vs. the Idea of the Thing

What are we to make of this image?  How should we explain it?  What dimensions of information has it captured, and what has it excluded?

The very composition of Faas’ photograph suggests a method for its interpretation.  In the foreground we see an embodied practice.  A man practicing Taijiquan is, in some ways, a very concrete thing.  His practice is a result of technical transmissions and historical processes.  We might study his movements and master his techniques. If interviewed he could tell us about his teacher and students.

Yet this scene derives its visual tension from the immense propaganda poster in the background. That is not simply paper and ink.  It is the tangible representation of a powerful set of ideas being consciously projected into the nation’s shared public spaces.  In this photograph it is actually these ideological facts that construct and give meaning to the man’s embodied practice, not his personal history or embodied skill.  They are also present.  The two seem to exist in a powerful dialogue between that which is individual and peculiar, and that which is collective and universal.  Nothing gives a slightly subversive subtext to an “individual and voluntary” activity quite like doing it in front a call to collectivist and revolutionary action.

This is a critical point whose utility is not restricted to this photograph.  Scholars construct the object of their study in very specific ways so that we can gain analytical purchase on a variety of theoretical problems.  The Chinese martial arts are typically treated as either objects, a sort of cultural or embodied artifact, best understood in technical terms, or as an idea, a collection of images, texts and concepts that evolve through time.  

For the purposes of any individual project we might choose to focus on one or the other of these approaches.  In a paper on Huang Fei Hung in Hong Kong cinema I might be much more concerned with the ways in which this southern art is presented to the audience rather than in how it was actually practiced “on the street.”  Likewise, most of our historical discussions of the origins of Shaolin Boxing ignore more modern legendary stories attributing the art to Bodhidharma or some other legendary figure.  Instead they focus on a vision of the art that arrises from contemporaneous historical documents or the careful reconstruction of physical training methods.  And there is certainly much room in martial arts studies for both types of projects.

But what does it all mean?  Taking a step back, it becomes obvious that it is impossible to understand what a martial art means to the people who practice it in a cultural sense if we systematically ignore the stories that they tell (or consume) about their own practice.  Likewise, if we cannot appreciate the technical practice of Hung Gar we will miss the social significance of something like the “ethnographic turn” in the early Wong Fei Hung films.   

We may occasionally bracket the study of the martial arts as object/practice or idea/media discourse.  Yet we cannot understand much about their development or place in the modern world if at some point we don’t struggle to bring these perspectives together.  Ideas motivate and give meaning to practice.  New types of practice lead to new ideas.  This cyclic relationship, as much as anything else, dictates the fundamentally interdisciplinary nature of martial arts studies. 

Lets reconsider this image from first a technical and historical perspective.  Daniel Amos has noted that we are mistaken when we assume that the Chinese martial arts reemerged on the mainland only after the conclusion of the Cultural Revolution in 1976.  Indeed, we are also largely mistaken when we assert that it was the Cultural Revolution that led to their disappearance in the first place.

To simplify a complex paper, Amos argues that in fact most (non-professional) individuals gave up the martial arts at a much earlier date than is generally assumed.  The far reaching social reforms enacted by the new Communist regime meant that the old social institutions that supported boxing (and gave people an incentive to promote it), were basically wiped out by property and community reform programs by the end of the 1950s.  Once it became clear that it was local party officials and the state that ensured one’s safety, not voluntary social networks of traditional practitioners or secret society members, most people very quickly gave up the martial arts.  The world in which they had previously existed had simply vanished, cutting off the demand for these practices.  

In a perverse way the Cultural Revolution may have actually saved the practice of the Chinese martial arts on the mainland.  Many important texts and weapons were destroyed by over-zealous Red Guards or those who feared their wrath.  But as it became clear that the local party officials had lost control of the situation and could no longer protect individuals from the Red Guards, former practitioners and “reformed” secret society members once again started to rebuild martial arts networks as a form of private protection.  

Seeing public Taijiquan practice in the early 1970s is, in some ways, less surprising than what one might assume.  Further, David Palmer has suggested that individuals turned to activities like Qigong and Taijichuan as a way of dealing with the psychological trauma and repression that was inflicted on the population by the excesses of the Cultural Revolution. And both of these scholars have noted that the trends which began in the 1970s only accelerated in the 1980s.  

Seen in this light our lone martial artist is neither an aberration nor an illustration of the futile nature of trying to bring modernity to the Chinese people.  He is a pioneer who suggests what the future of the Chinese martial arts will be, as well as the political subtext that will accompany these activities.  After all, as Faas notes, these are voluntary and individual exercises which served to purposefully set people apart from the mandatory and collective daily exercises that were practiced by pretty much every work unit in the country.

This turn towards the question of ideology brings us to the second half of our interpretive equation.  What did such an image suggest to Western readers about the nature of Chinese society and martial arts?  Few Americans knew that much about what was going on inside the globally reclusive Chinese state during the Cultural Revolution.  And why is it significant that pictures like this, and so many other discussions of Taijiquan, begin to appear in the press in the years 1972 and 1973?

We know that the popularity of the Chinese martial arts exploded in the mid 1970s.  The release of Enter the Dragon in August of 1973 catapulted Bruce Lee to superstardom and ensured that the public would have a healthy interest in the Chinese martial arts.  But other factors must also be considered.  While Bruce Lee would set the match to the powder, other forces had been laying the groundwork for this explosion of interest in Chinese culture.  Nor did all of these actors share the same vision of the practice or meaning of the traditional arts.

The politics of the Cold War played a large part in this.  Note for instance that in February of 1968 Black Belt magazine ran a historically important feature on the martial arts of “Red China.”  Readers of Kung Fu Tea may be interested in its brief discussion of Wing Chun and the early photo of Ip Man which it published.  But if we take a step back and read the entire issue its interesting to note how the discussion of the Chinese martial arts is repeatedly framed within a larger political discussion of Chinese Communism and whether it should be seen as threatening in a global context.  Indeed, the article makes an effort to try and understand the CCP’s ideological stance towards the martial arts and cites books published by mainland presses earlier in the 1960s.

In 1972 President Nixon provided the ultimate answers to these geopolitical questions when news of his historic opening to China became public.  This tectonic political shift dominated public discussions at the time and it continued to reverberate throughout the early 1980s.  Intensive media coverage during the era of “Ping Pong Diplomacy” ensured that there was a growing interest in many aspects of Chinese culture.  

Once the table tennis was over, the Chinese government staged martial arts demonstrations for dignitaries (and journalists) on both sides of the Pacific.  Who can forget the pictures of a young Jet Li visiting the White House in 1974? In many ways this was the beginning of the modern era of Chinese “Cultural Diplomacy,” and it was clear from the start that the martial arts would play a major role in these efforts.  Indeed, the Communists seemed to be picking up right where the Nationalists had left off in the 1930s.  Americans remained curious about Chinese martial arts, and the government was eager to show off the achievements of the newly reformed wushu system.

What did American readers see when looking at this photograph in 1972?  Generalizations are difficult, but I suspect that most individuals probably felt an anticipation of change.  Clearly this photo was intended to capture a moment of social transition.  But the political atmosphere of 1972 probably led a great many readers to assume that it was the collectivist and revolutionary ideology in the background (represented by the Maoist propaganda poster) which was about to recede into history, while the “traditional” yet voluntary practice in the foreground represented China’s hope for the future.    

 While not immediately obvious, this reading of the photograph does something interesting.  Rather than leaving Taijiquan as an unchanging relic of “ancient China,” it acknowledges that it is a practice caught up in the churn of geopolitical events.  As such, it has a real history.  We might even be able to understand broader patterns of change within both Chinese and global society by studying this fighting systems.  Such a reading also brings the historical and technical discussions of scholars like Amos and Palmer into close alignment with trends that were emerging from Western media discourse.  Rather than an artifact of the allochronistic past, the reemergence of Taijiquan was proof that the long prophesied “New China” was finally on the horizon.

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to see: Inventing Kung Fu

oOo

Reel 1

 

5:17 We find soldiers engaging in bayonet practice wearing gear modeled on Japanese jukendo armor.  This includes both basic footwork exercises and two man contests.  At 6:29 we even get a set of “heroic headshots” as men remove their helmets.  The clearly staged nature of this sequence suggests that these films were produced for their propaganda, rather than purely ethnographic, value.

 

6:48 The audience is shown brief clips of multiple two-man unarmed boxing demonstrations and routines.

 

6:57 The camera then quickly cuts to a longer exploration of weapons practice.  We are first shown a fast paced two man set pitting the spear vs the dao.  Next, at 7:22, a two-man Jian (straight sword) set is shown that feels slightly more theatrical in its execution.

 

7:40 This action is interrupted by two men demonstrating shuai jiao or jacketed wrestling.  Unfortunately this clip is quite short.

 

7:45 A much more elaborate demonstration of staff/“fork” manipulation is shown which seems more intended as a type of entertainment than practical training.

 

Reel 2

 

3:15 Reel two quickly returns to the subject of wrestling.  This time the contestants are wearing their standard training uniforms.  It also appears that the match is being staged before a large and appreciative audience.

 

7:20 Later the bayonets come back out.  While many fanciful martial arts styles can be found on the base, bayonet drill is presented to the viewer as a no-nonsense form of military training.

 

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: The Chinese and Japanese Martial Arts as Seen on Western Newsreels.

oOo

***In honor of the recent celebration of Mother’s Day.  Enjoy!***

Introduction

This post is the third entry in our series examining the lives of female Chinese martial artists.  While it is the case that the vast majority of hand combat practitioners in the 19^th and 20^th centuries were male, a certain number of women also adopted the art.  We started by looking at the life and historical reputation of Woman Ding Number Seven and her contributions to the creation of White Crane Kung Fu in Fujian province.  Not only did she make some critical technical contributions to the development of the local arts, but her memory served as an important touchstone for discussions of gender and hand combat throughout southern China.

Next we examined the life and contributions of Chen Shichao and her brother Chen Gongzhe.  This dynamic pair was an important force behind the success that the Jingwu Athletic Association enjoyed in the early 20^th century.  Chen Gongzhe was instrumental in financing the group, while his sister worked tirelessly to promote female involvement in the martial arts on equal footing with men.  This goal challenged strongly held norms and resulted in notable (often quite personal) push-back from more conservative elements in society.  Yet ultimately the Jingwu Association succeeded in spreading the belief that women should have access to martial training and that this was an area where they could excel.  It is unlikely that this social transformation would have been quite so successful without the pen and teaching efforts of Chen Shichao.

In the current post I would like to return our focus to southern China.  Mok Kwai Lan is most often remembered as the fourth wife (or more accurately concubine) of Wong Fei Hung, the renown martial artists who is regarded by many as the father of modern Hung Gar.  Yet Mok was also a martial artist and practitioner of Chinese traditional medicine before her marriage.  Further, she maintained an independent and fruitful teaching career for more than five decades after Wong’s sad death in 1924.

Both Mok Kwai Lan’s life and career deserve more careful consideration than they usually receive.  She is a figure whose influence spans generations.  She was born in the final decade of the 19^th century and her martial training likely started at the same time as the Boxer Uprising.  She saw the rapid development and transformation of the martial arts in the 1920s and 1930s, before having her own career disrupted by the invasions of the Second Sino-Japanese War.  In the postwar era she witnessed a fundamental transformation in the popular perception of the traditional arts, driven in no small part by her departed husband’s rise to fame as a local folk hero.  Lastly she was still active and teaching when the “Bruce Lee Explosion” reignited global interest in the martial arts in the middle of the 1970s.  It is hard to think of too many other figures whose careers spanned so many important eras.

Early Life and Training

Mok Kwai Lan was born in Kao-Yao Village (slightly to the west of Foshan and Guangzhou along the banks of the Pear River) in Guangdong.  From the start her family life was somewhat unconventional.  At a very young age she was given to her paternal uncle who was childless.  He formally adopted the young girl and raised her as his own child even though her biological parents were still very much alive.

Mok’s uncle must have had a fairly liberal view on questions of gender and female education.  The late 19^th century saw a number of developments on this front, from anti-foot binding leagues in larger towns and cities, to the development of neo-Confucian schools of thought promoting formal education for bright young women of good families.  These attitudes were by no means universally accepted.  There was even push-back against them in some quarters.  Still, these currents were in the air in the late 19^th century.

It seems likely that Mok’s new guardians (and her uncle in particular) must have shared many of these ideas.  Her Uncle (whose name I am still having trouble verifying) was a both a practitioner of Mok Gar Kung Fu and traditional Chinese medicine (where he specialized as a bonesetter).  Soon after arriving in the family Mok Kwai Lan began her apprenticeship in both areas.

This path was not undertaken without some resistance.  Mok reports that her Aunt forbade her to study the martial arts as she believed it would strip her of her feminine qualities (and probably make her unmarriageable).  At that point her uncle decided to continue to train her “in secret,” though one wonders how private any such activity could actually have been in a household with only three individuals, one of whom was a child.

Mok Gar is rarely encountered today, but it contributed substantially to the development of the other regional styles.  Unlike most southern martial arts it is highly regarded for its kicking skills.  While still kept below the waist (which is true of the kick in most southern styles), the techniques of this system are said to generate devastating power.  Mok’s uncle also introduced her to what was possibly a unique family set referred to as “snapping the iris.”

It is interesting to note that her training in both kung fu and bonesetting probably began sometime between 1900 and 1902.  This was the era of the Boxer Uprising, and a time of major social dislocation around the country.  The local governor shut down boxing schools and associations all over Guangdong in an attempt to prevent copy-cat attacks on foreign merchants.  One has to wonder if the uncle decided to train his daughter as a diversion when other sorts of practice became impossible.  On the other hand he may have decided to start her training only after one the general situation settled down.

In either case it is interesting to note that she began her training in Mok Gar at almost exactly the same time that Ip Man (also a young child) was being introduced to Wing Chun by Chan Wah Shun (also a practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine) in the Ip clan’s Foshan temple.  Similar historical events impacted the lives and future careers of both of these martial artists making their subsequent development an interesting comparative study.

Apparently Mok Kwai Lan was a good student.  By her 16^th birthday (1908) her training in bonesetting was complete and she had grown into an accomplished boxer (despite her aunt’s objections).  At this point she had the basic skills that were necessary to start a career as a practicing martial artist.  Nevertheless, slightly unconventional family arrangements would once again bend her career path.

Madame Mok Kwai Lan, Concubine of Wong Fei Hung

Mok’s adopted father was friends with a popular martial artist and doctor named Wong Fei Hung.  Wong was remembered locally for a number of things, including his long and somewhat colorful career with the military in both Guangdong and Fujian.  After leaving his army posts he settled down in the Foshan and Guangzhou area where he ran a local pharmacy and martial arts school.   He was a frequent visitor in the Mok house where he would come to chat and enjoy tea with Uncle.

Wong Fei Hung is actually a somewhat difficult figure to write about.  So often our problem in Chinese material studies is that we just do not have much to say about an individual.  Unfortunately not a lot has been remembered or preserved about most martial artists.

In Wong’s case we face the opposite problem.  From the 1930s onward his memory was actively (and quite consciously) transmuted into that of a larger than life folk hero.  Stories were told about his exploits in dozens of newspapers, novels, radio programs and no fewer than 77 feature length films all produced before 1970.  Hundreds of accounts surround his life, and it can be very difficult to determine which (if any) have some degree of veracity.

A full treatment of Wong Fei Hung’s life and career will have to wait for another post.  Instead we will focus on those events that had the greatest impact on his relationship with Mok Kwai Lan and her subsequent life.  Yet even here there are a number of colorful stories that require careful consideration.

Popular folklore relates that Wong Fei Hung first met Mok while his school was performing a lion dance on a local festival day.  Wong was engaged in a particularly vigorous demonstration of a Tiger Fork routine when he lost a shoe in a kick.  The shoe flew into the audience hitting a young woman (Mok) who had come to watch the display.  The attractive young woman was furious at being struck and would not accept an apology, instead demanding that someone who claimed to be a “master” should pay more attention to the details of their performance.

Wong was immediately struck by the fiery spirit of the young woman as well as her beauty.  After she left he resolved to meet her, and eventually the two were married.

In 1976 Mok Kwai Lan gave an interview to Leung Ting which became the basis of an article in Real Kung Fu magazine (“The ‘Tigress’ – Madame Mok Kwei Lan – Widow of the Late Wong Fei Hung.” By Andre Lam Volume 1 Number 7. pp. 49-55.)  In her own account she did not mention anything about this story.  Instead she relates that Wong Fe Hung was friends with her uncle and a frequent visitor in the house.  Apparently he first noticed her in that context.

In 1909 he approached his friend to ask about marrying his adoptive daughter.  This was a difficult decision.  On the one hand Wong was a well-known, and well off, martial arts teacher and traditional doctor.  But he was also in his late 60s and a serial widower.  He had been previously married three times to women who died prematurely.  In fact, popular folklore relates that Wong had decided that he was cursed with regards to marriage and had given up on the institution prior to meeting Mok.

Mok Kwai Lan’s Aunt was dead set against the match.  She felt that Wong was much too old for the young girl (who was only 17-18 at the time).  She further argued that arranging such a marriage would betray the trust of Mok’s biological farther, who was also her husband’s brother.  Still, Mok’s uncle claimed that it was a good match as the couple (while mismatched in age) were well suited to each other.  Two years later (in 1911) they were married.

Or more precisely, Wong Fei Hung accepted Mok as a concubine.  This is usually explained in martial arts circles in terms of the previously mentioned “marriage curse.”  By not naming Mok as an official wife it was hoped that she might avoid the fate that befell her three other predecessors.

Still, it seems likely that there is more to the story.  Young martial arts students in the 1950s adopted a particularly puritanical view of Wude (or “martial virtue”) that one suspects would have been quite at odds with the actual lives of most of their heroes in the late Qing and early Republic period.  Extreme self-control in the realm of personal relations became a hallmark of a “true master.”  At the same time the trend towards “modernization” made the idea of a “second marriages” less palatable among Hong Kong’s society.  Of course this is also the era in which Wong Fei Hung was being reimagined as a popular folk hero.

It is more likely that Mok was accepted as a concubine as that was her intended role.  In the 1976 interview mentioned above she states that in the years directly after their union, Wong Fei Hung married two other women.  Neither of them ended up staying in the relationship for more than a year.  Mok gives no hints as to why they left.  But in the end she was the one who ended up staying with Wong until his death and then caring for his surviving children.

While she may have entered what was a complex marriage situation as a concubine, she ended up playing the role of the “wife” and “mother.”  This social transmutation is all the more remarkable as Mok never actually bore any children of her own.  Of course for women producing sons has been the most common pathway to acceptance within the traditional Chinese family and clan structure.

It seems likely that the more flexible nature of Wong Fei Hung’s “martial clan” helped to facilitate this acceptance.  Still, it is undeniable that in a certain sense Mok’s success in the Hung Gar community after the 1930s transcended the limitations of her actual family and marriage life.  Her path cannot have been an easy one.

The years between 1911 and 1919 were a busy time in Mok Kwai Lan’s life.  One suspects that they were also an era of immense personal and professional growth.  Because of her own background and training she was able to join Wong as a professional partner.  He trained her in his own martial style, and she assisted him in his medical practice.  Interestingly the style of medicine that she practiced remained that which she learned from her uncle, even though she was beginning to innovate on the martial front.

Of course Mok also had to attend to all of the duties that were expected of a Sifu’s wife.  She saw to the physical upkeep of both the home and the school, and she cooked meals.  This was probably the most dynamic period of teaching for Wong and his wife reported in 1976 that at some points she was cooking meals for up to 20 employees and members of the household.

Interestingly Wong Fei Hung also appears to have been a generation ahead of his time with regards to gender and education.  Like Mok’s uncle he saw no reason why women should not have access to martial arts training.  He also objected to the traditional pattern of favoring boys over girls in family relations.  While rarely remembered for his contributions to feminism, Wong was actually quite innovative.  He was one of the first local instructors to offer classes for women, and he accepted female disciples (such as Dang Sai-King).  Notice that all of this happening prior to the 1919-1920 opening of the Jingwu association branches in Guangzhou and Foshan.  Wong’s success in this area shows that there was a demand for female instruction in Guangdong even before Jingwu started to make its own arguments to the local public.

Mok Kwai Lan was instrumental in making all of this possible.  She was responsible for teaching the women’s classes (which were gender segregated).  She also led Wong’s all female Lion Dance team.  This is said to have been the first female Lion Dance team in the Pearl River Delta, and it predated the rise in popularity of female opera companies by at least a decade.

Mok Kwai Lan was a true pioneer in these areas.  She enjoyed professional experiences that few other female martial artists of her generation could claim.  Yet this did not relieve her of her responsibilities to hearth and home.  Recounting the crush of these early years she stated: “I was the shop-keeper, the osteopathist and physician, the Kung Fu instructor and the cook.  I had to cook food for some twenty employees of the Gymnasium.  Sometimes I had to work all the night through.  In short I performed all kinds of duties.” (Lam 50).  While Wong Fei Hung loved to spend time at the local teahouses with his male students, Mok was too busy maintaining the business and home to join him.

Nevertheless, Madame Mok found other ways of establishing her own martial reputation about town.  Over the course of her long career she has also accumulated a number of interesting stories, one of which I find particularly revealing.

Early in the Republic period Foshan and Guangzhou had a problem with “Red Turban” revolutionary soldiers.  Their name referred to a red cloth that was worn on the head.  Of course this symbol has a rich history in the annals of Chinese revolutions.  It was probably particularly popular locally because of the “Red Turban Revolt” (the memory of which was being reimagined and rehabilitated in the light of the 1911 revolution) in the 1850s.  Needless to say, the remains of the Red Turban army in the post-1911 period were poorly led and disciplined.  One suspects that many of these individuals were basically criminals.

“On one occasion (the day of a festival), Wong was ready to give his usual public performance.  At the time there were in Canton [Guangzhou] the so-called “Red Headed Soldiers” (soldiers with red turbans) who were “famous” for their ill discipline.  They often robbed people of their belongings.

In Wong’s team there was a young woman who had just recovered from an abortion a month ago and who was taking care of the weapons used in the performances.  This young lady had a lot of jewels with her.  One of the soldiers had seen the jewels.  He came up to her secretly and assaulted her in an attempt to seize her jewels.  The young lady was knock down and suffered injuries.  She called out for help.

When Madame Mok heard the scream, she came to her rescue.  She saw that the soldier was trying to kick the young woman.  “How dare you!” she shouted at the soldier who at first was taken aback.  When he saw that the “wet blanket” was  a woman, he was scared no more.  He took up a staff and struck at Madame Mok.  However, the “Tigress” seized it with her hand in a movement as quick as lightening and hit back with it at the head of the soldier.  The “robber” bled terribly and fled for his life.

However, the “Tigress” would not let him go so easily.  She overtook him and gave him a kick which caused him to fall to the ground.  The other soldiers were also frightened away.  The next day, the incident of the “Tigress” punishing the “robber” became the headline for all the newspapers in Canton.” (Lam 54).

There are many other stories about Mok’s career as a young woman that one could tell.  She even received an appointment from the local military (probably sometime in the 1920s) to lead classes for female artists.  Still, I think that this story is a classic tale as it emphasizes her interacting with and leadership of other female students in Wong Fei Hung’s organization.  It also illustrates her famous resolve and fiery personality as well as the more mundane dangers that martial artists faced in the early Republic period.

Wong Fei Hung’s career started to come to a close in 1919 when his favorite (and best trained) son, Wong Hon-Sam, was killed under dubious circumstances.  The younger Wong was an accomplished martial artist who fully inherited his father’s skills.  He found employment as a security guard with the West River Medicine Sailing Company.  Tragically he was shot by a co-worker who claimed that the drunken and out of control Wong had become a threat to the vessel.  Stories have circulated for years that the shooting was in fact a conspiracy or a set-up, but all that we can say from this historical remove is that it probably involved large amounts of alcohol and a number of guns.

Upon receiving news of the death of his son Wong Fei Hung began to withdraw from the world.  He stopped teaching martial arts and became ever more reclusive.  He is said to have refused to train his remaining sons for fear that they too would fall victim of the needless deaths that claimed so many along the “Rivers and Lakes” of Chinese society. Mok Kwai Lan continued with her martial practices, and I have even read some accounts stating that she started to teach the two remaining sons (I cannot vouch for their accuracy).  Yet this was the start of sad era for the once vibrant Wong clan.

Wong Fei Hung made his last public appearance later in 1919 at the opening gala of the newly established Guangzhou chapter of the Jingwu Athletic Association.  Few people thought he would attend.  When he took to the stage in front of the packed audience he performed a demonstration with the meteor hammer (flying plummet) that is still being discussed to this day.  After that he basically vanished from the public view.

The situation in the Wong household took a decisive turn for the worse in 1924.  In that year large parts of the city were burned to the ground during the Guangzhou Merchant Corp Rebellion and its violent suppression by a young military officer named Chang Kai shek.  This is not the place for a detailed examination of these events, even though they are very important to students attempting to understand the evolution of Southern China’s social and political structures (as well as elite involvement in the local economy of violence.)  I will try and address this incident at greater length in a different post.

For our current purposes it is sufficient to say that Wong was devastated by both the material and emotional losses that accompanied the destruction of his clinic and former school.  He was 77 years old at the time of the fire and all of his material resources were tied up in his property.  Suffering from a mixture of exhaustion and depression he was admitted to Chengxi Fangbian Hospital where he died on May 24^th.

Mok Kwai Lan was left destitute at the time of her husband’s death.  Wong’s funeral arrangements were organized and paid for by Dang Sai-King (one of his better known female disciples).  In the early 1930s she and Lam Sai-wing once again extended their support to Mok, helping her and her two step-sons (Wong Hon-syu and Wong Hon-hei) move to Hong Kong and establish a new school dedicated to continuing Wong Fei Hong’s legacy.

The Hong Kong Years

Mok Kwai Lan was fortunate in that she already had extensive teaching experience when she established her new school in Hong Kong.  She even had expertise in running the financial side of the business.  Still, Hong Kong was a different place than Guangzhou and Foshan, and one can only assume that adjustments needed to be made.  For instances, Mok Kwai Lan was now the head of the school and would need to lead male students.

The early 1930s was probably a good time for a Hung Gar instructor to move to the city.  The efforts of instructors like Lam Sai-wing (a former disciple of Wong) had helped to establish the art’s reputation in the region.  Further, one of Lam’s students, a writer named Chu Yu-chai, was just beginning to produce a series of novels dramatizing a fictionalized version of the life and exploits of Wong Fei Hung.  These were published serially in local Cantonese newspapers.

These stories (considered somewhat crude by the standards of later Wuxia fiction) would have an immense impact on public perception of Wong Fei Hung.  Prior to their release very few people in Hong Kong had ever heard of Wong or his school in Guangdong.  But the novels were a hit, and he was rapidly adopted as a Hong Kong folk hero.

Nor was print the only media that Wong was destined to succeed in.  Chu’s stories could be easily adapted to radio dramas, and that is exactly what happened in the 1930s and 1940s.  This new development further inflated Wong’s memory, and it must have helped to attract students to his widow’s school.

Of course all martial arts teaching activities in Hong Kong came to an abrupt end with the Japanese occupation in 1938.  We don’t actually have a huge amount of information about Mok’s early career in the city.  But we do know that in 1944 she opened a new school called the “Wong Fei Hung National Arts Association” which was located on Gloucester Road in the Wanchai district.

This school remained open from 1944-1969.  Two and a half decades is a decent run for any kung fu school, and it seems that Wong’s evolving stature in the public imagination contributed to the continued success of Hung Gar in Hong Kong.

In 1949 “The Story of Wong Fei Hung (Part 1): Wong Fei Hung’s Whip that Smacks the Candle” was released in Hong Kong.  This was the first feature length film to feature Wong as a protagonist.  It is also one of the most important martial arts films ever made as it helped to set the direction and define the potential of the Hong Kong Kung Fu film industry for literally decades to come.

While a fictional tale, the Hung Gar clan was involved in the production of this film at multiple points.  The script was based on a popular radio dramatization of one of Chu’s original Wong Fei Hung stories.  Interestingly the production studio brought Chu, Wong Hon-hei and Mok Kwai Lan into the project as “consultants.”

It seems that Mok was enthusiastic about the new development.  Nor does she seem to have been concerned about fictional nature of these retellings.  In fact, she even got herself cast in a fighting part in one of the sequels (“The Real Story of Wong Fe Hung Part 3: The Battle by Lau Fa Bridge”) which came out in 1950.

In totally 77 feature length films taking Wong Fei Hung as their protagonist would be produced between 1949 and 1970.  Each film in this series stared Kwan Tak-hing as Wong Fei Hung and Sek Kin as his fictional nemesis.  While the quality of many of these later films declined noticeably, they were still very popular with audiences.  It might actually be impossible to overstate how important this series of films was in the process of elevating Wong from his station as a relatively unknown local martial artist to the ranks of a full blown “folk hero.”

Starting in about 1970 Mok Kwai Lan enjoyed another burst of popularity as a new wave of Wong Fei Hung nostalgia was felt in Hong Kong.  She gave a number of interviews and demonstrations in this period, starting with a performance of her family’s Mok Gar forms on a Hong Kong Television show in 1970.  Later in the decade she would again be seen on TV performing Hung Gar sets as part of a televised Wong Fei Hung story.

Nor does Mok shy away from publicity in the interviews that she gave in the late 1960s and 1970s.   In the Real Kung Fu interview cited above she promotes the romanticized myth of the “death touch” (including a delayed killing effect that might strike up to a year later) and “lightness qigong.”  On the one hand her portrayal of her former husband is remarkably down to earth.  He seems to spend a lot of time napping in her stories, and then going out for tea with his friends.  Yet she also appears to fully subscribe to the “myth” of Wong Fei Hung.  It is an interesting tension.

At some point in the early 1970s Mok Kwai Lan established a new school.  This one (also located in Hong Kong) was called the “Wong Fei Hung Physical Fitness Institute.”  While advancing in age she headed the organization until its close in 1980.  Mok taught a large number of students over the years.  Probably her best known student is Master Lee Chan Wor who was actually her grandson-in-law.  Lee is considered to have inherited her martial tradition and has maintained the lineage.  Returning to a theme from earlier in the essay, he is also an interesting testament to the continuing influence that Mok had as a mother and then grandmother to her step-children.

Conclusion

On November 3^rd, 1982 Mok Kwai Lan died in Hong Kong.  She was 90 years old at time.  Over the course of her long career she bore witness to the fundamental transformation of the modern Chinese martial arts.

Her life serves as an important reminder of the historical contributions of female practitioners of the traditional fighting styles.  Most hand combat students in the late Qing and Republic period were men.  Still, our brief examination of Mok’s life shows that there were important developments in popular culture throughout the second half of the Qing dynasty that helped to open additional spaces for female martial artists.  Her accomplishments after 1900 would not have been possible except for the beliefs that her adopted father and future husband formed earlier in the 19^th century.

It would be interesting to know more about the specific mental and cultural models that convinced these men that training female martial arts students was not only possible but desirable.  Still, the important thing to realize is that those models were out there.  Their roots seem to lay in simultaneous developments that were unrolling in both elite circles (neo-Confucian educational theory) and popular culture (changing themes in wuxia novels).  No doubt the strong impulse towards social and national reform which gripped the Chinese people in the late 19^th and early 20^th century was also an important part of this story.

Mok Kwai Lan’s life is also an important testament to the role of the media (first print, then radio and finally film and television) in creating our modern understanding of the martial arts.  The basic pattern that we see with the “creation” of Wong Fei Hung as a culture hero is very similar to that which would later play out with Bruce Lee and even Ip Man.  This opens the possibility of a future comparative case studies that might reveal both interesting differences and continuities over time.  While writing this biographical sketch I have become particularly interested in how surviving family members influence the translation of these “memories” from one generation to the next.

Wong Fei Hung was clearly an interesting person who enjoyed an influential career.  The impact of his technical innovations, as well as the “social memory” that he has inspired, are still being felt in the southern Chinese martial arts today.  It is a shame that there has not been a book length treatment of his life and career published in the English language.  Still, a detailed study of Mok Kwai Lan might shed even more light on a greater number of important questions and I suspect that it would be every bit as interesting to read.

oOo