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Doing Research (5): Lies I Have Told About Martial Artists

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Breaking ceramic action figure by Martin Klimas. Source: http://www.whudat.de/exploding-porcelain-action-figures-by-martin-klimas-7-pictures/

Breaking ceramic action figure by Martin Klimas. Source: http://www.whudat.de/exploding-porcelain-action-figures-by-martin-klimas-7-pictures/

 


Introduction

 

Welcome to the fifth entry in our series of guest posts titled “Doing Research.”  If you missed the first essay by D. S. Farrer (which provides a global overview of the subject), the second by Daniel Mroz (how to select a school or teacher for research purposes), the third by  Jared Miracle (learning new martial arts systems while immersed in a foreign culture), or the fourth by Thomas Green (who is only in it for the stories) be sure to check them out!

Compared to other fields of scholarly inquiry, Martial Arts Studies has a distinctly democratic flavor.  Many individuals are introduced to these systems while students at a college or university and are interested in seeing a more intellectually rigorous treatment of their interests.  And certain practitioners want to go beyond reading studies produced by other writers and undertake research based on their own time in the training hall.   The emphasis on ethnographic description, oral and local history, as well as the methodological focus on community based collaborative research within Martial Arts Studies (itself a radically interdisciplinary area), makes participation in such efforts both relatively accessible and highly valuable.  Or maybe you are a student about to embark on your first ethnographic research project?

Dr. Daniel Amos is a pioneer of modern ethnographic research on the Chinese martial arts.  His work opened a window onto the social world of southern Chinese martial artists (both in Hong Kong and Guangzhou) during the late 1970s and early 1980s.  This was an incredibly important time in the spread of the modern Chinese fighting styles, making his detailed observations all the more important.  His work was hugely helpful to me when I began my own writing on the region a few decades later.  As such I am thrilled that he has agreed to join this discussion.  In the following essay Dr. Amos will tackle a number of questions regarding a researcher’s ethical responsibilities as they first become members of, and then report on, various (often marginal) communities.  While the political situation in China following the end of the Cultural Revolution threw these issues into stark relief, they are a topic that no ethnographer can afford to ignore.

kungfu1

 

 

Lies I have told about martial artists

by Daniel M. Amos, March 17, 2016
hungchongshan@yahoo.com

 

Recently, I joked with a friend of mine that I did not actually do ethnographic fieldwork in Post-Mao, Guangzhou, China and the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong, but rather invented my studies of Cantonese martial artists while enjoying the sunshine of Santa Monica Beach.  At the very least, I can be thought of as a suspicious character.  My schoolmate at UCLA was Carlos Castaneda.  We shared the same graduate student mailbox (for surnames A-C), the same dissertation chair, and had many of the same anthropology faculty members on our dissertation committees.  Carlos was accused of poetic license, of embellishing the details of his well-known accounts of flying Yaqui brujos who perform magic in the Sonoran desert.  In his review of Castaneda’s first book, Edmund Leach, the eminent social anthropologist, observed that “…this is a work of art rather than of scholarship, and it is as a diary of unusual personal experiences that the book deserves attention (Leach 1969).”

Carlos frequently visited the UCLA anthropology department during my early graduate student days there, and he spoke with and cultivated a number of graduate students, mostly women.  I was not a member of Carlos’ inner-circle and only vaguely associated with him.  Yet it is probable that our ethnographic writing shares at least one trait: All the characters that appear in my ethnographic descriptions of martial artists in southern China during the 1970s, 1980s and early 1990s are fiction.  My fiction, however, differed from that of my famous schoolmate in that I considered my study to be largely a political study.  During the time of my dissertation research (1976-1981) in two neighboring Cantonese cities, impoverished socialist Guangzhou and comparatively wealthy colonial Hong Kong, I felt that Chinese martial arts in both places could be partly understood as a form of cultural play that illuminated and revealed conflict between social classes.

Ultimately, the fictionalization of my ethnographic writing about Chinese martial artists was generated out of concern for protecting the privacy and personal identities of the participants in my study.   In Hong Kong from the beginning of colonial rule through the end of British rule in 1997, practitioners of Chinese martial artists who belonged to martial arts brotherhoods were suspected by the colonial government of being involved in criminal activities, organized crime, members of Triads.   A Hong Kong police report prepared in the 1970s by the Hong Kong Triad Society Bureau for Hong Kong police officers at the rank of lieutenant and above, for example, stated that one-third of independent Hong Kong martial arts brotherhoods were associated with Triads and engaged in criminal activities.

“In many cases local gymnasia, particularly gymnasia associated with the more traditional forms of Chinese martial arts training, serve as the local headquarters for Triad society factions, especially in respect of local enforcement work.  A percentage of the staff, managers, and instructors of such establishments are known to be or are suspected of being Triad officials or active Triad members.   Of the 419 such establishments in the Colony, 141 are suspected of Triad associations (Hong Kong Triad Bureau 1974:54)”

Although I could not definitively prove it, my own biases led me to feel that the strong official association of martial artists with criminality was exaggerated, generated out of natural fear by the ruling and middle classes of a mobilized and semi-militarized segment of the impoverished and working poor.  In a society where there were no guns except those carried by the local British-led military and police, the higher social orders felt anxiety about working class youth and adults who developed martial skills within their own voluntary associations.

However, I knew Hong Kong martial artists who, while not members of criminal Triad gangs, would suffer physical, psychological, social, economic, or legal harm, or damage to their dignitary if my writing exposed their identities and behavior.  I knew Hong Kong martial artists who were alcoholics, opium users, organizers of dog fights and gambling, butchers and sellers of dog meat, gay and transgender martial artists, frequenters of prostitutes, those with sexually transmitted diseases, martial artists who could not read, unemployed martial artists and martial artists who were undocumented immigrants.  For this reason I wrote fiction, not identifying individuals, but attempted to describe a variety of cultural scenes related to martial arts in Hong Kong.

Already sensitive about the potential harm to those who participated in my study of martial artists, my concern about protecting the identities of the participants in my study of martial artists in Guangzhou was heightened because of the Mosher Affair.   Steven Mosher, a Stanford University anthropology graduate student had conducted research in a Guangdong village for several months, from the end of 1979 to the beginning of summer 1980.  He was the first anthropology graduate student from the United States permitted to do ethnographic research in mainland China since the end of the Cultural Revolution.  The Chinese authorities repeatedly complained about Mr. Mosher’s behavior during his time in Guangdong province.  They abruptly ended his study and he was not permitted to remain in China.

As far as I am aware, I was the second U.S. graduate student ethnographer to do research in China during this time.  Although my stay in Guangdong province (June 1980 – August 1981) was of longer duration than Mr. Mosher’s, it caused far less controversy with the Chinese authorities and with fellow anthropologists.

During the time of Mr. Mosher’s project and my research project in China the fundamental rule taught to every beginning ethnographer and formally accepted by all in the field was that researchers were obligated to protect the participants of their studies.  The code of the American Anthropological Association at the time clearly stated this most basic requirement: “In research, an anthropologist’s paramount responsibility is to those he studies.   When there is a conflict of interest, these individuals must come first.  The anthropologist must do everything within his power to protect their physical, social and psychological welfare and to honor their dignity and privacy (Van Ness, The Mosher Affair, The Wilson Quarterly, 1984:160-172).”  

During his stay in the village where he did his research, Mr. Mosher discovered that some Chinese women had been forced by local officials to undergo involuntary abortions, sometimes late in pregnancy.  In May 1981, writing under the name Steven Westley, Mr. Mosher described forced abortions in Guangdong province in an article he produced for a popular Taiwanese magazine (Ibid.).  Taking no care to disguise their identities, in the same article he published photographs of women who had been forced to undergo this procedure (Ibid.).  By publishing their photos, clearly identifying and exposing those who had undergone involuntary abortions, Mr. Mosher subjected the women he wrote about to punishment by the Chinese government.

Both the Stanford University academic committee investigating his case and Mr. Mosher separately interviewed me about the incident.  I had nothing to add to their investigations.  Chinese officials had not shared information about Mr. Mosher with me, a lowly U.S. graduate student.

Based on information gather during the academic committee’s investigation of the affair, Stanford University produced a report, shared it with Mr. Mosher, and expelled him from the university’s anthropology program.  Neither side has revealed the contents of the report.

The fates of the women Mr. Mosher exposed to harm are unknown to me, but it is my hope that the damage they experienced from his selfish, reckless actions was not severe.  Clearly, they were the most important actors in this event, and had the most to lose.

At present, because of irresponsible researchers in the past who showed no concern about the consequences of their research on those who participated in their studies, there are now more rigorous institutional safeguards for research which use human subjects.  Researchers affiliated with a university or government agency must have their research projects approved by an Institutional Review Board (IRB).   Research participants need to be informed and consent to research which involves them. They should understand the purpose and nature of the research, and their role in it.  Before proceeding with their investigations, researchers must rigorously assess and minimize possible harm to participants, and assure the confidentiality of their identities, including protecting them from exposure through photographs, videos, audio recordings, and computer records (Robert Yin, Qualitative Research from Start to Finish, 2016:49).  Hopefully, contemporary undergraduate martial arts researchers experience more rigorous human subjects training and research review of their projects than anthropology students of 40 years ago.

Tai_Chi_Olympics

When I was in Guangzhou, I knew many martial artists who would suffer physical, psychological, social, economic, legal harm or damage to their dignitary if my writing exposed their identities, thoughts and actions.  Some hated Chairman Mao and the Chinese Communist Party, others engaged in gambling and fighting, some were alcoholics, others had pre-marital sex, then an illegal activity, and many others had positive, uncritical fantasies about developed, capitalist countries and hoped to emigrate.

The first several months I lived in Guangzhou I practiced kung fu with a private martial arts brotherhood.   Most mornings I awoke at 5 a.m. and rode my bicycle several miles into the city from Zhongshan University.   1980 was before the massive growth of Guangzhou, and at that time the university was on the outskirts of the city.  In my early ethnographic writing about Chinese martial artists, because of the sensitive nature of my research, none of the martial artists with whom I practiced kung fu appeared in the pages of my dissertation and early publications.  The identities of the martial artists I wrote about were changed.  Further, in my early publications all the martial artists from Guangzhou whom I described in detail had left the People’s Republic of China, and were residing in Hong Kong, Macau, overseas or were deceased.  In summary, my ethnographic descriptions did not portray any martial artist then living in the People’s Republic of China, and any similarity to any individual residing in China was strictly unintentional and coincidental.

When I finished my fieldwork, I brought home dozens of recorded interviews and translated and transcribed interviews with martial artists, articles and works in Chinese about martial arts, books of field notes, photographs, Super 8mm film, and video-recordings.    My primary field advisor, Barbara E. Ward, a brilliant, generous, creative anthropologist, with an appointment at Cambridge, and founder of the Anthropology program at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, asked me what I was going to do with all my marvelous ethnographic data.   I did not have the slightest idea of where to begin, and was immobile, petrified, buried under a mountain of stuff.   Barbara said, “OK, start with this,” and handed me a copy of James Liu’s work, “The Chinese Knight-Errant (1967).”  Liu discussed how martial arts have long been associated in Chinese culture with knight errantry, an ancient symbol of resistance against social constraints.  He described the Chinese knight errant as a playful warrior who is rebellious, loyal to friends, altruistic, courageous, an extreme individualist who despises society’s conventions, but desires honor and fame.  Liu’s Chinese knight errant sounded a lot like some of the martial artists I knew in Hong Kong and Guangzhou.  Even more Chinese martial artists told stories about people who were similar to the Chinese knights Liu described.

The point that Barbara was making when she handed me James Liu’s book was that you can have a mountain of ethnographic data, but if you don’t come around to having an accurate and useful understanding of what you’ve discovered, it can be useless.   Like many anthropologists of my generation, the work of Victor Turner helped to illuminate my data.  Carlos G. Velez, one of my dissertation committee members, greatly influenced me on the topic of social marginality, as did the work of my friend Jean DeBernardi on social marginality in Penang’s black societies.

I have used the ideas of my mentors and friends and of the scholars that I admire to analyze the data about martial artists that I brought back with me.  It is my hope that the lies I have told about Chinese martial artists have been honest ones, protecting them, while adding some light to the field.

oOo

 

About the Author: Daniel M Amos has practiced martial arts for forty years, and has taught social science courses or been a faculty researcher at five Chinese and five U.S. universities, including the Chinese University of Hong Kong, Beijing Normal University, Wuhan University, Clark Atlanta University, and the University of Washington. He was awarded a PhD degree in Anthropology from UCLA in 1983.

 

oOo

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

oOo

 

 

 



The Creation of Wing Chun – Now in Paperback!

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The Creation of Wing Chun by Judkins and Nielson.

The Creation of Wing Chun by Judkins and Nielson.

 

 

I recently received a letter from SUNY Press letting me know that The Creation of Wing Chun: A Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts, will soon be released in paperback.  This is wonderful news and due in no small part to the enthusiastic support we received from members of the Wing Chun community and Kung Fu Tea readers.  While the original hardcover edition of this book was quite expensive (at a suggested retail price of $90) the publisher actually had trouble keeping up with demand for it.  I am sure that this inspired them to make the book more widely available.

This brings us to our next big announcement.  SUNY Press is currently having a substantial sale on all of their Asian Studies titles, including our book!  If you order through their webpage and use the coupon code ZAAS16 before May 12th you can get up to 40% off the cost of a hardback edition, or 20% off your pre-order of the soft-cover (which is due to ship on or before July 1).  That brings the price of the hardback down to about $54 and the paperback to a very comfortable $22.  We are confident this new release and sale will make our study of the Southern Chinese martial arts available to much larger audiences who may not have had easy access to a university library.

To briefly summarize, we review the social, economic, and political forces that fostered the development of Wing Chun and the other southern Chinese hand combat systems.  Our book also provides an extensive biographical discussion of Ip Man looking at both his introduction to the martial arts in Foshan and his subsequent efforts to introduce Wing Chun to a new generation of students (including Bruce Lee) in Hong Kong.  If you would like to learn more about the contents of this book you can read the first chapter here.  However I suspect that this interview, which we did with Gene Ching of Kung Fu Tai Chi magazine, will probably give you a better sense of our aims and the book’s contents.

Readers interested in the theoretical questions which drive this project may also want to watch my keynote address at the 2015 Martial Arts Studies conference titled “Imagining Ip Man: Globalization and the Growth of Wing Chun Kung Fu.”  Lastly, Douglas Wile wrote a review of the volume from a martial arts studies perspective.  Collectively these sources should give you a pretty good sense of the topics we covered in this project.

 

Ip Man and his best known student, Bruce Lee.

Ip Man and his best known student, Bruce Lee.


Research Notes: Xiang Kairan on China’s Republic Era Martial Arts Marketplace

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Source: Steel & Cotton.

 

 

Introduction

 

In a recent post we explored the life and career of Xiang Kairan (1890-1957), a seminal figure in the creation of the modern, media driven image, of the traditional Chinese martial arts.  Born to a wealthy family, and educated in both China and Japan, Xiang cemented his identity as a martial artist while a student living abroad.  In the West he is most frequently remembered as the author who inspired the screen play for the lost 1928 movie “The Burning of the Red Lotus Temple.”  This turned out to be a genre defining film that did much to establish the modern Wuxia story.

In China Xiang Kairan is most frequently remembered as a novelist.  Critics have called him the “father of Chinese martial arts fiction.”  He did much to reshape the world of “Rivers and Lakes” that later authors (such as Jin Yong) would fill with their own characters and stories.  Less frequently remembered is the fact that Xiang was also very politically active and became personally involved in some of the major military conflicts of the warlord era.  Indeed, it might be a mistake to ignore his more practical background when considering the nature of his writing.

In this “Research Note” I would like to take a closer look at some of Xiang’s writing that stem from yet another facet of his rich and varied career.  It is sometimes forgotten that this novelist and erstwhile adventurer was also a dedicated martial artist.  Xiang Kairan committed much of his free time to the study, teaching and promotion of China’s various hand combat systems.

As a young man he reports practicing various external styles, as well as Japanese swordsmanship and jujitsu (both facilitated by his overseas study).  Later in life it was Taijiquan that dominated his affections, and he studied with teachers from the Yang, Wu and Chen styles.  Xiang was also an institution builder.  He created and supported many societies dedicated to the promotion of the TCMA in Hunan, his home province.  He was also a staunch supporter of the new Guoshu program.

Xiang Kairan’s literary genius stemmed from the fact that he was a keen social observer.  In addition to studying the martial arts he closely observed the lives, struggles and conflicts of the individuals who promoted them.  Indeed, one might go so far as to say that he took a professional interest in the gossip, folklore and myths that surrounded these fighting systems.  His wuxia novels reflected in turn the rich supernatural folklore that was popular in Hunan’s boxing community, as well as the more grounded lineage politics, economic rivalries and personality clashes that defined mundane life.  This was the material that embroidered his most famous novels providing them with a sense of vitality that readers found intoxicating.

Yet Xiang Kairan does not appear to have been a fabulist.  This impression sometimes emerges, but it seems to be mostly the result of individuals attempting to read his explicitly fictional novels (including those that discussed actual historical figures such as Huo Yuanjia) as works of contemporary journalism.  Rather than being examples of biography, his more grounded novels have a relationship to the individuals that inspired them similar to Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises (1926).  Indeed, the two authors were contemporaries.

A different picture of Xiang Kairan’s engagement with the martial arts emerges when we look at his personal essays on these subjects.  Paul Brennan has recently translated two of these (dating to the late 1920s and early 1950s) which are both worthy of careful study.

The immediate purpose of both of these essays is to comment on certain aspects of the training and practice of Taijiquan.  That was a subject of great personal interest for the author.  Further, the disappointing performance of some Taijiquan practitioners at the first Guoshu martial arts examination in 1928 (where the newly popularized style seemed incapable of defeating fighters from the supposedly “less sophisticated” external styles) provided Xian with a platform to explore problems with how the art was being taught and practiced.

 

As his literary critics were only too happy to note, Xiang Kairan’s prose are not tightly focused.  Instead he often circled his subjects and frequently finds himself exploring seemingly unconnected side streets.  A typical assessment of his flaws as an author is seen in the following review, “Buxiaosheng’s [Xiang’s pen-name] works are heavily influenced by Hunan folklore.  He writes realistically about gods and spirits, and his stories are well-plotted, making them worth reading.  But they are flawed by his lack of attention to structure, seeming to be writing with his fingers instead of his brain, the words pouring out in an often repetitive and at times incoherent torrent.”

At first glance his lengthy 1929 personal essay “My Experience of Taiji Boxing” would seem to confirm this critic’s judgement.  Yet after reading the piece through a few times I suspect that, while indirect in style, a single coherent argument does run through this piece.  In the wake of the rapid growth of interest in Taijiquan during the 1920s, and then its unexpected reversal of fortunes in 1928, Xiang Kairan seeks to offer a broadly based critique of some of the dominant trends that he has seen in the practice of the Chinese martial arts during the 1920s.

Many of his discussions are technical in nature and of the most interest to other Taijiquan players.  Some touch on social and cultural themes.  The new Guoshu system also comes in for critical analysis.  Yet in other passages Xiang Kairan turns his attention to the economic markets that have evolved to monetize the spread of the traditional martial arts.

Given my own prior research I find his observations on these two final topics to be especially interesting.  The overall impression that arises from a reading of Xiang is that we are dealing with an individual who possesses genuine antiquarian interests, yet knows his source materials well enough that he is deeply suspicious of attempts to venerate the past.  While his basic values are very different from many of the May 4th reformers (who viciously criticized his martial arts novels), he nevertheless shares a certain faith in the tools of modernity.

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

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

 

Likewise, Xiang Kairan was no stranger to the economic marketplace.  He understood what readers wanted and grew wealthy through his ability to produce commercially successful novels.  One would suspect that at least some of his contemporary fame was based on the success of his publishers in advertising his work.

Xiang understood the power of markets and the necessity of advertising, yet he was suspicious of their impact on the traditional Chinese martial arts.  For someone who made a living by selling martial arts myths, he was disturbed by the easy with which martial arts instructors seemed concoct their own founding legends.  While he acknowledged the power of markets, he also foresaw their ability warp a message in transmission.

Transmission, it seems, was one of Xiang Kairan’s primary concerns.  How does one tell old stories in new ways?  How are the hand combat traditions of the imperial era to be understood and transmitted as today’s “national arts?” These are questions with no easy answers.

What follows are four excerpts selected from Paul Brennan’s translation of Xiang Kairan’s 1929 essay that deal with these issues.  The first of them speaks to the problem of transmission in an almost epistemological sense.  In the current era, how much authority can we allow to “appeals to authority” versus knowledge that has been developed by personal experience?  Decades later, Bruce Lee would transmit a certain portion of this debate to North America, yet its roots stretch back to the 1920s if not before.

The second passage examines the question of “fantastic transmission,” this time tying its growing popularity directly to the growing competition within the martial arts marketplace.  Again, one might think of this as a topic that Xiang would have some first-hand knowledge of giving the startling success of his supernaturally inflected works of fiction.

The third excerpt is the one that I find the most personally interesting.  In it Xian seeks to contrast the various ways in which the TCMA have been transmitted in northern and southern China.  His basic claim is that while transmission in the North has been deeply embedded in personal relationships, arts in the south are much more likely to be passed on through commercially mediated relationships in which students act as consumers rather than disciples.  This, he maintains, has had a critical impact on the recent development of the arts in these two regions.

While advanced as a rant, there is actually much merit to his basic observation.  As Jon Neilson and I argued in our book, The Creation of Wing Chun: A Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts, the southern martial marketplace was much more developed than its northern counterpart, and it emerged at an earlier point in time.  While the relative benefit of one system versus the other is actually a highly subject question, Xian is correct in his assessment that market forces impacted the way that these arts were transmitted.

Obviously he was more familiar with Shanghai than Foshan or Hong Kong, but it is hard not to think of Ip Man’s career as we read of the real estate woes that beset the teachers of the Southern martial arts (forced to move from one rented location to another every few months), or the role of frequent challenge fights in determining one’s success in a marketplace that is both economically and physically competitive.  This account is useful precisely because it helps to situate prominent southern masters within a broader social context.

In the final quote Xiang Kairan again returns to the topic of mythmaking and market-based competition, this time within the newly established Guoshu movement.  He notes with some accuracy the inherent contradiction in claiming on the one hand to seek to unify a singular set of “national arts” while at the same time employing divisive, and entirely ahistorical, categories (in this case Shaolin vs. Wudang) to do so.

A typical economic market succeeds when competition allows for a range of goods and services to be offered to consumers at an efficient price.  Yet national culture does not necessarily benefit from fierce competition in the same way that other goods might.

Xiang implies that in this case value is maximized by sharing a certain set of identities and beliefs as widely as possible within a given community.  Such has always been the nature of the nation building project, and the Guoshu movement took this mission on as its own.  Hence its horror of the pervasive factionalization and regionalism of the traditional Chinese hand combat systems.  In this final excerpt Xiang notes that competition, and the need for advertising, might also promote this undesirable outcome through the mechanism of ongoing product-differentiation.

Xiang Kairan’s 1929 personal essay offers a remarkable window into the state of the Republic era martial arts, as well as the mindset and values of those reformers who sought to promote the new Guoshu system.  Far from being disturbed by the somewhat lateral style of his writing, students of social history should be grateful for his keen skills of social observation.  Like all great stories, his account of the Republic era martial arts contains a multitude of layers.

 

Xiang Kairan

Xiang Kairan

 

Excerpts from Xiang Kairan, “My Experience of Taiji Boxing,” 1929.  Translation by Paul Brennan

 

Venerating the Ancient vs. Experience Based Practice in the TCMA

 

It is the habit of the people of our nation to delight in venerating our forefathers and sneering at our contemporaries. Because of this, although the martial arts world is replete with creative and talented people, what they have invented and developed we do not dare to accept. Instead we always put our trust in ancient people who have passed things down secretly within their families, or who have received instructions in a dream. To find this type of situation in books and records is not rare at all.

As for the boxing art that Zhang Sanfeng passed down, how could we know that he did not create it himself? Though there is insufficient evidence to support the idea, it is believed that he received his art in a dream from the “Dark Warrior” Emperor. People nowadays practice martial arts from dawn to dusk for years or even decades and still find it difficult to achieve the level they wish. Zhang Sanfeng received his art from a spirit in a dream, and then immediately used it to defeat bandits. Is there really such a difference of intelligence and ability between ancient and modern people? Zhang Sanfeng taught his art to Song Yuanqiao, Zhang Songxi, and seven others, but no detailed records of his techniques were passed down.

Within Huang Baijia’s Boxing Methods of the Internal School, there is the five-word secret: “focused, potent, expedient, sticky, precise”. There are also secrets within Secrets of the Shaolin Boxing Arts by a certain venerable monk [including another and somewhat similar five-word secret: 印、擒、側、緊、切 “sealing, grabbing, slanting, tensing, cutting”]. The most popular boxing art is now Taiji, but these five words have not been taught as part of it.

I think that boxing arts should use refined principles and tested techniques, and that the criteria should be that they do not violate the principles of physiology or mechanics. There is no need to make strained interpretations or trust the hyperbole of ancient people. Just because a tailor might bow to his statue of the Yellow Emperor or a carpenter has a shrine to his patron saint Lu Ban, there is no reason to think that actually means anything.

 

 

Fantastic Transmission, Lost Lineages and Economic Competition

 

 

There are so very many styles of our boxing arts. Throughout the whole nation, there are dozens within a single province, even within a single county. This being the case in the boxing arts world, there ought to be a great many talented people, and who are thus producing a lot of ability in others. I have carefully studied the results and have to come to know that in this spreading of all sorts of boxing arts, it is by no means a sure thing that they are being taught by competent people. Many are simply relying on the fame of their teacher.

Within the last two or three decades, they have disseminated dozens of boxing arts. Even though they proclaim their art has been passed down from some ancient figure, such as Yue Fei or Damo, there are also some who claim it to be from Sun Wukong or the Maitreya Buddha. All their techniques are in fact more similar than they are unique, and within any solo set, there are only a few techniques that conform to boxing principles and have practical function. Why would these teachers go to so much trouble to create such a variety of postures? Simply to solicit customers!

Working class patrons of a stall selling sequentially illustrated martial arts novels. This 1948 AP photo illustrates the importance of heroic martial arts tales in southern China, even for individuals with limited literacy.

Working class patrons of a stall selling sequentially illustrated martial arts novels. This 1948 AP photo illustrates the importance of heroic martial arts tales in southern China, even for individuals with limited literacy.

 

Northern vs. Southern Boxing

 

“To learn a boxing art in the north, you do obeisance to a teacher and study with him for an indefinite period. Those who are devoted may engage a teacher to live in their home or they might leave home to live in the teacher’s house. To put in three to five years of continuous training is quite common.

In the south, it is often more limited. You can either engage a teacher to live in your home or you can learn from a teacher who has reserved a warehouse space to teach students, holding the space for thirty or forty days, fifty days at the most. Once the time has expired, the students all disperse, and if you wish to continue training, another space has to be reserved.

The students enter the space on the first day, disperse on the last day, and in the meantime they have to train hard day and night with the goal of being able to apply the art once they leave the building. After going through two or three of these warehouse sessions, if you are still not able to defeat ruffians, then your teacher will fall into disrepute.

In the case of Taiji Boxing, it is really not possible to calculate how many days it will take to get results. For other boxing arts with highly refined principles and very detailed techniques, it is just as difficult for foundation and function to be completed within the space of a hundred days.

It is always the case that among practitioners of boxing arts, many of them are crude individuals who would not understand this point. If after two or three sessions of warehouse training, they are still unable to defeat opponents, they do not find the fault in the teacher’s skill level not being high enough, and instead assume the teacher is holding back some of the transmission.

When teachers expect their students to get results according to a schedule, the genuine art gets put aside in favor of a few select techniques, then it gets distorted into the superficial movements of itinerant performers, until a solo set becomes created that is steeped in the common superstitious traditions of ancient people.

When the postures are simple and easy to practice, people with decent intelligence can learn it in just over a week. After a mere half month of instruction, they leave the warehouse with what they have gained and are surprised by their ability to beat up ruffians, the teacher’s fame consequently rises, and they continue to practice for a number of days. But people who tire of old things and always want new things will not continue to practice after about a year unless changes are made to the set.”

 

 

The Nexus of Lineage Myths and Advertising within Guoshu

 

“When the Nanjing Martial Arts Institute was opened, I was in Hankou [in eastern Hubei], where I noticed in a newspaper that they were dividing their curriculum into two schools – Wudang and Shaolin – and appointing specialists for each of them. For “Wudang” to be isolated like this in the promotion of our martial arts is really not a good idea, and so I sent a letter to a friend in Nanjing who was working at the Institute, discussing in detail the pros and cons.

While I have nothing against division of skills, for divisions create competition, and competition produces progress, this is not true in the case of martial arts. Whichever of our nation’s martial arts, too few records have been passed down, the arts have been passed through too many hands over time, and students are hardly ever able to understand the literature.

Certain styles were passed down from certain people, but so long ago that it cannot be verified, unlike schools of painting and literature, for which there is no confusion. The categorizing of the two branches as Wudang and Shaolin has been made on the basis of ignoring the records of other martial arts. But whether or not what is being spread these days can actually be classified as Wudang or Shaolin, how could these two branches be able to comprise all of Chinese martial arts, including those that were transmitted by itinerant performers, or martial artists who taught their skills to make a living. In order to cater to our national habit of venerating ancient people, we have arbitrarily dragged forth ancient figures known to everyone, even to women and children, and assigned them the roles of founders of our arts simply for the sake of advertizing.

In the south there is a Qi Family Boxing, said to be passed down from the “Sage Equal to Heaven” [Qi Tian Dasheng – one of the names for Sun Wukong, the mythical Monkey King]. There is also a Maitreya Boxing, said to be passed down by the Maitreya Buddha [which would presumably have involved another tutorial in a dream]. These are far more ridiculous claims than that of Shaolin being passed down from Damo.

When people have received their knowledge through actual instruction, and are not using it as a means for making a living through either performing or teaching, their great respect for their art is not unreasonable. What is reproachable is when people contentiously pledge their lives to their “tradition”, for by this means, all the schools and styles become jealous of each other and hate each other. After a thousand centuries, there is no telling how much trouble would be caused by such behavior, or how many lives would have been ruined.

Such people have a limited knowledge, as well as a mentality of taking advantage of their forefathers in order to advertise themselves, a flaunting that cannot be admonished enough. And we can only blame gentlemen such as Zhang [Zhijiang] and Li [Jinglin] for having the ambition of promoting martial arts without also thinking of doing away with the vice of schools factionalizing.

 

 

0Oo

 

If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read: Spreading the Gospel of Kung Fu: Print Media and the Popularization of Wing Chun (Part 2 of 3)

 

oOo


The Bubishi: Innovation, Tradition and the Southern Chinese Martial Arts

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Crabapple

In honor of the upcoming National Bonsai Show (held in Rochester NY on September 10-11) I decided to re-post some pictures from my old Bonsai teacher’s blog. If you are anywhere in the area you won’t want to miss this collection of world class Bonsai.

 

 

Introduction: A Secret Book

 

We have all seen the movie.  We have all had this dream.  A mysterious Kung Fu manual, purporting to relate the secrets of past masters, falls into your possession.  What will you find within its pages?

It must contain the keys to excellence in combat.  That is the basis of any good Kung Fu drama.  It should no doubt share profound ethical lessons, occasionally drawing on Buddhist or Daoist images.  Such a book would probably contain knowledge that could be used to heal as well as harm.  That is a well-established aspect of the modern mental image of the Asian martial arts.  It might even hint mysteriously at the role of Qi energy in the combative arts.

Now take a look at your bookshelf.  The one with all of the martial arts primers, manuals and magazines that you probably haven’t look at in years.  Do you see it?  Yup, it is right there in front of you.

Its title is the Bubishi: A Classical Manual of Combat.   While it is one of the most commonly owned martial arts manuals (my local Barnes and Nobles even keeps copies on hand), it also appears to be one of the less frequently read and discussed examples of the genera.  This is especially true within Chinese martial arts circles.

I have always found the general silence surrounding this book to be somewhat mysterious.  After all, so many of our debates on the evolution of the modern Chinese martial arts revolve around events that took place in the second half of the 19th century.  And while a number of late 19th and early 20th century manuals from Northern China have been translated and widely distributed (e.g., the Taiji Classics), how many translations of Southern China’s rich manuscript literature of “Cotton Boxing” and “Bronze Man” manuals do you currently have on that same book shelf?  None?  Well you are not alone.

Ever since the first modern Japanese translations of this book were released in the middle of the 1930s, the Bubishi has been overwhelmingly seen as the key to understanding Karate’s Okinawan pre-history.  Partick McCarthy’s English language efforts hit all of the same notes.  The book has even been marketed as “the Bible of Karate.”

It is thus understandable that students of Chinese martial studies might neglect this text.  Yet once you crack its open the pages, what one quickly discovers is a small library of textual fragments dealing with White Crane and Monk Fist boxing, traditional Chinese medicine, combat tactics and martial ethics.  Much, though not all, of this literature refers to places and traditions that will be familiar to students of the southern Chinese martial arts. While questions of dating and provenance bedevil attempts to easily relate these texts to modern Karate practice, even a quick look at the various illustrations that accompany the text suggests that Chinese martial artists are likely to find it very interesting.

Southern China has a long history of producing martial arts manuals.  Unfortunately they have not generated the same degree of interest among historians and practitioners as northern works such as the Taiji Classics.  Many of these manuals currently reside in the cabinets of private collectors and in the special collections departments of university libraries.

In their general format, many bear more than a passing resemblance to the Bubishi.  Ip Man owned one such collection containing both a boxing and medical manual that he inherited from his teacher.  Visitor’s to his small museum in Foshan can see these hand copied manuscripts on public display.  But like so much of Southern China’s martial literature, there has yet to be a serious scholarly effort to translate, describe and classify these works.

For students of Karate the Bubishi is interesting because it is unique within the art’s historical landscape.  Things are a little different for the Chinese martial studies community.  We should be asking ourselves how we can get more out of this text precisely because it is not totally unique.  Rather it is the most easily accessible example of a genre of manuscripts that, while not all that rare, have yet to elicit the sustained scholarly attention that they deserve.

In an attempt to rectify this situation, the current essay will proceed with a brief review of Tuttle’s 2016 edition of Patrick McCarthy’s translation of the Bubishi.  We will then attempt to answer three questions.

First, what does it suggest about the nature of the Southern Chinese martial arts at the time of its compilation?  Secondly, how has it impacted the practice of the martial arts, both at the time of its first appearance in the 1930s as well as in subsequent decades?  Lastly, what does both the Bubishi and Tuttle’s most recent edition suggest about the social work done by discussions of “tradition” within the modern martial arts landscape?

Widely owned, rarely read and encased within intricate webs of overlapping Orientalist fantasies, the Bubishi remains something of a mystery.  Basic questions about the date, authorship and composition of these texts remain unsolved.  Yet this manuscript tradition may yet yield up treasures worth the hunt for students of martial arts studies.

 

A Japanese Maple in Spring.  Source: Valavanis Bonsai Blog.

A Japanese Maple in Spring. Source: Valavanis Bonsai Blog.

 

Bubishi: The Classic Manual of Combat

 

First a word of clarification may be in order.  The term “Bubishi” is the Japanese transliteration of the Chinese term Wubei Zhi.  This title was given to a massive encyclopedia of Chinese military technology, strategy and practice edited by the Ming era officer Mao Yuanyi.  The Okinawan Bubishi, translated by Patrick McCarthy is also an edited collection of texts.  It shares the same title, possibly in homage to its much more comprehensive namesake.  But there is little other resemblance between these books.

Most likely brought to Okinawa sometime during the 19th (or early 20th) century, the Bubishi appears to have been a manuscript tradition in which a number of separate, often unrelated, articles were compiled, copied and passed on.  These remained in an unbound state until the 20th century.  As such the order (and exact number) of articles varies between textual lineages, but there is enough overlap to suggest the existence of an identifiable tradition.  This collection was initially passed on without either a formal title or the sort of preface that often accompanied Chinese martial arts manuals.

This is both an unfortunate and critical fact to bear in mind.  It is unfortunate in that the prefaces of such manuals are rich sources of data that describe the social world that a text sought to situate itself within.  It is important in that this textual tradition makes no self-conscious claims to editorship, individual authorship, title or even date.  It seems unlikely that the term “Bubishi” came to be applied to these texts until later in the 20th century, possibly the 1930s, according to the detailed introductory article by Andreas Quast.

While Quast traces the suggestions of a textual tradition existing in Okinawa back to the 1880s at the latest, it is worth remembering that the oldest extent hand copied Bubishi manuscripts date to 1930.  This is only a few years prior to the first translations of the text appearing for sale in Japan in the middle of the 1930s.  To paraphrase Paul Bowman, we are once again confronted with a book that is treated as ancient yet, upon closer inspection, turns out to not even be all that old.

Still, a possible origin in the last two decades of the 19th century is suggestive as it would make these texts roughly contemporaneous to the Taiji Classics, another edited collection which was beginning to enter into circulation at the same time.  Further, these years are a critical period for those of us wishing to better understand the evolution of the modern Chinese martial arts.

While the text of the Bubishi is relatively brief and stable in size, the length of the various modern editions of it that are now in circulation seem to grow with age.  Tuttle’s current offering comes in at 319 pages, up from the comparatively svelte 255 pages of the 2008 edition.  The additional material includes new introductory prefaces and essays by McCarthy, Jesse Enkamp, Cezar Borkowshi, Evan Pantazi, Jose Swift and Andreas Quast.  Readers can rest assured that the 19th century original’s lack of any type of descriptive front matter has been more than compensated for with a deluge of modern prefaces and glowing testimonials.

Some of the newer material included in the 2016 volume was interesting.  McCarthy’s essay “No Time like the Past” provided a series of reflections on his involvement with the Bubishi over the decades.  Anyone looking to test Krug’s thesis on the stages of the Western appropriation of Okinawan Karate could do worse than starting with this autobiographical essay.  Swift’s contribution was shorter but also valuable.

By far the single most important addition in the new volume is Andreas Quast’s concluding essay, “The Creation and the Creator.”  It alone will more than compensate readers for the price of the book.

Quast’s paper proceeds in two parts.  In the first section he carefully details what is known about the textual history of every manuscript (confirmed or hypothesized) relating to the Bubishi.  This sort of work requires a painstaking eye to for detail, but it is critical to actually establishing the dates of both the earliest existing manuscripts, as well as the probable origins of the Bubishi.  The absence of this sort of discussion was a real problem in earlier editions of the book.

As previously noted, Quast found that the oldest hand copied manuscripts still in existence date only to the 1930s.  This is of some concern as it is the same decade in which Karate began to be popularized on the Japanese mainland and the first translations of the Bubishi were published.  While Quast finds evidence of older manuscripts dating back to the 1880s, these items were physically destroyed in the Battle of Okinawa, or due to the various earthquakes and fires that periodically afflict the region.

While we can be confident that a “Bubishi-like tradition” existed in Okinawa during the late 19th and early 20th century, it is actually impossible to say exactly what it contained on the basis of the sources that currently exist.  This fact will become of greater importance as Quast reaches the conclusion of his essay.  It is also interesting that Quast’s textual criticism, while not resolving all of the outstanding questions, tends to cast doubt on those theories that see a very early date (such as the 18th century) for the text’s transmission to Okinawa.

Quast sees a few basic possibilities when he turns his attention to the matter of origins.  To begin with, he notes that the Bubishi is much more likely a collection of texts rather than a single authored work.  Given that not all of the articles within this volume date to the same era, reference the same geographic regions, or even discuss the same subjects, this should be obvious to all readers.  But it is probably worth stating anyway.

A Viewing Stone.  Source: Valavanis Bonsai Blog.

A Viewing Stone. Source: Valavanis Bonsai Blog.

 

Quast also quickly dismisses the possibility that a single family or small group of private individuals might have assembled a collection such as this on Okinawa.  That seemed a bit premature to me as we know that martial clans and individuals in China did assemble textual collections not unlike the Bubishi.  Again, Wing Chun students can see (if not read) something similar at the Ip Man Tong in Foshan.

Instead Quast favors one of two possibilities.  The first is that a book of this degree of “sophistication” was acquired by an Okinawan official and maintained, in multiple official copies, by the government.  This would yield a relatively earlier date.  Alternatively, Quast notes that such a collection could have been assembled by the sorts of martial artists, rebels and revolutionaries that occasionally fled from China to Okinawa in the late 19th or early 20th century.  Once in Okinawa the various texts which are now referred to as the “Bubishi” may have been adopted as they seemed to capture the same flavor of national resistance and community mythmaking that many Okinawans were then invested in.

This would suggest both a later date of entry and a more tangential relationship with Karate’s early development.  However, to my ear it also seems to fit the time period of many of the more interesting articles included in the Bubishi.  Certain ideas such as the “Sick Man of Asia”, or the trauma of the Boxer Rebellion, that strongly mark later martial manuals are notably absent from this document.  As such I suspect that it probably predates 1900.

Yet for some of the later articles, it may not be by more than a decade or two.  Of course there could be a range of dates here.  Some of the Monk fist material (including the list of movements in the various training forms) seems a bit older.  A few 18th century training manuals contain similar lists of names.  In contrast, the pairs of “winning/losing techniques” (complete with illustration) bear an uncanny resemblance to the printed version of very similar material that the British writer L.C.P. found and described in a local marketplace in Guangzhou during the 1870s.

Other material, such as the history of White Crane Boxing, appears to be from an even more recent period when creation myths of the “weak” and “feminine” overcoming the hard and foreign became culturally important and increasingly reified.  Douglas Wile, in his own treatment of the origins of the Taiji Classics, found that such themes were particularly popular in the 1880s as the self-strengthening movement encouraged martial artists to search their own stories and cultural histories for the key to resisting foreign imperialism.   Some of the texts within the Bubishi resonate with his findings.

Confirmation of these dates would require additional research.  That would probably take the form of detailed comparisons with previously unpublished versions of similar texts from Chinese collections.  Yet a cursory reading suggests that in addition to a variety of authors, subjects and styles, the articles within the Bubishi may also reflect that sorts trends and concerns seen within the Chinese martial arts literature during different points in the 19th century.  That further suggests a Chinese textual tradition that was later imported to Okinawa.

Quast’s final point turns on what is missing from the Bubishi.  A number of similar texts in China include discussions of armed combat.  Hudiedao, sabers, poles, spears and shields were all commonly carried by militia members and became the focus of southern Chinese martial arts training.   Yet any discussion of armed training is conspicuous by its absence from existing Bubishi texts.  Nor is there any hint of militia organization or community defense.  These texts are all self-consciously oriented towards civilian personal-defense, health and leisure.  Such a vision of the proper social role of the martial arts is also suggestive of a very late 19th or 20th century date.

At this point Quast reminds readers that the oldest existing examples of this textual tradition date only to the period that Karate was coming under intense pressure to conform to Japanese social expectations about what a “proper, ancient and authentic” system of unarmed martial arts should be.  It was within this specific environment that the Bubishi first came forth.

We generally think of the Bubishi as a text representing the tradition from which Karate first emerged.  It is the origin, the creator.  It is what is “authentic and legitimate.”  Our modern forms of practice are “the creation.”  In a word, they are derivative.

These are the terms that many of the modern introductions and prefaces included in the 2016 Tuttle edition explicitly encourages readers to think within.  The Bubishi holds the key to “forgotten” combat applications.  It is a font of ethical martial wisdom as well as esoteric knowledge.  It can lead to a sense of renewal for students who practice has become stale.  Within its pages we can commune with the minds of the “founders.”

Reading these praises it is clear that the Bubishi has come to be much more than a book.  It is an artifact whose very physical existence legitimates one’s martial practice.  There is nothing particularly unique about this.  Kennedy and Guo noted that the Chinese martial manuscript tradition existed in large part to convey legitimacy rather than simply knowledge.   Yet as the essays and prefaces of this volume make clear, such functions have carried over into the age of digital reproduction with surprising efficacy.

Clearly a degree of caution may be called for.  Martial arts studies notes that all martial practices, to a large extent, are invented traditions.  Applying this general principle to the Bubishi, Quast suggests that there might be a more obvious explanation for the lack of weaponry, as well as the general tightness of fit between Karate’s early philosophy and what in seen in the Bubishi.

In his view it is entirely possible (even likely) that the original manuscript tradition contained additional material that was simply edited out of both hand copied and later printed versions of these texts because it did not meet Japanese expectations of what Karate should be.  This is an intriguing possibility.  Given the small number of actual manuscript lineages, and the dearth of truly older copies, it would be hard to falsify this hypothesis.

We must be careful not to rely too heavily on arguments from silence.  After all, while many Chinese manuscript traditions discuss weapons, not all do.  There are some solely dedicated to boxing.

Yet Quast raises critical questions.  Manuscripts do not simply propagate themselves.  They are copied (or not) by individuals for specific reasons at a given point in history.  Thus they are just as much the products of existing social discourses as they are “artifacts” from an unsullied past.

Perhaps we should accept that it may not be possible to use the Bubishi to decipher Karate’s deep origins.  Nor is it likely to reveal much about the state of the Chinese martial arts in the 1780s.  But ultimately those questions may not matter.  More pressing is what it demonstrates about Chinese boxing in the late 19th century, or the struggles of Karate to become accepted on the Japanese mainland in the 1920s.  Or maybe this volume should inspire us to ask an even more introspective set of questions.

A shohin pine.  Proof that good things sometimes come in small packages.  Source: Valavanis Bonsai Blog.

A shohin pine. Proof that good things sometimes come in small packages. Source: Valavanis Bonsai Blog.

 

Conclusion: Tradition as Innovation

 

Why does this text sit (often unread) on our own bookshelf?  What does its popularity indicate about the needs and desires that motivate modern western martial artists?  How does our mental image of Asian history shape our experience of physical practice?  How are historical and cultural artifacts assembled to create the markers of legitimacy?

Obviously “legitimacy” is the critical ingredient in any discussion of the social meaning of the Bubishi.  Yet what kind of legitimacy do modern practitioners actually want?

A close reading of the book’s abundant prefaces and introductory essays yields some interesting results.  By in large these authors are not really concerned with issues of “purity” or proving the “authenticity” of their transmission.  All of that seems to be taken for granted.

Rather they are looking for something else.  They turn to the Bubishi because they seek “permission.”  They are looking for permission to conduct their own research into the self-defense applications of the kata (as well as for an argument that such material should, at one point in time, have been common knowledge).  They desire a justification to delve into the esoteric aspect of the martial arts, whether understood in a medical or historical sense.  Multiple individuals seem to be looking for permission to begin to include a larger dose of grappling in their daily training.

The section of “winning and losing techniques” (Article 29) is particularly interesting in this regard.  As Harry Cook notes in his preface, 39% of the “winning techniques” involve boxing, 29% are throws or escapes, 17% include locks and submissions and only 4% are kicks.

In an era when MMA and BJJ are ascendant, the “wisdom of the masters” would seem to be on the side of modernizing one’s practice.  And, in strictly historical terms, this is a pretty accurate vision of the vast variety of techniques that can be found in the Southern Chinese martial arts.  Yet Karate is, by design, not the same as its Fujianese cousins.  That small fact seems to be lost in many of these discussions.

This suggests something critical about the nature of historical debates.  History and legitimacy are resources to be employed not just in the preservation of an art.  They are equally important resources in the quest for innovation and reform.  They are the means by which a social consensus is constructed behind new movements and schools.  Arguments about “tradition” in the martial arts have never really been about what was done in the past.  Rather, they are about what we should do in the future.

It is this conversation that we see repeatedly throughout both the modern and older sections of McCarthy’s publication.  Southern Chinese martial artists began to develop the folk histories of their own schools in the 19th century at precisely the moment when everything began to change beyond the point of recognition.  Likewise, Karate’s reformers and popularizers rediscovered the value of these Chinese texts as their art was once again reformed to fit the rhythms of modern Japanese life.  In our own era a deeper study of the past has become a license to explore various pathways to revitalize arts facing competition from grapplers on the one side and qigong masters on the other.

Perhaps the Bubishi has a great secret to reveal to us after all.  The principle of continual change is the oldest and most important tradition to be found within the martial arts.  Both the contents and evolution of this textual tradition make that fact abundantly clear.

 

oOo

 

If you enjoyed this discussion you might also want to read: Butterfly Swords and Boxing: Exploring a Lost Southern Chinese Martial Arts Training Manual.

 

oOo


A Tale of Two Challenge Fights – Or, Writing Better Martial Arts History

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shaolin-temple

Introduction

I recently had the good fortune to attend the 2016 Martial Arts Studies conference held at the German Sports University of Cologne, sponsored by the German Society of Sport Science’s Martial Arts Commission.  The theme of this year’s gathering was “Martial Arts and Society.”  Over the course of three days (October 6th-8th) I saw dozens of papers and posters on a number of fascinating topics.  I am happy to report that the future of Martial Arts Studies in Germany looks very bright.  In my next post I hope to be able to offer a complete report on the conference.

In the mean time, I would like to post the text of my keynote, delivered on the morning of October the 8th.  When I was initially contacted about this conference the organizers asked me to reflect on the process of writing my recent book on Wing Chun, to discuss why this style makes a potentially interesting case study, and to explore the process of writing good, engaging, martial arts history.  The following paper is a result of my reflections on those questions.  But, just to keep things interesting, I have also tossed in a couple of new discoveries uncovered during the course of my recent research at Cornell.

On a more personal note I would like to extend a special note of thanks to three individuals.  Prof. Dr. Swen Korner (and family) for the great hospitality and stimulating conversations that they offered over the course of these meetings.  Next, Leo Istas for all of his hard work in helping to bring this conference together and making it possible for me to attend.  And lastly Sixt Wetzler, who generously introduced me to some priceless treasures at the German Blade Museum (more on that later).  It was a great conference, and I highly recommend that anyone who has the chance to attend in future years do so.

Creating Wing Chun: Towards a Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts

 

Why should scholars be concerned with the history of the Asia martial arts?  And why is social history, in which we seek to understand the practices of ordinary people by situating their involvement with these fighting systems against a broad range of factors, particularly useful?  This paper addresses these questions as they related to my recent book, co-authored with Jon Nielson, The Creation of Wing Chun: A Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts (SUNY Press, 2015).  It begins with two stories.

The first is a well-known legend within the TCMA community.  I am sure that there are people in this room who know it well.  It is the creation myth that is taught to every student within the Ip Man branch of the Wing Chun system.

Ip Man (1893-1972) was a master of a Chinese martial arts style called Wing Chun.  He became a prominent figure in the hand combat community after he fled to Hong Kong from his native town of Foshan in 1949, just ahead of the Communist advance.  Once in Hong Kong, economic necessity forced the aging Ip Man to open a martial arts school from which he promoted what had previously been a local art.  One of his best known students, the American actor and martial artist Bruce Lee, transformed his art into a global phenomenon.[1]

Our second story comes from the pages of the July 13th, 1872, edition of a now forgotten newspaper called the North China Herald.  Published in English, this newspaper was popular with Western expatriates living in Shanghai and other parts of China.  I have never seen this account discussed in any publication on the Chinese martial arts.

In some respects these stories will be quite different, yet shared concerns and themes echo between them.  Taken as a set they help to illustrate the questions that emerge when we attempt to write social history.  Let us begin by attempting to imagine two competing visions of the Southern Chinese martial arts as they may (or may not) have existed at some point in the past.  The first of them comes directly from the brush of Ip Man.
The Burning of the Shaolin Temple and the Birth of Wing Chun

“The founder of the Ving Tsun Kung fu system, Miss Yim Ving Tsun was a native of Canton China. As a young girl, she was intelligent and athletic, upstanding and manly. She was betrothed to Leung Bok Chau, a salt merchant of Fukien. Soon after that, her mother died. Her father, Yim Yee, was wrongfully accused of a crime, and nearly went to jail. So the family moved far away, and finally settled down at the foot of Tai Leung Mountain at the Yunnan-Szechuan border. There, they earned a living by selling bean curd. All this happened during the reign of Emperor K’anghsi (1662-1722).

At the time, kungfu was becoming very strong in Siu Lam Monastery (Shaolin Monastery) of Mt. Sung, Honan. This aroused the fear of the Manchu government, which sent troops to attack the Monastery. They were unsuccessful. A man called Chan Man Wai was the First Placed Graduate of the Civil Service Examination that year. He was seeking favour with the government, and suggested a plan. He plotted with Siu Lam monk Ma Ning Yee and others. They set fire to the Monastery while soldiers attacked it from the outside. Siu Lam was burnt down, and the monks scattered. Buddhist Abbess Ng Mui, Abbot Chi Shin, Abbot Pak Mei, Master Fung To Tak and Master Miu Hin escaped and fled their separate ways.

Ng Mui took refuge in White Crane Temple on Mt. Tai Leung (also known as Mt. Chai Har). There she came to know Yim Yee and his daughter Yim Ving Tsun. She bought bean curds at their store. They became friends.

Ving Tsun was a young woman then, and her beauty attracted the attention of a local bully. He tried to force Ving Tsun to marry him. She and her father were very worried. Ng Mui learned of this and took pity on Ving Tsun. She agreed to teach Ving Tsun fighting techniques so that she could protect herself. Then she would be able to solve the problem with the bully, and marry Leung Bok Chau, her betrothed husband.

So Ving Tsun followed Ng Mui into the mountains, and started to learn kung fu. She trained night and day, and mastered the techniques. Then she challenged the local bully to a fight and beat him. Ng Mui set off to travel around the country, but before she left, she told Ving Tsun to strictly honour the kung fu traditions, to develop her kungf u after her marriage, and to help the people working to overthrow the Manchu government and restore the Ming Dynasty. This is how Ving Tsun kung fu was handed down by Abbess Ng Mui.”[2]


yimm-wing-chun

After this point the Wing Chun creation myth becomes a more standard lineage genealogy.  It relates how the art was passed first to a group of traveling Cantonese Opera performers, then to a prominent Foshan pharmacist named Leung Jan and his student, Chan Wah Shun, and finally to Ip Man himself.

It is difficult to establish the date of this story with precision.  The version that I just read to you was written down by Ip Man in the Hong Kong period of his career in anticipation of the creation of an organization called the “Ving Tsun Tong Fellowship.”[3] For whatever reason, that group never materialized and this hand written account was found in his papers following his death in 1972.

The popularity of this story in other Wing Chun lineages strongly suggests that it was something that was in general circulation by the 1930s.  As we argued in our book, this myth, in its current form, probably dates to the Republic period as it relies rather heavily on the figure Ng Moy who in older versions of the Shaolin myth was actually a villain.  She was not reimagined as a hero until a group of novels were published in the 1930s.[4]

Leaving aside specific arguments about the origin of the Wing Chun system, this story is of interest because it paints a vivid picture of the world of the southern Chinese martial arts during the 18th and 19th centuries.  Consider some of the major themes that we find in this legend.  First, the martial arts occupy a lawless environment in which the state is powerless to enforce order.

Still, the situation is anarchic (as that term is defined by political scientists) rather than purely chaotic.[5]  There is a certain code of conduct that contains and shapes the expression of violence within the community.  This is exemplified by the challenge fight with the marketplace bully, rather than a resort to private war.  Lastly, there is just a hint of romance wrapped in a large dose of social propriety.[6]  We see this expressed when Yim Wing Chun fights off an unwanted suitor to preserve the honor of her childhood fiancée, whom she has probably never seen before.

All of this happens in an undeniably romanticized Chinese landscape.  The actions starts when the Yim family flees the known world of the Pearl River Delta and heads for a far off mountain in Western China complete with mist covered temples and a mysterious Buddhist recluse.  It all sounds oddly like the plot of a kung fu movie.[7]  By the conclusion of the story the reader has no reason to doubt the inherent virtue of the southern Chinese martial arts.

Our second story, published under the title “Chinese Boxing,” also revolves around a life-defining challenge fight.  This event took place in a much more mundane environment, totally lacking in mist covered temples. Yet it also echoes many of the same themes found in the first story.

Image taken from a vintage french postcard showing soldiers gambling in Yunnan province.  Note that the standing soldier on the left is holding a hudiedao in a reverse grip.  Source: Author's personal collection.

Image taken from a vintage french postcard showing soldiers gambling in Yunnan province. Note that the standing soldier on the left is holding a hudiedao in a reverse grip. Source: Author’s personal collection.

A Death in the Marketplace


“If there is one particular rather than another in which we might least expect to find John Chinaman resemble John Bull, it is in the practice of boxing.  The meek celestial does get roused occasionally, but he usually declines a hand to hand encounter, unless impelled by the courage of despair.  He is generally credited with a keen appreciation of the advantages of running away, as compared with the treat of standing up to be knocked down, and is slow to claim the high privilege the ancients thought worthy to be allowed only to freemen, of being beaten to the consistency of a jelly. 

How the race must rise in the estimation of foreigners, therefore, when we mention that the noble art of self-defence and legitimate aggressiveness flourished in China centuries probably before the “Fancy” ever formed a ring in that Britain which has come to be regarded as the home of boxing.  Of course, like everything else in China, the science has rather deteriorated than improved; its practice is rough; its laws unsystematized; its Professors of the art, called “fist-teachers,” offer their services to initiate their countrymen in the use of their “maulies,” and, in addition in throwing out their feet in a dexterous manner…

…Boxing clubs are kept up in country villages, where pugilists meet and contest the honours of the ring…

We are not unused to hearing of fatal encounters in the Western ring, where the brutal sport is hedged about with restrictions intended to guard against its most serious eventuality, but in China homicide in such affairs is made more frequent by the admission of kicking.  A case of the sort has just occurred at Tachang, a village about eight miles due north from the Stone Bridge over the Soochow creek. 

In a teashop where gambler and boxers were wont to meet, a dispute arose between two men about 18 cash, and it was arranged to settle it by fight.  After a few rounds, one man succeeded in knocking over the other, with a violent kick to the side.  The man sprang to his feet, exclaiming “Ah! That was well done,” and as he advanced to meet his antagonist again, suddenly fell back, dead. 

Consternation fell on those concerned in the matter, and every effort was made to evade a judicial enquiry.  The relatives of the deceased, however, come forward to make the usual capital out of their misfortune.  They seized the homicide, put him in chains, and bound him for two days and nights to the body of the dead man, which had been removed to the upper part of the teahouse. 

An arrangement for a pecuniary salve to their lacerated feeling was made, by which the people in the neighborhood paid $150, the teahouse keeper $100, and the dealer of the fatal blow $50.  But gambling and fighting had drained the resources of the latter, he was an impoverished rowdy without a respectable connection in the world, except the betrothal tie, by which the fate of a young lady was linked with his, before either had a will to consult or the wayward tendency of his character had appeared.  Glad of an opportunity to break off the engagement, the young lady’s friends came forward and offered to pay the sum if he would surrender all claim to his fiancée. 

The offer being accepted, the whole affair was settled; the sum of a Chinese boxing match being thus one combatant killed, a teahouse keeper ruined, a neighborhood heavily fined, and a marriage engagement broken off.  Probably such incidents occur very often, but if the parties can settle it among themselves, the magistrates, for their own sakes, are only too glad to have the matter hushed up.”[8]

One could write an entire paper analyzing, deconstructing and investigating this short news item.  Period accounts of actual challenge matches, and their social aftermath, are extremely rare in any language.  Yet consider the major themes shared between the two stories.  Unlike the previous legend, this one can be dated with a fair amount of precision.  It is an account of events that probably happened sometime in the summer of 1872, reported to the English reading public on July 13th of that year.

That is significant as it makes this fight roughly contemporaneous with a critical stage in the development of Wing Chun.  Leung Jan, the pharmacist from Foshan who we just mentioned, may have been instructing his friend from the marketplace, Chan Wah Shun, as all of this was happening.[9]  Nevertheless, this description of the 19th century martial arts lacks the exotic orientalism and romance of its predecessor.

Still, the martial arts are once again associated with economic marketplaces and the types of ruffians one might find there.  That is an important clue for historians of the Chinese hand combat systems to contemplate.

In the first, more romanticized, story the martial arts are seen as the means by which social norms are upheld.  The second case demonstrates the opposite possibility as the fight leads only to death, financial ruin the dissolution of an engagement.  Yet in both instances individuals seem to believe that keeping the state out of the matter is a good idea.

The thematic differences between these accounts are also interesting.  In the first story Yim Wing Chun and her family are very much alone in a hostile world.  Yet the second account reminds us that in reality the Chinese martial arts, and social violence more generally, occurred in villages that were dominated by strong clan structures.

In fact, most villages of this size would contain between one and three surnames, being dominated by a few large clans.  While the author of the article chose not to go into detail on this point, taking a male who has wronged your clan hostage and holding him until a hefty ransom was paid was not an uncommon way of settling inter-village disputes in the late Qing.

Tone is perhaps the most important difference between these stories.  The account of Yim Wing Chun emerges from within the world of Chinese boxing.  It is an emic explanation of these fighting systems which views them as a fundamentally positive means by which individuals address pressing personal and community matters.

The second story is etic in nature, presenting us with an outsider’s perspective.  Moreover, the anonymous author of the account of the fight in Tachang Village held the world of the Chinese martial arts in low regard.  In other portions of this account that I omitted due to the limitations of time it seems possible that he does not think all that highly of the English sport of boxing either.  One wonders whether his criticisms of people who practice the Chinese martial arts should be read as a subtle jab at his Western readers who may well be fans of their own forms of boxing.

Still, this air of disdain is quite accurate in some respects as it reminds us that, even in the volatile second half of the 19th century, most respectable individuals in China were not interested in the martial arts.  They found these practices, and the individuals who took them up, to be socially marginal.  Nevertheless, once we control for questions of tone, the author’s outsider perspective yields a number of interesting historical and ethnographic observations.

An interior picture of the renown library at Shaolin.  Prominently displayed in the center are copper plated Buddhist scriptures.  Researchers on the expidition also noted that this library contained illustrated manuscripts and a collection of staffs from historically important monks.

An interior picture of the renown library at Shaolin prior to the 1928 destruction. Prominently displayed in the center are copper plated Buddhist scriptures. Researchers on the expedition also noted that this library contained illustrated manuscripts and a collection of staffs from historically important monks.

 

 

My Method of Social History

 

We now have two competing accounts of the Southern Chinese martial arts.  One is a period account of an alleged event that was likely recorded a few weeks after the fight in question transpired.  The other is a legend, an example of folk history, which purports to reveal the origins of an increasingly popular regional fighting tradition that was already a century old.

There is also the matter of social memory.  One of these accounts is still known, believed, taught and enacted in communities around the globe.[10]  Individuals look to it for inspiration and technical guidance as they seek to transform themselves through the practice of the martial arts.  The other story, while probably much more factually accurate, has been totally forgotten.  Its service as a cautionary tale ceased to be relevant when the community that it sought to inform dissolved in the 20th century.

When faced with two differing accounts, the first question that we often ask is in many respects the least helpful.  Students will look at these two contrasting descriptions of the Southern Chinese martial arts and want to know, “which one is true?”  Which vision most accurately captures “reality?”[11] On some level the answer must be neither.

The problems with the Wing Chun creation legend are more obvious.  The Southern Shaolin Temple, as it is described by the region’s martial artists, likely never existed.  And the Shaolin Temple of Henan province (specifically referenced in the Ip Man version of the story) was never burned by Qing.  Nor did they slaughter its monks.

These are established facts, not up for historical debate.  It is quite suggestive that some of the figures in this account show up as characters in late-Qing kung fu novels long before they appear anywhere else.  Likewise, the resemblance of the heroines of the Wing Chun legend to central female figures in the creation accounts of White Crane Boxing (from Fujian) is probably not a coincidence.

Our second account also has some serious problems.  It is in no way a shining example of investigative journalism, even by 19th century standards.  The author makes no effort to hide the fact that he is far from neutral observer.  Nor does he include some very basic facts in his account, such as the names of the two fighters, or even the date on which these events took place.

The level of descriptive detail in this account leads me to suspect that it is basically credible.  Yet the way in which it is written strongly suggests that the point of this article was never to teach readers technical or sociological facts about Chinese boxing.  Rather, it was a transparent attempt to convince them to imagine China in a certain way.  It is basically an exercise in the construction of ethnic and national “mythologies” by other means.

The correlation between the socio-economic status of our authors and the ways in which they discussed the martial arts is probably not a coincidence.  As one reads the various accounts of the martial arts that appeared in the popular press in China between the 1870s and the 1940s we see competition between groups who viewed the personal empowerment promised by the martial arts in positive terms, those who wish to reform these practices and put them at the disposal of the state, and lastly a large group of relatively elite voices that viewed the martial arts as a backwards waste of resources that had no place in a modern China.  The crafting of accounts supporting these different positions is highly reminiscent of the process that James C. Scott described in his classic study, Weapons of the Weak: Everyday forms of Peasant Resistance.[12]

In many respects the preceding accounts are fairly representative of the sorts of data that scholars discover throughout the course of their research.  Faced with such narratives, all of which have been shaped by other hands, what is a social historian to do?

First we must step back and think carefully about research design.  What is the actual object of our analysis?  What puzzles are we attempting to solve?  Is our goal really to understand the technical development of a hand combat system?  Or are we instead interested in the community that developed and transmitted these practices at different points in time?

Good social history is concerned with the production of sound descriptive and causal inferences.  My approach to these questions is probably a result our background in the social sciences and training in the case study (rather than the area studies) approach.  As such, both Jon Nielson and I were interested in moving beyond purely interpretive exercises.  We wished to develop a framework that could speak directly to a range of sociological theories.[13]

Without denying the fruitfulness of the “embodied turn” that we have seen in fields like sociology and anthropology over the last few decades,[14] we would suggest that students of martial arts studies think very carefully about their linked methodological and theoretical assumptions.  The hand combat systems are said to be “arts” precisely because they exist only as social institutions.   They differ from pure violence in that these techniques exist within a framework of ideas and identities which are meant to be conveyed from teacher to student.[15]  Questions of community involvement are not superfluous to the development of the martial arts.  Rather, they are central to the entire enterprise.

The author of the 1872 article was absolutely correct to identify the individuals most likely to invest themselves in these systems of practice and knowledge as being socially marginal.  Nor is this pattern isolated to China in the Qing or Republic periods.  Modern sociologists and anthropologists have noted a link between many hand combat traditions and social marginality in a wide range of cultures and settings.[16]

This is precisely why historians interested in questions of social history and popular culture must take note of the Chinese martial arts.  As in most places, the history of China was written by educated elites.  This makes the day to day realities of most people’s lives very difficult to reconstruct.

The Chinese martial arts are interesting in that they offer a unique window into the hopes and concerns of a large segment of the population that might otherwise be overlooked.  Further, the lineage based nature of these fighting systems means that modern organizations and practices continue to look to the past for legitimacy.  These fighting systems have sometimes preserved information, usually stories but in other cases actual documents, that historians will find useful.

More importantly, members of the local community tend to regard martial art traditions as being ancient and the guardians of certain types of values.  While most of the Asian fighting systems that people actually practice are very much products of the modern era, they are nevertheless closely tied to critical discourses about identity, community violence and history.

There are other social organizations that share many of these same traits.  I actually began my research on community organization and violence in China before I ever became personally involved in the practice of kung fu.  Initially I was conducting research on new religious movements and their association with violent uprisings in the late Qing dynasty in an attempt to test a general theory of the relationship between religious communities and the generation of social capital.[17]

After giving a paper on social capital and the Boxer Uprising at the 2009 Midwest Political Science Association meetings, one of the commentators suggested that I take a look at some of the events in southern China.  He was attempting to direct my attention to the Taiping Rebellion.  As I began to investigate the issue I was surprised to find a number of martial arts schools still in existence that claimed a heritage going back to those events.  This memory of revolutionary action, whether real or imagined, would arise again within these groups at later moments of historical crisis.[18]

At that point I became quite interested in the development of the martial arts associations of southern China.  Other sorts of social organizations, like trade guilds, clan associations or new religious movements might occasionally become involved in community violence.  Yet martial arts societies often viewed themselves as specialists in this realm.[19]  While the trade guilds of Beijing and Yihi Boxers of Shandong have ceased to exist, many of southern China’s martial arts movements are still with us today.  As a student of globalization, I was also fascinated by the degree of success that these groups had enjoyed in spreading themselves throughout the world.[20]

Shortly after coming to these realizations I began a personal study of Wing Chun with Jon Nielson, who at the time also taught at the same university where I was employed.  He was interested in many of the same historical and theoretical questions and had been planning a more limited historical research project of his own.  At that point we began to discuss the possibility of putting together a broadly based, theoretically informed, study of Wing Chun.

This seemed like an obvious topic as my co-author is a direct student of Ip Ching, one of Ip Man’s surviving children.  We were assured of getting access to certain resources that would be helpful in understanding the evolution of this particular system.  Yet basic research design questions still required serious thought.  Making a contribution to the social scientific literature requires more than just access to good data or an interesting story.  Specifically, one needs a theory.

We began our investigation with a simple premise.  We proposed that increased instances of community instability would lead, in time, to the development new martial arts organizations.  Rather than simply providing self-defense training on an individual level, these organizations should be seen as expressions of the community’s self-interest and would be tolerated by local elites (who might otherwise fear their rebellious potential) to the extent that they provided a degree of stability.  In short, while martial artists often posture as outsiders who flaunt societal conventions, in fact they played an important role within traditional Chinese communities.

Further, the impulse to create and fund such groups is basically rational in nature and it varies with the level of demand.  A purely cultural explanation of the martial arts might, on the other hand, see them as relatively constant over time as cultural factors change more slowly than political or economic ones. If the martial arts are simply an expression of timeless patterns in Chinese culture, then there would be no reason to expect that their popularity would decline in times of peace.  In fact, with extra resources to dedicate to non-essential activities, their practice might even increase in popularity. As the idiom goes, constants cannot explain variables.

In order to test this theory we developed a few implicit hypotheses.  The first of these was that factors that decreased community stability would lead to an increase in martial arts activity.  Given my academic background in international relations, one of the variables that we were immediately drawn to was globalization, meaning rapid increases in the flow of goods, capital, individuals and ideas across previously closed borders.

nemesis-destroys-war-junks

During the 19th century China’s once isolated and protected markets were forcibly opened to global trade on a massive scale.  As the country’s economy adjusted to new patterns of imports and exports some people discovered windfall profits.  Many more found themselves trapped in dying modes of handicraft production and agriculture.  In short, shifts in trade always create waves of winners and loser.  Unless carefully managed this contributes to social instability.[21]

When viewed in this context, the development of Wing Chun suddenly begins to look very interesting.  The practice originated in the Pearl River Delta region of Guangdong province, home to Guangzhou (Canton), Foshan and Hong Kong, three major economic centers of trade and production.  This was also the first region of China to be opened to foreign trade and missionary work on a massive scale.

As Jon Nielson and I discussed possible research and writing strategies we realized that in addition to providing a window onto the popular culture of ordinary Chinese citizens, our project suggested ways in which a large number of additional theories could be tested or explored using the Chinese martial arts as a data source.  Unfortunately, there were very few known historical facts about these systems.  And most of the work that had been done focused on systems coming out of Shanghai or Northern China.[22]  In some cases their findings had been extrapolated, we felt incorrectly, to make generalizations about all of the Chinese martial arts.

The nature of the existing literature thus helped to shape our research design.  Rather than focusing exclusively on Wing Chun (which would remain our major case study) we would attempt to provide a detailed social history of the martial arts in a single region in Southern China.  It would involve the exploration of economic, political, social and cultural factors within the Pearl River Delta.

Since our subject of analysis was now geographic in nature, we would be free to examine a number of the leading styles rather than focusing only on a single art. Given our personal backgrounds in Wing Chun, the inclusion of other systems (such as Choy Li Fut, White Eyebrow or the Jingwu movement) was also important from a research design standpoint.  It ensured that we would not test our ideas about the relationship between the martial arts and their social environment on the exact same body of insights that we used to derive our basic theoretical model.

Further, these other arts tended to have different relationships with the main economic, social and political variables that we discussed.  So while we presented our readers a single case study, a rich reading of the area’s martial history allowed us to multiply our observations in ways that we hoped would allow us to avoid issues like tautology and selection bias.[23]

Inevitably many of our findings had to be left out of the final manuscript.  Even with the amount of space that we dedicated to Wing Chun, it was impossible to go much beyond Ip Man’s lineage in a single volume.  Other southern arts, such as Hung Gar, certainly deserved more discussion than they received.  Yet our hope was that by providing a comprehensive social history of the region’s martial arts community, students of these other lineages and styles would be able to discover the sorts of forces that had an impact on the development of their own practice.  Likewise, social scientists interested in a wide variety of theoretical questions would be able to turn to our book as a reliable source of description and data.

This brings us back to the questions posed by the two stories introduced at the start of this paper.  If we focus only on a technical history of the Chinese martial arts, seeking to verify the claims of various lineage myths, we are bound to be disappointed.  The historical record is simply too thin in most places.  And as Foucault reminds us, a high degree of caution and introspection is necessary whenever scholars find themselves striking out to discover, rather than to question, the “origins” of a revered practice.[24]  Martial arts studies must not become an apologetic exercise.

Nor, on a more practical level, is the question of “ultimate origins” of much interest to scholars who approach these fighting systems from an outside perspective.  Indeed, the most interesting question is not whether Ng Moy really created Wing Chun, but rather why that specific story became so important to groups of teenagers living in Hong Kong in the 1960s.  Why does that image still resonate with so many Western martial artists today?

When approached through the lens of social history, the stories that introduced this discussion reveal a wealth of information about the communities that composed and passed them on.  That, in turn, suggests something important about the nature and purpose of the southern Chinese martial arts themselves.  The social history of these fighting systems gives us a way to better understand the intersection of these folk narratives with a vast variety of economic, political and cultural variables.

ip-man-kill-bill

 

Why Should Readers Care About the Social History of the Martial Arts?

Finally, why should the general reader care about the social history of the Asian martial arts? It may be cliché to say, but explorations of history are rarely concerned only with the past.  Ideally such works speak also to the concerns of readers in the present.  I second D. S. Farrer’s call, first made in his keynote address to the 2015 Martial Arts Studies meetings at the University of Cardiff: our field must tackle socially relevant questions and present actual solutions.[25]

Wing Chun, and the other Chinese martial arts, are fascinating precisely because they offer us an opportunity to investigate many pressing issues.  At this moment there is more interest than ever in the development of Chinese regional and national identity.  The evolving situation in Hong Kong is particularly relevant given Wing Chun’s current status as a powerful symbol of that city’s local, and increasingly independent, identity.[26]

Yet beyond such geographically focused concerns, do these systems, many of which were tied to specific moments in the 20th century, still have something to teach us today?  I would like to argue that they do.  This message comes in the form of both a warning and an opportunity.

Nothing demonstrates the continued social relevance of the Chinese martial arts more quickly than an examination of our current multi-media environment.  Simply turn on the television.  The Asian martial arts have come to be an expected element of film, tv programing and even major sporting events.

They are dramatized in novels and comic books.  An entire subsection of the internet seems to be dedicated to both instructional and comedic videos featuring martial artists.[27]  Indeed, most of us got our first exposure to the martial arts via some sort of mediated image, and not through direct exposure to actual physical practice.

This state of affairs is actually less of a historical departure than one might think.  Residents of southern China in the Qing and Republic periods also lived in an environment saturated with entertainment based visions of the martial arts.  They came in the form of Cantonese operas, marketplace performers, professional storytellers, serialized newspaper stories, collectible cigarette cards, kung fu novels and later radio dramas and films.[28]

It was through these routes that many residents of Guangdong and Hong Kong first developed an interest in these fighting systems.  To fully understand the social work that the martial arts have done in various times and places, one must give careful thought to social discourses, mediatized images and the economic markets that surround them.[29]  First impressions are a powerful force.

Consider the portrayal of the Chinese martial arts in current film.  Audiences seem to be attracted to the unapologetic violence in many of these stories.  The fight choreography of the Xu Haofeng’s recent film The Master (2015) is likely to appeal to modern Western Wing Chun practitioners given the abundant use of Butterfly Swords (the style’s signature weapon). Or consider Donnie Yen’s dojo fight scene in Wilson Ip’s 2008 biopic Ip Man, in which he wipes out an entire room of karate students.  While watching these sequences one cannot help but take note of the sheer body count that the various protagonists manage to rack up.  At times I am reminded of the Bride’s blade work (minus the copious blood) in Quentin Tarantino 2003 homage to the kung fu genre, Kill Bill.

Nor are these the only places in the current media landscape where viewers might find such images.  Scenes of unskilled, nameless, and thoughtless attacker being cut down by the dozens bring to mind the exaggerated action and martial arts stylings of the Resident Evil franchise, or the grittier violence of The Walking Dead.  I suspect that on some level there is a shared language of violence in these two genres (the kung fu film and zombie thriller).  In both cases spectacular portrayals of violence are placed in the service of a “world creation” exercise.

These images of violence underscore the break with the conventional social rules that govern the audience’s mundane lives.  Thus they are a primary aspect of the story, and not simply a stylistic flourish. The martial arts epic and the post-apocalyptic zombie adventure offer us a world that does away with the “decadent” comforts and conventions of the current environment.  They present a stage on which only the “awesome” will survive.

Who are these heroes?  Among their ranks we find the awesomely strong, the skilled, the cagey and sometimes the evil.  Every new world, it seems, needs an iconic villain.

michonne-and-katana

In short, the subtext of many of these stories seems to be that those who will survive and thrive in these new realms are individuals who are “like us,” because they embody precisely the traits that we like to imagine in ourselves.  There is an unmistakable air of wish fulfillment in these secondary creations.  As we watch our heroes fight their way across the exotic landscapes of a fantasy Oriental past, or the post-apocalyptic future, they embody and project back to us our own love of masculinity, rugged independence and stoic resilience.

Perhaps we should not be surprised that the sense of looming social and economic crisis that has helped to popularize such stories over the last few decades is also thought to have contributed to the rise of various types of extremist movements around the globe.  Rather than the inevitable triumph of globalization and liberal democracy envisioned at the end of the Cold War, we are seeing the rise of violent (and media savvy) non-state actors, illiberal democracies, and both populist and rightist movements.  Nor, as Jared Miracle reminded us in the conclusion of his recent study of the global spread of the Asian martial arts, should we forget that in the past these political movements were sometimes associated with these fighting systems.[30]

The ethno-nationalist turn in certain martial arts, pioneered in Japan and China during the first half of the 20th century, provided a mechanism by which their symbolic association with physical strength, national heritage and masculinity could be marshalled and placed at the disposal of both extremist political movements and the state.[31]  We would be unwise to ignore the fact that there is much in the popular culture of the martial arts, in both the East and West, which continues to make them a tempting target for appropriation by such groups today.

Are these traits part of the essential nature of the Asian fighting arts?  Or were they instead epiphenomenal and historically contingent, a relic of the particular circumstances under which these systems achieved momentum as mass social movements?

This is another area where a better understanding of the social history of the southern Chinese martial arts might provide us with models for thinking about the current situation.  Consider again the stories that introduced this paper, the myth of Yim Wing Chun and the fight in Tachang Village.  From the final decades of the 19th century to the current era many of the region’s Wuxia novels, and other types of martial arts storytelling, have focused on the lives of impossibly talented wandering heroes in the Jianghu, or the realm of “Rivers and Lakes,” not unlike Ng Moy and her student.

This somewhat unsettling territory (imagined as an alternate social dimension, ever present yet just beyond the edge of our own life experience) seems to suffer from a lack of effective central governance.  What government exists is often seen as corrupt and in the process of oppressing the people.  The protagonists of these stories, frequently the inheritors of ancient martial arts lineages, are thus forced to seek their own solutions to pressing problems.  As one would expect in novels feature a colorful array of wandering monks, corrupt soldiers and hidden kung fu masters, this often involves an enthralling resort to arms.  These stories actively sought to create a sense of nostalgia among their readers for a type of past that never existed.

At first glance the rough and tumble realm of “Rivers and Lakes” would seem to bear more than a passing resemblance to the ultraviolent fantasy worlds of Kill Bill or Resident Evil.  It too seems to have an established hierarchy of awesomeness based on one’s strength, fighting style and the “martial virtue.” What use do wandering swordsmen have for village life and its many restraints?

Yet first impressions can also be deceptive.  While it may not always be apparent, the wandering swordsmen of the Rivers and Lakes are often quite concerned with questions of both social organization and justice.  Far from being only violent escapist fantasies, many of the most popular stories were rooted in easily identifiable debates about political ideals and social modernization.

Two scholars of the Wuxia literary genre, John Hamm and Petrous Liu have examined these stories from slightly different perspectives.  As Liu argued in his study of Chinese martial arts literature, Stateless Subjects (Cornell EAP, 2011), when understood in their original context such novels were often obsessed with political questions.[32]  Nor did they view traditional society as a mediocre mass that the martial hero fought to escape.

Rather than attempting to establish a hierarchy of social organization based exclusively on martial strength, the real controversy in many of these narratives seems to have been the preexisting forms of social order inherited from the late Qing, the Warlord period and even the Communist eras.  In short, internal imperialism and the teleology of western models of modernization were the problems that demanded a solution.

By demonstrating possible ways that society could address serious, even existential, concerns without recourse to a coercive state apparatus, these stories sought to argue for a social model that was essentially horizontal in organization, drawing on the strength of what current Western scholarship calls civil society.[33]  These authors advanced a model that placed authority in the hands of society and not in an externally imposed hierarchy emanating from a far off center.

While we tend to imagine these stories, and even the creation myths of the various southern martial arts, as reflecting the values of ancient China, it is probably no coincidence that the giants of the genre, individuals like Xiang Kairan (1890-1957) and later Jin Yong (born 1924), wrote in moments of social and political upheaval.  All of these stories, like the martial arts of Southern China themselves, emerged from a period of when the character of “modern China” was being actively debated.

During this period the traditional martial arts argued for a specific vision of the future by creating an idealized past.  Within it the holistic nature of Chinese culture need not give way to teleological dreams imported from the West.  As Liu observed, and Jon Neilson and I attempted to document in the area of physical practice and social organization, they crafted a vision of Chinese modernity in which action would be organized according to the principals of Minjian “between people” as opposed to the universal, centralized and always state dominated frameworks inherent in the idea of Tianxia, or “all under heaven.”[34]

Liu suggested that this was the real reason for the May 4th Intellectuals opposition to the supposedly “feudal” Wuxia genre.[35]  Similar concerns also seem to have motivated much of the Central Guoshu Institute’s anxieties about the China’s thriving local martial arts marketplaces in regions like Guangdong and Fujian.[36]

It was not that these stories and practices, as they came to exist in the 1920s and 1930s, accurately represented China’s ancient past.  Rather they represented an alternate view of the future.  It was one in which the state would serve the interests of a diverse and robust society, rather than an artificially homogenized society being placed at the disposal of a technocratic and highly centralized state.  Other intellectuals, deeply invested in models of modernization that privileged a strong state, found these (extremely popular) notions threatening.

The social history of the Southern Chinese martial arts matter because they reveal moments when these institutions, practices and reformers stood at a crossroads.  A close examination of any of the Asian martial arts will show that these things never existed in a vacuum.  Nor have they been motivated by a timeless and inscrutable morality uniquely their own.

Our account of Wing Chun demonstrated that the region’s martial arts have always functioned in conjunction with other social, economic, political and even aesthetic impulses.  For instance, it is just not possible to tell the story of this style without also exploring its relationship with Guangdong’s yellow unions, or its close alignment with bourgeois social interest within a landscape marked by class struggle.[37]  In China, but also in other places in Asia, individuals have become involved in the martial arts precisely because they have sought a voice in ongoing debates as to how we should react to the ongoing challenges of globalization, modernization and rapid social change.[38]

As we review these debates, or examine the life histories of masters like Ip Man, we are reminded that many aspects of these practices, and the values that seem to underpin them, are radically historically contingent.  The traditional Chinese martial arts could have evolved in many ways over the course of the 20th century.  And the changes have been striking.

Rediscovering this history is important as it reminds modern martial artists that they also have choices to make.  They must choose, just as their predecessors did, where to innovate and when to adhere to tradition. In social and political discussions, they must choose how these fighting systems will be presented to the public.

What sorts of values will the modern martial arts advance?  Will they be governed by the principal of Minjian, attempting to reach out horizontally, creating broad based coalitions of cooperation within civil society?  Or will the martial arts put their resources at the disposal of those seeking to rebuild the hierarchies of awesomeness by supporting violent, illiberal or simply exclusionary ethno-nationalist ideals?

I do not pretend that a study of the past can offer definitive guidance in the present.  As we read about the actions of those who came before we are reminded that the choices made now will have consequences.  Likewise the ways in which scholars chose to write about the martial arts may have important implications for our understanding of not just these practices, but of ourselves as well.

japanese-postcard-wwii-kendo-ship-photo

 


Works Cited

Almond, Gabriel and Sidney Verba. 1989. The Civic Culture: Political Attitudes and Democracy In Five Nations. Sage.

Amos, Daniel. 1983. “Marginality and the Heroes Art: Martial Arts in Hong Kong and Guangzhou (Canton).” PhD Diss.,University of California.

Bennett, Alexander C. 2015. Kendo: Culture of the Sword. Los Angles: University of California Press. 123-162.

Berg, Esther and Inken Prohl. 2014. ‘“Become your Best”: On the Construction of Martial Arts as Means of Self-Actualization and Self-Improvement.” JOMEC Journal 5.

Boretz, Avron. 2011. Gods, Ghosts and Gangsters: Ritual Violence, Martial Arts, and Masculinity on the Margins of Chinese Society. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

Bowman, Paul. 2016. Mythologies of Martial Arts. New York: Rowman & Littlefield.

Bowman, Paul. 2015.  Martial Arts Studies: Disrupting Disciplinary Boundaries. New York: Rowman & Littlefield.

Cass, Vitoria. 1999. Dangerous Women: Warriors, Grannies and Geishas of the Ming. New York: Rowman & Littlefield.

Channon, Alex and George Jennings. 2014. “Exploring Embodiment through Martial Arts and Combat Sports: A Review of Empirical Research.” Sport in Society: Cultures, Commerce, Media, Politics. 17:6. 773-789.

“Chinese Boxing.” North China Herald. July 13th, 1872.

Farrer, D. S. “Efficiency and Entertainment in Martial Arts Studies: Anthropological Perspectives.” A Keynote Address Presented at the June 2015 Martial Arts Studies conference held at Cardiff University. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4t6WXYukHQ.

Farrer, D. S. 2015 (b). “Efficacy and Entertainment in Martial Arts Studies: Anthropological Perspectives.” Martial Arts Studies 1. 43.

Farrer, D. S. and John Whallen-Bridge. 2011. Martial Arts as Embodied Knowledge: Asian Traditions in a Transnational World. Albany, NY: SUNY Press.

Foucault, Michel. 1977. “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History.” In Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

Frank, Adam. 2006. Taijiquan and the Search for the Little Old Chinese Man: Understanding Identity through Martial Arts. New York: Palgrave.

Gainty, Denis. 2015. Martial Arts and the Body Politic in Meiji Japan. Routledge.

Garcia, Raul Sanchez and Dale C. Spenser. 2014. Fighting Scholars: Habitus and Ethnographies of Martial Arts and Combat Sports.  New York: Anthem Press.

Hamm, John Christopher. 2005. Paper Swordsmen: Yin Yong and the Modern Chinese Martial Arts Novel. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press

Henning, Stanley. 2003. “Martial Arts in Chinese Physical Culture, 1856-1965.” In Martial Arts in the Modern World, edited by Thomas A. Green and Joseph R. Svinth. London: Praeger. 13-35

Hurst, G. Cameron. 1998. Armed Martial Arts of Japan: Swordsmanship and Archery. New Haven: Yale UP.

Ip Chun and Michael Tse. 1998. Wing Chun Kung Fu: Traditional Chinese Kung Fu for Self-Defence and Health. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin.

Ip Man. “The Origin of Wing Chun.” http://www.vingtsun.org.hk/history.htm accessed 9/18/2017.

Judkins, Benjamin N. 2016. “The Seven Forms of Lightsaber Combat: Hyper-Reality and the Invention of the Martial Arts.” Martial Arts Studies. 2. 6-22.

Judkins, Benjamin N. “Does Religiously Generated Social Capital Intensify or Mediate Violent Conflict? Lessons from the Boxer Uprising.” Presented at the 67th MPSA National Meetings in Chicago, IL, April 2-5, 2009.

Judkins, Benjamin N. and Jon Nielson. 2015. The Creation of Wing Chun: A Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts. Albany, NY: SUNY Press.

Kennedy, Brian and Elizabeth Guo. 2010. Jingwu: The School that Transformed Kung Fu. Berkeley: Blue Snake Books.

King, Gary, Robert Keohane, and Sidney Verba. 1994. Designing Social Inquiry: Scientific Inference in Qualitative Research. Princeton University Press.

Lee, James Yimm. 1972. Wing Chun Kung Fu: Chinese Art of Self Defense. Santa Clarita, CA: Ohara Publications.

Liu, Petrus. 2011. Stateless Subjects: Chinese Martial Arts Literature & Postcolonial History. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, East Asia Program.

Lorge, Peter. 2012. Chinese Martial Arts: From Antiquity to the Twenty-First Century. Cambridge UP.

Miracle, Jared. 2016. Now with Kung Fu Grip! How Bodybuilders, Soldiers and a Hairdresser Reinvented the Martial Arts for America.  Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland.

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

Putnam, Robert D., Robert Leonardi, Raffaella Y. Nanetti; Robert Leonardi; Raffaella Y. Nanetti. 1994. Making Democracy Work: Civic Traditions in Modern Italy. Princeton University Press.

Rogowski, Ronald. 1989. Commerce and Coalitions: How Trade Affects Domestic Political Alignments. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Scott, James C. 1985. Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Shahar, Meir. 2008. The Shaolin Monastery: History, Religion, and the Chinese Martial Arts. Honolulu: Hawaii UP.

Vaccaro, Christian. 2015. Unleashing Manhood in the Cage: Masculinity and Mixed Martial Arts. Lexington Books.

Walkman, Frederic Jr. 1997. Strangers at the Gate: Social Disorder in South China, 1839-1861. Los Angles: University of California Press.

Waltz, Kenneth N. 1979.  Theory of International Politics. New York: McGraw-Hill.

Wacquant, Loïc. 2003. Body & Soul: Notebooks of an Apprentice Boxer. Oxford University Press.

Wert, Michael. 2016. Review of: Alexander C. Bennett.  2015. Kendo: Culture of the Sword. UC Press. The Journal of Japanese Studies. 42:2 (Summer). 371-375.

Wetzler, Sixt. 2015. “Martial Arts Studies as Kulturwissenschaft: A Possible Theoretical Framework.” Martial Arts Studies. 1. 20-33.

Wong, Doc Fai and Jane Hallander. 1985. Choy Li Fut Kung Fu: A Dynamic Fighting Art Descended from the Monks of the Shaolin Temple. Burbank CA; Unique Publications.

Zhao Shiqing. 2010. “Imagining Martial Arts in Hong Kong: Understanding Local Identity through ‘Ip Man’.”  Journal of Chinese Martial Studies 1, no. 3. 85-89.
Endnotes

[1] Judkins and Nielson 2015, 179-186; 211-263.

[2] Ip Man. “The Origin of Wing Chun.” http://www.vingtsun.org.hk/history.htm accessed 9/18/2017.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Hamm 2005, 34-36.

[5] Waltz 1979, 102-116.

[6] Cass (1999) provides an excellent discussion of the inherent social tensions within Chinese images of archetypal female warriors.

[7] Adam Frank (2006, 35-36), among others, has discussed the tendency towards self-Orientalizing within the Chinese martial arts.  It is not hard to imagine some of the motives behind this development.  Once the martial arts came to be linked to the project of building a robust sense of Chinese nationalism in the 1920s and 1930s, the Central Guoshu Association and other actors showed a strong tendency to link these fighting systems with supposedly “essential” and “primordial” Chinese traits that they wished to promote.  Authors of Wuxia novels also marshaled idealized visions of the past to support their own vision of China’s future.  Nor has this project ever been totally forgotten.

[8] “Chinese Boxing.” North China Herald. July 13th, 1872.

[9] Judkins and Nielson 175-176.

[10] Practically all of the basic guidebooks on the Wing Chun system relate this story.  Chun and Tse 1998, 16-21.  Even James Yimm Lee’s notoriously taciturn manual, Wing Chun Kung Fu: Chinese Art of Self Defense, produced from Bruce Lee’s class notes, includes a brief summary of the story.

[11] The concept of “reality” plays an important part in popular discussion of the martial arts.  Bowman (2015) 109-135.

[12] Scott 1985.

[13] King,Keohane and Verba 1994.

[14] Key contributions in this literature include Wacquant 2003; Farrer and Whallen-Bridge 2011; and various contributors in Garcia and Spenser 2014.

[15] The definition of the martial arts (and whether focusing on the topic is even a good idea) is contested: Channon and Jennings 2014; Wetzler 2015; Judkins 2016; Bowman 2016. Nevertheless, all of these authors share points of agreement regarding the fundamentally social nature of these practices.  That is likely the proper place to beginning a historical exploration.

[16] Amos 1983; Boretz 2011. Perhaps the best known statement on marginality and the combat sports in North America has been provided by Loic Wacquant (2003) who approached boxing as a way to understand life in the Chicago ghetto. All of these works touch on the interaction of social marginality and masculinity.  Those topics have been taken up more directly by Miracle 2016 and Vaccaro 2015. Collectively this literature suggests that the martial arts can be seen as an exercise in individual and community self-creation rising out of the experience of exclusion and self-doubt. Berg and Prohl (2014) note that this is how these fighting systems have self-consciously described themselves and their mission in the modern era.

[17] Judkins 2009.

[18] This tendency seems particularly well developed in the folk history of Choy Li Fut.  See for instance Wong and Hallander 1985; Judkins and Nielson 92-99.

[19] While most emic accounts of Chinese martial arts history seem to focus on lineage creation accounts and emphasize the “purity” of martial practice, contemporary etic reports indicate that one was most likely to find serious martial artists gainfully employed in roles that focused on the management of social coercion and violence.  Examples of such careers might include working as a tax collector for the Imperial salt monopoly, being an enforcer in a gambling house, working in law enforcement or traveling as an armed escort protecting merchant caravans.  Judkins and Nielson 73-74; 125-129; 205-206.

[20] Ibid 265-281.

[21] For a classic statement on how the expansion of free trade exacerbates social cleavages (sometimes to the point of violence) and effects political outcomes see Rogowski 1989.

[22] Shahar 2008. Kennedy and Guo (2010), in an otherwise fine work discussing the Jingwu Association, illustrate some of the problems that arise from universal extrapolations based on only a single city or region. The best introduction to the Chinese martial arts has been provided by Peter Lorge (2012). Unfortunately, for our purposes, this volume lacks a sufficiently detailed discussion of Southern China.  Much of Lorge’s work also tends to focus on earlier eras of military history.  More focused examinations of the modern Chinese martial arts have been provided by Stanley Henning (2003) and Andrew Morris (2004).  Yet again, the history of the martial arts in Southern China and Hong Kong has gone largely unexamined.

[23] For a discussion of the ways in which a single case study can be used to test progressively more complex theories see King, Keohane and Verba 208-229.

[24]Foucault 1977; Michael Wert (2016) has recently noted that scholars of martial arts studies who are also practitioners of the disciplines that they research are not immune to these traps.

[25] D. S. Farrer 2015, 2015(b).

[26] Zhao 2010.

[27] For a discussion of the importance of martial arts humor see Bowman 2016, chapter two.

[28] Hamm, in his study of martial arts fiction, noted that radio dramas (now a mostly forgotten genre) helped to bridge the worlds of early martial arts fiction and modern Kung Fu films. 39-40.

[29] Bowman 2015, 155-157.

[30] Miracle 163-165.

[31] Morris 195-228; Hurst 1998; Bennett 2015.

[32] Liu 2011.

[33] Almond and Verba (1989) and Putnam (1994) provide classic, social-scientific, studies of the concept.

[34] Judkins and Nielson 16.

[35] Liu 8-9; 29-38; 39; 59-60.

[36] Judkins and Nielson 160-163.

[37] Judkins and Nielson 116-124.

[38] Gainty 2015.


Reflections on the Long Pole: History, Technique and Embodiment

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Chu shing Tin demonstrating the pole form. Source: www.wingchun.edu.au

Chu shing Tin demonstrating the pole form. Source: http://www.wingchun.edu.au

 

 

 

A New Pole

 

I had been meaning to get a new “long pole” (or Luk Dim Boon Kwan) for a while.  As the name implies, these are somewhat unwieldly training tools and (unless you own a truck) they do not travel well.  In my experience most poles simply “live” in the training hall or at home.  It is easier to keep a couple of them at the various locations in which one might train than to constantly haul them back and forth.  As a result, I had been without a pole at home since moving to Ithaca almost a year ago.

That changed a few weeks ago when I returned to my place to find a very long package laid out awkwardly along the staircase.  Upon maneuvering it into the house I was delighted to discover my new, absolutely beautiful, hickory pole.

My first realization as I picked it up was how heavy it was.  Like all woods hickory exhibits a certain variation in densities and the stock for this staff seems to have been at the upper end of that range.  Hickory is also one of the few commonly milled North American woods that easily stands up to the rigors of martial arts training.  I like the grain, and the fact that one can be fairly certain that no tropical forests were cut for the making of hickory training weapons.

Nevertheless, this new pole still feels strange in my hands.  The balance is clearly off.  I do not say this out of any sense of emotional attachments to the weapons I have used before.  Rather, my circumstances forced me to get a little experimental when I ordered this pole.

Physics dictates that long poles can be very dangerous weapons to train with.  At close to nine feet in length, they are basically a real life workshop on the degree of force that can be generated through leverage and momentum.  The few actual injuries I have suffered while practicing Wing Chun have all been the result of seemingly incidental contact in partner pole drills or light sparring.

As such it is easy to forget that long poles can also be surprisingly delicate.  Their length makes them prone to warping.  They must be stored either vertically or laid out flat on a perfectly smooth surface.  They should never be hung in a horizontal position.

Also, the momentum generated while smashing a relatively long lever into the ground can be more than any wood (no matter how dense) can withstand.  If you plan on engaging in this sort of training, or any drills that involve hard contact, it is often better to invest in a pole with a slightly thicker diameter at the front end.

All of which brings me back to my new pole.  I delayed getting one in large part because the place that I currently live in, while nice, does not leave me with many options for pole storage.  The ceilings are too low to store a pole vertically, and because of the way that various rooms are laid out, it is even difficult to lay one down against a wall without it getting in the way of a door or heating vent.

It was clear that compromise would be necessary.  After some thought (and measurement) I decided that the longest pole I could house would be between 7.5 and 8 feet.  Nor did I want to spend a lot of money on a nicely carved pole from Hong Kong, only to be forced to cut a couple of feet off the end of it.

Eventually I found an armory that produced wooden and synthetic weapons for HEMA practitioners and ordered an 8 foot hickory pole from them. With a sigh of relief I noted that it just barely fits into its appointed place.  And compared to specialty Wing Chun poles, this one was really cheap.

Of course it was also inexpensive as European pole and staff weapons do not have any taper to them.  Most of the Southern Chinese fighting poles that I have worked with have a diameter of about 1.5 inches at the base, narrowing to just over 1 inch at the tip.  My new pole is a consistent 1.25 inches throughout.

The extra thickness at the tip gives me a bit more confidence in the strength of the pole.  Yet the point of balance and handling characteristics for these two different types of poles are surprisingly different.  Ironically my new pole seems to require greater strength in my hands, wrists and forearms to manipulate, even though it is actually shorter than other weapons that I have trained with.

 

Illustrations of pole fighting, "The Noble Art of Self-Defense." (Circa 1870)

Illustrations of pole fighting, “The Noble Art of Self-Defense.” Guangzhou, Circa 1870.

 

The Materiality of the Long Pole 

 

Acclimating to this new pole has given me plenty of time to think a bit about the history of these weapons in the TCMA.  Much of what we know about the development of the martial arts in China (especially prior to the Ming dynasty) is closely tied to the rising and declining popularity of different sorts of weapons.  Weapons, like written texts, are never simply the product of a single maker.

Rather they reflect both the utilitarian goals and the cultural values of the communities that created and passed them on.  They are the product of social discourses.  Properly understood weapons can be read, interpreted and deconstructed, just like any other sort of text.  The seeming lack of interest in material culture within the field of Martial Arts Studies has always struck me as somewhat puzzling.

What exactly do we know about the evolution and use of the long pole?  What do they reveal about the history of Wing Chun, the Southern Chinese martial arts, or Chinese martial culture in general?  What can they tell us about the types of people who passed on these technical and material traditions?

Let us begin by considering the physical description of these weapons.  A variety of staff-type weapons have been used within the Chinese martial arts over the centuries.  Yet the Long Pole stands out as a uniquely recognizable, and oddly stable, point of reference.

It is impossible to say exactly when this exact configuration came into use.  Yet we do know that some of the earliest surviving written martial arts training manuals, produced during the Ming dynasty, make reference to this weapon.

We also know that late imperial armies adopted the long pole as a type of basic training regime.  It was thought that expertise in the pole would facilitate later training in other double handed weapons, such as the spear or halberd.  Martial artists, on the other hand, often saw the pole as an ends unto itself.

Cheng Zongyou, a civilian expert on military training, published an account titled Exposition of the Original Shaolin Staff Method sometime around 1610.  This work was the end product of more than a decade of study at both Shaolin Temple in Henan, and with its monks in the field.  Martial Arts historians consider it to be an extremely important document.  It is both the oldest surviving manual of a Shaolin Martial Art, and it provides fascinating insights into the nature of life and instruction at this venerable institution during the late Ming.

It also provides a detailed discussion of at least one of the long pole fighting methods taught at Shaolin.  Cheng prefaces this manual with a description of the weapon in question.  He notes that a fighting staff can be made of either wood or iron.  Iron poles (which, to the best of my knowledge, have totally fallen out of use) were said to be 7.7 feet long, and weighed close to 20 pounds.

By way of comparison, the M1 Garand, America’s main battle rifle during WWII and Korea, weighed less than half of that at 9.5 pounds.  Most soldiers complained that even that was too heavy and cumbersome on extended marches.  Still, if one had the strength to wield a 20 pound iron pole in the field, it would make for a fearsome weapon.

17th century wood poles, in comparison, were virtually identical to the weapons still used throughout the Southern Chinese martial arts today.  Their weight was a relatively light 3-4 pounds, and they ranged in length from 8 to 9 feet.  This range in dimensions is probably a reflection of wood’s natural plasticity.

Cheng noted that practically any hard yet pliant wood could be used to produce a pole.  As such, poles carved in the north or south of the country would have been made from woods of different types and weights.  Further, Cheng recommended using harvested pole lumber for the production of fighting staffs.  Cutting a small tree at the base ensured a uniform taper with minimal additional shaping.

Unfortunately Cheng did not specify what the preferred diameters at the tip and base of his poles were.  Still, we might be able to make some educated guesses on this point.  Most of the traditional poles advertised at Everything Wing Chun vary in weight from 4 pounds (shorter oak examples) to 6 pounds (heavier, exotic hardwoods).  It seems likely that Shaolin’s 17th century staffs might have been made of hardwoods that more closely matched the density of something like oak, and had an average diameter slightly narrower than what martial artists favor today.  Still, when reading Cheng’s description the overwhelming impression that one gets is of how much has remained the same.

How did Shaolin (a Buddhist temple) become a nationally recognized center for pole fighting?  And why were its fighting staffs tapered, rather than straight like their European cousins of the same time period?  It turns out that the answers to these questions are closely related.

While we do not the space to review all of the relevant history in this post, Meir Shahar has demonstrated that by the Ming Dynasty the Shaolin Temple in Henan had become a recognized center of martial training with close ties to critical figures in the Chinese military.  A number of temples (both in China and Japan) found it necessary to house teams of “martial monks” to protect the institution’s estates and land holdings.  Modern students sometimes forget that in addition to being religious institutions, large temples were also some of the most economically powerful actors in their environments.  Like other landlords they found it necessary to provide their own security in turbulent times.

Obviously wooden staffs could be made cheaply and easily replaced.  While these weapons could be quite deadly, they were also in keeping with a monk’s prescribed public appearance.  Yet once the Temple became more closely associated with the Ming military, pole training gained an additional layer of importance.

The Chinese military had long used poles as a form of basic training.  One of the most important weapons on the 17th century battle field was the spear.  It is not hard to imagine how the thrusting movements so commonly seen in the Six and a Half Point Pole form might function if a blade were to be affixed to the martial artist’s shaft.

In a recent article Peter Dekker discussed the regulation military spears of the Ming and Qing dynasties.  Luckily we know quite a bit about the earlier period as the later Qing seem to have simply adopted much of the older Ming regulation and equipment as the standard for the “Green Standard Army.”

In reviewing the various spears used by military, one thing quickly becomes evident.  None of them seem to be a close match for the long pole.  Some of the most commonly issued spears were much longer than poles with total lengths of between 12 and 15 feet.  As the adage goes, “an inch longer is an inch stronger.”

Various sorts of hooked spears tended to be closer in size to the long pole.  They could easily have been 7.5 to 9 feet long.  Yet we must also consider their taper.

The shafts of regulation Chinese military spears always had a straight taper, and they were usually lacquered red.  The relatively heavy iron tip was counter-balanced with a weighted metal piece affixed to the end of the spear.  This system maintained a certain balance and kept the spear from becoming excessively tip heavy and unwieldly.

Dekker notes that in contrast the (generally shorter) spears used by civilian militias and martial artists tended to be tapered, exactly like the long pole.  Noting that the production of steel spearheads and metal counterweights was expensive, he speculates that having a thicker diameter base on the weapons shaft was simply a cheaper way of achieving a proper balance.  Indeed, we have photographs of weapons confiscated from Red Spear Units in the 1930s that seem to show a similar geometry.  The relatively roughhewn poles favored by the village militias tended to be noticeably tapered.

All of this would seem to reinforce the notion that the specific form of the long pole was shaped by the realities of spear combat.  The military adopted pole training as an introduction to the spear, and many local militia members would have been expected to be conversant with both the pole and the spear.

 

Communist Party Women's Militia in Yanan, 1938. Photographer unknown.

Communist Party Women’s Militia in Yanan, 1938. Photographer unknown.

 


Southern Militias and the Birth of Modern Kung Fu

 

This brings us back to Wing Chun and the history of the Six and a Half Point Pole.  Far from being unique to just a single style, the Luk Dim Boon Kwan is a favored weapon throughout the world of Southern Chinese Kung Fu.  Historical sources suggest that public displays of pole work were quite popular in the 19th and even the 20th century.

The current mythology of Wing Chun (and certain other regional styles) tends to emphasize the “compact” nature of the system as its adaptation to fighting in cramped spaces (either narrow alleyway or on crowded ships, depending on who one asks).  Yet like almost all martial arts Wing Chun aspires to be a “complete style,” even if that is not the way that is often discussed by students today.  To put it bluntly, from a tactical standpoint there is just no point in stating that one will focus only a single range or situation (e.g., short boxing) to the exclusion of all else.

When looking at the current crowded conditions in Hong Kong it might be hard to remember that the pole really is a central part of the Wing Chun system.  Its presence reminds us that in the past this system operated in environments, and considered tactical problems, different from those faced by most students today.  Indeed, it is the environmental nature of these issues that best explains why so many Southern styles practice some variant of the Six and a Half Point form, or one of its many cousins.

To understand the place of the long pole in these systems we must once again return the question of military training.  As Jon Nielson and I discuss in our recent book, the Pearl River Delta region developed a very strong gentry led militia movement during the 19th century.  These para-military forces emerged as a response to the external threats of the Opium Wars and continued to function during the later civil conflicts that wracked the region.  The most notable of those was the Red Turban Revolt (sometimes called the Opera Rebellion).

During the volatile middle years of the 19th century tens of thousands of individuals were recruited into various sorts of militias and para-military groups.  What were the most commonly issued weapons?  A split bamboo helmet, a spear (usually about 8-9 feet long), and a pair of hudiedao (carried by most soldiers as a sidearm).

The Wing Chun system that was passed on by individuals like Leung Jan and Chan Wah Shun emerged out of the aftermath of these conflicts.  It is no coincidence that the only two weapons taught in most lineages of this art happen to be the same ones used by the area’s many militia units.  And other regional arts with much more extensive armories (Choy Li Fut, Hung Gar, etc…) also tend to introduce these same tools near the start of weapons training.

This suggests something important about the community, era and concerns that shaped the early history of all of these fighting styles.  It also suggests that perhaps the region’s fighting poles were tapered so that they could easily be fitted with spear heads should the need arise.

If that is the case, then perhaps the relatively base heavy balance of these shafts which we have all become accustomed to is more a quirk of training safety protocols than anything else.  The more tip heavy feel of my new hickory pole might more accurately reflect how the Six and a Half Point pole form was supposed to feel in battle (e.g., when the pole is mounted with a steel spearhead).

Or maybe not.  As we look back on the Ming era literature I referenced earlier it is clear that there was an active debate in military circles as to how well pole training actually prepared soldiers for spear combat.  Recall for instance that many of the spears issued to Ming and Qing era soldiers were much longer and heavier than Shaolin’s most substantial poles.

In his 1678 treatise, Spear Method from the dreaming of Partridge Hall, the military writer Wu Shu noted:

 

The Shaolin staff method has divine origins, and it has enjoyed fame from ancient times to the present.  I myself have been quite involved in it.  Indeed, it is high as the mountains and deep as the seas.  It can truly be called a “supreme technique.”…Still as a weapon the spear is entirely different from the staff.  The ancient proverb says: “The spear is the lord of all weapons, the staff is an attendant on its state.”  Indeed, this is so…the Shaolin monks have never been aware this.  They treat the spear and staff as if they were similar weapons.

(Translation in Meir Shahar, 2008 p. 64).

 

This point bears consideration.  While some of the techniques and tactics of the Wing Chun pole method could be adapted to the spear, others might be more counter-productive.  Or perhaps what we see here is yet another example of the simplifying, almost theoretical, tendency to search for a single set of principles capable of solving the greatest number of tactical problems regardless of what weapon one happened to pick up.

That certainly sounds like the modern, conceptually focused, approach to Wing Chun.  And it makes a lot of sense from an amateur’s point of view.

Yet it is quite different from the highly specialized world that most professional soldiers inhabited.  When leaving the barracks as a member of the Green Standard Army there was exactly zero mystery as to what sort of spear you would be handed, or who you would be fighting besides.  All of this helps to remind us that while the growth of the militia movement may have shaped these fighting systems, they remained fundamentally “civilian” in their worldview and concerns.

 

Chin Woo crouching tiger quarterstaff stance, Singapore, 2007

Chin Woo crouching tiger quarterstaff stance, Singapore, 2007

 

The Weapon, The Self

 

This essay began with the observation that even seemingly minor variations in a weapon are immediately sensed by the body of the trained martial artist.  17th century soldiers in both China and Europe trained and fought with 9 foot poles.  To the untrained eye they may have appeared to be identical.  Yet the hand would never mistake one for the other.

Students of martial arts history need to pay more attention to the material culture of these fighting systems for this precise reason.  Each of these weapons carries fossilized within it layers of history and meaning.  It may be impossible to reconstruct with perfect accuracy what a Ming era Shaolin pole form looked like, even if we are lucky enough to have a manual and some pictures describing it.  Yet when we pick up the weapon that Cheng Zongyou described, we can experience something of its reality on an embodied level.

Indeed, bodies are the other half of this equation.  My body may be very different from that possessed by a 19th century militiaman in Guangzhou.  Yet our poles are identical, and they have a disciplining influence upon the body.

A certain amount of absolute strength must be developed to wield the weapon.  New types of bodily awareness and dexterity will be necessary to do so well.  While we may be starting from different points, the unyielding materiality of the weapon has a transformative effect on both of our bodies.  As we train with the pole, and are shaped by it, we are forced to transcend the self and converge on a new state of being.  It is the demands of the pole and its techniques that shape the student.

This last point might solve a minor mystery that I have wondered about for some years.  While training with my Sifu in Salt Lake I noticed that lots of students seemed to quit the Wing Chun system about the time that they were introduced to the pole.  (In our lineage it is introduced after all of the unarmed forms and the dummy have been taught).  Students who had previously been enthusiastic and dedicated just seemed to lose interest.

On one level this might be easy to explain.  Pole training is physically demanding, even painful at times.  It is probably the only time in the Wing Chun system that the low horse stance is extensively trained and used.  Its basic strength and conditioning exercises ensures that there will be sore muscles.

Yet I think there was something more going on.  The pole did not seem to meet their expectations of what the system was about.  Boxing and chi sao are very flexible expressions of martial skill.  Many individuals simply find an approach that works with their body type and personality and seek to perfect that.  That may not have been what Bruce Lee meant when he discussed Kung Fu as the art of “expressing the human body”, but I think that this is how many individuals interpret his adage.  What works for them personally is the “proper” expression.

The pole is different.  Its materiality demands a greater degree of transformation.  Our bodies are physically altered (made stronger, more flexible) so that the pole’s logic can be expressed.  This commitment to transcend (rather than to express) the self does not seem to easily mesh with the way that many modern students understand Wing Chun.  I wonder if that, more than the pain, caused some to lose interest.

Still, this process of embodied transformation allows us to experience elements of the fossilized history of the martial arts that might not otherwise be accessible.  Written historical accounts of professional soldiers and militia members wielding their spears might sound very similar.  As we read about the 19th century “militarization of the countryside” these two figures might even begin to merge in our heads.   Indeed, historians have noted with some frustration the ease with which categories like “militia member,” “bandit” and “soldier” seem to blend into one another, or to have appeared in a single individuals career.

Yet when you pick up their preferred weapons, your physical senses are immediately confronted with evidence of the different identities, techniques and goals that they possessed.  The martial training that each group underwent imprinted these nuances of philosophy on flesh and bone.

All of which is to say, choose you pole carefully.  The details matter.

 
oOo

If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read: The Nautical Origins of the Wooden Dummy.

oOo


Research Notes: Foshan’s Kung Fu in 1919.

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Jingwu (Chinwoo) Association Hall in Foshan. Completed in the 1930s, this sort of public infrastructure supporting the martial arts would have been unheard of in Chan Wah Shun's time. The martial arts were deeply unfashionable for most of his teaching career. This, more than other other factor, probably accounts for the small size of his school.

Jingwu (Chinwoo) Association Hall in Foshan.

 

 

First, the Important Stuff

 

Is it possible to approach history without theory?  I think not.  It is the existence of some sort of preexisting story or framework of understanding that we carry around in our heads which tells us that some given source is relevant data in the first place.  Nor are these sorts of “common sense” frameworks usually unbiased.  I have always had a preference for making any project’s basic assumptions known.  Then again, my basic training is in the social sciences rather than history, so there may also be disciplinary issues at play.

Theory has two related functions in the production of history.  It is most obvious to the reader when it is used to interpret past events, or to make causal inferences.  On a more fundamental level, theories also direct our empirical research.  As they spin out new concepts or hypothesis they suggest what sorts of data we will need to find to explore or test these ideas.  One of the things that a really good theory does is that it pushes one to look at totally new areas that may not have been previously associated with a subject like the martial arts in the public imagination.  Purely inductive approaches run the risk of reinforcing the researchers existing biases as they just are not as often encouraged to look at these seemingly unrelated literatures for support.

For instance, if the Chinese martial arts are fundamentally a modern phenomenon (as my co-author and I have explored at length here), then their emergence overlaps a number of other important recent developments.  One of the most obvious of these would have to be the emergence of a strong sense of Chinese nationalism.  While nascent trends had been coalescing since the late 19th century, it was not until the 1911 revolution that modern nationalism became a hegemonic force in Chinese popular culture.

This is an important fact for students of martial arts studies to consider.  It is probably not a coincidence that Ip Man’s own martial arts auto-biography contained an incident with strongly nationalist overtones set during precisely these years. By including the narrative of standing up to an Indian police officer in Hong Kong within his discussion of Wing Chun’s origins, he brought his art into contact with a dominant social force and made it more attractive to his later students in Hong Kong.  They tended to be very sensitive to questions of identity and nationalism.

In a recent article Peter Lorge has put forward the fascinating thesis that the wide scale move from small scale teacher-student relationships (schools) to the emergence of named “styles” (Taijiquan, Bagua, Jingwu) within the TCMA, was also precipitated by early 20th century nationalism.  This was yet another mechanism by which traditionally local practices could be made universal and unifying as the concept of the national identity became a central organizing thought in Chinese thought.

I would add that on a more granular level it was also a way in which martial arts teachers could exploit improving transportation and publishing markets to reach audiences on a “national scale” for the first time in the history of the martial arts.  Such a feat was just not technically feasible during the Qing dynasty.  Thus the history of the Chinese martial arts reinforces the theoretical observation that growth of national markets in information and discourses of national identity are closely linked.

Still, as Benedict Anderson noted, while nations might be thought of as “imagined communities”, they do not exist in pristine isolation.  Rather, they are defined in relation to both one another and other sorts of identities.  To claim the mantle of nationhood is to forge a unique identity.  Yet it is also to enter a realm of conversation and competition with other socially constructed identities that are in many respects functionally identical to you own.

Anderson discussed at length the ways in which newspapers were critical to forging a sense of shared community and identity.  Yet the literature on public diplomacy, soft power and national branding also suggests that these messages have played an important role in establishing China’s place in the international system when broadcasted to a larger global audience.

Thus, if the Chinese martial arts emerged and functioned as a critical early symbol of national identity, one naturally expects that concerted efforts should have existed to get this message out in an attempt to proactively define the newly emerging Chinese “brand.”  Of course most popular discussions in the West today focused on the supposedly “closed,” “secretive” and excessively “traditional” nature of these fighting systems.  “Everyone knows” that there were no serious efforts to spread knowledge about these martial arts prior to the 1960s.

Yet is that really the case?  Or have we simply been deceived by that subconscious mental map of martial arts history that most of us carry in our heads?  If we were to follow the suggestions of the public diplomacy literature and take a closer look at the sorts of English language messages coming from both the Chinese government and civic elites during the 1920s, 1930s and the 1940s, what would we actually find?  In short, the real question for students of martial arts studies might not be why did we have to wait for the 1970s for knowledge of Kung Fu to spread.  Rather, why in the 1970s did we in the West suddenly start to pay attention?

 

A rainy day at the Ancestral Temple in Foshan. In the distance the old neighborhood behind the temple is being demolished to make way for a new urban development project. Ironically the new neighborhood is being designed to "look traditional" and capitalize on the area's important "history." Source: Whitney Clayton.

A rainy day at the Ancestral Temple in Foshan. In the distance the old neighborhood behind the temple was being demolished to make way for a new urban development project. Ironically the new neighborhood was designed to “look traditional” and capitalize on the area’s important “history.” Source: Whitney Clayton.

 

Now the Fun Stuff

 

Over the following months I hope to address both the theoretical and the empirical side of this discussion as my research progresses.  Earlier this afternoon I reviewed a number of newspaper articles (ranging in date from the late Qing to the 1930s) that touched on the complex ways in which the martial arts have been used to explain the Chinese nation to the outside world at the same time that they were being internally coopted into debates over the multiple possible ways in which Chinese modernity might evolve.

Readers will no doubt be relieved to learn that I am not going to subject them to those pieces (at least not yet).  Yet I also came across two notices that I thought might be even more interesting to those who follow Kung Fu Tea.  While brief they speak directly to the nature of the Southern Chinese martial arts in Foshan and Guangzhou on the eve of the 1920s.  They also suggest a certain level of awareness of the local hand combat scene on the part of foreign (English language reading) residents in the area.

A quick note regarding the source might also be helpful.  While there were multiple efforts to establish an English language newspaper in Guangzhou during the 1910s and 1920s most of them never really got off the ground.  It was too difficult to navigate both the commercial and political environment.  The close proximity of Hong Kong suggested that it was often easier to print things in the British territory (without the creative input of Chinese censors) and distribute them throughout the region via the Pearl River.

The Canton Times, if relatively short lived, was more successful.  It was founded in 1918 but I have not yet been able to establish what year it ceased production.  While this newspaper was published in English it was owned by a Chinese firm, had its offices in Guangzhou and its editors were all Chinese.  The Times catered to a dual audience.  Obviously it served the needs of English speaking residents.  But it also had a notable readership among Republican minded Chinese citizens.  In fact, there are rumors that the paper’s political articles occasionally caused trouble.

In The Journalism of China (University of Minnesota Bulletin Volume 23 Number 34, 1922) Don D. Patterson reports that the paper had a daily circulation of 1,000 copies.  By way of comparison the South China Morning Post had a circulation of 1,500 issues at the same time, and the now more widely regarded North China Herald only had 500 daily subscribers (page 70).  Most university library catalogs that I have consulted only have digital copies of this paper for the years 1919-1920, yet Patterson seems to indicate that it was still up and running in 1922.

Our first point of interest was the leading item in the “General News” section for September 9th, 1919 (page 7).

 

 

General News

National boxing is very popular in Fatshan city.  It is reported that there are some eight national boxing schools which are directed by well-known national boxers.  School fees are only from two to three dollars a month.

 

 

While brief there are a few items of note here.  The first is that the term “National Boxing” is being used here.  When reading later articles I had always assumed that this usage was a reference to the Guoshu label, but apparently it came into general usage earlier as a way to quickly distinguish Chinese and Western boxing traditions.  Notice, however, that this usage conforms to our prior observation about the importance of issues like nationalism and global communication in the development of the early image of the Chinese martial arts.

It is also fascinating to receive another source of independent confirmation regarding the vitality of Foshan’s martial arts marketplace.  Readers should also note that this account takes place just prior to the explosion of activity that will erupt during the early 1920s.  That is when the Jingwu Association opened their branch in Foshan.

That brings us to our second story.  The first Guangdong branch of the Jingwu Association was established in April of 1919.  Our second news item, profiling one of the instructors, appeared in October of that same year.

 

 

Wong Chuen Sun. Source: The China Daily, 1919.

Wong Chuen Sun. Source: The China Daily, 1919.

 

 

A National Boxing Expert

 

Mr. Wong Chuen Sun, an instructor in the Canton Ching Wu Athletic Association, an organization promoting [the] national art of boxing, is very popular among his students.  He teaches boxing as a means of promoting physical development, he says.  When one is used to this form of daily exercise, according to Mr. Wong, he has to keep his whole body always in good condition; any inconsistent living on the part of the student, he will surely be found out by the others associating with him.  In a word, one’s sin can be easily observed by a physical training instructor.  Mr. Wong is noted for his art in exhibiting the iron whip, cross arm, and other old weapons of war.  As a business man, Mr. Wong is connected with the Ye Woo Co., Chinese curios, porcelain, jade and old bronze wares shop, at 7, Sung Sing Street, Canton.

The Canton Times, Oct 22, 1919, page 8.

 

 

While brief this news item also provides us with a few new glimpses into the organization’s local chapter.  To begin with, Wong Chuen Sun is not one of the early instructors in Guangzhou that I was already familiar with.  (Though it may be possible that he is better known under a different name.)

Second, in keeping with Jingwu’s mission, Wong is portrayed more as a modern athlete than the keeper of an ancient esoteric tradition.  While the article notes his expertise in traditional weapons, it is clearly focused more focused on the idea of an exercise and conditioning regime well suited to the new middle class.

This is evident in other ways as well.  While we tend to imagine the martial arts masters of the 1920s as being very traditional in dress and bearing, Wong is shown wearing a dapper western suit.  Nor is he apparently a full time martial arts instructor.  Like his students he has a day job, either as an investor in, or as an employee of, a local fine arts company.

Of course the most interesting thing about this article is that we are reading it at all.  It is important to note that within months of establishing itself in the area the local Jingwu branch was reaching out and making connections with English language publications.  Nor is this a fluke.  Rather, as my growing database of articles attests, it appears to have been part of a disciplined and well developed public relations campaign.  Yet it is clear that the bulk of Jingwu’s membership would be subscribing to these papers.

When we approach articles like this through the lens of the emerging national discourse this paradox begins to come into focus.  The promotion of a certain view of modern China abroad was likely always a core goal of certain martial arts reformers.  This was a core, rather than a secondary, consideration.  After all, what is the point of curing the diseases that afflict the body politic if you do not then go on to both inform and demonstrate to a global audience that you are no longer “the sick man of East Asia?”  Only when we accept the essentially modern nature of the Chinese martial arts do its domestic and political implications become clear.

 
oOo
If you enjoyed this you might also want to read: The Invisibility of Kung Fu: Two Accounts of the Traditional Chinese Martial Arts
oOo


Recovering Alfred Lister: A Forgotten Observer of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts (Part I)

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Plate with Dragon and Carp.  Qing Dynasty.  Walters Art Museum.  Source: Wikimedia.

Plate with Dragon and Carp. Qing Dynasty. Walters Art Museum. Source: Wikimedia.

 

 

***While never discussed within the Chinese martial studies literature, Alfred Lister may have been the single most important western observer of the Chinese martial arts in the second half of the 19th century.  Over a period of four years he produced four different statements (two relatively brief, and two much more detailed) that sought to socially situate and explore the world of Chinese boxing.  Further, Lister insisted on drawing parallels between Chinese and Western practices that would make his observations immediately relevant to English language readers with no prior exposure to these practices.  The importance of Lister’s contributions (and the evolution of his thought on these matters) has been obscured by two factors.  First, while a known figure in Hong Kong’s history, the outlines of his life and career have remained somewhat obscure.  Secondly, Lister did not always publish under his own name. More specifically, he attempted to hide his authorship (with only moderate success) of two of his more important works on the subject.

The following essay will shed light on Lister’s early research into the nature of the Chinese martial arts by addressing both of these issues.  Part I (posted below) discusses Lister’s life and career within the Hong Kong Civil Service.  It then goes on to discuss why he started to write on the Chinese martial arts (among many other subjects).  Finally it examines the two relatively brief discussions of Chinese boxing that he openly signed his name to.  In the second section of this essay (to be posted next week) we will examine Lister’s major works on the southern Chinese martial arts.  This will include an investigation of the authorship of each piece (both of which were published anonymously), as well as the far reaching effects of Lister’s work.  While the questions examined in Parts I and II are closely connected, the discussion has been split to avoid posting an excessively lengthy essay and to facilitate a deeper appreciation for the value of theory when making empirical observations.  Indeed, the central shortcoming of Lister’s work is that, writing over a century ago, he did not have the theoretical tools necessary to appreciate the practices that he was observing within their own cultural context.****

 

Introduction

 

While not well remembered, Alfred Lister (b.? – d. 1890) was one of the most important 19th century observers of the Chinese martial arts.  His writings leave no indication that he was interested in attempting to master these practices.  He found many of them to be somewhat ridiculous and, at anyrate, had the constitution of a poet rather than a boxer.  Lister’s criticisms of Chinese practices appear to have included more than a few feints and jabs directed toward the Western versions of these practices as well.

The very existence of Lister’s writings on the Chinese martial arts raises important questions.  How was it that non-martial artists encountered these practices in the second half of the 19th century?  Modern romanticism notwithstanding, it should be remembered that most elements of China’s better classes shared Lister’s conflicted, and at times openly negative, view of the martial arts during this period.  Indeed, his opinions on these subjects may well have been shaped by theirs.  Secondly, what sort of impact did Lister’s English language observations have on the formation of early Western discourses about the nature and meaning of the Chinese martial arts?

Perhaps the first question that must be addressed is an even more basic one.  Who was Alfred Lister, and how did he come to Hong Kong?

Chinese snuff bottle with dragon.  Qing dynasty, 1820-1850.  Walters Art Museum. Source: Wikimedia.

Chinese snuff bottle with dragon. Qing dynasty, 1820-1850. Walters Art Museum. Source: Wikimedia.

 

 

A Career in Hong Kong

 

Not much is currently known about Lister’s early life.  After some preliminary searching I have not been able to find any information about his birth or life prior to his first appearance in Hong Kong as a recent college graduate.  One suspects that a trip to London for some archival work would probably be necessary to resolve that mystery.

Nevertheless, in a very real sense Lister’s story began between 1860 and 1861.  It was at this time that the small British colony of Hong Kong acquired what is now a bustling and packed peninsula called Kowloon.  This added not just territory, but a substantial Chinese population that the city’s British administration needed to be able to communicate with.

Fostering such communication had not been a priority for the previous administration.  The idea of a merit based civil service (as opposed to one in which individuals purchased their offices) had only recently spread throughout the UK and its various administrative units.  In any case, the British rulers of Hong Kong had attempted to keep communication and interference with the area’s Chinese population to an absolute minimum.  The previous administration only had a single qualified interpreter, and he was subsequently dismissed due to an uncomfortably close relationship with a local pirate!

All of this changed after the addition of Kowloon.  In addition to professionalizing the city’s Civil Service it was decided to start a new cadet training program to ensure a steady supply of individuals with sufficient language skills and cultural familiarity to be effective in their jobs.

The initial plan called for the yearly recruitment of small groups of recent university graduates (about 20 years old) who had achieved high marks and established a track record of linguistic scholarship.  These individuals would be advanced a sum of 100 pounds so that they could make their way to Hong Kong, take up positions as cadets, and begin their Cantonese language training.  After a few years of study they would be evaluated and offered positions as translators, where they would serve for another 3 years.  After that they would be fast-tracked into various jobs throughout the city’s understaffed civil service.

While a good plan on paper, the necessities of government appear to have gotten in the way of its actual execution.  Lister arrived in Hong Kong as a member of the second class of cadets and language students in 1865.  But it does not appear that he got his 5 years of language study and translation practice before being moved into active service.

Records indicate that in 1868 he received appointments as both Justice of the Peace (Lister actually became known for his talent as a jurist) and as the acting Register General, a position that put him in direct contact with the city’s growing Chinese population.  Circumstances also dictated that Lister had to hit the ground running.

In 1869 he became involved with multiple contentious issues surrounding the intersection of medical care and the complexities of colonial administration.  Lister’s name appears in reports dealing with the inspection and health care of prostitutes in brothels catering to Western customers in an attempt to check the spread of venereal disease.  Needless to say, the government’s sole concern was the welfare of city’s European and American residents, and not “public health” as the term is understood today.

However, Lister was not unconcerned with the welfare of city’s Chinese residents.  In 1869 he touched off an uproar (which managed to make it all the way back to parliament) when he wrote a report detailing the horrific conditions he discovered in a charity temple where coffins were stored before they could be shipped home for burial.  The problem with this arrangement, Lister noted, was that not all of the facility’s inhabitants were actually dead.

In fact, the temple was acting more as a hospice where poor individuals were being sent to die while receiving no palliative care or even the most basic human dignities.  The details of Lister’s report were so shocking that the facility was closed and the British government was forced to abandon its “non-intervention” policy towards local Chinese customs in an attempt to ensure a basic level medical treatment.  The creation of the Tung Wah Hospital was a direct result of this incident.

Lister has been accused by later critics of misinterpreting what he saw and disregarding the fact that this was a traditional practice.  Still, this was probably the seminal event in his short career, and one that certainly did not endear him to his superiors who wanted no part in a high profile controversy that raised questions in London about how the colony was being administered.

In strictly empirical terms, it is not at all clear that Lister “misinterpreted” the horrors that the building contained.  He saw dying individuals lying unattended in pools in their own urine in dark windowless spaces, and he reported it to his superiors. Rather, Lister does not appear to have been content to fully accept a sort of cultural relativism that was common during the era.

His insistence on drawing direct, sometimes uncomfortable, parallels between Chinese and Western institutions would become a hallmark of his thinking and work as a translator.  As he would remark at many points in the future, a direct translation of a text that prevented Western readers from understanding or evaluating it on their own terms was really no translation at all.  Likewise, if a practice was deemed to be ridiculous or harmful when encountered within a Chinese context (e.g., boxing) its Western counterparts (bare knuckle fighting) were probably just as problematic.   While his criticisms of Western practices were more subtle, they were certainly present in his writing.

In 1870 Lister was appointed Sheriff, and then in June of the following year he was named the colony’s Coroner.  Not much is known about Lister’s private life in this period.  He appears to have been in generally poor health, but he was probably married.  On May 17th of 1872 the London and China Telegraph carried a notice reporting the death of his infant son.  Following this Lister accepted other posts including Acting Harbor Master and the Post Master General.  In 1882 he was named the colony’s Acting Treasurer.  This appears to have been the highest professional honor that Lister achieved.

Unfortunately Lister’s health continued to deteriorate.  In 1890 (shortly after returning from a trip to England) Lister requested medical leave and boarded a ship to Yokohama.  Apparently he was seeking treatment for Bright’s Disease (chronic kidney inflammation).  Unfortunately he died before reaching the harbor in Japan.  An obituary that ran in a social column of the North China Herald noted that at the time of his death he held office as both the Treasurer and Post Master General.

The anonymous friend who wrote his obituary noted that while Lister never had the charisma to dominate the political landscape, he had been a careful judge and administrator.  He was remembered for his writings on poetry, though his own efforts in that field were mixed.  Lister had evidently spent most of his money supporting needy members of his own family, and a donation was taken up on their behalf after his death.  His obituary made no reference to a surviving wife or children, but Lister was fondly remembered for his many amusing publications as a younger man.

 

Bowl with dragon over waves. Qing Dynasty, 1722-1735.  Walters Art Museum.  Source: Wikimedia.

Bowl with dragon over waves. Qing Dynasty, 1722-1735. Walters Art Museum. Source: Wikimedia.

 

Lister and the “Noble Art of Self-Defence”

 

Throughout the first half of the 1870s Alfred Lister advertised his personal interests within the pages of The China Review.  A quick review of his publications reveals someone interested in both Western and Chinese poetry.  Further, Lister did not hesitate to go toe-to-toe with the venerable Professor Legge regarding the lack of literary virtue in his translations of verses from the Chinese classics.

Lister’s writings also exhibit a clear interest in less weighty matters.  He was fascinated with more popular forms of literature.  He wrote reviews on a vernacular romance, various pamphlets or chapbooks that one could find in market stalls, collections of plays and songs and even a study of the various ways that Chinese currency could be debased or counterfeit (presumably of the most interest to individuals in the money-changing profession).  Given the lack of attention that this sort of literature receives, Lister’s descriptions of it are all the more valuable.

This is also where we begin to encounter his writings on Chinese boxing.  Lister, like so many others, encountered both practitioners of these arts, as well as popular publications describing them, in the markets that he stalked looking for reading material.

Unfortunately not all of this material that he published bears Lister’s name.  A few of these pieces, in which the martial arts are discussed with reference to more respectable literary work, are signed by the young civil servant.  But we should recall that boxing of all sorts had a less than savory reputation in the second and third quarters of the 19th century.  This was something that not everyone wanted their name attached to (especially sober civil servants).  Thus some of these texts were authored anonymously.

This was not the only subject from which Lister withheld his name (presumably in defense of the reputation of his office).  While he had no problem signing has name as a literary critic addressing scholarly work on Chinese poetry, period sources note that he opted to publish his own artistic works anonymously.   Nor should we be surprised to see him withholding his name from publications in which he harshly criticized some of his colleagues within the city’s civil service.  Establishing authorship is thus the first challenge that we must address with each of the following documents.

It is not known when Lister first observed a demonstration of the Chinese martial arts, but they began to make appearances in his popular publications shortly after he assumed office as a Justice of the Peace and the Acting Register General, both positions that brought him into contact with all levels of Chinese society.  Still a catalyst was needed inspire him to put pen to paper.

As was mentioned in a recent post, in 1869 the Duke of Edinburgh graced Hong Kong with a royal visit.  Lister was present at a Cantonese opera performance staged in the Duke’s honor and subsequently described the event, and the two performances that were watched, for a memorial book that was published in commemoration of the visit.  The first play was a serious historical drama.  The second was a slap stick comedy that revolved around compulsive gambling, kung fu and domestic abuse.

While the actual performance was hilarious, Lister quickly discovered that his Western audience needed to get up to speed on the place of the martial arts in Chinese popular culture before they could appreciate the jokes.  On page 33 of the 1870 summary of the play Lister simply described the libretto:

 

“A-lan is stupefied, and at his wit’s end what to do, or how to meet his wife. He gives a comic fancy sketch of her reception of him, and says he dare not go home. The other swindler, to get his accomplice clear off, offers to give him lessons in boxing, so that he may meet his wife on more equal terms, and makes a few exhibitions of his skill by inviting A-lan to hit him, when he knocks him down in sundry wonderful ways. A-lan is very anxious to learn, and agrees to say no more about the pig, for which he is taught three feints, or modes of parrying an attack, and that he may practice them, the professor offers to impersonate his wife, which he does very amusingly, coming at him with feminine scoldings, and gestures, and trying to cuff him for the loss of the pig. A-lan practices his newly acquired art of self defence very successfully, the professor being floored each time.”

“He then went home, confident in his newly acquired skill, and, naturally, a rupture followed. A-lan tried all three of the feints he had learned, but to no purpose, his wife knew them all and a few more, so he soon found himself ignorainiously tied to the door-post, with his wife’s old jacket over his head, while she went to her supper, promising to come and settle accounts with him when she had finished!”

 

It is probably significant that Lister first begins to write about the Chinese martial arts after encountering them in the theater.  In subsequent writings he continues to emphasize the close connection between these two realms.  Of course the early 20th century martial arts reformers did everything in their power to break and obscure this connection as part of their effort to modernize the martial arts and reimagine them in more nationalist and progressive terms.

Still, there can be no denying that most Chinese individuals seem to have been comfortable equating the two realms.  This refusal to draw a clear distinction (as understood by Westerners) between separate realms helps us to understand why anti-government rebels took to the streets in opera costumes during the Red Turban and Small Sword Revolts, or why young martial artists might turn to literary characters for divine aid during the Boxer Uprising.

The short sketch of the 1869 performance for the Duke appears to have been the start, rather than the resolution, of Lister’s investigation of the martial arts.  In 1873, in the very first issue of The China Review, Lister redoubled his efforts.  Writing under his own name he provided a “translation” of a script of this same opera that he managed to find in a local bookstall.

Unfortunately, in this case a “direct translation” simply would not do.  Lister wanted to convey to his audience a clear picture of 1) what the Duke had experienced one night in 1869 and 2) how the play had been experienced by its Chinese audience.  Yet when he read the document he did not find anything that Western actors might recognize as a script.  Basic elements like stage direction, a list of characters, or a description of costumes was all missing.  All that he had was a simple libretto to which performers added their own genius, and a large helping of local jokes, on a nightly basis.  Nor would Western audiences be able to grasp the humor without much additional explanation.

Lister set out to produce a “translation” (really a transformation) that would be suitable for a Western audience.  If that meant putting Western idiomatic speech (and song) into the mouths of his Chinese player, he had no regrets.  As he explained in his introduction to the project, only in that way could a Western reader understand the experience of a Chinese audience member.

Did the Chinese actors really sing “Fol-lol” on stage? Absolutely not.  But as Lister notes:

 

“So, as “Ah” or “Oh” is not a common termination to English melodies of the less instructed classes, and as those classes certainly do incline to fol-lol (or words to that effect) as a refrain, I my stand on fol-lol, I stake my reputation on fol-lol!”

 

Obviously this declaration was meant for comedic effect. Lister was, after all, translating a farce.  But it also gives us some idea of what Professor Legge was up against.

So how did Lister attempt to describe Chinese boxing to his audience?  By employing the term “the noble art of self-defence” Lister was drawing a very clear equivalence between the Chinese martial arts (which, as we just saw were associated with a great many social functions, including theater and military service), and Western boxing, something that was clearly a sport.  In point of fact, the one function that the southern Chinese martial arts never took on during the 19th century was that of “competitive sport” (understood in the Western sense of the term).  Yet that was how Lister attempted to introduce his audience to the practice.

And yet Lister was aware that Chinese audience members would certainly not interpret the appearance of a boxing lesson on stage in this way.  More work needed to be done to socially situate the reality of the Chinese martial arts for the Western audience.  An additional level of nuance was necessary.  If Lister’s first move was to draw a connection with Western boxing, his second was to complicate the picture.

“Professors of the noble art of self-defence are not uncommon in China, they generally unite to their calling that of quack-doctor.  Selecting some bumpkin in the crowd, the professor will give him leave to aim a blow at him in any manner he likes, and proceed to demonstrate with what ease it may be parried.  This is always done by catching the wrist of the attacking party in some unexpected way, and not improbably the return attack consists of a kick in the stomach, or a blow on the forehead from the sole of the professor’s foot.  Then the pugilist will thump himself on the ribs with an iron rod till the place grows black and blue, and the blows resound like strokes on a drum.  He applies a plaster (his own specialty of course) for a few moments, and when he removes it, in some inscrutable way, bruises and discoloration have vanished, and given place to yellow and dirty skin!” (“A Chinese Farce,” The China Review, Issue 1, 1873).

Lister attempts to clarify the social standing of Chinese boxers by equating them with traveling quack doctors.  Of course this was another institution that existed in both the East and the West.  Nor can he be faulted for his descriptive accuracy.   We have many accounts by both Eastern and Western observers that describe these individuals in almost identical terms.  Lister probably had ample opportunity to observe such performances first hand.

Still, as we delve deeper into his other accounts it is clear that Lister was not capable (or not interested) in challenging the validity of his Western categories of social analysis.  Throughout his writing he continues to struggle with this same question.

What is Chinese boxing?  Is it a form of theater?  Or is it “really” an obsolete military exercise?  Or is it fundamentally a Chinese form of athletics that has been misapplied?

Lister knew about, and had personally observed, many aspects of the Chinese martial arts.  Yet his inability to transcend his inherited categories, or to see these practices as an expression of a transcendent set of social values that might not have any equivalence in the West, should remind us of just how novel these practices were when they were first documented.

As the old saying goes, the eye cannot see what the mind does not know.  Lacking a theoretical understanding of what the Chinese martial arts were, Lister could not grasp their nature even when surrounded by the evidence.  Simple observation was not enough to inspire deep understanding.  Instead he remained trapped within the paradoxes of classification.

 

 

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to see: Ip Man and the Prostitute: Female Sexuality as a Weapon in Traditional Chinese Martial Culture.

 

oOo



An Updated and Revised Social History of the Hudiedao (Butterfly Swords)

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Antique hudiedao or "butterfly swords." These weapons are commonly seen in a number of styles of southern Kung Fu including Choy Li Fut, Hung Gar and Wing Chun.

Antique hudiedao or “butterfly swords.” These weapons are commonly seen in a number of styles of southern Kung Fu including Choy Li Fut, Hung Gar and Wing Chun. Source: Author’s personal collection.

 

In January of 2013 I posted an essay titled “A Social and Visual History of the Hudiedao (Butterfly Sword) in the Southern Chinese Martial Arts.” As a student of Wing Chun I have always been fascinated by these weapons, and as a researcher in the field of martial arts studies I have been equally curious as to what they reveal about life in Southern China during the 19th and 20th centuries.  I was both surprised and gratified to discover just how many of you share my enthusiasm for these questions.  That post has become one of the most frequently visited articles here at Kung Fu Tea.  

While revisiting that document as part of my current research, it occurred to me that it was time to offer an updated and revised version.  Since writing that piece I have encountered a number of other important sources that have added to, and modified, our understanding of these iconic weapons. Some of those discoveries have been discussed in various places on the blog.  In truth, our current body of knowledge is too large to be contained in a single post. Nevertheless, I felt like Kung Fu Tea’s readership deserved a more up to date resource.

To maximize continuity I have kept the original text of the article where possible, deleted sections or made edits where necessary and added new discussions, images and topics where space would permit.  A notice has also been added to the top of the original post directing readers to the newly updated and expanded version.

I would like to extend a special note of thanks to Swords and Antique Weapons for allowing me to use a number of wonderful photographs of hudiedao that have passed through their collection over the years.  It would have been very difficult to present anything approaching a complete survey of the subject without their assistance.  Also, Peter Dekker has generously shared the fruits of his own extensive research on Chinese swords and weapons.  His insights have been most helpful.

 

Introduction:  What do we really know about butterfly swords?

 

No weapon is more closely linked to the martial heritage of southern China than the hudiedao (Cantonese: wu dip do), commonly referred to in English as “butterfly swords.”  In the hands of Wing Chun practitioners such as Bruce Lee and Ip Man, these blades became both a symbol of martial attainment and a source of regional pride for a generation of young martial artists.

Nor are these blades restricted to a single style.  Choy Li Fut, Hung Gar, Lau Gar and White Crane (among numerous others) all have lineages that employ this weapon.  Prior to the modern era these swords were also a standard issue item in the region’s many gentry led militias and private security forces.  Even ocean going merchant vessels would carry up to two dozen sets of these swords as part of their standard compliment of sailing gear.  The hudiedao are worthy of careful study precisely because they have functioned as a widespread and distinctive cultural marker of the southern Chinese martial arts.

This is not to say that hudiedaos are not occasionally seen in other places.  They have been carried across China by the adventurous people of Guangdong and Fujian.  By the late 19th century they were making regular appearances in diaspora communities in Singapore and even California.  Today they can be found in training halls around the world.

Of course there are a number of other Chinese fighting traditions which have focused on paired swords, daggers or maces that are very reminiscent of the butterfly swords of southern China.  Still, there are distinctive elements of this regional tradition that make it both easily identifiable and interesting to study.

The following post offers a brief history of the hudiedao.  In attempting to reconstruct the origin and uses of this weapon I employ three types of data.  First, I rely on dated photographs and engravings with a clear provenance.  These images are important because they provide evidence as to what different weapons looked like and who carried them.

Secondly, I discuss a number of period (1820s-1880s) English language accounts to help socially situate these weapons.  These have been largely neglected by martial artists, yet they provide some of the earliest references that we have to the widespread use of butterfly swords or, as they are always called in the period literature, “double swords.”  While the authors of these accounts are sometimes hostile observers (e.g., British military officers), they often supply surprisingly detailed discussions of the swords, their methods of use and carry, and the wider social and military setting that they appeared in.  These first-hand accounts are gold mines of information for military historians.

Lastly, we will look at a number of surviving examples of hudiedao from private collections.  It is hard to understand what these weapons were capable of (and hence the purpose of the various double sword fighting forms found in the southern Chinese martial arts) without actually handling them.

Modern martial artists expect both too much and too little from the hudiedao.  With a few exceptions, the modern reproductions of butterfly swords are either beautifully made a-historical “artifacts,” high tech simulacra of a type of weapon that never actually existed in 19th century China, or cheaply made copies of practice gear that was never meant to be a “weapon” in the first place.  This second class of “weapon” sets the bar much too low.  Yet it is also nearly impossible for any flesh and blood sword to live up to the mythology and hype that surrounds butterfly swords, especially in Wing Chun circles.  As these swords appear with ever greater frequency on TV programs and within video games, that mythology grows only more entrenched.

Unfortunately antique butterfly swords are hard to find and highly sought after by martial artists and collectors.  They are usually too expensive for most southern style kung fu students to actually study.  I hope that a detailed historical discussion of these swords may help to fill in some of these gaps.  While there is no substitute for holding a weapon in one’s hands, a good overview might give us a much better idea of what sort of weapon we are attempting to emulate.  It will also open valuable insights into the milieu from which these blades emerged.

This last point is an important one.  Rarely do students of Chinese martial studies inquire about the social status or meaning of weapons.  This is a serious oversight.  As we have seen in our previous discussions of Republic era dadaos and military kukris, the social evolution of these weapons is often the most interesting and illuminating aspect of their story.  Who used the hudiedao?  How were they employed in combat? When were they first created, and what did they mean to the martial artists of southern China?  Lastly, what does their spread tell us about the place of the Chinese martial arts in an increasingly globalized world?

The short answer to these questions is that butterfly swords were popular with civilian martial artists in the 19th century.  While never an official “regulation weapon” within the imperial Qing military they may have been a local adaptation of the “Green Standard Army Rolling Blanket Double Sabers” seen in official manuals outlining the weapons of both the Ming and Qing armies.  Based on his translations of  皇朝禮器圖式, Peter Dekker notes that these blades (shaped like small military sabers) had the following dimensions:

The left and right opposites are each 2 chi 1 cun and 1 fen long. [Approx. 73 cm]. The blades are 1 cun 6 fen long. [Approx. 56 cm]. Width is 1 cun [Approx 3.5 cm].

 

The Rolling Blanket Saber of the Green Standard Army. Source: Peter Dekker.

The Rolling Blanket Saber of the Green Standard Army as discussed in the 皇朝禮器圖式. 1766 woodblock print, based on a 1759 manuscript. Subsequent editions from 1801 and 1899 reproduced basically identical images. Source: Peter Dekker.

 

While dressed to look like standard issue sabers, these double blades were actually comparably sized to many of the “war era” hudiedao that can be found in collections today.  Thus there may be more of a military rational for the existence of such weapons than was previously thought.  While the vast majority of butterfly swords were owned or used by civilians, this might also suggest an explanation of why a few pairs have been found with military markings. It is hypothetically possible that at least some of these swords were seen as a locally produced variant of a known military weapon.

While exciting, we must be careful not to over-interpret this discovery.  When discussing the martial arts were are, by in large, referencing a civilian realm that, while related to military training, remained socially distinct from it.  To be a “martial artist” in 19th century China was to be a member of one or more other overlapping social groups.  For instance, many martial artists were one or more of the following: a professional soldier, a bandit or pirate, a member of a militia or clan defense society, a pharmacist or an entertainer.

As we review the historical accounts and pictures below, we will see butterfly swords employed by members of each of these categories.  That is precisely why this exercise is important.   Hudiedao are a basic technology that help to tie the southern martial arts together.  If we can demystify the development and spread of this one technology, we will make some progress toward understanding the background milieu that gave rise to the various schools of hand combat that we have today.

A set of mid. 19th century hudiedao. These swords are 63 cm long have strong blades with a thick triangular spine (14 mm at the forte). They were capable of cutting but clearly optimized for stabbing. The edge itself has a convex grind on one side, and a flat grind where it sits against the other sword when sheathed. The blades also feature steel D-guards and rosewood handles decorated with carved phoenixes. This images was provided courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com, a reliable source for authentic antique Chinese arms.

A set of mid. 19th century hudiedao. These swords are 63 cm long have strong blades with a thick triangular spine (14 mm at the forte). They were capable of cutting but clearly optimized for stabbing. The edge itself has a convex grind on one side, and a flat grind where it sits against the other sword when sheathed. The blades also feature steel D-guards and rosewood handles decorated with carved phoenixes. This image was provided courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com, a reliable source for authentic antique Chinese arms.

 

Hudiedao: Understanding the basic history of the butterfly sword.

 

The monks of the Shaolin Temple have left an indelible mark on the martial arts of Guangdong and Fujian.  This mark is none the less permanent given the fact that the majority of Chinese martial studies scholars have concluded that the “Southern Shaolin Temple” was a myth.  Still, myths reflect important social values.  Shaolin (as a symbol) has touched many aspects of the southern Chinese martial arts, including its weapons.

In Wing Chun Schools today, it is usually assumed that the art’s pole form came from Jee Shim (the former abbot of the destroyed Shaolin sanctuary), and that the swords must have came from the Red Boat Opera or possibly Ng Moy (a nun and another survivor of temple).  A rich body of lore linking the hudiedao to Shaolin has grown over the years.  These myths often start out by apologizing for the fact that these monks are carrying weapons at all, as this is a clear (and very serious) breach of monastic law.

It is frequently asserted that our monks needed protection on the road from highwaymen, especially when they were carrying payments of alms.  Some assert that butterfly swords were the only bladed weapons that the monks were allowed to carry because they were not as deadly as a regular dao.  The tips could be left blunt and the bottom half of the blade was often unsharpened.  Still, there are a number of problems with this story.

These blunt tips and unsharpened blades seem to actually be more of an apology for the low quality, oddly designed, practice swords that started to appear in the 1970s than an actual memory of any real weapons.

The first probable references to the hudiedao (or butterfly swords) that I have been able to find date to the 1820s.  Various internet discussions, some quite good and worth checking out, as well as Jeffery D. Modell’s article “History & Design of Butterfly Swords” (Kung Fu Tai Chi Magazine, April 2010, pp. 56-65) usually suggest a later date of popularization.  Modell concludes that the traditional butterfly sword is a product of the “late 19th century” while other credible sources generally point to the 1850s or 1860s.  The general consensus seems to be that while a few examples may have existed earlier, this weapon did not really gain prominence until the middle or end of the 19th century.

This opinion was formed mostly through the first hand examination of antique blades.  And it is correct so far as it goes.  Most of the existing antique blades do seem to date from the end of the 19th century or even the first few decades of the 20th.  Further, this would fit with our understanding of the late 19th century being a time of martial innovations, when much of the foundation for the modern Chinese hand combat systems was being set in place.

Recently uncovered textual evidence would seem to indicate that we may need to roll these dates back by a generation or more.  As we will see below, already in the 1820s western merchants and British military officers in Guangzhou were observing these, or very similar weapons, in the local environment.  They were even buying examples that are brought back to Europe and America where they enter important early private collections.

The movement of both goods and people was highly restricted in the “Old China Trade” system.  Westerners were confined to one district of the Guangzhou and they could only enter the city for a few months of the year.  The fact that multiple individuals were independently collecting examples of hudiedao, even under such tight restrictions, would seem to indicate that these weapons (or something very similar to them) must have already been fairly common in the 1820s.

Accounts of these unique blades become more frequent and more detailed in the 1830s and 1840s.  Eventually engravings were published showing a wide variety of arms (often destined for private collections or the “cabinets” of wealthy western individuals), and then from the 1850s onward a number of important photographs were produced.  The Hudiedao started to appear in images on both sides of the pacific, and it is clear that the weapon had a well-established place among gangsters and criminals in both San Francisco and New York.

But what exactly is a hudiedao?  What sorts of defining characteristics binds these weapons together and separate them from other various paired weapons that are seen in the Chinese martial arts from time to time?

Shaung jian.71 cm late 19th century

Readers should be aware that not every “double sword” is a hudiedao. This is a pair of jians dating to the late 19th century. Notice that this style of swords is quite distinct on a number of levels. Rather than being fit into a simple leather scabbard with a single opening, these swords each rest in their own specially carved compartment. As a result the blades are not flat-ground on one side (as is the case with true hudiedao) and instead have the normal diamond shaped profile. These sorts of double swords are more common in the northern Chinese martial arts and also became popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. They are usually called Shuang Jain (or Shuang Dao for a single edged blade), literally “double swords.
Unfortunately, this is exactly the same term that many English language observers used when they encountered Hudiedao in Guangzhou and Hong Kong in the middle of the 19th century.  Further complicating the matter, some southern fighting forms call for the use of two normal sabers to be used simultaneously, one in each hand.  Interpreting 19th century accounts of “double swords” requires a certain amount of guess work.  Photos courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

Note the construction of the scabbard.

Note the construction of the scabbard.  Period sources seem to imply that swords were classified in large part by their scabbard construction (how many openings the blades shared), and not just by the blades shape or function.  these images were provided courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons,com.

 

The term “hudiedao,” or “butterfly sword,” never appears in any of the 19th century English language accounts that I have examined.  Invariably these records and illustrations refer instead to “double swords.”  A number of them go to lengths to point out that this is a weapon unique to China.  Its defining characteristic seems to be that the two blades are fitted together in such a way that they can be placed in a shared opening to one sheath.  Some accounts (but not all) go on to describe heavy D guards and the general profile of the blade.  I used these more detailed accounts (from the 1830s) and engravings and photos (from the 1840s and 1850s) to try and interpret some of the earlier and briefer descriptions (from the 1820s).

Some of these collectors, Dunn in particular, were quite interested in Chinese culture and had knowledgeable native agents helping them to acquire and catalog their collections.  It is thus very interesting that these European observers, almost without exception, referred to these weapons as “double swords” rather than “butterfly swords.”  Not to put too fine a point on it, but some western observers seemed to revel in pointing out the contradictory or ridiculous in Chinese culture, and if any of them had heard this name it would have recorded, if only for the ridicule and edification of future generations.

I looked at a couple of period dictionaries (relevant to southern China) that included military terms.  None of them mentioned the word “Hudiedao,” though they generally did include a word for double swords (雙股劍: “shwang koo keem,” or in modern Pinyin, “shuang goo gim.”  See Medhurst, English and Chinese Dictionary 1848; Morrison, Dictionary of the Chinese Language, 1819.)

Multiple important early Chinese novels, including the Romance of the Three Kingdoms and Water Margin (All Men are Brothers) include protagonists who use these weapons, so for that reason alone this would be a commonly understood term.  Even individuals who were not martial artists would have known about these literary characters and their weapons.  In fact, the literary legacy of those two novels could very well explain how these blades have managed to capture the imagination of so many martial artists up through the 21st century.

In modern martial arts parlance, “double swords” (shuang jian or shuang dao) refer to two medium or full size jians (or daos) that are fitted into a single scabbard.  These weapons also became increasingly popular in the late 19th century and are still used in a variety of styles.  It is possible that they are a different regional expression of the same basic impulse that led to the massive popularization of hudiedao in the south, but they are a fairly different weapon.

The real complicating factor here is that neither type of weapons (shuang dao vs. hudiedao) was ever adopted or issued by the Imperial military, so strictly speaking, neither of them have a proper or “official name.”  (Again, while similar in size and function, the “Rolling Blanket Double Sabers” clearly followed the forging and aesthetic guidelines seen in all other military sabers and were categorized accordingly.)  When looking at these largely civilian traditions, we are left with a wide variety of, often poetic, ever evolving terms favored by different martial arts styles.  Occasionally it is unclear whether these style names are actually meant to refer to the weapons themselves, or the routines that they are employed in.

The evolution of the popular names of these weapons seems almost calculated to cause confusion.  For our present purposes I will be referring to any medium length, single edged, pair of blades fitted into a shared scabbard, as “hudiedaos.”  Readers should be aware of the existence of a related class of weapon which resembles a longer, single, hudiedao.  These were meant to be used in conjunction with a rattan shield.  They are only included in my discussion only if they exhibit the heavy D-guard and quillion that is often seen on other butterfly swords.

Hudiedao were made by a large number of local smiths and they exhibit a great variability in form and intended function.  Some of these swords are fitted with heavy brass D-guards (very similar to a European hanger or cutlass), but in other cases the guard is made of steel.  On some examples the D-guard is replaced with the more common Chinese S-guard.   And in a small minority of cases no guard was used at all.

Another set of Hudieda exhibiting different styling. An S-guard is used on these swords, which are more common on Chinese weapons. These knives are 45 cm long and are both shorter and lighter than some of the preceding examples. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com

Another set of Hudiedao exhibiting different styling. An S-guard is used on these swords, which are more common on Chinese weapons. These knives are 45 cm long and are both shorter and lighter than some of the preceding examples. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

 

The sorts of blades seen on hudiedao from southern China can also vary immensely.  Two types are most commonly encountered on 19thcentury weapons.  Some are long and narrow with a thick triangular cross section.  These blades superficially resemble shortened European rapiers and are clearly designed with stabbing in mind.  Other blades are wider and heavier, and exhibit a sturdy hatchet point.  While still capable of stabbing through heavy clothing or leather, these knives can also chop and slice.

Most hudiedao from the 19th century seem to be medium sized weapons, ranging from 50-60 cm (20-24 inches) in length.  It is obvious that arms of this size were not meant to be carried in a concealed manner.  To the extent that these weapons were issued to mercenaries (or “braves”), local militia units or civilian guards, there would be no point in concealing them at all.  Instead, one would hope that they would be rather conspicuous, like the gun on the hip of a police officer.

These hudiedaos have thick brass grips, a wider blade better suited for chopping and a strong hatchet point. Their total length is just over 60 cm. This was the most commonly produced type of “butterfly sword” during the middle of the 19th century. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

These hudiedaos have thick brass grips, a wider blade better suited for chopping and a strong hatchet point. Their total length is just over 60 cm. This was the most commonly produced type of “butterfly sword” during the middle of the 19th century. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

While these two blade types are the most common (making up about 70% of the swords that I have encountered), other shapes are also seen.  Some hudiedao exhibit the “coffin” shaped blades of traditional southern Chinese fighting knives.  These specimens are very interesting and often lack any sort of hand guard at all, yet they are large enough that they could not easily be used like their smaller cousins.

One also encounters blades that are shaped like half-sized versions of the “ox-tail” dao.  This style of sword was very popular among civilian martial artists in the 19th century.  Occasionally blades in this configuration also show elaborate decorations that are not often evident on other types of hudiedao.

This set of Butterfly Swords has a number of unusual features. Perhaps the most striking are its wood (rather than leather) scabbard and high degree on ornamentation. These probably date to the late 19th century and are 49 cm in length. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

This set of Butterfly Swords has a number of unusual features. Perhaps the most striking are its wood (rather than leather) scabbard and high degree on ornamentation. These were almost certainly collected in French Indo-China and likely date to 1900-1930. They are 49 cm in length and show a pronounced point. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

These unusual hudiedao feature handles and blades that are both based on traditional Chinese fighting knives. In this case the blade has been made both longer and wider. Fighting knives do not commonly have hand guards, which are also missing from this example. I have seen a couple of sets of knives in this configuration, though they seem to be quite rare. These knives are 49 cm long and 65 mm wide at the broadest point. Probably early 20th century. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

These unusual hudiedao feature handles and blades that are loosely based on traditional Chinese fighting knives. In this case the blade has been made both longer and wider. Fighting knives do not commonly have hand guards, which are also missing from this example. I have seen a couple of sets of knives in this configuration, though they seem to be quite rare. These knives are 49 cm long and 65 mm wide at the broadest point. Possibly early 20th century. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

These hudiedaos have thick brass grips, a wider blade better suited for chopping and a strong hatchet point. Their total length is just over 60 cm. This was the most commonly produced type of “butterfly sword” during the middle of the 19th century. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

These hudiedao are more reminiscent of the blades favored by modern Wing Chun students. They show considerable wear and date to either the middle or end of the 19th century. The tips of the blades are missing and may have been broken or rounded off through repeated sharpening. I suspect that when these swords were new they had a more hatchet shaped tip. Their total length is 49 cm. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

Lastly there are shorter, thicker blades, designed with cutting and hacking in mind.  These more closely resemble the type favored by Wushu performers and modern martial artists.  Some of  these weapons could be carried in a concealed manner, yet they are also better balanced and have a stronger stabbing point than most of the inexpensive replicas being made today.  It is also interesting to note that these shorter, more modern looking knives, can be quite uncommon compared to the other blade types listed above.

I am hesitant to assign names or labels to these different sorts of blades.  That may seem counter-intuitive, but the very existence of “labels” implies a degree of order and standardization that may not have actually existed when these swords were made.  19th century western observers simply referred to everything that they saw as a “double sword” and chances are good that their Chinese agents did the same.  Given that most of these weapons were probably made in small shops and to the exact specifications of the individuals who commissioned them the idea of different “types” of hudiedao seems a little misleading.

What defined a “double sword” to both 19th century Chinese and western observers in Guangdong, was actually how they were fitted and carried in the scabbard.  These scabbards were almost always leather, and they did not separate the blades into two different channels or compartments (something that is occasionally seen in northern double weapons).  Beyond that, a wide variety of blade configurations, hand guards and levels of ornamentation could be used.  I am still unclear when the term “hudiedao” came into common use, or how so many independent observers and careful collectors could have missed it.

This engraving, published in 1801, is typical of the challenges faced when using cross-cultural sources in an attempt to reconstruct Chinese martial history. The image is plate number 20 from Major George Henry Mason’s popular 1801 publication Punishments of China (St James: W. Bulmer and Co.). Mason was in Guangzou (recovering from an illness) in 1789-1790. Given his experience in China, and interests in day to day life, he should have been a keen social observer. So how reliable are his prints? Does this image really show a soldier holding an early form of hudiedao, or something like them?It is actually quite hard to know what Mason actually saw or what to make of a print like this. Mason’s engravings were all based on watercolor paintings that he purchased from a Cantonese artist in Guangzhou named Pu Qua (Timothy Brook, Jérôme Bourgon, Gregory Blue. Death by a Thousand Cuts. Harvard University Press. 2008. P. 171). So what we really have here is an impressionistic engraving based off of a quickly sketched water color. While this image clearly suggests that some members of the local Yamen were using two medium sized swords, it is difficult to hazard a guess as to what the exact details of these weapons were. I attempt to avoid this type of problem by relying on first-hand accounts and more detailed (often photographic) images.

This engraving, published in 1801, is typical of the challenges faced when using cross-cultural sources in an attempt to reconstruct Chinese martial history. The image is plate number 20 from Major George Henry Mason’s popular 1801 publication Punishments of China (St James: W. Bulmer and Co.). Mason was in Guangzou (recovering from an illness) in 1789-1790. Given his experience in China, and interests in day to day life, he should have been a keen social observer. So how reliable are his prints? Does this image really show a soldier holding a set of “Rolling Blanket Double Sabers”, or something like them?
It is impossible to know what Mason actually saw or what to make of a print like this. Mason’s engravings were all based on watercolor paintings that he purchased from a Cantonese artist in Guangzhou named Pu Qua (Timothy Brook, Jérôme Bourgon, Gregory Blue. Death by a Thousand Cuts. Harvard University Press. 2008. P. 171). So what we really have here is an impressionistic engraving based off of a quickly sketched water color. While this image clearly suggests that some members of the local Yamen were using two medium sized swords, it is difficult to hazard a guess as to what the exact details of these weapons were. I attempt to avoid this type of problem by relying on first-hand accounts and more detailed (often photographic) images.

 

The First Written Accounts: Chinese “double swords” in Guangzhou in the 1820s-1830s.

 

The first English language written account of what is most likely a hudiedao that I have been able to find is a small note in the appendix of the Transactions of the Royal Asiatic Society for the year 1827.  Lieutenant Colonel Charles Joseph Doyle had evidently acquired an extensive collection of oriental arms that he wished to donate to the society.  In an era before public museums, building private collections, or “cabinets,” was a popular pastime for members of a certain social class.

The expansion of the British Empire into Asia vastly broadened the scope of what could be collected.  In fact, many critical artistic and philosophical ideas first entered Europe through the private collections of gentlemen like Charles Joseph Doyle.  Deep in the inventory list of his “cabinet of oriental arms” we find a single tantalizing reference to “A Chinese Double Sword.”

I have not been able to locate much information on Col. Doyle’s career so I cannot yet make a guess as to when he collected this example.  Still, if the donation was made in 1825, the swords cannot have been acquired any later than the early 1820s.  (Transactions of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, Volume 1.  London: Royal Asiatic Society. 1827.  “A Chinese double Sword.  Donated on Nov. 5, 1825.” P. 636)

If Doyle’s entry in the records of the Royal Asiatic Society was terse, another prominent collector from the 1820 was more effusive.  Nathan Dunn is an important figure in America’s growing understanding of China.  He was involved in the “Old China Trade” and imported teas, silks and other goods from Guangdong to the US.  Eventually he became very wealthy and strove to create a more sympathetic understanding of China and its people in the west.

For a successful merchant, his story begins somewhat inauspiciously.  Historical records show that in 1816 Nathan Dunn was disowned (excommunicated) by the Philadelphia Monthly Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends (the Quakers) for bankruptcy.  While socially devastating, this bankruptcy may have been the best thing that ever happened to Dunn.  In 1818 he left for China on a risky trading mission in an attempt to rebuild his fortune.  He succeeded in that task many times over.

Unlike most western merchants Dunn found the Chinese to be very intelligent and worthy of close study and contemplation.  He objected strenuously to the selling of opium (an artifact of his prior Quaker faith) and made valuable friendships and alliances with individuals from all levels of Chinese society.  Appreciating his open outlook these individuals helped Dunn to amass the largest collection of Chinese artifacts in the hands of any one individual.  In fact, the Chinese helped Dunn to acquire a collection many times larger than the entire cabinets of both the British East India Company and the British Government, which had been trying to build a vast display of its own for years.

Dunn’s collection was also quite interesting for its genuine breadth.  It included both great works of art and everyday objects.  It paid attention to issues of business, culture, horticulture and philosophy.  Dunn made a point of studying the lives of individuals from different social and economic classes, and he paid attention to the lives and material artifacts of women.  Finally, like any good 19th century gentleman living abroad, he collected arms.

Dunn’s collection went on display in Philadelphia in the 1838’s.  When it opened to the public he had an extensive catalog printed (poetically titled 10,000 Chinese Things), that included in-depth discussions of many of the displays.  This sort of contextual data is quite valuable.  It is interesting to not only see double swords mentioned multiple times in Dunn’s collection, but to look at the other weapons that were also employed in the 1820s when these swords were actually being bought in Guangdong.

“The warrior is armed with a rude matchlock, the only kind of fire-arms known among the Chinese.  There is hung up on the wall a shield, constructed of rattan turned spirally round a center, very similar in shape and appearance to our basket lids.  Besides the matchlock and shield, a variety of weapons offensive and defensive, are in use in China; such as helmets, bows and arrows, cross-bows, spears, javelins, pikes, halberds, double and single swords, daggers, maces, a species of quilted armour of cloth studded with metal buttons, &c.” pp. 32-33.

“Besides these large articles, there are, in the case we are describing, an air-gun wooden barrel; a duck-gun with matchlock; a curious double sword, capable of being used as one, and having but one sheath; specimens of Chinese Bullets, shot powder, powder –horns, and match ropes…..” p. 42

“444. Pair of Swords, to be used by both hands but having one sheath.  The object of which is to hamstring the enemy.” P. 51

“In addition to the spears upon the wall, there are two bows; one strung, and the other unstrung; two pair of double swords; one pair with a tortoise shell, and the other a leather sheath; besides several other swords and caps, and a jinjall, or a heavy gun on a pivot, which has three movable chambers, in which the powder and ball are put, and which serve to replace each other as often as the gun is discharged.” P. 93.

Enoch Cobb Wines.  A Peep at China in Mr. Dunn’s Chinese Collection.  Philadelphia: Printed for Nathan Dunn. 1839.

I found it interesting that Dunn would associate the double sword with “hamstringing” (the intentional cutting of the Achilles tendon) an opponent.  In his 1801 volume on crime and punishment George Henry Mason included an illustration of a prisoner being “hamstrung” with a short, straight bladed knife.  This was said to be a punishment for attempting to escape prison or exile.  He noted that there was some controversy as to whether this punishment was still in use or if legal reformers in China had succeeded in doing away with it.  It is possible that Dunn’s description (or more likely, that of his Chinese agent) on page 51 is a memory of the “judicial” use of the hudiedao by officers of the state against socially deviant aspects of society.

It is hard to overstate the importance of Dunn’s “Museum” in shaping China’s image in the popular imagination.  As such, descriptions of his ethnographic objects reached the public through many outlets.  One of these was the writings of W. W. Wood.  Wood was a friend and collaborator of Dunn’s while in Canton.  In fact, Wood was actually responsible for assembling most of the natural history section of the “China Museum.”  Still, his writings touched on other aspects of the collecting enterprise as well.

CHINESE ARMS.

A great variety of weapons, offensive and defensive, are in use in China; such as matchlocks, bows and arrows, cross-bows, spears, javelins, pikes, halberds, double and single swords, daggers, maces, &c. Shields and armor of various kinds, serve as protection against the weapons of their adversaries. The artillery is very incomplete, owing to the bad mountings of the cannon, and efficient execution is out of the question, from the ignorance of the people in gunnery. Many of the implements of war are calculated for inflicting very cruel wounds, especially some kinds of spears and barbed arrows, the extraction of which is extremely difficult, and the injuries caused by them dreadful. A kind of sword, composed of an iron bar, about eighteen inches long, and an inch and a half thick, or two inches in circumference, is used to break the limbs of their adversaries, by repeated and violent blows.

The double swords are very short, not longer in the blade than a large dagger, the inside surfaces are ground very flat, so that when placed in contact, they lie close to each other, and go into a single scabbard. The blades are very wide at the base, and decrease very much towards the point. Being ground very sharp, and having great weight, the wounds given by them are severe. I am informed, that the principal object in using them, is to hamstring the enemy, and thus entirely disable him.

Most of the arms made in canton, are exceedingly rude and unfinished in comparison with our own, In the sword-making art they are better than in other departments, but the metal is generally of inferior quality, and the form of these weapons bad; the mountings are handsome, but there is little or no guard for the protection of the hand.

W. W. Wood. 1830. Sketches of China: with Illustrations from Original Drawings. Philadelphia: Carey & Lead. pp. 162-163

Woods descriptions of the hudieado are important on a number of counts.  To begin with, they prove that European collectors had started to acquire these specimens by the 1820s.  Further, the swords that he describes are relatively broad and short, similar to the weapons favored by many modern Wing Chun students.  Lastly, his contextualization of these blades is invaluable.

These are the earliest references to “double swords” in southern China that I have been able to locate.  Already by the 1820s these weapons were seen as something uniquely Chinese, hence it is not surprising that they would find their way into the collections and cabinets of early merchants and military officers.

Still, the 1820s was a time of relatively peaceful relations between China and the West.  Tensions built throughout the 1830s and boiled over into open conflict in the 1840s.  As one might expect, this deterioration in diplomatic relations led to increased interest in military matters on the part of many western observers.  Numerous detailed descriptions of “double swords” emerge out of this period.  It is also when the first engravings to actually depict these weapons in a detailed way were commissioned and executed.

Karl Friedrich A. Gutzlaff (English: Charles Gutzlaff; Chinese: Guō Shìlì) was a German protestant missionary in south-eastern China.  He was active in the area in the 1830s and 1840s and is notable for his work on multiple biblical translations.  He was the first protestant missionary to dress in Chinese style and was generally more in favor of enculturation than most of his brethren.  He was also a close observer of the Opium Wars and served as a member of a British diplomatic mission in 1840.

One of his many literary goals was to produce a reliable and up to date geography of China.  Volume II of this work spends some time talking about the Chinese military situation in Guangdong.  While discussing the leadership structure of the Imperial military we find the following note:

(In a discussion of the “Chamber for the superintendent of stores and the examination of military candidates.):

“Chinese bows are famous for carrying to a great distance; their match-locks are wretched fire-arms; and upon their cannon they have not yet improved, since they were taught by the Europeans.  Swords, spears, halberts, and partisans, are likewise in use in the army.  Two swords in one scabbard, which enable the warrior to fight with the left and right hands, are given to various divisions.  They carry rattan shields, made of wicker work, and in several detachments they receive armour to protect their whole body.  The officers, in the day of battle, are always thus accoutered.  Of their military engines we can say very little, they having, during a long peace, fallen into disuse.” P. 446.

Karl Friedrich A. Gützlaff. China opened; or, A display of the topography, history… etc. of the Chinese Empire. London: Smith, Elder and Co. 1838.

This is an interesting passage for a variety of reasons.  It seems to very strongly suggest that the Green Standard Army in Guangdong was using large numbers of either Rolling Blanket Double Sabers or hudiedao in the 1830s, or at least stockpiling them.  Occasionally I hear references to hudiedao being found that have official “reign marks” on them, or property marks of the Chinese military.  Accounts such as this one might explain their existence.

The conventional wisdom (as we will see below) is that the hudiedao were never a “regulation” weapon and were issued only to civilian “braves” and gentry led militia units which were recruited by the governor of Guangdong in his various clashes with the British.  Still, this note falls right in the middle of an extensive discussion of the command structure of the Imperial military.  Who these various divisions were, and what relationship they had with militia troops, is an interesting question for further research.

This is an interesting example of a single “hudiedao.” It was never issued with a companion and has a fully round handle meaning that it cannot be slid into a scabbard besides another weapon. Short swords such as these were often issued to milita members who were armed with rattan shields. While not strictly the same as a hudiedao, its clear that this weapon is taking its styling cues from these other swords. The style of its leather scabbard, hilt and hand-guard are all identical to what was see on period “butterfly swords.” This example measures 60 cm in length and would have been a good general short-range weapon. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

This short saber might be thought of as an example of a single “hudiedao” given its aesthetic styling. It was never issued with a companion and has a fully round handle meaning that it cannot be slid into a scabbard besides another weapon. Short swords such as these were often issued to militia members who were armed with rattan shields. While not strictly the same as a hudiedao, its clear that this weapon is taking its styling cues from these other swords. The style of its leather scabbard, hilt and hand-guard are all identical to what was seen on period “butterfly swords.” This example measures 60 cm in length and would have been a good general short-range weapon. Photo courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

More specific descriptions of hudiedao and their use in the field started to pour in from reporters and government officers as the security situation along the Pearl River Delta disintegrated.  The May 1840 edition of the Asiatic Journal includes the following notice:

“Governor Lin has enlisted about 3,000 recruits, who are being drilled daily near Canton in the military exercise of the bow, the spear and the double sword.  The latter weapon is peculiar to China.  Each soldier is armed with two short and straight swords, one in each hand, which being knocked against each other, produce a clangour [sic], which, it is thought, will midate [sic] the enemy.” P. 327

The Asiatic Journal and Monthly Register for British and Foreign India, China and Australia.  May-August, 1840. London: Wm. H. Allen and Co.

Such new recruits would clearly have been both “Braves” and members of the gentry led militia system.  So this would seem to indicate that the hudiedao was a weapon favored by martial artists and citizen soldiers.  This is also the first reference I have seen to soldiers beating their hudiedao together to make a clamor before charging into battle.  While this tactic is usually noted with disdain by British observers, it is well worth noting that their own infantry often put on a similar display before commencing a bayonet charge.

Another set of hudiedao from the private collection of Gavin Nugent. These blades are some of the earliest seen in this post. They also show signs of significant use. Note the complex profile of the blades and how the spine flattens out as it approaches the tip. This allows the weapon to have reach while not feeling "top heavy." The owner notes that these are the most comfortable hudiedao that he has handled. Source: http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com/

Another set of hudiedao from the private collection of Gavin Nugent. These blades are some of the earliest seen in this post. They also show signs of significant period use. Note the complex profile of the blades and how the spine flattens out as it approaches the tip. This allows the weapon to have reach while not feeling “top heavy.” The owner notes that these are the most comfortable hudiedao that he has handled. The nicely executed brass tunkou (collar around the blade) are an interesting and rarely seen feature.  Source: http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

Born in 1805 (1805-1878) J. Elliot Bingham served for 21 years in the Royal Navy.  In the late 1830s he had the rank of First Lieutenant (he later retired as a Commander) and was assigned to the H. M. S. Modeste.  Launched in 1837, this 18 Gun Sloop or corvette was crewed by 120 sailors and marines.  It saw repeated combat along the Guangdong coast and the Pearl River between 1839 and 1841.

As a military man Commander Bingham was a close observer of Chinese weapons and he leaves us with what must be considered the very best account of the use of hudiedao by militia troops in the late 1830s.

“March the 21st, Lin was busy drilling 3,000 troops, a third portion of which was to consist of double-sworded men.  These twin swords, when in scabbard, appear as one thick clumsy weapon, about two feet in length; the guard for the hand continuing straight, rather beyond the “fort” of the sword turns toward the point, forming a hook about two inches long.  When in use, the thumb of each hand is passed under this hook, on which the sword hangs, until a twist of the wrist brings the grip within the grasp of the swordsman.  Clashing and beating them together and cutting the air in every direction, accompanying the action with abuse, noisy shouts and hideous grimaces, these dread heroes advance, increasing their gesticulations and distortions of visage as they approach the enemy, when they expect the foe to become alarmed and fly before them.  Lin had great faith in the power of these men.” P. 177-178.

J. Elliot Bingham.  Narrative of the Expedition to China, from the Commencement of the Present Period. Volume 1.  London: Henry Colburn Publisher.  1842.

Commander Bingham was not much impressed by the Chinese militia or their exotic weaponry.  In truth, Lin led his forces into a situation where they were badly outgunned, and more importantly “out generaled,” by the seasoned and well led British Navy.  Still, his brief account contains a treasure trove of information.  To begin with, it confirms that the earlier accounts of “double swords” used by the militia in and around Guangzhou in the 1830s were in fact references to hudiedao.

Fredric Wakeman, in his important study Stranger at the Gate: Social Disorder in Southern China 1839-1861, cites intelligence reports sent to the British Foreign Office which claim that Lin had in fact raised a 3,000 man force to repel a foreign attach on Guangzhou.  Apparently Lin distrusted the ability of the Green Standard Army to get the job done, and the Manchu Banner Army was so poorly disciplined and run that he actually considered it to be a greater threat to the peace and safety of the local countryside than the British.

He planned on defending the provincial capital with a two pronged strategy.  First, he attempted to strengthen and update his coastal batteries.  Secondly, he called up the gentry led militia (and a large number of mercenary braves) because these troops were considered more committed and reliable than the official army.  Bingham was correct, Lin did put a lot of confidence in the militia.

The Foreign Office reported that Lin ordered every member of the militia to be armed with a spear, a rattan helmet, and a set of “double swords” (Wakeman 95).  Other reports note that members of the militia were also drilled in archery and received a number of old heavy muskets from the government stores in Guangdong.  Bingham’s observations can leave no doubt that the “double swords” that the Foreign Office noted were in fact hudiedao.

Local members of the gentry worked cooperatively out of specially built (or appropriated) Confucian “schools” to raise money, procure arms and supplies for their units, to organize communications systems, and even to create insurance programs.  It seems likely that the hudiedao used by the militia would have been hurriedly produced in a number of small shops around the Pearl River Delta.

Much of this production likely happened in Foshan (the home of important parts of the Wing Chun, Choy Li Fut and Hung Gar movements).  Foshan was a critical center of regional handicraft production, and it held the Imperial iron and steel monopoly (He Yimin. “Thrive and Decline:The Comparison of the Fate of “The Four Famous Towns” in Modern Times.” Academic Monthly. December 2008.)  This made it a natural center for weapons production.

We know, for instance, that important cannon foundries were located in Foshan.  The battle for control of these weapon producing resources was actually a major element of the “Opera Rebellion,” or “Red Turban Revolt,” that would rip through the area 15 years later. (See Wakeman’s account in Stranger at the Gate for the most detailed reconstruction of the actual fighting in and around Foshan.)

Given that this is where most of the craftsmen capable of making butterfly swords would have been located, it seems reasonable to assume that this was where a lot of the militia weaponry was actually produced.  Further, the town’s centralized location on the nexus of multiple waterways, and its long history of involvement in regional trade, would have made it a natural place to distribute weapons from.

While all 3,000 troops may have been armed with hudiedao, it is very interesting that these weapons were the primary arms of about 1/3 of the militia.  Presumably the rest of their comrades were armed with spears, bows and a small number of matchlocks.

Bingham also gives us the first clear description of the unique hilts of these double swords.  He notes in an off-handed way that they have hand-guards.  More interesting is the quillion that terminates in a hook that extends parallel to the blade for a few inches.  This description closely matches the historic weapons that we currently possess.

This style of guard, while not seen on every hudiedo, is fairly common.  It is also restricted to weapons from southern China.  Given that this is not a traditional Chinese construction method, various guesses have been given as to how these guards developed and why they were adopted.

There is at least a superficial resemblance between these guards and the hilts of some western hangers and naval cutlasses of the period.  It is possible that the D-guard was adopted and popularized as a result of increased contact with western arms in southern China.  If so, it would make sense that western collectors in Guangzhou in the 1820s would be the first observers to become aware of the new weapon.

The actual use of the hooked quillion is also open to debate.  Many modern martial artists claim that it is used to catch and trap an opponent’s blade.  In another essay I have reviewed a martial arts training manual from the 1870s that shows local boxers attempting to do exactly this.  However, as the British translator of that manual points out (and I am in total agreement with him), this cannot possibly work against a longer blade or a skilled and determined opponent.  While this type of trapping is a commonly rehearsed “application” in Wing Chun circles, after years of fencing practice and full contact sparring, my own school has basically decided that it is too dangerous to attempt and rarely works in realistic situations.

Another theory that has been advanced is that the hook is basically symbolic.  It is highly reminiscent of the ears on a “Sai,” a simple weapon that is seen in the martial arts of China, Japan and South East Asia.  Arguments have been made that the sai got its unique shape by imitating tridents in Hindu and Buddhist art.  Perhaps we should not look quite so hard for a “practical” function for everything that we see in martial culture (Donn F. Draeger. The Weapons and Fighting Arts of Indonesia.  Tuttle Publishing.  2001. p. 33).

Bingham makes a different observation about the use of the quillion.  He notes that it can be used to manipulate the knife when switching between a “reverse grip” and a standard fencing or “brush grip.”  Of course the issue of “sword flipping” is tremendously controversial in some Wing Chun circles, so it is interesting to see a historical report of the practice in a military setting in the 1830s.

It is also worth noting that Commander Bingham was not the only Western observer to describe hudiedao training and to doubt its effectiveness.

Of swords the Chinese have an abundant variety.  Some are single-handed swords, and there is one device by which two swords are carried in the same sheath and are used one in each hand.  I have seen the two sword exercise performed, and can understand that, when opposed to any person not acquainted with the weapon, the Chinese swordsman would seem irresistible.  But in spite of the two swords, which fly about the wielder’s head like the sails of a mill, and the agility with which the Chinese fencer leaps about and presents first one side and then the other to this antagonist, I cannot think but that any ordinary fencer would be able to keep himself out of reach, and also to get in his point, in spite of the whirling blades of the adversary.

J. G. Wood. 1876. The Uncivilized Races of All Men in All Countries. Vol. II. Hartford: the J. B. Burr Publishing Co. Chapter, CLIV China—continued. Warfare.—Chinese Swords. pp. 1434-1435. (Originally published in 1868.)

J. G. Wood, while responsible for few discoveries of his own, was one of the great promoters and popularizers of scientific knowledge in his generation.  Most of his writings focused on natural history, but occasionally he ventured into the realm of ethnography. Like Dunn, Wood was a collector by nature.  So its not hard to imagine him amassing a number of Chinese swords.

Yet where would he have seen these skills demonstrated?  While Wood traveled to North America on a lecture tour, I am aware of no indication that he ever ventured as far as China.  Of course, one did not have to go to Hong Kong or Shanghai to see a martial arts demonstration.  Between 1848 and 1851 the crew of the Keying (a Chinese Junk) staged twice daily Kung Fu performances in London.

Stephen Davies, who is an expert of the voyages of the Keying, has hypothesized that by the time the ship reached London almost all of its original Chinese crew had already left and returned home.  If this is true, the Keying would have had to recruit a replacement “crew” from London’s small Victorian era Chinese community.  If his supposition is correct (and to be clear, I feel this still needs additional confirmation), by the middle of the 19th century the UK may have had its own population of indigenous martial artists, more than willing to perform their skills in public.  J. G. Wood’s account suggests that the butterfly sword was a well established part of their repertoire.

 

 

A very nice set of mid. 19th century hudiedao. These pointed stabbing blades are 63 cm long, 40 mm wide at the base, and the spine in 14 mm across, giving the entire weapon a strong triangular profile. Image courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

A very nice set of mid. 19th century hudiedao. These pointed stabbing blades are 63 cm long, 40 mm wide at the base, and the spine in 14 mm across, giving the entire weapon a strong triangular profile. Image courtesy of http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

 

Early Images of the Hudiedao: Western Engravings of Chinese Arms.

 

It was rare to encounter collections of Chinese artifacts of any kind in the 1820s and 1830s.  However, the situation changed dramatically after the First and Second Opium Wars.  The expansion of trade that followed these conflicts, the opening of new treaty ports, and the creation and growth of Hong Kong all created new zones where Chinese citizens and westerners could meet to change goods and artifacts of material culture.  Unfortunately these meetings were not always peaceful and a large number of Chinese weapons started to be brought back to Europe as trophies.  Many of these arms subsequently found their way into works of art.  As a quintessentially exotic Chinese weapon, “double swords” were featured in early engravings and photographs.

Our first example comes from an engraving of Chinese weapons captured by the Royal Navy and presented to Queen Victoria in 1844.   The London Illustrated News published an interesting description of what they found.  In addition to a somewhat archaic collection of firearms, the Navy recovered a large number of double handed choppers.  These most closely resemble weapon that most martial artists today refer to as a “horse knife” (pu dao).

Featured prominently in the front of the engraving is something that looks quite familiar.  The accompanying article describes this blade as having “two sharpened edges” and a “modern guard.”  I have encountered a number of hudiedao with a false edge, but I do not think that I have found one that was actually sharpened.  I suspect that the sword in this particular picture was of the single variety and originally intended for use with a wicker shield.

London Illustrated News, January 6th, 1844. P. 8.

London Illustrated News, January 6th, 1844. P. 8.

Another useful engraving of “Chinese and Tartar Arms” can be found in Evariste R. Huc’s Travels in Tartary, Thibet and China (London, 1852).  Unlike some of the previous sources this one is not overly focused on military matters.  Still, the publishers include a fascinating engraving of Chinese arms.  The models for these were likely war trophies that were brought to the UK in the 1840s and 1850s.  They may have even been items from Nathan Dunn’s (now deceased) vast collection which was auctioned at Sotheby in 1844 following a tour of London and then the countryside.

Featured prominently in the middle of the picture is a set of hudiedao.  The engraving shows two swords with long narrow blades and D-guards resting in a single scabbard.  It is very hard to judge size in this print as the artist let scale slide to serve the interests of symmetry, but it appears that the “double swords” are only slightly shorter than the regulation Qing dao that hangs with them.

London Illustrated News, January 6th, 1844. P. 8.

“Chinese and Tartar Arms.” Published in Evariste R. Huc. Travels in Tartary, Thibet and China, 1844-5-6. Volume 1. P. 237. Office of the National Illustrated Library. London: 1852.

While it would appear that hudiedao had been in use in southern China since the 1820s, they make their first documented appearance on the West coast of America in the 1850s.  The Bancroft Library at UC Berkley has an important collection of documents and images relating to the Chinese American experience.  Better yet, many of their holdings have been digitized and are available on-line to the public.

Most of the Chinese individuals who settled in California (to work in both the railroads and mining camps) were from Fujian and Guangdong.  They brought with them their local dialects, modes of social organization, tensions and propensity for community feuding and violence.  They also brought with them a wide variety of weapons.

Newspaper accounts and illustrations from this side of the pacific actually provide us with some of our best studies of what we now think of as “martial arts” weapons.  Of course, it is unlike that this is how they were actually viewed by immigrants in the 1850s.  In that environment they were simply “weapons.”

The coasts of both Guangdong and Fujian province were literally covered in pirates in the 1840s, and the interiors of both provinces were infested with banditry.  Many individuals have long suspected that the hudiedao were in fact associated with these less savory elements of China’s criminal underground.  Butterfly swords, either as a pair or a single weapon, are sometimes marketed as “river pirate knives.”

The Armory of the Wang-Ho as seen on an early 20th century postcard. Note the Hudiedao in the rack on the back wall. Source: Author's personal collection.

The Armory of the Wang-Ho as seen on an early 20th century postcard. Note the Hudiedao in the rack on the back wall. Source: Author’s personal collection.

 

Perhaps it would be more correct to note that these versatile short swords were an ubiquitous part of Chinese maritime life.  In a period account describing (in great detail) the outfitting of typical Chinese merchant vessels we find the following note:

 

The armament is as follows: one cannon, twelve pounder, one do., six pounder; twelve gingalls or small rampart pieces, on pivots; one English musket; twenty pairs of double swords; thirty rattan shields, 2000 pikes, sixty oars; fifteen mats to cover the vessel, two cables, one of them bamboo, and the other coir, fifty fathoms long, one pump of bamboo tubes; one European telescope: one compass, which is rarely used, their voyages being near shore.

R. Montgomery Martin, Esq. 1847. China; Political, Commercial and Social: In an Official Report to Her Majesty’s Government . Vol. I. London: James Madden, 8 Leadenhall Street. p. 99

 

As Chinese sailors and immigrants traveled to new areas they brought their traditional arms with them.  Early observers in the American West noted that these weapons were often favored by the Tongs, gangs and drifters who monopolized the political economy of violence within the Chinese community.

The Bancroft library provides the earliest evidence I have yet found for hudiedao-type weapons in an engraving produced by the “Wild West Office, San Francisco.”  This picture depicts a battle between two rival Tongs (communal organizations that were often implicated in violence) at Weaverville in October, 1854.  Earlier that year the two groups, Tuolomne County’s Sam Yap Company and the Calaveras County Yan Wo Company, had nearly come to blows.

Both groups closed ranks, began to order weapons (including helmets, swords and shields) from local craftsmen, and spent months drilling as militia units.  However, the two sides were far from evenly matched.  The Sam Yap Company ordered 150 bayonets and muskets in San Francisco and hired 15 white drill instructors.  The Yan Wo Company may also have had access to some firearms, but was generally more poorly provided.

Period accounts indicate that about 2,000 individuals (including the 15 western military advisers) clashed at a place called “5 Cent Gulch.”  The fighting between the two sides was brief.  After a number of volleys of musket fire the much more poorly armed Yan Wo Company broke ranks and retreated.  Casualty figures vary but seem to have been light.  Some reports indicate that seven individuals died in the initial clash and another 26 were seriously wounded.

The conflict between these two companies was a matter of some amusement to the local white community who watch events unfold like a spectator sport and put bets on the contending sides.  An engraving of the event was sold in San Francisco.

While a sad historical chapter, the 1854 Weaverville War is interesting to students of Chinese Martial Studies on a number of fronts.  It is a relatively well documented example of militia organization and communal violence in the southern Chinese diaspora.  The use of outside military instructors, reliance on elite networks and mixing of locally produced traditional weaponry with a small number of more advanced firearms are all typical of the sorts of military activity that we have already seen in Guangdong.   Of course these were not disciplined, community based, gentry led militias.  Instead this was inter-communal violence organized by Tongs and largely carried out by hired muscle.  This general pattern would remain common within immigrant Chinese communities through the 1930s.

"A Chinese Battle in California." Depiction of rival tongs of Chinese miners at Weaverville in June 1854. Contributing Institution: California Historical Society. Bancroft Library, UC Berkley.

“A Chinese Battle in California.” Depiction of rival Tongs of Chinese miners at Weaverville in June 1854. Contributing Institution: California Historical Society. Bancroft Library, UC Berkley.

Given that the first known Chinese martial arts schools did not open in California until the 1930s, the accounts of the militia training in Weaverville are also one of our earliest examples of the teaching of traditional Chinese fighting methods in the US.  The degree to which any of this is actually similar to the modern martial arts is an interesting philosophical question.

 

Volkerkunde by F.Ratzel.Printed in Germany,1890. This 19th century illustration shows a number of interesting Japanese and Chinese arms including hudiedao.

Volkerkunde by F.Ratzel.Printed in Germany,1890. This 19th century illustration shows a number of interesting Asian arms including hudiedao.  The print does a good job of conveying what a 19th century arms collection in a great house would have looked like.

 

The Hudiedao as a Marker of the “Exotic East” in Early Photography

 

While the origins of photography stretch back to the late 1820s, reliable and popular imaging systems did not come into general use until the 1850s.  This is the same decade in which the expansion of the treaty port system and the creation of Hong Kong increased contact between the Chinese and Westerners.  Increasingly photography replaced private collections, travelogues and newspapers illustrations as the main means by which Westerners attempted to imagine and understand life in China.

Various forms of double swords occasionally show up in photos taken in southern China.  One of the most interesting images shows a rural militia in the Pearl River Delta region near Guangzhou sometime in the late 1850s (Second Opium War).  The unit is comprised of seven individuals, all quite young.  Four of them are armed with shields, and they include a single gunner.  Everyone is wearing a wicker helmet (commonly issued to village militia members in this period).  The most interesting figure is the group’s standard bearer.  In addition to being armed with a spear he has what appears to be a set of hudiedao stuck in his belt.

The D-guards, quillions and leather sheath are all clearly visible.  Due to the construction of this type of weapon, it is actually impossible to tell when it is a single sword, or a double blade fitted in one sheath, when photographed from the side.  Nevertheless, given what we know about the official orders for arming the militia in this period, it seems likely that this is a set of “double swords.”

The next image in the series confirms that these are true hudiedao and also suggests that the blades are of the long narrow stabbing variety.  This style of sword is also evident in the third photograph behind the large rattan shield.  These images are an invaluable record of the variety of arms carried by village militias in Guangdong during the early and mid. 19th century.

Rural militia in Guangdong, Pearl River Delta, taken sometime during the Second Opium War (1856-1860). Source http:\\www.armsantiqueweapons.com.

Rural militia in Guangdong, Pearl River Delta, taken sometime during the Second Opium War (1856-1860). Source http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

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

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

A third picture from the same series. Note the long thin blade being held behind the rattan shield by the kneeling individual. source http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

A third picture from the same series. Note the long thin blade being held behind the rattan shield by the kneeling soldier. The individual with the spear also appears to be armed with a matchlock handgun.  Source http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com.

The next photograph from the same period presents us with the opposite challenge.  It gives us a wonderfully detailed view of the weapons, but any appropriate context for understanding their use or meaning is missing.  Given it’s physical size and technology of production, this undated photograph was probably taken in the 1860s.  It was likely taken in either San Francisco or Hong Kong, though it is impossible to rule out some other location.

On the verso we find an ink stamp for “G. Harrison Gray” (evidently the photographer).  Images like this might be produced either for sale to the subject (hence all of the civil war portraits that one sees in American antique circles), or they might have been reproduced for sale to the general public.  Given the colorful subject matter of this image I would guess that the latter is most likely the case, but again, it is impossible to be totally certain.

The young man in the photo (labeled “Chinese Soldier”) is shown in the ubiquitous wicker helmet and is armed only with a set of exceptionally long hudedao.  These swords feature a slashing and chopping blade that terminates in a hatchet point, commonly seen on existing examples.  The guards on these knives appear to be relatively thin and the quillion is not as long or wide as some examples.  I would hazard a guess that both are made of steel rather than brass.  Given the long blade and light handle, these weapons likely felt top heavy, though there are steps that a skilled swordsmith could take to lessen the effect.

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

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

It is interesting to note that the subject of the photograph is holding the horizontal blade backwards.  It was a common practice for photographers of the time to acquire costumes, furniture and even weapons to be used as props in a photograph.  It is likely that these swords actually belonged to G. Harrison Gray or his studio and the subject has merely been dressed to look like a “soldier.”  In reality he may never have handled a set of hudiedao before.

A studio image of two Chinese soldiers (local braves) produced probably in Hong Kong during the 1850s. Note the hudiedao (butterfly swords) carried by both individuals. Unknown Photographer.

A studio image of two Chinese soldiers (local braves) produced probably in Hong Kong during the 1850s or the 1860s. This mix of weapons would have been typical of the middle years of the 19th century.  Note the hudiedao (butterfly swords) carried by both individuals. Unknown Photographer.

 

The Hudiedo and the Gun

 

While guns came to dominate the world of violence in China during the late 19th century, traditional weaponry never disappeared.  There are probably both economic and tactical reasons behind the continued presence of certain types of traditional arms.  In general, fighting knives and hudiedao seem to have remained popular throughout this period.

The same trend was also seen in America.  On Feb. 13th, 1886,  Harper’s Weekly published a richly illustrated article titled “Chinese Highbinders”  (p. 103).  This is an important document for students of the Chinese-American experience, especially when asking questions about how Asian-Americans were viewed by the rest of society.

Readers should carefully examine the banner of the engraving on page 100.  It contains a surprisingly detailed study of weapons confiscated from various criminals and enforcers.  As one would expect, handguns and knives play a leading role in this arsenal.  The stereotypical hatchet and cleaver are also present.

More interesting, from a martial arts perspective, is the presence of various types of maces (double iron rulers and a sai), as well as an armored shirt and wristlets.  The collection is finished off with a classic hudiedao, complete with D-guard and shared leather scabbard.  It seems that the hudiedao actually held a certain amount of mystic among gangsters in the mid 1880s.  The author notes that these weapons were imported directly from China.

Highbinder's favorite weapons

This image was scanned by UC Berkeley, Bancroft Library.

“The weapons of the Highbinder are all brought from China, with the exception of the hatchet and the pistol. The illustration shows a collection of Chinese knives and swords taken from criminals, and now in the possession of the San Francisco police. The murderous weapon is what is called the double sword. Two swords, each about two feet long, are worn in a single scabbard. A Chinese draws these, one in each hand, and chops his way through a crowd of enemies. Only one side is sharpened, but the blade, like that of all the Chinese knives, is ground to a razor edge. An effective weapon at close quarters is the two-edged knife, usually worn in a leather sheath. The handle is of brass, generally richly ornamented, while the blade is of the finest steel. Most of the assassinations in Chinatown have been committed with this weapon, one blow being sufficient to ensure a mortal wound. The cleaver used by the Highbinders is smaller and lighter than the ordinary butcher’s cleaver. The iron club, about a foot and a half long, is enclosed in a sheath, and worn at the side like a sword. Another weapon is a curious sword with a large guard for the hand. The hatchet is usually of American make, but ground as sharp as a razor.

The coat of mail shown is the sketch, which was taken from a Chinese Highbinder, is of cloth, heavily padded with layers of rice paper that make it proof against a bullet, or even a rifle ball. This garment is worn by the most desperate men when they undertake a peculiarly dangerous bit of assassination. More common than this is the leather wristlet. This comes halfway up to the elbow, and pieces of iron inserted in the leather serve to ward off even a heavy stroke of a sword or hatchet.” (Feb 13, 1887.  Harper’s Weekly. P. 103).

These passages, based on interviews with law enforcement officers, provide one of the most interesting period discussions of the use of “double swords” among the criminal element that we currently possess.  These weapons were not uncommon, but they were feared.  They seem to have been especially useful when confronting crowds of unarmed opponents and were frequently employed in targeted killings.  It is also interesting to note that their strong hatchet-points and triangular profiles may have been a response to the expectation that at least some enemies would be wearing armor.

Desperate men and hired thugs were not the only inhabitants of San Francisco’s Chinatown to employ hudiedao in the 19th century.  Both Cantonese Opera singers and street performers also used these swords.

During the early 1900s, a photographer named Arnold Genthe took a series of now historically important photographs of San Francisco’s Chinese residents.  These are mostly street scenes portraying the patterns of daily life, and are not overly sensational or concerned with martial culture.  One photo, however, stands out.  In it a martial artist is shown performing some type of fighting routine with two short, roughly made, hudiedao.

Behind him on the ground are two single-tailed wooden poles.  These were probably also used in his performance and may have helped to display a banner.  Period accounts from Guangzhou and other cities in southern China frequently note these sorts of transient street performers.  They would use their martial skills to attract a crowd and then either sell patent medicines, charms, or pass a hat at the end of the performance.  This is the only 19th century photograph that I am aware of showing such a performer in California.

The lives of these wandering martial artists were not easy, and often involved violence and extortion at the hands of either the authorities or other denizens of the “Rivers and Lakes.”  Many of them were forced to use their skills for purposes other than performing.

Arnold Genthe collected information on his subjects, so we have some idea who posed for in around 1900.

 “The Mountainbank,” “The Peking Two Knife Man,” “The Sword dancer” – Genthe’s various titles for this portrait of Sung Chi Liang, well known for his martial arts skills. Nicknamed Daniu, or “Big Ox,” referring to his great strength, he also sold an herbal medicine rub after performing a martial art routine in the street. The medicine, tiedayanjiu (tit daa yeuk jau), was commonly used to help heal bruises sustained in fights or falls. This scene is in front of 32, 34, and 36 Waverly Place, on the east side of the street, between Clay and Washington Streets. Next to the two onlookers on the right is a wooden stand which, with a wash basin, would advertise a Chinese barbershop open for business. The adjacent basement stairwell leads to an inexpensive Chinese restaurant specializing in morning zhou (juk), or rice porridge.”

Genthe’s Photographs of San Francisco’s Old Chinatown by Arnold Genthe, John Kuo Wei Tche. p. 29

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

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

 

Dainu’s hudiedao are shorter and fatter than most of the earlier 19th century models that have been described or shown above.  One wonders whether this style of shorter, more easily concealed, blade was becoming popular at the start of the 20th century.  These knives seem to be more designed for chopping than stabbing and are reminiscent of the types of swords (bat cham dao) seen hanging on the walls of most Wing Chun schools today.

Lin expected his militia to fight the British with these weapons, and the swords shown in G. Harrison Gray’s photograph are clearly long enough to fence with.  In contrast, Dainu’s “swords” are basically the size of large 19th century bowie knives.  They are probably too short for complex trapping of an enemy’s weapons and were likely intended to be used against an unarmed opponent, or one armed only with a hatchet or knife.

The next photograph was also taken in San Francisco around 1900.  It shows a Cantonese opera company putting on a “military” play.  The image may have originally been either a press or advertising picture.  I have not been able to discover who the original photographer was.

It is interesting to consider the assortment of weapons seen in this photograph.  A number of lower status soldiers are armed with a shield and single hudiedao shaped knife.  More important figures in heroic roles are armed with a pair of true hudiedaos.  Lastly the main protagonists are all armed with pole weapons (spears and tridents).

Cantonese Opera Performers in San Francisco, circa 1900. This picture came out of the same milieu as the one above it. Notice the wide but short blades used by these performers. Such weapons had a lot visual impact but were relatively safe to use on stage.

Cantonese Opera Performers in San Francisco, circa 1900. This picture came out of the same milieu as the one above it. Notice the wide but short blades used by these performers. Such weapons had a lot visual impact but were relatively safe to use on stage.

Cantonese opera troops paid close attention to martial arts and weapons in their acting.  While their goal was to entertain rather than provide pure realism, they knew that many members of the audience would have some experience with the martial arts.  This was a surprisingly sophisticated audience and people expected a certain degree of plausibility from a “military” play.

It was not uncommon for Opera troops to compete with one another by being the first to display a new fighting style or to bring an exotic weapon onstage.  Hence the association of different weapons with individuals of certain social classes in this photo may not be a total coincidence.  It is likely an idealized representation of one aspect of Cantonese martial culture.  Fighting effectively with a spear or halberd requires a degree of subtlety and expertise that is not necessary (or even possible) when wielding a short sword and a one meter wicker shield.

We also know that the government of Guangdong was issuing hudiedao to mercenary martial artists and village militias.  Higher status imperial soldiers were expected to have mastered the matchlock, the bow, the spear and the dao (a single edged saber).   While many surviving antique hudiedao do have finely carved handles and show laminated blades when polished and etched, I suspect that in historic terms these finely produced weapons there were probably the exception rather than the rule.

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

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

 

 

The Hudiedao as a Weapon, Symbol and Historical Argument

 

Butterfly Swords remained in use as a weapon among various Triad members and Tong enforcers through the early 20th century.  For instance, an evidence photo of confiscated weapons in California shows a variety of knives, a handgun and a pair of hudiedao.  This set has relatively thick chopping blades and is shorter than some of the earlier examples, but it retains powerful stabbing points.

Chinese Highbinder weapons collected by H. H. North, U. S. Commission of Immigration, forwarded to Bureau of Immigration, Washington D. C., about 1900. Note the coexistence of hudiedao (butterfly swords), guns and knives all in the same raid. This collection of weapons is identical to what might have been found from the 1860s onward.Courtesy the digital collection of the Bancroft Library, UC Berkley.

Chinese Highbinder weapons collected by H. H. North, U. S. Commission of Immigration, forwarded to Bureau of Immigration, Washington D. C., about 1900. Note the coexistence of hudiedao (butterfly swords), guns and knives all in the same raid. This collection of weapons is identical to what might have been found in either China or America from the 1860s onward.
Courtesy the digital collection of the Bancroft Library, UC Berkley.

Chinese coat of mail used by Chinese highbinders in San Fransisco. Contributing Institution: UC Berkeley, Bancroft Library. The possibility of meeting a foe wearing armor (also noted in the Harper's Weekly article) would certainly explain the popularity of strong stabbing points on some 19th century Hudiedao.

Chinese coat of mail used by Chinese highbinders in San Fransisco. Contributing Institution: UC Berkeley, Bancroft Library. The possibility of meeting a foe wearing armor (also noted in the Harper’s Weekly article) would certainly explain the popularity of strong stabbing points on some 19th century Hudiedao.

Still, “cold weapons” of all types saw less use in the second and third decades of the 20th century as they were replaced with increasingly plentiful and inexpensive firearms.  We know that in Republican China almost all bandit gangs were armed with modern repeating rifles by the 1920s.  Gangsters and criminal enforcers in America were equally quick to take up firearms.

The transition was not automatic.  Lau Bun, a Choy Li Fut master trained in the Hung Sing Association style, is often cited as the first individual in America to open a permanent semi-public martial arts school.  He also worked as an enforcer and guard for local Tong interests, and is sometimes said to have carried concealed butterfly swords on his person in the 1920s and 1930s.

 

Weapons confiscated in Chinatown, New York City, 1922. This haul shows a remarkable mixture of modern and traditional weapons. Source: NYPD Public Records.

Weapons confiscated in Chinatown, New York City, 1922. This haul shows a remarkable mixture of modern and traditional weapons. Source: NYPD Public Records.

 

On the opposite coast, New York newspapers ran a number of pictures of butterfly swords that reinforced many of the mythologies of the period. These portrayed Chinese-Americans as violent and untrustworthy individuals.  While a certain level community violence is (unfortunately) a constant in American life, such photos of exotic weapons (sometimes at crime scenes) seem to have closely tied such incidents to supposedly “timeless” and “unchanging” ethno-nationalist traits.  In a very real way butterfly swords and hatchets became identifying symbols of the Chinese American community prior to WWII.

Eddie Gong holding a pair of Hudiedao.

“Chinese With Knives. Ready for a Hammer and Tong War?” June, 1930.

 

Consider the iconic photograph of the Tong leader Eddie Gong inspecting a pair of hudiedao in 1930.   The caption that originally ran with this image promised violence as local Chinese-American hatchet men shined up their “cleavers” before turning them on their enemies.  In truth much of the violence in this period was carried out with guns, but the hudiedao remained a powerful symbol within the public imagination.

On a more technical level these swords have broad blades which show little narrowing as you approach the tip.  The actual point of the sword is rounded and not well adapted to stabbing.  In fact, they seem to be built more along the lines of a performance weapon than anything else.  On the one hand they are too large for concealed carry, yet they also lack the reach and stabbing ability that one would want in an offensive weapon.

Still, Eddie Gong’s hudiedao compare favorably with many of the more cheaply produced copies available to martial artists today.  Many experienced fencers and sword collectors are utterly perplexed when they pick up their first set of “bat cham dao,” and openly express wonder that these short, rounded, and poorly balanced blades could actually function as a weapon.  Their disbelief is well founded, but it usually evaporates when you place a set of well-made mid-19th century swords in their hands instead.

Hudiedao, like many other weapons, developed a certain mystique during the 19th century.  They were used in the poorly executed defense of Guangdong against the British.  In the hand of the Triads they were a symbol of personal empowerment and government opposition.  They were widely used by groups as diverse as local law enforcement officials, traveling martial artists, opera singers and community militias.  Their iconic nature probably helped them to survive in the urban landscape well after most other forms of the sword had been abandoned (the dadao being the notable exception).  However, by the 1920s these weapons were finally being relegated to the training hall and the opera state.  In those environments length, cutting ability and a powerful tip were not only unnecessary, they were an unrewarded hazard.  The symbolic value of these weapons was no longer tied to their actual cutting ability.

The San Francisco Call, 1898.

When not found within the training hall, butterfly swords made frequent appearances within Western “Yellow Peril” literature. The San Francisco Call, 1898.

 

Consider for instance the “bat cham dao” (the Wing Chun style name for butterfly swords) owned by Ip Man.  In a recent interview Ip Ching (his son),confirmed that his father never brought a set of functional hudiedao to Hong Kong when he left Foshan in 1949.  Instead, he actually brought a set of “swords” carved out of peach wood.  These were the “swords” that he used when establishing Wing Chun in Hong Kong in the 1950s and laying the foundations for its global expansion.

Obviously some wooden swords are more accurate than others, but none of them are exactly like the objects they represent.  It also makes a good deal of sense that Ip Man in 1949 would not really care that much about iron swords.  He was not a gangster or a Triad member.  He was not an opera performer.  As a police officer he had carried a gun and had a good sense of what real street violence was.

Ip Man had been (and aspired to once again become) a man of leisure.  He was relatively well educated, sophisticated and urbane.  More than anything else he saw himself as a Confucian gentleman, and as such he was more likely to display a work of art in his home than a cold-blooded weapon.

Swords carved of peach wood have an important significance in Chinese society that goes well beyond their safety and convience when practicing martial arts forms.  Peach wood swords are used in Daoist exorcisms and are thought to have demon slaying powers.  In the extended version of the story of the destruction of the Shaolin Temple favored by the Triads, Heaven sends a peach wood sword to the survivors of Shaolin that they use to slay thousands of their Qing pursuers.

Hung on the wall in a home or studio, these swords are thought to convey good fortune and a certain type of energy.  In fact, it was not uncommon for Confucian scholars to display a prized antique blade or a peach wood sword in their studies.  Ip Man’s hudiedao appear to be a (uniquely southern) adaptation of this broader cultural tradition.  As carved wooden works of art, they were only meant to have a superficial resemblance to the militia weapons of the early 19th century.

Ip Ching also relates that at a later date one of his students took these swords and had exact aluminum replicas of them created.  Later these were reworked again to have a flat stainless steel blade and aluminum (latter brass) handles.  Still, I think there is much to be said for the symbolism of the peach wood blade.

Butterfly swords remain one of the most iconic and easily recognizable artifacts of Southern China’s unique martial culture.  Their initial creation in the late 18th or early 19th century may have been aided by recent encounters with European cutlasses and military hangers.  This unique D-grip (seen in many, though not all cases) was then married to an older tradition of using double weapons housed in a single sheath.

By the 1820s, these swords were popular enough that American and British merchants in Guangdong were encountering them and adding them to their collections.  By the 1830’s, we have multiple accounts of these weapons being supplied to the gentry led militia troops and braves hired by Lin in his conflicts with the British.  Descriptions by Commander Bingham indicate the existence of a fully formed martial tradition in which thousands of troops were trained to fight in the open field with these swords, and even to flip them when switching between grips.  (Whether flipping them is really a good idea is another matter entirely).

Increased contact between Europeans and Chinese citizens in the 1840s and 1850s resulted in more accounts of “double swords” and clear photographs and engravings showing a variety of features that are shared with modern hudiedao.  The biggest difference is that most of these mid-century swords were longer and more pointed than modern swords.

Interestingly these weapons also start to appear on America’s shores as Chinese immigration from Guangdong and Fujian increased in the middle of the 19th century.  Period accounts from the 1880s indicate that they were commonly employed by criminals and enforcers, and photographs from the turn of the century show that they were also used by both street performers and opera singers.

Later, in the 1950s, when T. Y. Wong and other reformers wished to reeducate the American public about the nature of the Chinese martial arts they turned to public demonstrations and even the occasional TV appearances.  Once again the hudiedao were deployed to help them make their point.

 

Together with Lau Bun, TY Wong would oversee the martial arts culture in San Francisco's Chinatown for more than a quarter century. (Photo courtesy of Gilman Wong)

TY Wong demonstrating the use of the hudiedao on network television in 1955.  In this instance he appears to be using a very nice set of vintage blades. (Photo courtesy of Gilman Wong)

Still, these blades were in general shorter, wider and with less pronounced points, than their mid. 19th century siblings.  While some individuals may have continued to carry these into the 1930s, hudiedao started to disappear from the streets as they were replaced by more modern and economical firearms.  By the middle of the 20th century these items, if encountered at all, were no longer thought of as fearsome weapons of community defense or organized crime.  Instead they survived as the tools of the “traditional martial arts” and opera props.

Conclusion

 

While it has touched on a variety of points, I feel that this article has made two substantive contributions to our understanding of these weapons.  First, it pushed their probable date of creation back a generation or more.  Rather than being the product of the late 19th century or the 1850s, we now have clear evidence of the widespread use of the hudiedao in Guangdong dating back to the 1820s.

These weapons were indeed favored by civilian martial artists and various members of the “Rivers and Lakes” of southern China.  Yet we have also seen that they were employed by the thousands to arm militias, braves and guards in southern China.  Not only that we have accounts of thousands of individuals in the Pearl River Delta region receiving active daily instruction in their use in the late 1830s.

The popular view of hudiedao as exotic weapons of martial artists, rebels and eccentric pirates needs to be modified.  These blades also symbolized the forces of “law and order.”  They were produced by the thousands for government backed elite networks and paid for with public taxes.  This was a reasonable choice as many members of these local militias already had some boxing experience.  It would have been relatively easy to train them to hold and use these swords given what they already knew.  While butterfly swords may have appeared mysterious and quintessentially “Chinese” to western observers in the 1830s, Lin supported their large scale adoption as a practical solution to a pressing problem.

This may also change how we think about the martial arts that arose in this region.  For instance, the two weapons typically taught in the Wing Chun system are the “long pole” and the “bat cham do” (the style name for hudiedao).  The explanations for these weapons that one normally encounters are highly exotic and focus on the wandering Shaolin monks (who were famous for their pole fighting) or secret rebel groups intent on exterminating local government officials.  Often the “easily concealable” nature of the hudiedao are supposed to have made them ideal for this task (as opposed to handguns and high explosives, which are the weapons that were actually used for political assassinations during the late Qing).

Our new understanding of the historical record shows that what Wing Chun actually teaches are the two standard weapons taught to almost every militia member in the region.  One typically learns pole fighting as a prelude to more sophisticated spear fighting.  However, the Six and a Half Point pole form could easily work for either when training a peasant militia.  And we now know that the butterfly swords were the single most common side arm issued to peasant-soldiers during the mid. 19th century in the Pearl River Delta region.

The first historically verifiable appearance of Wing Chun in Foshan was during the 1850s-1860s.  This important commercial town is located literally in the heartland of the southern gentry-led militia movement.  It had been the scene of intense fighting in 1854-1856 and more conflict was expected in the future.

We have no indication that Leung Jan was a secret revolutionary.  He was a well known and well liked successful local businessman.  Still, there are understandable reasons that the martial art which he developed would allow a highly educated and wealthy individual, to train a group of people in the use of the pole and the hudiedao.  Wing Chun contains within it all of the skills one needs to raise and train a gentry led militia unit.

The evolution of Wing Chun was likely influenced by this region’s unique history of militia activity and widespread (government backed) military education.  I would not be at all surprised to see some of these same processes at work in other martial arts that were forming in the Pearl River Delta at the same time.

 

 

The Creation of Wing Chun by Judkins and Nielson.

The Creation of Wing Chun by Judkins and Nielson.

 

oOo

 

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: The Creation of Wing Chun – A Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts.

 

oOo


Recovering Alfred Lister: The Noble Art of Self-Defense in China (Part II)

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Vintage photography, circa 1860-1900.  Photographer unknown.

Vintage photography, circa 1860-1900. Photographer unknown.

Introduction

This is the second half of our two part series on the life and writings of Alfred Lister.  A civil servant in Hong Kong during the second half of the 19th century, Lister provided his readers with some of the most detailed English language discussions of the Chinese martial arts to emerge during the 1870s.  In the first part of this post (see here) we reviewed the biographical details of Lister’s life, and looked at the initial emergence of his interest in the Chinese martial arts.  It can be argued that this was a natural outgrowth of his efforts to translate the various sorts of “street literature” that he found in Hong Kong’s many market stalls.  These initial efforts tended to be more “literary” in character and were published under Lister’s own name.

In today’s post we will turn our attention to Lister’s two major descriptive treatments of the Chinese martial arts. The first of these was a newspaper article, while the other was an essay in the China Review (one of his favorite publications).  Unfortunately both pieces were published anonymously, due both to their content (boxing of any type was not entirely respectable in the 1860s and 1870s), and because the second of these accounts included a number of sharp attacks on Lister’s colleagues in Hong Kong.  As such, our first challenge will be to look at the external and internal evidence necessary to address the question of authorship.  After that we will ask how these two new sources relate to the Lister’s emerging discourse on Chinese boxing.

Our efforts will be amply rewarded as it turns out that Lister was one of the most important 19th century observers of the Chinese martial arts. Both of these sources have been previously discussed on Kung Fu Tea, but in neither case did I attempt to identify an author.  The first of these actually predates Lister’s 1873 translation of “A-lan’s Pig” (discussed in part I) and may have been part of his background research on the nature of Chinese boxing while producing the translation of this Kung Fu laden opera.  On July of 1872 the North China Herald (a widely read English language newspaper) ran an anonymous article editorializing on a recent event titled simply “Chinese Boxing.”

If you have not yet done so please consider reading the first half of this essay. The discussion below follows directly upon what was already posted.

 

Image taken from a vintage french postcard showing soldiers gambling in Yunnan province.  Note that the standing soldier on the left is holding a hudiedao in a reverse grip.  Source: Author's personal collection.

Image taken from a vintage french postcard showing soldiers gambling in Yunnan province. Note that the standing soldier on the left is holding a hudiedao in a reverse grip. Source: Author’s personal collection.

 

“Chinese Boxing” in the North China Herald.

 

There can be no doubt that this article was one of the most interesting 19th century statements by Western observers of the Chinese martial arts.  Those who have read Lister’s previous commentaries will notice a familiar ring in this author’s biting tones.  Anyone wishing to review the substance of his account (an examination of the social consequences of a death in a challenge match fought over a gambling debt) can do so here. Indeed, one suspects that it was the connection between marketplace gambling and boxing that propelled Lister’s pen as he worked on his translation of “A-lan’s Pig” (a story in which two such gentlemen play an important role).

For our current purposes it is necessary to review the story’s introduction, including a passage omitted from my previous discussions of the piece, in which the author tackles questions of translation and the social equivalence of Chinese and Western Boxing.

 

“If there is one particular rather than another in which we might least expect to find John Chinaman resemble John Bull, it is in the practice of boxing.  The meek celestial does get roused occasionally, but he usually declines a hand to hand encounter, unless impelled by the courage of despair.  He is generally credited with a keen appreciation of the advantages of running away, as compared with the treat of standing up to be knocked down, and is slow to claim the high privilege the ancients thought worthy to be allowed only to freemen, of being beaten to the consistency of a jelly.

How the race must rise in the estimation of foreigners, therefore, when we mention that the noble art of self-defence and legitimate aggressiveness flourished in China centuries probably before the “Fancy” ever formed a ring in that Britain which has come to be regarded as the home of boxing.  Of course, like everything else in China, the science has rather deteriorated than improved; its practice is rough; its laws unsystematized; its Professors are not patronized by royalty or nor petted by a sporting public; the institution is a vagabond one, but an institution none the less.

Professors of the art, called “fist-teachers,” offer their services to initiate their countrymen in the use of their “maulies,” and, in addition in throwing out their feet in a dexterous manner…

…Boxing clubs are kept up in country villages, where pugilists meet and contest the honours of the ring. Unfortunately, popular literature does not take cognizance of the little “mills” in which the Chinese boxer “may come up smiling after round the twenty-fifth,” nor are the referees, if there be any, correspondents of sporting papers, so that we are unable to tell whether the language is rich in such synonyms as “nob,” and “conk,” and “peepers,” and “potato-trap.”  But if boxers appreciate, as much as their foreign brethren, the advantages over an ignorant and admiring mob which the assumption of a peculiar knowledge gives, we may well suppose that, as they smoke their pipe and sip there tea, they talk over the prowess of the Soochow Slasher or the Chefoo Chicken in a terse and mystic phraseology, embellished with rude adjectives and eked out by expressive winks.” (emphasis added).

Even though there is no evidence that the two gamblers involved in the fatal fighter viewed their encounter as a sporting event, Lister again adopts “the Fancy” as his lens for both making sense of these events and explaining them to his reader. Points of similarity and difference are carefully noted.  Yet the author refers to these practices as “the noble art of self-defense”, a phrase without any real equivalent in the world of the 19th century Chinese martial arts, yet one that had become synonymous with English pugilism during this era.  Readers were left with no question as to the appropriate paradigm for interpreting these events.

The repeated, and always ironic, invocation of this specific phrase seems to be something of a hallmark of Lister’s writing on the topic.  Indeed, it is repeated (and even emphasized) in each of the four of the discussions of the Chinese martial arts that can be traced directly to him.  While other authors of the period made references to “Chinese boxing” in general, this longer formulation appears much more rarely.

Needless to say, by whatever name, the Chinese martial arts fared badly in Lister’s account.  The two gamblers manage to destroy (and in one case end) their lives through their ill-fated challenge match.  They appear almost as hapless as the characters in “A-lan’s Pig.”

What is interesting to note, however, is that their Western brethren do not come off much better.  Indeed, the author’s point is precisely that the difference in these pursuits is one of degree rather than kind.  In both cases he perceives similarly situated institutions in which a group of marginal individuals create a body of esoteric knowledge (and just as importantly, a specific language) that grants them the illusion of social standing.  Yet ultimately the idea of standing up to be “beaten to the consistency of a jelly” is just as foolish in a Western boxing ring as a Chinese marketplace.  Indeed, Lister’s extended exploration of Western boxing terminology ensures that his critique is aimed just as squarely at the former as the latter.

Reader’s should also note that the author of this account has evidently been searching the popular literature of southern China in hopes of coming across a sustained discussion of the hand combat community.  While he initially indicates that he found nothing, Lister’s luck seems to have changed sometime between the end of 1872 and 1874.

In 1874 Lister published what is probably the single most important period account of the Southern Chinese martial arts to appear during the 19th century.  His most comprehensive statement on the subject ran in The China Review (Vol. 3 No. 2), and was titled “The Noble Art of Self-Defense in China.”  Once again, it was Lister’s keen interest in popular literature that brought this work to light.

Like his earlier 1873 article in the same publication (“A Chinese Farce”), this work also purported to be a “direct translation” of a pamphlet or penny book that he had been acquired from a local book stall.  He notes that the publication in question was very inexpensive and contained a number of crudely executed woodcuts.  It promised its readers two lessons in unarmed boxing, three discussions of staff fighting, and seven more focusing on swords, shields and various polearms.

Perhaps the most important thing to note about this small work is the mere fact of its existence.  In Kennedy and Gao’s very informative reference work, they note the existence of a number of distinct genres of martial arts manuals during the late imperial and Republic period.  Lister’s fight book does not fit within any known category.  Specifically, they state that while hand copied manuscripts were circulated during the Qing era, printed manuals meant for commercial sale were not developed until the Republic era renaissance of interest in the traditional martial arts.

Yet Lister is clearly describing a printed martial arts manual (produced using wood blocks) decades before the end of the dynasty.  In fact, a close examination of the historical sources reveal at least one other Western observer encountered a similar book (with an additional emphasis on strength training), as early as 1830. Remarkably, not one of these pamphlets is known to have survived, which makes Lister’s detailed description of the book and its contents all the more important.

Modern historians will be disappointed to note that, while Lister reproduced a number of the original wood blocks prints, his “translation” of this text was even more of a transformation than what he offered readers of “A Chinese Farce.” After an extensive (and revealing) discussion of the social milieu from which this book arises, he informs his readers that:

“The title of the little pamphlet placed at the head of this paper is not in the least a free translation, but literal.  It is a fact that, for less than a penny, you buy at a stall in a Chinese street a brochure called, in so many words, The noble art of self-defence, and that the purchaser who is about to read it will be curiously reminded of whatever he may have heard of the slang of the ring at home, by phrases, not so literally exact as the above but quite sufficiently suggestive of “stand firm on your pins,” “pop in your left,” “hit straight from the shoulder,” and “let him have it in the bread-basket.”

Again, the substance of this work has previously been discussed elsewhere. Yet even the short paragraph above suggests much that must be considered.  We once again see the author’s interest in drawing an equivalence between the esoteric language of Western and Eastern boxing.  Whereas the existence of a shared mechanism of gaining legitimacy through language was suggested in the North China Herald article of 1872, now Lister claims to have found confirmation of his hypothesis in the popular martial arts literature itself.

Readers will also note that Lister has returned to once again meditate on “the noble art of self-defense.”   It is claimed (rather improbably) that this English language idiom is a literal translation of the book’s Chinese title.  Of course in the very next line this bold proclamation is qualified with the more modest, “in so many words.” This partial walking back actually suggests something other than “an exact translation” might be at play.

In this case Lister has done his readers the favor of including the characters of the text’s actual Chinese title (雄拳拆法)in the very first footnote of his article.  As one would probably expect, the actual title has little do with “self-defense,” noble or otherwise.

After examining the question Douglas Wile has concluded that perhaps a more accurate translation of the included characters might be “Tearing Down Techniques of Hero Boxing.”  He notes that first two characters 雄拳 would be something like “Hero Boxing” or “Martial Art of the Hero.”  “Hero Boxing” is a term that still exists within the region’s martial arts today.

拆法, the second set of characters, is a bit more mysterious.  Wile further wonders “if it could be a term for ‘martial arts’ in a local dialect, since the book seems to have been written for the “street.” 法 by itself can be as broad as style and as narrow as technique” (Personal correspondence).

The suggestion of a local connection is an interesting one.  A number of existing Choi Li Fut schools use the 雄拳construction (often with an additional modifier).  Further, at one point in his background discussion to the translation Lister offers the following description of a sparring exercise in which two local boxers were induced to wear western style boxing gloves:

“Anything more exquisitely ludicrous than a couple of Chinese induced to put on the gloves (after an example of their use from Englishman) I have never seen.  They cautiously backed on each other until the seats of their trousers almost touched, each one bending himself nearly double to avoid the imagined terrific blows his antagonist was aiming at his head, and at the same time striking vaguely round in what schoolboys call the Windmill fashion.”

After stripping the invectives from this account, one is left with the idea of deep stances and wide, swinging, straight armed blows.  Such a description is certainly reminiscent of Choy Li Fut, which was perhaps the most popular martial art throughout the Pearl River delta region at the time that Lister carried out his investigation.

Then again, the name of the first unarmed technique in the book, “The Hungry Tiger Seizes the Sheep” is also seen in modern Hung Gar. While I am not sure that Lister’s reconstruction of the technique is descriptively accurate, the illustration of figure B in the first wood cut does bear a certain resemblance to how the technique is still described today.

 

Wood block cuts illustrating unarmed Boxing form the "Nobel Art of Self Defense." (circa 1870).  Note that the individual on the left is striking a boney target (his opponent's face) with an open hand, where as the "figure A" on the left is now attacking a soft target with a closed fist.  This is generally good advice and it is still taught in the southern Chinese martial arts today.

Wood block cuts illustrating unarmed Boxing form the “Nobel Art of Self Defense.” (circa 1870). 

 

While it may not be possible to trace this small pamphlet to a specific school, the techniques which it lists are clearly present in the southern Chinese martial arts.  Readers may also note, for instance, the appearance of the area’s distinctive hudiedao in fig. VI, complete with handguards.

Given the importance of this text to our understanding of the Southern Chinese martial arts, resolving the question of authorship is particularly important.  Unlike the 1872 article on Chinese Boxing, this text is not totally anonymous.  It lists an author by the initials (or acronym) L.C.P.  In itself this is not unusual as many of the early entries in The China Review had authors who were equally cryptic.

When attempting to unravel this mystery modern students have two sources of evidence that they can draw on.  There are those clues that are found within the text, and those that come from outside of it.  In this case the external evidence is clearer so we will start there.

“The Noble Art of Self-Defence in China” was exciting enough that the article was not soon forgotten by its readers.  It was actually reprinted in at least two other cases that I have been able to identify.  Most notably, in 1884 The China Mail reprinted large sections of this article with its own (horrifyingly racist) introduction provided by the paper’s editor.  This same editor, when commenting on the piece, mentioned that it was originally written by Alfred Lister, and went on to list the positions that Lister was currently holding in Hong Kong’s government.  Given that Lister’s earlier comments on Chinese boxing were published under his own name (1870 and 1873), and his already noted penchant for translating a wide range of popular literature, this identification seems plausible.

In terms of textual evidence, there are a number of quirks that we could point to.  These including the author’s ongoing fascination with applying the idiomatic expression “the noble arts of self-defence” to Chinese hand combat, his sardonic habit of bequeathing upon his readers “literal translations” that were clearly anything but (“I my stand on fol-lol, I stake my reputation on fol-lol!”), and the repeated efforts to draw connections between Chinese and Western boxing not just on a social but also a linguistic level.

If that were not enough, “L.C.P.” seems to wink at his real identity in a number of places.  Any reader who actually went through the footnotes would quickly notice that Lister actually cites and draws on his own discussion of “A Chinese Farce” in the course of his translation of “The Noble Art of Self-Defense in China.”

So why the elaborate charade? In the 1870s it was acceptable for a civil servant, and trained translator, to employ his skills as a literary critic in the public discussion of scholarly works.  Yet it was probably less advisable to put one’s own name on such frivolous activities as publishing amateur poetry or investigating the various ways in which professional gamblers and actors spent their free time.

A close reading of this text suggests that there may have been other reasons as well.  To begin with, the expatriate community in Hong Kong was not that large during the 1870s, and Lister launched some stinging attacks against his colleagues and fellow residents in the opening pages of this article.  One of the more serious of these attacks was a direct rebuke to a fellow jurist in serving in the court system.  Lister also lampooned the frustrations and failures of a (probably well known) visiting VIP to replicate the feats of strength commonly practiced by Chinese soldiers.

One suspects that quite a few people would have been able to guess immediately at the real identity of the author of this article (particularly when specific statements made in court were being quoted).  Indeed, such politically ill-advised behavior may explain why the individual who wrote Lister’s anonymous obituary in 1890 observed that he was often alone and died with few friends.  Publishing under a creatively obscure acronym probably provided Lister enough of a fig leaf to go about his daily work.  And his connection to this work was just scandalous enough to allow the editor of The China Mail to take pleasure in outing him when he served as the colony’s treasurer.

 

Another wood block print from the "Nobel Art of Self-Defense."  Notice the long, narrow, pointed hudiedao and clearly illustrated D-guards.  Also note that the posture of this individual is identical to the figure in the first painting.

Another wood block print from the “Nobel Art of Self-Defense.” Notice the long, narrow, pointed hudiedao and clearly illustrated D-guards. Also note that the posture of this individual is identical to the figure in the first painting.

 

Assessing the Contribution

 

The evidence presented here suggests that between 1869 and 1874 Alfred Lister, in addition to his many duties within the Hong Kong Civil Service, undertook a proto-sociological study of the Chinese martial arts.  He produced at least four published statements (1870, 1872, 1873 and 1874) on the topic.  In two cases (1870 and 1873) he signed these with his own name.  And in two more (1872 and 1874) both external and internal evidence strongly suggest his authorship.

Lister was not overly sympathetic towards the Chinese martial arts, yet he made some important sociological observations.  He noted that the public performance of the martial arts was a form of marketplace entertainment associated with the selling of patent medicine.  These same arts were commonly found within gambling houses.  The arts that civilians did (while clearly not identical) were related in fundamental ways to the practices that soldiers cultivated in their garrison houses.  And finally, all of this was connected to the opera (a major institution within traditional Chinese society), in ways that modern historians are still struggling to understand.  As he noted in 1874:

“It is probably actors out of employ who make a precarious living by exhibiting, and professing to teach these tricks in the street.  Contemptable as they may seem to a man fresh from Oxford, it cannot be denied that they often exhibit surprising quickness, strength and agility.” (86)

Nor can we ignore the importance of Lister’s writings as a historical artifact.  In publishing a partial translation and transcription of “The Noble Art of Self-Defence in China” he preserved a surprisingly detailed record of a genre of popular writing on the Chinese martial arts that has survived nowhere else.  Indeed, this small text compliments and sits on the same level as the Bubishi (a hand written manuscript tradition that survived only in Okinawa) as witnesses to the nature of late 19th century southern Kung Fu.

Perhaps the greatest strength of Lister’s writing was his determination to make all of this accessible to the English language reading public, even if that meant arguing for unconventional methods of translation.  The fact that his works were reprinted by multiple outlets during the coming decades suggests the degree to which his descriptions gripped the public’s imagination.  What had not been done, prior to this series, was to publicly identify the full range of texts that Lister authored and to demonstrate how his understanding grew over time.

Lister’s discussion of Chinese boxing was not without serious flaws.  His finely tuned sense of “the ridiculous” often outstripped his ethnographic curiosity.  And while he correctly identified a number of the sectors of Chinese society that supported the martial arts (military, theater, medicine, gambling…) his inability to set aside his western categories of understanding meant that he was never able to identify core values or appreciate the identities that lay beyond these practices.

When comparing the Chinese martial arts to their supposed western counterparts Lister saw mainly their shortcomings. For him traditional hand combat would always remain an unscientific version of Western boxing or a backwards method of military training.  Lacking a general theory of the nature and purpose of the martial arts, he was ultimately unable to make sense of what he saw, even while he was forced to acknowledge the surprising strength and speed of specific boxers.

In the final analysis one is left to wonder what Lister would have learned about the Chinese martial arts if he had joined those soldiers from Canton as they practiced in front of their barracks, rather than simply observing them from a distance. Would practicing the Chinese martial arts have forced him to confront these deeper questions of meaning, culture and identity?  Or lacking a theoretical foundation, would these experiences simply have become another blind spot?

 
oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read:  Butterfly Swords and Boxing: Exploring a Lost Southern Chinese Martial Arts Training Manual.

oOo


Through a Lens Darkly (43): Chinese Amazons and the “Weapons of the Forefathers”

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"Back to Weapons of Forefathers in War with Japanese." Vintage newspaper photograph. June 1937. Source: Author's private collection.

“Back to Weapons of Forefathers in War with Japanese.” Vintage newspaper photograph. June 1937. Source: Author’s private collection.

Wonder Woman with a Dadao

 

 

In China the realm of social violence, and the martial arts in particular, has been male dominated.  That does not mean that women never became a part of such activities.  After all, they played an increasingly high profile role in the martial realm from the early 1920s onward.  By the time that hostilities erupted between China and Japan in 1937, female martial artists and soldiers were often at the forefront of Western reporting on the conflict, if not the actual fighting.

Nevertheless, locating accounts of these individuals can be difficult.  It seems that within the resolutely patriarchal lineage societies of the martial arts the contributions (and even presence) of daughters, sisters and female students was less likely to be remembered.  Just as serious  an issue is our (in)ability to search through the mountains of historical data that remain.  While many stories have been forgotten, others are hidden in plain sight.

As is so often the case, finding the proper search terms (in both Chinese and English) is half the battle.  To investigate the past, even in one’s native language, is to engage in an act of “cultural translation.”  Ideas, associations, idioms and identities that made perfect sense 60 or 70 years ago might never occur to us today.  Worse yet, they can seem off-putting.

Here is a quick pro-tip.  If you are interested in unearthing accounts of female Chinese martial artists and soldiers during the 1930s-1940s, try searching for “amazons.”  One suspects that the release of the new Wonder Woman film (set during WWI) might refresh some of these linguistic associations within our modern popular consciousness.  Yet as the newspapers of the period will be quick to remind you, the Chinese also had a wide variety of “amazons.”

Students of cultural history and gender studies may find it interesting to note what sorts of activities and identities fell within this category.  I have seen female bandits, soldiers, rioters, politicians and suffragettes all referred to as “Chinese Amazons” by various newspaper reporters.  While at the first cut this may seem like an overly broad label, it is actually a very helpful way of understanding the connotations, connections and inflections that were associated with the idea of female martial artists during the Republic period.

Still, for our purposes, female martial artists and soldiers are the most interesting cases.  The image at the top of this essay is a scan of a eight by ten inch press photo dated June, 1937.  The photograph itself, marked with a wax pencil to increase the level of contrast and detail, is fascinating.  It shows a woman holding either a long handled dadao or a shorter pudao.  The weapon has a tightly braided cord handle with a ring at the bottom.  It is also possible to make out two holes in the spine.  Best of all, the back of the image retains its caption bearing a wealth of information.

 

BACK TO WEAPONS OF FOREFATHERS IN WAR WITH JAPAN

HONG KONG, CHINA—Famous among the modern amazon warriors of the Chungshan district near Macao—where Chinese women guerillas are engaging in combat with the Japanese—is Miss Tam Tai-men, who has achieved fame through her skills with the famous Chinese broad sword against the Japanese invaders.  6-7-39

Readers may recall that a few years ago I interviewed Prof. Stephen Chan about his grandmother who was also a swordswoman and militia leader at this point in time (though her village was just outside of Guangzhou).  It is fascinating to find a picture of another female martial artist following a similar career path.  Yet from the perspective of my current research, what is most remarkable is not simply the existence of such women, but that their presence was being actively promoted in the Western press.

In the coming decades western martial artists would show a great deal of interest in the idea of Chinese “warrior women.”  Historically inclined discussions often debunk this as a simple misunderstanding (or naive acceptance) of Republic era folklore. But I think that we should also consider the possibility that this fascination was partially a result of fact that such “amazons” had been the public face of the Chinese war effort for the better part of two decades.

That observation suggests many other questions.  There is something about this photograph that feels not just heroic, but mythic.  I think that images like this resonated with the public because they tapped into fundamental symbolic structures (“myths” in the anthropological sense) which made cross-cultural communication (or at least empathy) possible.  Yet one suspects that they also promoted a entire range of political ideas and ideologies as well (or “myths” as the term is often encountered in cultural studies).

Indeed, everything about this photo, from the reference to taking up the “weapons of the forefathers”, to the almost stark image of a lone female warrior standing against an empty sky, seems calculated to raise awareness of, and interest in, China’s plight at the start of WWII.  Wartime reporting is never without an ideological slant. Indeed, that is a feature of this genre rather than a  bug.

Readers may also recall that Wonder Woman, perhaps the most successful “amazon warrior” of all time, first emerged to fight the Axis Powers on the pages of American comic books in 1941. One cannot help but suspect that the two streams of mythology that would have guided the audiences interpretation of this press photo probably shaped her creation and acceptance as well.

We can delve more deeply into what exactly these streams contained by reading the many articles that accompanied such photos.  I have transcribed a later example of one such piece that explores a slightly different aspect of the Chinese “amazon phenomenon.”  Rather than focusing on the lone warrior (or the improbable leader of a rebel band), this piece tracks the creation of a much larger, all female, fighting force organized as part of a regular military structure.

The story of how the unit came together, and what inspired individual women to enlist, is fascinating.  Yet once again, its hard not to see in these verbal images the creation of a very politically useful set of myths.  The first task facing the Chinese and their friends in the West in 1937 was to convince the American public that the Chinese people were both capable and willing to stand up to Japanese aggression.  The next task was to generate monetary contributions for the war effort.  Readers should note the various ways in which this article accomplishes both goals.

To a large extent these tasks are carried out by manipulating the image of “Chinese amazons.”  Women’s bodies are shown as the sites of both victimization and resistance.  In an effort to generate broad based public sympathy these female soldiers are notably de-sexualized.  Indeed, that task takes up a surprising amount of the author’s overall effort.  Clearly the idea of fighting amazons was somewhat threatening. As a result, great efforts were made to argue that contributions to the war effort would not be supporting anything “unsavory.”  And yet these women had to be seen as at least somewhat attractive to generate sympathy.  This article makes it clear that more than one battle was being fought with/over these women’s bodies.

By the end of the Second World War combat journalism and political propaganda had familiarized American audiences with the image of the Chinese amazon.  The public seems to have been fascinated by her ability to disrupt certain hierarchies in the pursuit of “universal values.”  Yet what exactly those values were, whether the Chinese martial arts were deeply conservative in character, or an aspect of the burgeoning post-war counter-culture movement, would be negotiated for decades to come.  Unsurprisingly many of these conversations continued to revolve around the feminine and the female in these fighting systems.

 

 

AMAZON FORCES AID RESISTANCE

 

About three thousand of Kwangsi’s hardy womenfolk have laid aside the sickle and hoe for the big sword and Mauser rifle and joined their men in resisting the  Japanese penetration in the Southwest.

For 22 months of the war, China’s New Life Movement has carried extensive propagation of the significance of China’s unity to the rural districts.  China’s womanhood has been mobilized under Madame Chiang Kai-shek’s banner in all phases of war work-but in Kwangsai, a province famed for its fighting spirit, it has been the peasant women who have taken the initiative in rallying for the salvation of their country.

Not content with performing the mere domestic services connected with Kwangsi’s armies, they have formed a Women’s Regiment which has been drilled and disciplined under the leadership of Madame Pai Chung-his, wife of Kwangsi’s No. 2 General.

Recent reports from the Southwestern front state that the Women’s Regiment is participating in the defense of the Lingyang Railway in an effort to prevent the Japanese drive on Toishan, Yanping and Hoiping, rich towns in the West River delta and the native homes of many overseas Chinese in the United States and Canada.  Chinese overseas remittances contributed largely to the support of Kwangsi’s valiant army and its Women’s Regiment.

When their men first rallied to Kwangsi’s Commander-in-Chief, General Li Tsung-jen, and then followed him to Central and Northern China at the outbreak of hostilities, the more prominent among Kwangsi’s women, as in most other provinces, organized a Women’s Corp.  They were recruited for service behind the lines and for carrying on agriculture and industry at home.  In this respect, Kwangsi’s women earned the praise of Madam Chiang for their initiative and self-reliance.

But as the months rolled on, the war assumed a new significance for Kwangsi’s women.  The battles of Taierchwang and Hsuchow, in which General Li’s fifth group army won fame, swelled the number of widows and bereaved mothers and sisters in Kwangsi.  In increasing numbers, bands of sturdy women and workers presented themselves at the Group Army headquarters in Kweilin, demanding to be allowed to join their men in the ranks or to be allowed to fight the enemy to avenge the deaths of their male relatives.

It was in the latter part of 1937 that the first really militant sections of the Women’s Corp was formed.

At first it numbered about 700, composed mainly of land workers with muscles as hard as those of their menfolk through years of toil in their mountainous province; but as the spirit spread the ranks of the Women’s Regiment swelled with the recruitment of women from all walks of life-teachers, nurses, store assistants and even housewives.

Now the Women’s Regiment is reliably estimated to number 3,000.

“No stream lined beauties these,” said an executive of an American oil company when he recently returned from a tour of the Southwest, where he came into contact with the women soldiers.” “’amazons’ is rather a shop-soiled term, but it is the only one which describes them.

“Most of them are short and squat and of sturdy build…in appearance they are actually not unlike the Japanese soldiers.  They wear a uniform which is the exact counterpart of the men’s and throw a hand-grenade with the best of the men.

“In fact, I had no idea the detachment I saw was composed of women until I saw them at close quarters.”

“Their code of discipline is of a high order.  They live in the barracks when at their headquarters in Kweilin and are subject to the same military routine as the men.  As a rule they are detailed to rear positions, forming support and supply lines but vernacular reports received in Hong Kong tell of women fighters engaging in actual combat, side by side with the Kwangtung and Kwangsi troops in the West River sector.  They have suffered some casualties and a recent report from Shekki tells of some badly wounded being in hospital there.

Their moral discipline is also of the highest order.  Although they are not completely segregated from the men when at the front, maybe for long weeks of entrenchment, strict celibacy is maintained.

“There’ll be no call for a midwife in the Women’s Army.” Said the foreign oil man,  “The girls are loath to betray any sign of femininity.  I don’t suppose one of ‘em has known the taste of lipstick nor the feel of one of these slit gowns the slim Hong Kong girls wear.  But don’t get the idea that they are without attraction…they are bronzed and healthy, with perfect teeth and the merriest of smiles.

“They are paid about twenty Chinese dollars a month, but money doesn’t seem to trouble them much.  Given their ration of rice and vegetables and a place in the ranks, they are content…but what they hunger for most is a chance to take a smack at the enemy.”

“The vernacular papers in Hong Kong recently published a story of one of the wounded women soldiers. She was formerly a Kwangsi countrywoman.

“My husband has done me the greatest honor in my life by dying for China in the fight in the north.  I have his name and will continue his fight against the enemy till I die.” She said.

The China Critic (Shanghai; 1939-1946). Jun 8, 1939. P. 154

 

oOo

 

If you enjoyed this you might also want to read: Lives of Chinese Martial Artists (15): Fei Ching Po – Professional Gambler and Female Martial Artist in Early 19th Century Guangzhou

 

oOo

 


Villains, Guns and Humor: Giving Texture to the Early 19th Century Chinese Martial Arts

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"Muslim Bandits," Xinjiang, China [c1915] Marc Aurel Stein [RESTORED]

“Muslim Bandits,” Xinjiang, China [c1915] Marc Aurel Stein [restored]

 

 

Any traveler can attest that detours come in two forms.  They all take a little longer, and most offer nothing but delay.  Others can lead to fascinating discoveries.  These often come in the form of local sandwich shops frequented by hipsters or a scenic overlook. This same principle applies regardless of whether one is on a purely geographical journey, or if you are traveling through time.

 

And it goes without saying that there is no better portal for time travel than the rare book collections at Cornell University.

 

That is where I found myself earlier this week.  I was about to embark on a lengthy exploration of how Chinese martial artists were discussed in the Western press between the months of May and August in 1900.  Historically informed readers will immediately recognize this as one of the most fluid periods in the Boxer Uprising.  It was in the spring and early summer of 1900 that what had previously been a local disturbance between groups of marginal peasants in Shandong Province ignited like a wild fire across northern China and began to take on a much more menacing character.  Newspapers across Europe and North America found themselves scrambling to explain to their readers what exactly a “Chinese boxer” was at the start of what turned out to be one of the great media spectacles of the early 20th century.

 

But before jumping into the fires of the Boxer Uprising I decided that I should wrap up one last loose end from my research for a previous chapter.  In 1830 a Western magazine published a fascinating discussion of a mass produced Chinese martial art manual (printed with wooden blocks) that was then being sold in the markets around Guangzhou (previously discussed here). The editor of the magazine noted that their article was a reprint of a piece that had originally run on a specific date in The Canton Register.

 

I had never taken the time to track down the original version of the article before, but I decided that it would be a good idea to do so.  While unlikely, it was possible that the original description would be more detailed.  And an “easy” assignment such as this would be a good way to get to know the rare books collection.

 

Did I already mention the nature of detours?

 

It was with great excitement that I opened the bound volume of beautifully preserved, hand set, newspapers that one of the research librarians brought to the reading room.  There is always a thrill when you work with a primary source document, particularly one that you know was handled by a figure that you have researched (in this case William Wightman Wood, the paper’s editor, who would later go on to help Dunn assemble his famous “China Museum.”)

 

That sense of “touching history” creates a real rush.  And it is amazing how fast it can all come crashing down when you search the volume and realize that Wood didn’t print an issue of his newspaper on the date specified by the later editor (at least not in the year 1830)!  Of course, this is exactly the reason why historians go back and look at original documents, rather than just relying on later reprints and inference.  And scanning an entire years’ worth of shipping news and local gossip, was also a valuable reminder of how long doing your ‘due diligence’ can take.

 

I was faced with a choice, either start looking for the missing article in previous volumes of the newspaper, or slow down and take a closer look at 1830.  Given that the volume was already in front of me, I opted for the latter.  And it was fortunate that I did.  While the Canton Register never devoted many column-inches of space to Chinese boxing (though the subject certainly came up from time to time), I found at least three short stories published in 1830 that provide some valuable texture and detail regarding the world that traditional martial artists inhabited following the pirate crisis of the early 19th century, and prior to the outbreak of the Opium Wars and the Red Turban Revolt in the middle of the century.

 

Each of these pieces is also interesting in that they address the question of who was imagined as “the villain” in situations where the martial arts might be employed.  In the first case the problem was groups of armed ruffians engaged in daylight activities as diverse as extorting “alms” from wedding processions, to kidnapping children who would then be trafficked into slavery.

 

In the second instance the stakes were more existential in nature.  This is a story about the “martial virtue” of individual officers when a case of cheating was uncovered in the military examination system.  It is interesting to read about the case in question, and also the repercussions for those involved.

 

The third article returns to the world of crime.  The opposition is no longer armed bands harassing individuals in public places.  Rather, the new problem is cat burglars sneaking along the rooftops of a neighborhood and the utter inability of both the local magistrate and residents to do anything about it.  This story is also particularly interesting as it reminds us that (Wong Fei Hong movies notwithstanding) there has never been a golden age of kung fu in which firearms did not exist. It is too often forgotten that it was the Chinese who invented gunpowder, and no, they did not only use it for fireworks.

 

Indeed, this notice turns out to be largely a story about how common firearms ownership was and the inability of local magistrates to do anything about it.  By the end of the incident the official in question was reduced to reminding the people that, at least on paper, none of them owned firearms, and that he would greatly appreciate it if they only used their (non-existent) guns on actual night stalkers.  The continual shooting at shadows was keeping the entire neighborhood up at night.

 

Beyond that, each of these accounts carries a certain undertone of dark humor.   One suspects that this reflects Wood’s personality rather than the official Chinese proclamations that they were based on.  Still, I think that each of these accounts is vastly improved if read in the voice of Cecil, the community radio announcer from “Welcome to Night Vale.” Taken as a set they help to enrich our understanding of the social environment that gave rise to the modern martial arts.

 

Mid 19th century Chinese soldier with matchlock

Mid 19th century Chinese soldier with matchlock. Firearms like this one were the most commonly encountered type during the early 1830s.

 

 

Canton Register

Wednesday, 3rd February 1830

Vol. 3 No. 3

 

No title.

 

A series of proclamations have been issued by the magistrate against vagabonds who form themselves into parties of THREE to FIVE, who arm themselves with swords and “iron clubs”—i.e., sticks of iron about a foot in length.  Night and day, the Magistrates say, these vagabonds distress the peaceable inhabitants by putting them in bodily fear and extorting money; and sometimes by detaining people and extracting ransom.

Another proclamation is to interdict swearing in brothers—i.e., forming associated banditti by a solemn oath.  This they say has long been a violation of the law; and “hundreds of thousands” have been punished for it; some by decollation; some by strangling; others by transportation.  But still the mania continues.  The law is disregarded, and death is not dreaded—a state of feeling the most detestable.

Another proclamation is against the harbourers of thieves and receivers of stolen property.

A fourth is against incendiaries who set fire to houses for the sake of plundering.

A fifth is against banditti who force farmers and fisherman on the coast, to take out a permit of personal security from them—paying out the same.

A sixth is against play-actors setting off large rockets, which have of late occasioned large fires and the deaths of many persons.  For during the confusion, some are trampled to death, and some are burnt.  As these plays in Canton are often on the banks of rivers it happens that numbers of people are drowned; and banditti who assemble at these religious plays, run away with women and children for the purpose of selling them.  Mr. Hoo, the Pwan-Yu Magistrate says, that plays in Spring when playing to the Gods; and plays in Autumn when thanking them are allowed by law: But sending up large rockets is contrary hereto.

A seventh proclamation is against killing cattle used in agriculture.  A man who kills his own buffalo is liable to a punishment of 80 blows, and wearing a wooden collar one month.  Those who kill and sell beef are liable to the same punishment as those who steel cattle, i. e., to be punished with a hundred blows, and transported three thousand le.

The eighth and last proclamation in the series that comes to us, is one against sturdy beggars, who extort money at marriages and funerals. [Page 2.]

 

 

 

ARCHERY

 

For the highest honors both civil and military, certain examinations take place in the presence of the Emperor.  The other day Lew-Chaou-Lan of Shan-Tung Province exhibited in the Imperial presence and passed with success, till O-Ke-Wang re-examined the Candidates, when an imposition in the strength of the bow was detected. The Impostor is disallowed to exhibit again for one term, and the great officers who first passed him, as well as he who detected him, are delivered to a court of inquiry, the first to be punished and the second to be rewarded. [Page. 3]

 

 

Canton Register

Saturday, July 3rd 1830.

Vol. 3 no.13

 

FIRE ARMS. The Magistrate of the Namboy District lately gave permission to the inhabitants to fire upon thieves on the top of houses after dark.  By an order which he has now just issued it appears that the permission has been abused, and that the inhabitants are disturbed by constant firing and popping all night.

The magistrate has therefore modified his former order, and declares fire arms to be by law illegal, and that nothing but the most urgent cases can excuse the use of them.  He still permits the moderate use of them, when it is certain a man is a thief and they cannot catch him; but not to be firing off on every absurd suspicion, which rather aids the thieves than hinders them. [Page 1].

 

Chinese Matchlocks, most likely Qing era.  The middle example is the type most commonly encountered in historic illustrations.  The top most model appears to be Indian in style.  Source: Wikimedia.

Chinese Matchlocks, most likely Qing era. The middle example is the type most commonly encountered in historic illustrations. The top most model appears to be Indian in style. Source: Wikimedia.

 

oOo

 

If you enjoyed these articles you might also want to read: Forgetting about the Gun: Firearms and the Development of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts.

oOo


Why is Ip Man a Role Model?

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Donny Yen reprises his role as Ip Man.  Is this Ip Man your role model?

Donny Yen reprises his role as Ip Man. Is this “Ip Man” your role model?

 

 

***Greetings!  I am currently on the road for research.  As such, we will be delving into the archives for today’s post.  This essay (first published in 2014) takes a closer look at Ip Man’s transformative social memory in the current era.  Given that his visibility continues to increase, and we are expecting even more Ip Man films in the future, this weekend seems like the ideal time to revisit some of these issues.***

 

 

 

A Question from a Reader

 

 

The title (and subject) of today’s post is borrowed from a search query that brought a reader to this blog last week. WordPress has an incentive to encourage writers to improve the popularity of their blogs as that allows them to sell more advertising. As such they provide a basic package of metrics allowing the owner of every blog to see just how popular their latest post was, how many other pages have been clicked and where all these visitors are coming from.

I suspect that this blog is fairly ordinary in that most of its traffic is generated first by visits from regular readers (thanks!) followed by searches and Facebook clicks. Some browsers allow you to see the specific search query that directed someone to your page.

“Bruce Lee” generates more traffic for this blog than any other single question. Given his association with the Chinese martial arts in the public consciousness, that is not much of a surprise. Beyond that things are pretty random.

I do not normally pay a lot of attention to search queries, but at some point last week a reader ended up coming to Kung Fu Tea looking for information about Ip Man. Specifically, they wanted to know why he is a role model. I do not know who the reader was, or even in what context they asked the question.

Still, this seemingly simple question struck me as being actually quite complicated. I could easily imagine someone asking me this exact question in a personal conversation and I realized that I am not sure what I would say.

This is not because I am unfamiliar with Ip Man. He became the subject of an extended case study in my volume (now in paperback!) on the social history of the southern Chinese martial arts. I have read most of what has been published on his life (in both Chinese and English), my coauthor has interviewed his surviving family members. I have spent years studying his martial art on a practical level as well as delving into more theoretical discussions about their origin and place in Hong Kong society. Ip Man is someone with whom I am very familiar and have deep respect.

Still, on some level I am not sure what it means to ask why a martial arts master from a previous generation is a “role model.” One suspects that many of the individuals who might hold him in this regard are not all that familiar with the actual details of his life and career. Like his student Bruce Lee, Ip Man’s image has been spread and immortalized through a number of generally well produced martial arts films by directors such as Wilson Ip (“Ip Man” 2008), Wong Kar-wai (“The Grand Master” 2013) and Herman Yau (“Ip Man, the Final Fight” 2013). It looks like there may even be more in the works.

The real Ip Man was known within the Hong Kong martial arts community, but he was far from a household name. While teaching Wing Chun was his primary source of income, he never advertised his school and refused to even hang up a sign. His younger students in the 1950s and 1960s certainly looked up to him as a role model. In accounts of his school they remember not just his great skill but also his humor, gentleness and genuine friendship in an era when Kung Fu teachers and students did not always have close relationships.

For the current generation of students in both Hong Kong and the west, who have never had the opportunity to meet Ip Man, asking in what ways he functions as a “role model” becomes a more complicated question. He has gone on from being remembered as “the teacher of Bruce Lee” to becoming a popular media property in his own right. The Ip Man that most of us are familiar with is not a humble Kung Fu teacher in Kowloon, but a local hero from Foshan who single handedly defended the honor of the southern Chinese martial arts (and identity) by wiping out a room full of Japanese karate students after defeating a number of wandering northern wushu masters in artistically choreographed duels.

It would be wrong to note that the Ip Man who exists in the public consciousness is an artistic creation, an invention of the entertainment industry, and simply dismiss the question out of hand. Obiwan Kenobi, one time general of the Clone Wars and Jedi recluse, is also a fictional character. Yet he continues to be cited as an inspirational role model by generations of movie goers. When it comes to role models, their tactile reality may be less important than the functions that they perform. As so many others have noted, Obiwan is an almost perfect “initiatory figure.”  He shows no sign of fading from discussions of youth role models just because he is fictional.

The question seems not be whether one has actually talked with a role model, but whether you have “focused” on them. Indeed, the selection and construction of role models always includes a dose of fantasy.  In that sense Ip Man once again becomes very interesting.

As a recent historical figure, fans that enjoyed his movies have a chance to go out and collect more information about their new hero. Since Ip Man’s career is pretty well documented there are many accounts that can be studied and meditated upon. In an ironic twist the known historical details of Ip Man’s life have become a sort of “hypertext” for his fictionalized biography. They are an additional “DVD Special Feature” that true fans might wish to track down to show their increasing dedication to their role model.

Then there is Wing Chun. Ip Man left behind more than just historic accounts and vintage photographs. He and his students did a remarkable job of saving their version of the Wing Chun system from obscurity. It is now one of the most popular Chinese martial arts in the world.

Most Wing Chun schools are presided over by Ip Man’s portrait and they feature his training methods. These are usually an emphasis on practical applications, a concept based approach to the Chinese martial arts, and an emphasis on Chi Sau (or sticky hands) as a major teaching tool. Ip Man’s personal approach to the martial arts still exists within his teaching system and it gives modern students a way of experiencing some aspect of his presence even if they cannot touch hands with the master directly.

Within my lineage it is said that Chi Sao unfolds like a conversation. In tactile and subconscious terms it asks students to consider “what would you do in this situation.” When Ip Man touched hands with his first student he started a new branch of this age-old conversation, and it is one that has never stopped.

Students are drawn to Wing Chun for a variety of reasons. Some are looking to get in shape, others want to learn how to defend themselves. A not insubstantial number have seen the recent Ip Man films and they, on some level, are looking for that “role model.” Almost all of them will discover after a few weeks or months that the reality of Wing Chun training (or any martial art) is different from what they initially expected.

More interesting to me is the question of why they stay. I suspect that for many individuals they remain because they enjoy being part of the conversation that Ip Man started. They feel compelled to keep listening and they want to make their own contributions to it.

 

 

And this is how he is imagined today, as an almost superhuman fighter.

Ip Man as imagined in “The Grandmaster” (2013).  Is this “Ip Man” your role model?

 

 

 

What is a Role Model?

 

Still, not everyone who is respected is accepted as a role model. In the United States presidents are generally respected, yet the partisan nature of the political system tends to excludes modern leaders from the ranks of universally accepted “role models.” Likewise on a university campus the president is always a respected figure, but empirically speaking students are much more likely to cite their own professors as role models, or individuals who had a transformative impact on their lives.

The idea of a “role model” has so completely penetrated popular thought that we often forget that it is in reality a (contested) sociological theory attempting to explain certain aspects of youth socialization. This term was coined by Robert Merton, an important professor of Sociology who spent much of his career at Columbia University in New York City.

Merton is probably best remembered today as the father of the “sociology of science” as well as for his work on “unintended consequences” in complex social systems (another new common term which he coined). The idea of the “role model” emerged as he watched the ways in which medical students at Columbia learned new social roles and identities as they sought to align their behavior with the expectations of a “reference group.” The realization of the importance of an individual “role model” and mentor arose as an extension of his research on “reference groups.”

One of Merton’s critical realizations was that initiates did not necessarily have to belong (or have expectations of belonging) to the reference group in order to be influenced by its presence. Broader social structures that linked these players and transmitted expectations turned out to be the critical links. It is these structures that both open the possibility for, and demand the acceptance of, an entire range of new behaviors and identities rather than just the adoption of a single role (in this case becoming a medical doctor).

A reference group or role model helped to demonstrate this more complex set of social relationships. Yet what makes someone an effective role model is precisely the fact that they are in some ways quite different from the individuals who are observing them. If we are discussing an instructor passing on purely technical skills, it may be helpful to have two individuals with similar backgrounds so that the student will be confident in their ability to also perform the task at hand.

In the case of a role model the specific things that they do take a back seat in importance to how they go about doing them. Or more specifically, how do they relate to other individuals and social groups in the performance of these skills. This is where identity, rather than just technical expertise, is demonstrated.

Of course the idea of “difference” is central to discussions of role models and identities in the Asian martial arts. Adam Frank explored the question of how racial and national identity affected the transmission and transformation of martial practice in his volume Taijiquan and the Search for the “Little Old Chinese Man”: Understanding identity through the martial arts. It may be worth considering how different preexisting social categories affect Ip Man’s availability as a role model.

As we saw previously, within the primary community of his own Wing Chun clan in Hong Kong during the 1950s and 1960s, there can be no doubt that Ip Man functioned as a role model for his younger students. In his accounts of life during the early years of the school, Chu Shong Tin has noted how the older Ip Man, who received a traditional education in Foshan before attending an English high school (or college) in Hong Kong, appeared to be the epitome of the traditional Confucian gentlemen. Displaced young men in Hong Kong, or simply those wrestling with questions of what it meant to be “Chinese” while living in a rapidly changing city under foreign control, were drawn to the confidence and “Confucian glamor” that he radiated.

In Ip Man these individuals found a role model for the performance of (one version of) traditional Chinese values and identities in the modern world. This image led to the development of certain expectations that went well beyond the presentation of Wing Chun as a fighting system. When it was revealed that Ip Man was involved with another woman (other than his wife) during the 1950s many of his students took this to be a serious breach of their conception of “martial virtue” as well as their expectations of how a traditional gentleman should behave.

In point of fact the “traditional gentlemen” who inhabited the world of Ip Man’s youth took second wives with some frequency. Still this rupture in expectations hurt his ability to act as a role model. Many students left during this period.

This brings up one of the many issues that surround the question of role models. In technical terms such an individual is valuable because they demonstrate a new set of identities and social relationships that the student feels compelled to take on. They act as initiatory figures in the ritual of life.

Yet as a society we tend to place unrealistic demands on our role models. We want our youth to be exposed to only the most exemplary behaviors. This is the trap of the modern celebrity role model. Youth turn to celebrities (often in the sports and entertainment industries) as they are exemplars of both social and material success. The fact that their image is distributed through various mass marketing campaigns also makes them readily available for different sorts of appropriation and manipulation in youth culture.

Unfortunately the personal lives of many of these celebrities seem almost calculated to give parents and teachers heart burn. Actors and athletes are more often chosen for their unique professional qualifications rather than their ability to model the set of values (usually quite puritanical) that we wish for our own children. Nor is it always wise to delve too deeply into the biographies of your childhood heroes.

This warning also holds true for Ip Man, and many other traditional martial arts masters. As the younger son of a very wealthy family, Ip Man was not forced to do much to contribute to the family fortune. After returning to Foshan from Hong Kong he enjoyed a life of wealth and leisure as he focused on his martial arts and other hobbies, rather than making more concrete social contributions. To use modern parlance, as a young man the future master was basically a “kung fu bum.”

Accusations of drug use swirl around Ip Man’s career.  Opium was commonly consumed within elite social circles during the Republic period and Ng Chung So’s school (frequented by Ip) was said to be in the back room of a local opium den. Some of Ip Man’s students have also accused him of using drugs (either opium or heroin, accounts differ) later in the Hong Kong period as well. The historical reliability of these accounts is questionable.  Yet when thinking about someone’s value as a “role model” reality is much less important than perception. The current popular wisdom which will quickly be encountered by anyone researching the internet for details of Ip Man’s life is that he was a drug addict.

There are other stories about his career which, while not damming, do not easily fit into the sorts of exemplary modes that we wish to see our children emulating.  While the Ip Man of the big screen is clearly meant to be a hero, the historical figure was vastly more complex. It is not uncommon to encounter on-line discussions in which certain darker elements of his life story are held up as reasons to stay away from Wing Chun, or at least his organization.

Socially speaking we seem to reserve a special place in hell for (often reluctant or unwitting) role models who disappoint our expectations. Nor is Ip Man alone in this. The one fact that has become abundantly clear as I have researched the lives of many Republic era martial artists is that while most of these individuals had very admirable traits, few of them were saints. All of them were complex people with multifaceted lives. Ip Man’s recent prominence seems to have attracted a certain amount of negative attention that more obscure figures are often spared. Still, it raises questions of who could function as an effective role model in the current social environment.

Answering this last problem requires that we be willing to refocus our analytical lens on our own motivations. American society is marked by a certain sense of restlessness. In different times this has manifest itself in a variety of ways from the drive for independence, to the Jacksonian push to overthrow social restrictions, to “manifest destiny” as the country pushed west. We seem to be a people either geographically or socially on the move.

China (and by extension Chinese martial culture) has played an interesting role in all of this. So often it has become the “metaphorical other,” the foil against which we have defined our conception of self. As John Rogers Haddad points out, Chinese tea, served in blue and white porcelain bearing images of a wistful oriental landscape, were some of the only trade goods to be found in the majority of American homes from the middle of the 18th to the early 19th century.

Even more interesting to consider is that in an age before mechanical reproduction, when few newspapers had illustrations, the images of an idealized Chinese landscape found on these willow ware dishes was often the only pictures that one could find in the average American home. Is it any wonder then that when so many Americans dreamed of an escape from the drudgery of daily life it was to China (or more precisely the quasi-imaginary and mystical land of Cathay) that their minds flew?

Later in the 19th century with the advent of steam ships and rail roads (and the violent opening of both China and Japan by western imperialist) the dream of travel started to become a reality. Of course it was only a reality for the fortunate few. Most people remained tied down by work and family and commitments, and could not afford to spend six months on a grand tour of Asia. Yet in an era when the restless American spirit found its fullest expression in exploration and wanderlust, there was immense interest in those who could.

Haddad notes that the late 19th century, as a new round of western colonization was encircling the globe, was perhaps the only time in which travel writers became universally acclaimed national celebrities and role models. Within the printed pages of their journals middle class readers found entertainment, often dressed as educational expositions, in the vicarious voyages being mass produced by various newspapers and publishers.

Bayard Taylor became a national celebrity after the publication of series of letters detailing his journey up the coast of China and then to Japan (with Admiral Perry) in the 1850s. Lacking any form of scientific or geographic training Taylor relied on the art of analyzing faces and heads (popular in the 19th century) to divine the true nature of the communities who he encountered.

His judgments on Chinese society (then wracked by the Red Turban Revolt in Guangzhou and the Taiping Rebellion in Shanghai) were devastating. In China Taylor found a people who were prone to disorder, vice and violence. Apparently he made no allowances for the fact that the people he encountered were largely refugees from the most devastating civil war in human history. The Japanese he judged to be intellectually curious and progressive, a nation to be watched with empathy and great interest.

Taylor’s judgments helped to pave the path for the late 19th century Exclusion Act which barred Chinese immigration to the United States. They also seem to prefigure a long standing pattern in the role that China and Japan would play in the popular imagination. While America would go on to fight a bloody war against the Japanese, the public has always had an easier time accepting their aesthetic and cultural values. In the 20th century China, while still exotic, remained tinged with the perception of disorder and violence.

During the post-war period Americans were once again struck with wanderlust, yet increasingly it was the internal world to which they turned their attention. The exploration of the mind and the unknown kingdom of “personal potential” became major themes during the 1960s and 1970s. This quickly became bound up with the growing interest in Asian culture and art which was evident in many quarters of American society, from the 1950s veterans of the Japanese occupation to the counter culture movements of the 1970s.

At this cultural moment the ascetic discipline and philosophy of the martial arts became linked to the exploration of the self through altered states of consciousness. Here was a method by which practically any individuals could experience their body and senses in new ways, doing things that they had never previously thought possible.

While all of this is certainly true, it is also worth pointing out that what drove a peasant to join the Red Spears in 1928, or a teenager to study Kung Fu in Hong Kong in 1958, differed in important ways from the motivations of the average American in 1978. Here we see the wide scale adoption of Chinese physical culture as an expression of distinctly western political and social impulses.

Still, if one is going to radically transform the self, a “reference group” is necessary. If one is going to unlock the potential of altered states of consciousness, a guru or initiatory figure seems to be an essential part of the process. And if one enrolls your child in martial arts classes in the hopes that they will gain confidence, self-esteem and discipline, the promise of an appropriate set of role models is mandatory.

 

 

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

A rare shot of Ip Man enjoying a cup of Kung Fu Tea.  Is the historic Ip Man your role model?

 

 

 

Reevaluating Ip Man as a Role Model

 

All of this brings us back to our opening question. Why is Ip Man a role model? The most immediate answer is that certain communities have decided to promote him as such because his public image has become closely linked with a set of social values that they hold. Still, it should be noted that not all of these communities share the same ideals. The Confucian behavior that was so important to his students in Hong Kong in the 1950s would likely go largely unnoticed (or unidentified) by his great-grand students in America today.

Their knowledge of Ip Man is not a product of personal contact and relationships within a primary community. Rather he is similar to other celebrity role models, the product of a commercial media discourse which individuals appropriate and modify (often in very creative ways) to their own ends. Often these have more to do with the expression of western New Age impulses and orientalist fantasies than they do an actual engagement with the complex and messy reality of Chinese culture. The memory of Ip Man becomes a screen onto which these various identities and yearnings can be projected. To borrow a concept from Adam Frank, Ip Man functions as a role model in the west to the extent that he can be imagined as simply the latest incarnation of the wise and eternally vital “Little Old Chinese Man.”

Of course all of this discussion leaves open the question of my own feelings about Ip Man and whether I personally consider him to be a role model. One of the hazards of going to graduate school is the slowly dawning realization that “theory ruins everything.”

On the one hand it gives you the conceptual tools and research skills to really delve into subjects of interest. Yet in some ways it makes the enjoyment of popular culture more difficult. After studying economics one sees market failures on every trip to the grocery story. Feminist theorists discover an unending stream of gendered discourses in every new television show, and historians can be very difficult people to watch movies with. Graduate school might make you smarter, but I am not sure that it makes you any happier.

On a fundamental level I am not really sure how useful the idea of “role models” are for understanding how new identities form. This was a concept that arose in the context of a specific theory and its ultimate value is something that sociologists and psychologists will have to determine. I am more certain that trying to make martial arts masters easily marketed “youth role models” by reducing the complexity and nuance of their lives is probably a losing proposition in the long run.

Still, I suspect on some level I do accept Ip Man as a role model. It is hard to admire someone who is absolutely perfect. One of the things that I find most interesting about him is that he is a very sympathetic figure. He was capable of being lonely and depressed, he had trouble sleeping and he loved nothing more than to watch building fires. His personal life was marred by constant disruption and frustrated expectations.

Throughout this all Ip Man demonstrated a remarkable ability to endure, to go on and build a new life in the face of disappointment. In a way his life story is emblematic of what was happening throughout Chinese society. He was born into a landlord’s family at the end of the Qing dynasty, he came of age during the tumultuous Republic, weathered the Japanese invasion and finally witnessed the victory of the communist party. Each of these events redirected the course of his life in important ways. These changes also transformed the role of the martial arts within Chinese society.

Ip Man had an opportunity to witness a period of immense social change. In every period he found a new way to live. Finally, in Hong Kong he drew on this accumulated wisdom to create a compelling vision of how Wing Chun could be transformed and promoted as a modern fighting system, one which would bridge China’s past and future.

Ip Man was many things, some of them contradictory. He was both a pragmatist and an idealist. He valued traditional culture, yet he was a reformer within the world of the southern Chinese martial arts. When faced with change and loss he responded by putting forth a burst of creative energy. In his martial arts instruction he advanced a series of questions that his students are still exploring today.

The pace of change and global transformation has not diminished since Ip Man’s death in 1972. If anything it has increased. Social dislocation and frustrated expectations are the inevitable results of these large scale economic shifts. What does one do when the dreams of past generations have lost their luster? Can greatness still exist in a world of diminished expectations? Ip Man’s life forces us to once again confront the central question, “What would you do?” In many ways he seems to be an ideal role model for the current age.

 

 

 

 

oOo

 

If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read: Ming Tales of Female Warriors: Searching for the Origins of Yim Wing Chun and Ng Moy.

 

oOo


Chi Sao, Ip Man and the Problem of “Dispersed Training” in Wing Chun

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Ip Man practices Chi Sao With Moy Yat.

Ip Man practices Chi Sao With Moy Yat.

 

 

***Over the next couple of weeks I will be devoting time to some non-blog writing projects.  So, from time to time, we will be dipping into the Kung Fu Tea’s (rather extensive) archives.  I particularly enjoyed writing this post and its a topic that I still think about.  This essay is also a nice example of how a historical familiarity with the development of the Chinese martial arts can help us to frame current trends.  Enjoy***

 

Introduction

 

Rather than delving into a deeply historical discussion, today’s post is intended to be a personal reflection on the role of Chi Sao, or sticky hands training, in the modern Ip Man lineage Wing Chun. That is not to imply that there will be no history. There will, but I will try to keep it topical.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the practice, Chi Sao is one member of a larger family of “sensitivity training” drills that are seen in some (though not all) Chinese martial arts. Probably the best known example of this sort of training would be “Push Hands” in Taijiquan. Yet even that simple equation exposes the first of two problems that must be dealt with before we can proceed.

While in some ways similar, Chi Sao is not Push Hands. Both exercises represent an abstraction away from free sparring and seek to educate their practitioners about the proper responses to certain types of contact and pressures.  Yet they proceed with different assumptions and a logic of their own. There are a great many sensitivity games out there, and each one is unique. Worse than that, I suspect that even within the Wing Chun community there is sufficient variation in our understanding of what the goals of Chi Sao are, and how the game is most productively played, that it might actually be counterproductive to lump it all under a single label.

All of which is to say, it is difficult to speak in overly broad terms about Chi Sao. It is something that most Wing Chun practitioners spend a lot of time on, and so naturally everyone feels a sense of ownership over this distinctive training process. While the following reflections will try to be as general as possible, at the end of the day my remarks will inevitably reflect the lineage and philosophy that I have trained in. Your mileage may vary.

The second problem that arises when we attempt to speak of the place of Chi Sao in Wing Chun training is more historical in nature. I just said that this was going to be a personal reflection, but historical curiosity is an important part of who I am and how I approach my training. Simply put, while Chi Sao practice is at the heart of Wing Chun today (at least within my lineage and most of the schools that I am personally familiar with), this was not always the case.

 

A Social History of Chi Sao

 

What was traditional Wing Chun training like in the generation of Leung Jan? To be totally honest we have no idea, and I personally would be suspicious of anyone claiming hard and fast answers to that question. We have very few written sources from that period and most of the oral traditions that exist in the Wing Chun world today seem to have been massively overhauled in more recent decades.

But we can speak more reliably about the era of Chan Wah Shun. Accounts indicate that when individuals from Foshan (such as Jiu Wan as well as Ip Chun and Ip Ching) arrived in Hong Kong they were surprised by how Ip Man (Chan’s student) was presenting his art.

With all of the talk of “lost lineages” it is not uncommon to hear individuals questioning whether Ip Man “changed his art” in the Hong Kong period. Was he still teaching the sort of Wing Chun that he had learned earlier in the century? The various eye-witness accounts that we have from the 1950s and 1960s would seem to indicate that what he was doing was very clearly identifiable as Wing Chun. The biggest changes seemed to be in the process that he was using to present his art to a new generation of younger, urbanized and more modern students.

As many accounts indicate, Ip Man streamlined the presentation of material and adopted something like an informal curriculum. He jettisoned many of the cultural trappings of Wing Chun such as the rhymed couplets that had been used in Chinese martial arts training for hundreds of years, as well as traditional concepts including the eight trigrams and the five elements. And while Ip Man had some background in the traditional medical systems of his teachers, this does not appear to be something that he ever stressed in his Wing Chun training. Like many residents of Hong Kong at the time, he turned to western medicine when seriously ill.

Another change has less to do with what he taught than how he introduced material. As with other fighting systems, the sorts of Wing Chun instruction seen in Foshan during the 1920s seem to have featured long periods of stance and movement training prior to the introduction of more combative techniques. Realizing that his younger and highly mobile students in Hong Kong would not put up with this, Ip Man’s children have asserted that he introduced both single and double armed sticky hands training much earlier in his curriculum to help increase student retention.

This move makes sense on multiple levels. To begin with, sticky hands training can be a lot of fun. It is more of a game than a type of sparring, but it’s a game where someone can get smacked in the head quite hard if they aren’t paying attention to what is going on. While it teaches sensitivity, Chi Sao can also be a fast paced and competitive practice. Many schools today go to lengths to keep things calm, yet as more advanced techniques are brought into play, and more open (non-bridged) structures are introduced, what started out as a simple game can come to approach something that looks a lot more like sparring. It was hoped that these elements of Chi Sao would aid in students retention, and judging by the raw numbers, the plan worked.

Of course by introducing Chi Sao earlier Ip Man was also forced to teach basic offensive and defensive techniques right at the beginning of the instructional process. Gone were the weeks or months of stance training. Instead students could be equipped with a passable kit of self-defense skills in a few months.

A number of commentators (chief among them Leung Ting) have speculated that this change in the way that information was introduced was responsible for much of Wing Chun’s early success in Hong Kong’s marketplace. Relatively new students were given fighting techniques, a venue to hone these skills in a semi-competitive setting, and then plenty of chances to try them out in the unsanctioned rooftop matches that were so common in Hong Kong at that point in time. As they gained experience in both arenas they became noted as skilled fighters compared to other students of equal age. This reputation then attracted more athletic talent to Ip Man’s doorstep.

Thus the strong emphasis on Chi Sao training seen in much of Wing Chun today (certainly within the Hong Kong branch) appears to be an artifact of Ip Man’s desire to build a certain sort of school in a specific time and place. It might be too strong to say that Chi Sao made Wing Chun what it is, but it certainly gave it a push in that direction

In my (admittedly partial) reading of these events, Chi Sao probably functioned as an effective training tool for two reasons. After the first couple of years Ip Man’s efforts to build a school were pretty successful, so there were a large number of enthusiastic students to take up the practice. This is one of those activities where you definitely benefit from touching arms with a more diverse group of practitioners.

Secondly, a pretty high percentage of these students were actually involved in the bemio, or youth challenge fight, subculture that so vexed Hong Kong’s parents and civil authorities in the 1950s and 1960. Thus they had some actual fighting experience, and probably expected to receive more in the near future. I suspect that individuals with this sort of background might be better able to absorb the skills that Chi Sao is attempting to convey while not confusing the abstraction of the training exercise with the reality of a fight (at least as they experienced it).

So does that mean that Chi Sao always functions as an effective training tool? Probably not. As the previous discussion suggests, there are a number of factors at play.

Hong Kong in the post-WWII era was something of a special case for martial arts instruction. The sheer number of styles that were present in the city, the social tensions that resulted from the influx of refugees and other economic problems, and the area’s unique cultural history all helped to encourage the growth of a variety of martial arts traditions.

Yet this highly concentrated mode of development, in which we see many students flocking to established schools and styles, was not always the case in southern China. Consider once again the story of the Phoenix Village Boxing society, which I reviewed in a post earlier this year.

Ip Man and his best known student, Bruce Lee.

Ip Man and his best known student, Bruce Lee.

 

 

A Short Visit to Phoenix Village

 

 

An ethnographic account of Phoenix Village in Guangdong Province, completed during the 1920s, included a short but interesting discussion of the role of traditional boxing in the area’s social structure. What we saw in this case was an oscillation between two different modes of martial arts organization.

Most of the time, relatively few people seemed to be interested in boxing. Some of the aficionados likely found specialized employment as bouncers in the town’s two full-time gambling houses. The others were basically hobbyists who maintained a personal interest in some aspect of the martial arts, but lacked any larger collective institution or school to advance their practice.

Then, every so often, a social alignment would occur. One of the two clans that ran the village would decide, for whatever reason, to either tolerate or encourage the resurrection of the village Boxing Society. When this happened an outside instructor from a neighboring village was hired, regular classes were organized, and for a period of time a very large proportion of Phoenix Village’s young men would take up martial arts training.

Unfortunately the authors of this particular study were highly focused on the internal structure of this single village and so they did not have much to say on what might have sparked these developments. We know from other accounts that rumors or the actual appearance of bandits in the countryside could lead to calls for martial arts training. Periodic feuding with neighboring villages could also have the same effect. Both of these catalysts might negatively impact the wealth of major landlords, and this would probably explain their sudden enthusiasm for the martial arts. After all, one must protect your investments.

Then, after a period of time, the outside teacher would leave for a new job. His local students would continue on for a while, but inevitably disputes would break out. These were deemed to be socially disruptive to the village, and the entire Boxing Society would be disbanded and put into stasis until the next time that the local elites decided to support its rejuvenation. Anyone who maintained their interest in the martial arts did so as an individual with no institutional support within the village (though the authors hint at the possible importance of larger regional networks).

This account struck me as interesting as it showed two different modes of social organization that Phoenix Village’s boxers seemed to swing back and forth between with a fair degree of regularity. Most of the time they maintained their interests (and any studies) as either individuals or within very small groups. We will call this the “dispersed” model of social organization. In these cases personal efforts combined with some reference to wider (but relatively weak) social networks supported the existence of the martial arts.

At other times everything shifted. Suddenly the pool of potential martial artists expanded and became geographically concentrated in a single school or training ground. This all coincided with wider shifts in village priorities. The previously marginal interest in boxing now received the community’s full attention. We will call this the “concentrated” phase of social organization.

Two things struck me about this account. The first was the regularity of this change. The boxers of Phoenix Village could expect to live through multiple iterations of this cycle which was taken as the normal (if regrettable) state of affairs. Secondly, I noted how similar this was to accounts that I had previously pieced together of other martial arts associations in late 19th or early 20th century Guangdong.

When I was doing research for my recent book, I realized that a lot of the area’s martial arts organizations seemed to go through periods of intense activity followed by a prolonged hiatus. The account from Phoenix Village helped to make sense of this pattern and its underlying causes. While school and association lineage histories tend to tell a fairly consistent tale, the accounts given by outside observers have been, at times, markedly more cyclic.

It is interesting to think of what all of this might have meant for Chi Sao and its place in Wing Chun. Admittedly, what follows is purely speculative. Yet it may help to make sense of why Chi Sao played much less of a role in the practice of Chan Wah Shun’s students in Foshan than it did in Ip Man’s pupils in Hong Kong. Clearly the exercise was present and a part of the Wing Chun system in both places. Yet the martial arts were not particularly popular in Foshan between 1900-1910s.

We know, for instance, that Chan Wah Shun only taught about 16 students during his career. Further, when Ip Man returned from his time as a student in Hong Kong he discovered that very little Wing Chun was being practiced in his home town except in Ng Chung So’s school. And even this was a somewhat elite and small scale affair. With relatively few other people to practice with, the gains from devoting all of one’s time to Chi Sao would be limited. Thus more of an emphasis on forms practice, weapons training, the wooden dummy, basic strength, movement and conditioning drills might make a lot of sense. That is where one might reap the highest return in a relatively “dispersed” training environment.

Eventually things would change. Later in the 1920s, and during the first half of the 1930s, Wing Chun, like all of Foshan’s martial arts, seems to have grown in popularity. More students from a wide variety of backgrounds began to enter the style. This trend was accompanied by a more pronounced debate on the relative merits of different schools of Kung Fu.

All of this came to a head in Hong Kong during the early 1950s. After another period of “dispersed organization” between 1937-1945 (thanks to the Japanese), huge numbers of martial arts masters and students found themselves tightly packed into a new space, competing for recognition while at the same time looking for a better way to organize their schools in a new commercial environment. The geography of Kowloon alone probably made the shift to a “concentrated” mode of social organization inevitable. Ip Man’s increased emphasis on Chi Sao was not so much an invention, as it may simply have been a realization of the changing utility of different training strategies in this new environment.

Ip Man visiting Ho Ka Ming's School in Macau.

Ip Man visiting Ho Ka Ming’s School in Macau.

 

 

Conclusion: The Situation Today

 

It is always a dangerous thing to take a model (even a “back of a napkin” exercise such as this) that was developed in one area and apply it to a totally different time and place. Nevertheless, I wonder if the idea of “dispersed” and “centralized” modes of organization might not have some value for us, at least as a metaphor. It might also suggest something important for how we think about the place of Chi Sao in Wing Chun today.

When I was first introduced to Wing Chun about a decade ago I had the good fortune to study at a large and thriving school in an urban environment. My teacher (Sifu Jon Nielson) approaches Wing Chun as a self-defense practice and introduces his students to movement, punching and defensive structures on literally the first day of class. Chi Sao was a big part of what I did and, if I may be permitted to say so, I got pretty good at it.

Like so many others before, I found the game to be addictive. I was a serious student and so I ended up practicing my Chi Sao (and other related skills) multiple hours a day, five (sometimes six) days a week. Better yet, there were a lot of advanced (and very tough) students at this school who were perfectly happy to hand out thrashings.

In my personal experience that is the key to becoming really good at Chi Sao. It is not magic. I don’t think it takes any special genetic predisposition. You simply spend lots of hours a week practicing these skills with a really large pool of people, some of whom are a great deal better than you and few of whom are actually kind of scary. Under those conditions, it is amazing how fast you pick this stuff up. But is being good at Chi Sao the same thing as being good at Wing Chun? Or even being a good martial artist?

Those are somewhat abstract questions, but they are ones that I have found myself forced to confront after moving from Salt Lake City to a small town in rural Western NY. Unsurprisingly, there are no large Wing Chun schools with the same combative approach to Chi Sao within driving distance of where I live.

This is not to say that it is impossible to do Wing Chun. Taking my years of experience I opened my own, much smaller school. While it is nothing on the scale of what my teacher has back in Salt Lake, I have been able to find a handful of people to work with, and that has allowed me to stay involved in Wing Chun community.

Yet Chi Sao is a problem. It is not that I no longer do it. I still spend some time on Chi Sao.  Yet working with a very small number of people, all junior to you, is not the same. Whatever it is, Chi Sao is not like riding a bike. The sorts of skills taught in sensitivity drills absolutely can be forgotten and will go dormant very fast if not continually used.

Compared to a lot of former Wing Chun students in a similar position I am really lucky. Even in a rural environment I have been able to keep my hand in the game. But am I growing as a Wing Chun practitioner?

On some level I want to say yes, but doing so might require us to de-center Chi Sao from its traditional place in the Wing Chun universe. As I suggested above, I am starting to wonder whether the actual utility of certain skills is tied to the environment that they are practiced in. The situation in my Sifu’s school was just about ideal for developing varied and nuanced skills in Chi Sao. (Parenthetically I should note that we did practice a full range of other skills, from forms to free sparring to combative weapons as well).

My students in rural western New York can certainly still gain some critical insights from the Chi Sao that we do. But given the limited number of partners any of them will ever be able to touch arms with, one quickly comes up against the problem of diminishing marginal returns. At what point would an additional hour of Chi Sao be better replaced with an hour of ground work, the heavy bag or basic conditioning? What mix of skills will actually make me a better martial artist and student of Wing Chun where I am today?

I suspect that there may not be a single answer to this question. Instead the mix of things that work best in a densely concentrated training area might be different than those in a dispersed environment. Students studying in small groups or on their own may need to think creatively about how to interpret and apply Wing Chun in their situation, rather than just becoming discouraged that they cannot replicate the “ideal” seen in Hong Kong in the 1960s or the West in the 1990s.

For a variety of reasons, mostly social and economic in nature, I think that we are entering a period of dispersed social organization more generally (and not just in the martial arts). Certainly in large urban environments we will continue to see healthy schools, yet increasingly students of a wide variety of combat arts will find themselves in less connected places without a ready-made support system. In some senses we are better positioned to ride out this cyclic change than past generations. The internet provides the opportunities to construct new kinds of communities while recording and dispersing all sorts of training information. And certainly the organization of small local study groups, combined with the occasional workshop, can be very helpful.

Yet making the most of these new resources will require a careful reconsideration of our goals and even what it means to be a student of Wing Chun. This is one area where a more detailed understanding of our history can be particularly helpful. The southern Chinese martial arts have always been very flexible and they have survived many swings between concentrated and dispersed modes of social organization.

Nor has Chi Sao always enjoyed the pride of place that it is currently afforded within Wing Chun. I suspect that all of the traditional arts contain a variety of training tools precisely because they were practiced in a wide variety of environments. When properly understood, and combined with all of the information that we now have at our finger tips, there is no reason why our practices cannot continue to thrive under relatively dispersed models of social organizations.

oOo

If you enjoyed this you might also want to read:   Spiritual Kung Fu: Can Wing Chun be a Secular Religion?

 

oOo


The Wing Chun Jo Fen: Norms and the Creation of a Southern Chinese Martial Arts Community.

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Twin Chinese Pagodas in Singapore. Source: Wikimedia.

 

***I am happy to report that I am making good progress on my current writing project.  But it is still an ongoing task, and one that consumed much of my weekend.  As such our post for this Monday is another essay pulled for the archives.  This essay asks what Ip Man’s “rules of conduct” suggest about the origins and social place of Wing Chun within the larger community of the Southern Chinese martial arts.  Enjoy!***

 

 

Introduction: Defining Community in the Traditional Chinese Martial Arts

 

How does one define a social community? How are boundaries drawn between those who are within the group and those who fall outside of it? This is an important question for students of martial studies. Given that the various hand combat systems, both in the East and the West, invariably revolve around fighting, one might be forgiven for assuming the martial artists would be rather sullen and solitary creatures.

Yet just the opposite is true. Studying and teaching hand combat is an inescapably social behavior. As much as we love the myth of the lone hermit on a misty mountain top, the truth is, you cannot really learn to box, wrestle or fence by yourself. These skills must be demonstrated by one or more teachers and they need to be sharpened on a variety of opponents if they are to be of any actual use. We spend a lot of time discussing “self-creation,” but the type of knowledge that is conveyed in the martial arts is inescapably social.

The definition of “community” is particularly complex in the Chinese martial arts. There are a variety of different markers that are used to define those who are “like us.” To begin with, we have the style names. But these can only take us so far. It appears that many (most) fighting traditions did not even have names until sometime in the Qing dynasty. Style names are also notoriously slippery things. Homophones and puzzling variations in characters are common encountered. And it is all too easy for small arts to re-position themselves in the martial marketplace simply by modifying their name.

Creation narratives and a shared mythology is also a common marker of community. The story of the burning of the Shaolin temple unites all of the Hung Mun styles of Guangdong province. Likewise, many different Wing Chun lineages make use of the Red Boat Opera as a device to explain their origins. While the performance of individual sets may vary from one lineage to another, a sense of shared community is preserved by the fact that we revere the same “martial ancestors.”

Of course these myths are often borrowed and modified. Hung Gar traditions also discuss figures like Jee Shim and the Red Boat Opera companies. It seems likely that Wing Chun borrowed elements of these traditions, as well as the White Crane creation legend, when compiling its own mythic identity. Still, the creations myths are helpful because they can suggest both relationships and differences between various groups.

The nuanced mechanics of physical practice is another way in which the community is defined and regulated. Much of the unspoken knowledge and culture of the Chinese martial arts is passed directly from teacher to student as they “correct forms” and engage in either sparring or “sensitivity training.” This creation of a shared culture (and a set of expectations) through an unbroken line of physical contact going back to the founder is probably the single most important way in which the group is defined. This sort of physical transmission is essential in certain Taijiquan lineages that emphasize “push hands” training. Likewise, many other schools have similar exercises that convey their core culture in a direct, non-verbal, way.

As a Wing Chun student I do not really care how another practitioner spells the name of their art, or what stories they tell about the origins of their lineage. What I really want to know is “Do they chi sao?” and “How do they chi sao?” If the ways in which we train are mutually intelligible, and we can improve together, then on a very concrete level we are in the same community.

 

A traditional garden with a modern created within a modern city. Source: Wikimedia.

 

 

 

The Wing Chun Jo Fen and the Definition of Community

 

There is another way in which communities are defined and expectations are cultivated. Rather than relying only on the intuitive and unspoken norms that arise in the course of training, most martial arts communities also propagate explicit rules. These codes of conduct, usually written, are supposed to govern life in the community. The number of rules and their content can vary immensely from one tradition to the next, but the basic impulse is widely shared.

Such formal lists are quite common in the martial arts of southern China. However, in my limited experience, they are often observed in the breech. Students know that they exist, but they don’t generally get discussed all that often. This seems to be particularly true in Wing Chun. Early in his teaching career in Hong Kong Ip Man propagated a set of nine rules, collectively referred to as the “Ving Tsun Jo Fen.” In the case of Ip Man’s list, they tended to be suggestions of what proper behavior should be rather than overly detailed admonitions or prohibitions. Nor, when reading the historical accounts from the 1950s and 1960s, is it always clear how the behavior of his young and unruly students related to these rules.

Still, the fact that the Jo Fen were given, and that they are now commonly reproduced and displayed in Wing Chun schools around the world, seems to indicates that we should give some thought to how these guidelines have been read and helped to shape the Wing Chun community. After all, these statements come as close to a formal philosophy of personal behavior as anything in the Ip Man lineage. And it is interesting to note that the Jo Fen describe not just proper behavior in the school, but within society as a whole. By explaining how a student should comport themselves in relation to the broader community, they offer valuable hints as to the social milieu that gave rise to the early Wing Chun community.

Before we delve into a discussion of the Jo Fen there are a couple of puzzles that need to be addressed. The first is their ultimate date of origin. It is known that Ip Man wrote down and displayed the basic set of rules that are used today in his school in Hong Kong during the 1950s. However, it is not clear if these rules were entirely his own creation or if some of them were inherited from an earlier instructor (Chan Wah Shun and Ng Chung So would both be good candidates). For reasons that we will discuss later I suspect that these rules are really a response to trends and pressures from the 1920s-1930s. Even if Ip Man first wrote them down in the 1950s, the Jo Fen appear to be a thoughtful response to a conversations that had been happening decades earlier.

The second paradox is how one should read the Jo Fen. This is a critical issue for Western Wing Chun students looking for guidance in living their art. For instance, when we are commanded to “Keep sacred the Martial Morality” (Wu De; Cantonese: Ma Dak) are we being sworn to uphold the marginal and criminal behavioral codes of the “Rivers and Lakes”? The individuals who inhabit these marginal social zones often have quite strong opinions on proper behavior under “Wu De,” and have even created an entire subaltern set of cultural values. Boretz does a great job of illustrating this worldview in his carefully crafted ethnography, Gods, Ghosts and Gangsters: Ritual Violence, Martial Arts, and Masculinity on the Margins of Chinese Society (University of Hawaii Press, 2010).

Yet Ip Man was a highly educated individual who clearly held Confucian values. During his younger life he was in no way a marginal figure. The circles that he moved in were quite different from those that Boretz described, and so were his cultural values. He had both a classical Chinese and Western education. He owned land and businesses. His personal values tended to be somewhat conservative and influenced by his Confucian education. So what exactly does such an individual really mean when he exhorts his students to remember “martial virtue?” This is probably not the martial morality of the Triads.

Nor does it seem to be the same as the revivalist ideals promoted by Jin Yong in his novels. These novels have dominated the popular discussion of Chinese martial values from the 1950s to the present. In fact, Jin Yong is probably the most widely read Chinese language author of the entire 20th century. While it seems likely that these books had an impact on the expectations of many of Ip Man’s younger students, the old master’s views on these matters were probably already set well before he started teaching in 1950.

In the west we tend to read these suggestions through our own cultural lens. Ron Heimberger, in my own lineage, once produced a small volume titled Ving Tsun Jo Fen: Expectations and Guidance from the Ving Tsun Tradition (Ving Tsun Ip Ching Athletic Foundation, 2006). It’s an interesting book to think about. The author makes a conscious attempt to bridge the two, at times very different, cultural traditions that are at play. Yet in the end his interpretations of the Jo Fen always seem to reflect a home-spun American ethical perspective rather than traditional Chinese culture. The author actually warns us that this will be the case in the introduction to his book. The central problem, as he saw it, was to make the Jo Fen meaningful to modern, English speaking students.

It is an interesting project, and on some level I suspect that this is the direction that we must go. Translation is always as much a cultural as a linguistic issue. But I suspect that such exercises are still missing something.

This suspicion brings us back to the central question of the post. How should we, as informed students, read the Jo Fen of Wing Chun, or any other southern martial art? How would these rules have been read by a student in either the 1930s or 1950s? What sorts of unstated frames and contexts, familiar to his own students but alien to modern western ones, was Ip Man relying on when he put these guidelines for living to paper?

To answer that question we are going to need compare this document to other (much better known) contemporaneous texts. This exercise will suggest some ways in which we might want to read the Wing Chun Jo Fen. It will also shed some light on how Ip Man understood the community he was trying to create, and the norms of behavior that he wished to codify.

A rainy day at the Ancestral Temple in Foshan. In the distance the old neighborhood behind the temple is being demolished to make way for a new urban development project. Ironically the new neighborhood is being designed to “look traditional” and capitalize on the area’s important “history.” Source: Whitney Clayton.

A rainy day at the Ancestral Temple in Foshan. In the distance the old neighborhood behind the temple is being demolished to make way for a new urban development project. Ironically the new neighborhood is being designed to “look traditional” and capitalize on the area’s important “history.” Source: Whitney Clayton.


Translating the Wing Chun Jo Fen

 

The original text of the Wing Chun Jo Fen still hangs at the Hong Kong Ving Tsun Athletic Association (VTAA). As such it is well attested. More difficult is settling on a suitable English translation. For our purposes I am providing two translations of the text below. I think it is useful to compare and contrast at least two different versions of the Jo Fen to get a better sense of what points the original is driving at. Neither translation attempts to be a pure mechanical rendering. Both translators made some editorial decisions in how they rendered the Jo Fen corresponding to their understanding of the meaning of the text.

The top line of text (marked SK) is a translation by Samuel Kwok, originally published in his book Mastering Wing Chun: the Keys to Ip Man’s Kung Fu published with Tony Massengill in 2007. Generally speaking this is my preferred translation. The second translation (marked RH) is taken from Ip Ching, Ron Heimberger and Eric Myers, Ving Tsun Jo Fen: Expectations and Guidance from the Ving Tsun Tradition published in 2006. This is also a clear translation with some interesting readings of the text. Together these two different approaches provide a comprehensive look at the original.


Figure 1: Ip Man’s Wing Chun Jo Fen

  1. (SK) Remain disciplined – uphold yourself ethically as a martial artist
    1. (RH) Discipline yourself to the Rules: Keep Sacred the Martial Morality
  2. (SK) Practice courtesy and righteousness – serve the community and honor your family
    2. (RH) Understand Propriety and Righteousness: Love your Country and Respect Your Parents
  3. (SK) Love your fellow students or classmates – be united and avoid conflicts
    3. (RH) Love Your Classmates: Enjoy Working Together as a Group
  4. (SK) Limit your desires and pursuit of bodily pleasures – preserve the proper spirit
    4. (RH) Control Your Desire: Stay Healthy
  5. (SK) Train diligently and make it a habit – never let the skill leave your body
    5. (RH) Work Hard and Keep Practicing: Never Let the Skill Leave Your Body
  6. (SK) Learn to develop spiritual tranquility – abstain from arguments and fights
    6. (RH) Learn How to Keep the Energy: Quit Inciting a Fighting Attitude.
  7. (SK) Participate in society – be conservative, cultured and gentle in your manners
    7. (RH) Always Deal with World Matters with a Kind Attitude that is Calm and Gentle.
  8. (SK) Help the weak and the very young – use your martial skill for the good of humanity
    8. (RH) Help the Elderly and the Children: Use the Martial Mind to Achieve “Yan”
  9. (SK) Pass on the tradition – preserve the Chinese arts and its Rules of Conduct
    9. (RH) Follow the Former Eight Rules: Hold to the Ancestors’ Rules Sincerely.

 

 

The Hung Sing Association: Three Exclusions and Ten Rules for Behavior

 

From the turn of the century to the late 1920s the single most important martial arts association in Foshan (the home of Wing Chun before Ip Man brought it to Hong Kong in 1949) was the Hung Sing Association. This school, originally established in the middle of the 19thcentury, taught Choy Li Fut, then the most popular and widespread martial art in the region.

By the 1920s the Hung Sing Association literally boasted dozens of branch locations and claimed thousands of members between its many schools and Lion Dance Associations. Foshan was a hot bed for martial arts development, and the local area boasted many competing styles. Yet in terms of sheer size, none of them could come close to competing with the Hung Sing Association.

Size was not Hung Sing’s only advantage. It was also the first (more or less) public martial arts school in the region. Established in the second half of the 19th century, many of the later schools modeled their public face and business plans on the successful example established by Choy Li Fut. As a result some of the specific norms of the Choy Li Fut school became quite widespread in the local marketplace. Other instructors either adopted these expectation, or they were forced to react against them. Wing Chun (which really started to expand in the 1920s and 1930s) was no exception. It emerged out of a dialogue that was dominated by these larger and more successful styles.

One can debate whether Hung Sing was really a “public” school. Late in the 19th century Chan Ngau Sing (an important leader in the history of the institution) established two doctrines. The first was the famous “Three Exclusions Policy” and the second was a ten point code of conduct.

The three exclusions appears to have been an attempt to bridge the symbolic world of secret societies with the more profitable aspects of commercial boxing instruction. Chan claimed that there were three classes of individuals he would not teach. These were high government officials, gangsters or local bullies and individuals without respectable employment. If one wished to join the school they had to be sponsored by an existing member, and their application had to be approved by the organization’s chairman (Chan himself). These exclusions were promoted as a way of ensuring the moral righteousness of the school.

The end result of this policy is that even though Hung Sing became a very large institution, it maintained the feel and appearance of an exclusive club. This was sheer marketing brilliance. But how “exclusive” were they?

It seems unlikely that any “high government officials” from Beijing would travel to Foshan only to petition a distinctly working-class martial arts school for admittance. While the first exclusion played to anti-government and anti-Manchu sentiment, it never really cost the school any students. One could tell a similar story about the second exclusion. The Triads already had their own much more exclusive secret societies and martial arts teachers. Aside from the Lion Dance Associations, it is not clear they ever actually had any interest in Hung Sing.

Lastly, Chan Ngau Sing was running a commercial school. Students had to pay for their tuition either in cash or in bags of rice. Of course not all of southern China’s economy was fully monetized at this point. The only individuals who would be able to pay these fees would be the semi-skilled artisans who worked in Foshan’s workshops. The Hung Sing Association acted as a place where workers could network, find out about new jobs and create a rudimentary social safety net.

This was the real genius of the “Three Exclusions” policy. While outwardly elitist, all the policy actually did was make the association more appealing to its primary market demographic, young semi-skilled workers in Foshan. For that reason I have always treated Hung Sing as the areas first true public martial arts school. It showed that public commercial teaching was possible and in that way Hung Sing really altered the development of the southern Chinese martial arts. It is not hard to understand how this school was able to create expectations of what a “real” martial art should look like which later teachers would have to deal with.

Where do we find authenticity? In the city or the garden? Source: Wikimedia.

Figure 2: Chan Ngau Sing’s Ten point code of behavior for the Foshan Hung Sing Association

Three Exclusions

  • Refusal to teach government officials.
  • Refusal to teach local bullies (gangsters?)
  • Must have respectable employment.

Ten Points

  1. Seek the approval of your master in all things relative to the school.
  2. Practice hard daily.
  3. Fight to win (but do not fight by choice).
  4. Be moderate in sexual behavior.
  5. Eat healthily.
  6. Develop strength through endurance (to build a foundation and the ability to jump).
  7. Never back down from an enemy.
  8. Practice breathing exercises.
  9. Make the sounds (“Yik” for punches, “Wah” for tiger claws, “Tik” for kicks).
  10. Through practice you cannot be bullied.

Chan also introduced a ten point list of rules that became standard in the local branches of the Hung Sing Association. My translation of this list (and the Three Exclusions) comes from Ma Zineng’s Foshan Wu Shu Wen Hua (2001). Comparing this set of rules to Ip Man’s Jo Fen reveals some interesting parallels.

It quickly becomes apparent that the Wing Chun Jo Fen are modeled directly on Chan’s Ten Rules. Note for instance that a number of Ip Man’s rules not only appear to be based on Hung Sing, but are in a similar place in the list. For instance, the admonition against sexual excess (seen as damaging to one’s martial virtue) appears in the fourth slot on both lists. Likewise both lists begin with an appeal to authority and obedience.

The creation of these written behavioral codes is yet another area where Hung Sing was able to exercise its first mover advantage and shape the development of other regional styles. I suspect that Hung Sing’s code was a reflection of earlier Qing era guild practice, but that is a topic for a different post. It seems entirely likely that arts like Wing Chun adopted explicit sets of behavioral guidelines (separate from the amorphous concept of Wu De) precisely because Hung Sing had already done so. This is what martial consumers had come to expect.

However, there are also some equally interesting differences between our two different codes of behavior. Ip Man was not just copying the Ten Rules. He was responding to them. This can be seen as an attempt to differentiate Wing Chun students from the martial environment around them, and more carefully define how they should deal with society as whole. As such the Jo Fen are an important witness to the creation of the early Wing Chun community.

The first major point of difference is that the facade of the “Three Exclusions” has been done away with. Ip Man basically taught whoever showed up to his classes and put forward no pretense that his was anything but a public commercial school. He did not exclude government officials or ethnic Manchus. In fact, later in his career Ip Man went out of his way to introduce Wing Chun to ranking civil servants and police officials.

It is often said with great certainty that Ip Man never taught foreigners, and so that could be treated as his own “exclusion.” Still, I have a hard time knowing what to make of this statement. Foreigners were not exactly knocking down his door demanding to be taught in the early 1950s, so it is unlikely that he actually turned anyone away for strictly racial reasons. Further, we know that Ip Man had no trouble working with individuals of mixed descent, such as Leung Ting or Bruce Lee. Rumors to the contrary, he does not appear to have been a racial purist.

Instead we see that Ip Man took on and encouraged a very wide range of students. He taught men and women, experienced martial artists and teens. Nor did he ever promote the idea that the Wing Chun clan operated as some sort of secret society. One of the remarkable things about his Hong Kong career was how truly open it was.

Comparing Ip Man’s list to Chan’s earlier effort also reveals his attitude toward excess or ornamentation. For instance, Ip Man simply drops “rule ten” all together. Looking back at the original list its clear that this “rule” is not really a point of ethical behavior so much as it’s a promise of the reward that one might expect from hard work. Of course life has a way of being unfair, and ignoring such promises.

A number of Ip Man’s other points appear to be direct responses to the more popular and widely known rules of the Hung Sing Association. Where they mandate strength training in the sixth entry (“Develop strength through endurance-to build a foundation and the ability to jump”) he characteristically emphasizes the importance of softness and internal training (“Learn How to Keep the Energy: Quit Inciting a Fighting Attitude “). While Chan’s list seems bellicose and is geared towards maintaining the reputation of the school (“Never back down from an enemy”) Ip Man insists that his students engage constructively with the community as a whole, and not just other martial artists (“Participate in society – be conservative, cultured and gentle in your manners”). Both lists end with a charge to pass on the unique norms and codes of recognition that define their respective communities (“Yik” for punches, “Wah” for tiger claws, “Tik” for kicks” vs. “Pass on the tradition – preserve the Chinese arts and its Rules of Conduct”).

I suspect that Ip Man was intimately familiar with Chan Ngau Sing code of conduct, made famous in the region by the Hung Sing Association. Looking at the both the structure and the content of the Jo Fen it appears to have been a topic that he had given some thought to. His definition of the ideal martial community is in many ways different from that advanced Chan, but it also appears to be a response to it.

Chan’s list is mostly concerned with questions of behavior and recognition within the world of martial artists. It reflects the pugnacious attitudes that are typically associated with southern Chinese martial artists. In contrast Ip Man’s is outward looking. His main concern is how the martial artist finds his place in society. A return to traditional Confucian values is seen as the key to maintaining harmony not just within the clan, but with the broader community as a whole.

The historic Tin Hua (Mazu) Temple is Xuwen County, Guangdong.

Reading the Wing Chun Jo Fen as a Philosophical and Ethical Statement

 

The creation of the Jo Fen may have been a creative exercise undertaken by Ip Man sometime in the 1950s. While some of these rules or perspectives may have been inherited from previous teachers, the list as it exists now is probably Ip Man’s project. Yet that vision of community did not emerge in a vacuum. No vision of society ever does.

Instead the Jo Fen emerged out of a dialogue with other groups and norms. The strength and popularity of the Hung Sing Association in the early 20th century forced other local martial artists to follow its lead in terms of business practices and probably to conform to certain expectations.  Yet it also created a set of structures that they could react against in an attempt to claim their own vision of martial virtue. The very existence of the Jo Fen shows that both of these tendencies were alive and well in the Wing Chun community, and that they continued to be an important force up through at least the 1950s.

Our review has also revealed that Ip Man thought deeply on the question of social identity and was quite concerned with the question of how a martial artist (or a group of them) should interact with society. Rather than simply reverting to the ideas of “martial virtue” seen in contemporary fiction or in the subaltern world of “rivers and lakes,” he turned to his Confucian education. There he found core values that could support the type of community he was attempting to build.

It is not uncommon to find Wing Chun students searching for the “deep philosophy” that underlies their art. Some people do this in an attempt to build a better synthesis of the fighting system. Other individuals are more interested in building a secure foundation for their ethical or spiritual lives. The myth of the Shaolin temple, as well as the claim that Wing Chun is somehow a “Buddhist art” leads some people to investigate the Dharma. Others seem drawn more to Daoism after encountering ideas like the “five elements” or the “eight directions” in a Wing Chun class.

Clearly there is much to be gained from a deep study of either Buddhism or Daoism. Nevertheless, I suspect that this might be over-thinking the problem. If one feels called to study the Dharma, by all means, go and do it. Yet this is not necessary to understand Wing Chun, its origins or the nature of its social community.

Instead I would propose that individuals looking for the deeper meaning in the art start by seriously studying the Jo Fen. This short document was the only formal statement that Ip Man ever gave us on his beliefs about the philosophical basis of his art. It lays out in some detail a code of behavior that regulates not just the internal life of the school, but also how a “hero” can relate to society as a whole in such a way that their actions promotes peace and harmony rather than violence and disorder. This is probably the great motivating question of martial ethics.

Reading the Jo Fen it is clear that Ip Man’s vision of the art was influenced much more by Confucianism than either Buddhism or Daoism. Further, each of the short rules in his list can be unpacked and examined in some detail once you have an appropriate body of thought to situate it within. When discussing his father’s beliefs Ip Chun has argued that the Confucian classic titled “The Doctrine of the Mean” would probably be a great place to start. After studying and thinking about the Jo Fen I am inclined to agree with him. If we start by reading it as a response to texts and ideas that were in circulation at the time (rather than seeing it simply as a nine point list) the true depth of his arguments become apparent.

 

 

oOo

If you found this post interesting you might also want to read: “Ip Man and the Roots of Wing Chun’s “Multiple Attacker” Principle.”

oOo



Chinese Martial Arts in the News: April 24, 2017: Southern Kung Fu, Taijiquan Heritage and Boxing for Survival

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Introduction

 

Welcome to “Chinese Martial Arts in the News!”  Its great to be back at my keyboard after spending the last week and half on other projects.  I managed to finish the draft of my chapter and am looking forward to posting some new material and guest posts over the next few weeks before the academic conference season clicks into high gear and things get a bit crazy again.  But right now its time to get caught up on current events.

As regular readers know, 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 there is a lot to be covered in today’s post.  Let’s get to the news!

 

 

 

News from all Over

 

One of the first things that I came across when researching this news update was a pair of photo-essays that had been republished on a number of Chinese tabloid and magazine webpages.  Better yet, both of them profiled important styles of Southern Kung Fu that do not get enough press coverage.

The first of these was titled (somewhat awkwardly) “A Russian Kungfu lover’s Bruce Lee style.” It discussed one student’s “Kung Fu pilgrimage” to Yong Chun County in Fujian to study White Crane Kung Fu.  Apparently he was inspired by the art’s (very tangential) connection to Bruce Lee.  But its always great to see White Crane getting profiled.

 

 

I have taken the liberty of lightly editing the title of the next photo essay. It should read:  “A Couple from the Netherlands introduce [one specific type of] Chinese martial art to [some people in] their country.”

Here is what you need to know: “Arend, 39, was from the Netherlands. He and his wife Khingeeva Tatyana came to China in October 2013. Besides doing research and teaching as a professor at a laboratory in School of Life Sciences in Fujian Agriculture and Forestry University, Arend was a fan of Chinese martial arts. As students of Kung Fu master Lin Zaipei, Arend and his wife learned the Dishuquan, which is also known as the Dog Kung Fu, one of the most popular martial arts styles in Fujian Province and a national intangible cultural heritage. They went to the martial art club every week to practice with Dog Kung Fu lovers from all over the world.”

This one was a little short of description, but its great to see Dog Boxing in the news.  And who doesn’t love the traditional training uniform of slacks and a t-shirt.  Now that is old school!

 

A Chinese teen uses her cell phone during militia training. This photo engendered some controversy on the internet and seemed to embody much of what was wrong with the current generation to older Chinese citizens. (Source: China Smack).

 

Is learning Kung Fu from a local Sifu just “too 1970s” for you?  Or maybe you cannot find one in your area?  A recent report on CCTV profiles a master who has you covered.  The heart of this piece is a five minute video discussing the on-line teaching platform that he has created and interviews with both him and his students.  Its an interesting discussion of one instructor’s attempts to both drag traditional kung fu instruction into the modern era, while at the same time vastly expanding his student base.  This sort of thing always strikes me as pretty problematic, but its a nicely produced report.

 

 

The Christian Science Monitor ran a piece looking at Chen Village’s recent attempts to lobby for UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage protection for Taijiquan.  We looked at this issue in our last news update as well.  But the added wrinkle in this article is the narrative of a growing rivalry between Taijiquan and Yoga, and the suggestion that Taiji might be losing the image battle in China.

“But there are other issues at stake here, too. For one, yoga, which won UNESCO designation in India last year, has emerged as a trendy alternative. Then there’s the simple fact that the ancient martial art isn’t as popular among young Chinese, many of whom think of it as a low-intensity exercise better suited for their grandparents. 

“The first impression I have of tai chi is that it’s something old people do in parks,” says Yin Haolong, a 29-year-old freelance graphic designer and photographer in Beijing.”

 

 

In contrast, the modern combat sports (particularly Muay Thai and MMA) seem to be growing pretty quickly in China.  This article provides a profile and long form discussion of the emergence of a distinctive brand of Chinese Fight Clubs.

“Unlike the U.S. or U.K., where boxing has strong historic links to working-class communities (most famously Gleason’s Gym in the Bronx, where Jake LaMotta trained, and London’s Repton Club), its popularity often rising with economic downturn and unemployment, there’s no equivalent blue-collar boxing history in China, nor much infrastructure for training aspirants. Instead, there is a small but burgeoning interest in grassroots fight clubs. Like most, the Monster Fight Club uses Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) rules, a full-contact blend of fighting styles, although it is obliged to play by slightly looser ones when it comes to the law. As far as Shi Jian, one of the co-owners, is concerned, Monster is a “cultural sporting company” that promotes “positive energy,” propagandist language that reassures the authorities—who can close grey operations like Monster at the drop of a brown envelope—and allows them to promote low-key events that would normally require a complex series of permits.”

 

A Jeet Kune Do class in Harlem. Source: vice. com, Photo by Adam Krause

 

 

‘Kung Fu Kenny’ Is Just the Latest Example of Hip-Hop’s Fascination With Martial Arts.” So says the next article.  I think that this piece will be particularly helpful for anyone interested in the roots of the relationship between the Chinese martial arts and the emergence of hip hop.  This article touches on some thought provoking arguments about cultural borrowing and methods of pedagogy.  Here was one of the points that was a big take-away for me:

“On a very direct and literal level, kung fu films also gave young black and brown kids heroes who were not white (“it’s hard to understand looking back on it how revolutionary that was,” Schloss says). But there was also a new model of learning—crucial for children who, like kids everywhere and at all times, mostly hated school. People in kung fu movies learned from a master, practiced their skills obsessively, and developed new styles, all practices that made their way into hip-hop culture. 

“What martial arts really did for hip-hop was to provide a model for an apprenticeship system that showed how you could respect a teacher or a mentor without diminishing your own self-respect,” says Schloss. “It was a model where you could be like, ‘I’m going to learn to be humble and disciplined, and let this guy tell me what to do, but that doesn’t mean that I’m letting him disrespect me.’ That’s a big part of what allowed the art form to develop, because when people put themselves in that situation, they were able to learn a lot of important things and push the art form forward by being open to that instruction.”

 

 

Bruce Lee fighting a room full of Japanese martial arts students in “Fists of Fury.” This scene later inspired the “Dojo Fight” in Wilson Ip’s 2008 Ip Man biopic.

 

The Asian Times recently ran a review of a Bruce Lee film festival that ran in the MoMA in New York.  This will be an interesting read for Bruce Lee fans.

When Bruce Lee was making martial arts movies in the early 1970s, it would never have occurred to him that his films would be screened at New York’s prestigious Museum of Modern Art 45 years later. 

But that’s just what happened with Eternal Bruce Lee, a five-film retrospective of Lee’s work that screened at the museum in January and February. The show reflected Lee’s gradual metamorphosis from martial arts legend to bona fide cultural icon in the US.

 

 

Those who prefer their martial arts fiction in written form may have heard about the recent passing of the Hong Kong novelist Huang Yi.  The South China Morning Post has been covering this story and had some interesting discussion of his work and career.

Tributes have been paid to Hong Kong wuxia novelist Huang Yi, who has died aged 65 after suffering a stroke…. 

Professor Ma Kwai-min, from Chu Hai College’s department of Chinese literature, told the Post that Huang had originally started off as a science fiction writer.

“He later switched to writing xuanhuan novels such as Xun Qin Ji, which combines historical backgrounds with a protagonist who travels through time,” Ma said, in reference to a genre of wuxia. 

“Such fictions and novels are still being written and published on the internet, and they are popular, but Huang did it 20 years ago.”

 

 

 

 

This last story goes out to my fellow travelers on the path of the Lightsaber.  Apparently the word “lightsaber” has recently been added to “the” dictionary.  But this same dictionary also added the term “man-bun” to its pages…so take that news for what its worth. But hey, what about that Star Wars: The Last Jedi trailer.

 

 

 

 

Martial Arts Studies

Are you looking for a good read?  The Martial Arts Studies literature just keeps growing.  Here are two titles that have caught my eye, both of which have been added to my summer reading list.

Now Available for pre-order:

Her Own Hero: The Origins of the Women’s Self-Defense Movement Hardcover – NYU Press August 8, 2017  by Wendy L. Rouse 

At the turn of the twentieth century, women famously organized to demand greater social and political freedoms like gaining the right to vote. However, few realize that the Progressive Era also witnessed the birth of the women’s self-defense movement. 

It is nearly impossible in today’s day and age to imagine a world without the concept of women’s self defense. Some women were inspired to take up boxing and jiu-jitsu for very personal reasons that ranged from protecting themselves from attacks by strangers on the street to rejecting gendered notions about feminine weakness and empowering themselves as their own protectors. Women’s training in self defense was both a reflection of and a response to the broader cultural issues of the time, including the women’s rights movement and the campaign for the vote.   

Perhaps more importantly, the discussion surrounding women’s self-defense revealed powerful myths about the source of violence against women and opened up conversations about the less visible violence that many women faced in their own homes. Through self-defense training, women debunked patriarchal myths about inherent feminine weakness, creating a new image of women as powerful and self-reliant. Whether or not women consciously pursued self-defense for these reasons, their actions embodied feminist politics. Although their individual motivations may have varied, their collective action echoed through the twentieth century, demanding emancipation from the constrictions that prevented women from exercising their full rights as citizens and human beings. This book is a fascinating and comprehensive introduction to one of the most important women’s issues of all time.

Wendy L. Rouse teaches United States History and social science teacher preparation at San Jose State University. Her research interests include childhood, family, and gender history during the Progressive Era. 

 

 

 

Out Now:

Embodying Brazil: An ethnography of diasporic capoeira (Routledge Research in Sport, Culture and Society) (Routledge, 2017) by Sara Delamont, Neil Stephens, Claudio Campos 

The practice of capoeira, the Brazilian dance-fight-game, has grown rapidly in recent years. It has become a popular leisure activity in many cultures, as well as a career for Brazilians in countries across the world including the US, the UK, Canada and Australia. This original ethnographic study draws on the latest research conducted on capoeira in the UK to understand this global phenomenon. It not only presents an in-depth investigation of the martial art, but also provides a wealth of data on masculinities, performativity, embodiment, globalisation and rites of passage.

Centred in cultural sociology, while drawing on anthropology and the sociology of sport and dance, the book explores the experiences of those learning and teaching capoeira at a variety of levels. From the beginners’ first encounters with this martial art to the perspectives of more advanced students, it also sheds light on how teachers experience their own re-enculturation as they embody the exotic ‘other’.

Embodying Brazil: An Ethnography of Diasporic Capoeira is fascinating reading for all capoeira enthusiasts, as well as for anyone interested in the sociology of sport, sport and social theory, sport, race and ethnicity, or Latin-American Studies.


The Bubishi Gets its Due: Returning the ‘Bible of Karate’ to its Chinese Roots

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David S. Nisan and Liu Kangyi. 2016. The General Tian Wubeizhi: the Bubishi in Chinese Martial Arts History. Taipei: Lionbook Martial Arts Company. 136 pages of text, plus 128 pages of facsimile reprint. $47.95 USD.

 

Introduction

 

Given life’s many obligations, it is all too easy let one’s personal study lapse.  Balancing the cross-cutting pressures of family, professional responsibility and martial arts training is never easy.  We walk by that growing pile of reading projects and think, “I will look at them this weekend.” Then we don’t.

 

Yet every so often a work comes along that reminds us of what we are missing, and what got us interested in martial arts history in the first place.  David S. Nisan and Liu Kangyi’s recent publication, The General Tian Wubeizhi is just such a book. This volume tackles one of the most well-known puzzles in the Southern Chinese martial arts.  (And Karate practitioners have been talking about this subject since the 1930s).  Yet their approach feels both fresh and strikingly original.

 

Nisan and Kangyi’s volume simultaneously gives readers an important new primary source, offers an original conceptual framework to understand both the meaning and significance of this find, and explains it all to a general readership in a way that is refreshingly clear and accessibly to anyone, regardless of their familiarity with the preexisting literature on Chinese martial studies.  It is hard to think of any work that has made quite so many contributions to the discussion of the Southern Chinese hand combat systems in so few pages.  Both academic and practical students will find many new insights in these pages.

 

An expanded cover detail from The General Tian Wubeizhi.

 

 

 

Bringing the Bubishi back to China

 

A few words of introduction may be necessary for readers who are not familiar with the manuscript tradition generally referred to as “the Bubishi.”  This Japanese romanization of the Chinese title Wǔbèi Zhì, does not refer to the venerable Ming era military encyclopedia compiled by Mao Yuanyi.  Rather, it is a term that in the 1930s came to be retrospectively applied to a diverse manuscript tradition preserved in Okinawan hand combat circles.  Yet the exact nature of these “books” is difficult to pin down.

 

These untitled works were essentially collections of texts dealing with a range of topics including medicine, martial philosophy and unarmed fighting techniques.  (Andreas Quast suggests that it is significant that the Bubishi contains no discussion of weapon techniques.)  No surviving editions include a title page, preface or statement of authorship.  In that sense they are even more mysterious than the Taiji Classics, though they likely date to the same period and may have been at least partially the product of similar social forces.  While there was some overlap in critical material, various lineages of Bubishi transmission included different numbers of articles organized in a wide variety of ways.  While clearly a compiled work with multiple authors (or editors) the Bubishi was not so much a cohesive edited volume as an ongoing research file or, in the words of Nisan and Liu, “a notebook.”

 

While Japanese authors have been discussing this manuscript tradition since the pre-WWII period, in the current era it is best known to English speaking audiences through the efforts of Patrick McCarthy who has published multiple editions of translation and commentary. McCarthy’s once characterized the Bubishi as the “Bible of Karate,” and the symbolic resemblance is certainly recognizable.  While very little in this work outwardly resembles modern karate practice, many of the art’s pioneers drew inspiration from its pages.  The Bubishi functioned as a textual witness linking what became a modern martial art to an idealized and supposedly pure past tradition.

 

Karate students have dominated the discussion of this manuscript in the West.  Yet, as Nisan and Liu argue (and as I have repeatedly noted on this blog), that is only half of the story. In fact, it may be a good deal less.

 

Very few individuals in Japan can read the Bubishi as it is written in a combination of classical Chinese and the local Minnan dialect of Fujian province.  When accounting for the various textual errors that arose from poor copying and mistakes in the transcription of local dialects, it is a challenging document for anyone to work with.  Yet it is a uniquely Chinese document, one that is tied to the Fuzhou region and the folk martial art traditions still popular in the area, including White Crane and Luohan Boxing.  The authors of the present volume lay out a convincing case that it was probably compiled sometime in the second half of the 19th century (and probably after 1860).  As such, the Bubishi is a potentially invaluable textual witness to a period of rapid transformation within the Southern Chinese martial arts.  Yet students of Chinese martial history have, for the most art, passed over this manuscript tradition in silence.

 

The efforts of Nisan and Liu may well provide the push needed to spark a long over-due discussion.  By examining this work within its original cultural context, they hope to both shed light on the nature, origin and authorship of the collection, as well as providing martial artists with a new set of concepts for making sense of it.  This effort was facilitated when Lionbooks acquired a previously unpublished Bubishi manuscript from the estate of a Japanese-American karate student that was unique in a number of ways.  While badly damaged in places, this copy seems to represent an early textual variant.  Further, it is unique in that it contains a very large number of beautifully painted, full color, images.  While a few other hand painted Chinese fight books are known to exist (see the Golden Saber Illustrated Manual, 1725) such works are extremely rare and suggest interesting questions about their ownership and the social function of these texts.  Yet this work is not a translation project.  Rather, the beautiful facsimile edition is accompanied by a text that seeks to explore the place of the Bubishi in Chinese martial arts history.

 

A facsimile page from The General Tian Wubeizhi.

 

Reviewing the Argument

 

The authors begin in the first chapter by posing a fundamental, yet often neglected, question.  When looking at a tradition such as this, containing a wide range of both martial and medical materials, we must ask “What is this a case of? Where does this work fit in the typology of Chinese popular literature?”

 

While a respectable number of late imperial martial arts manuals still exist, most of them lack the unique structure and emphasis on medicine (specifically, trauma medicine), that we see in the Bubishi.  That does not mean that the book is utterly unique.  Wing Chun students are probably already thinking about “Leung Jan’s Book,” inherited by Ip Man, that is now on public display in his museum in Foshan.  This handwritten, two volume collection, also includes a mixture of medical and martial material.  In fact, readers who are already familiar with the Bubishi will find its medical illustrations quite familiar.

 

While the authors never actually mention this (or any other) specific example, they begin by asserting that the Bubishi belongs to the genre of popular literature known as “Bronze Man Notebooks.”  These works were the prized possessions of the sorts of physician/martial artists who were such a fixture in the towns, temples and marketplaces of southern China.  Citing Meir Shahar’s work on the development of late imperial boxing traditions, they note that by the 17th century it was becoming increasingly common to encounter discussions that mixed martial and medical knowledge. They argue that this was important as it allowed martial artists to both attend to the sorts of training injuries that naturally occur during vigorous practice, and to make a living while pursuing an itinerant lifestyle.

 

A “Bronze Man Notebook” recorded both the outlines and critical philosophy of boxing systems, as well as the prescriptions, herbs and theories of medical treatments.  Together they comprised a unified medical/martial understanding.  Indeed, it is hard not to think of figures like Leung Jan or Wong Fei Hung when reading Nisan and Liu’s discussion.  As such it is not a surprise that the Bubishi reads more like a medical text that martial arts notes have been added to, rather than a fight book with a medical appendix.  This is exactly the opposite of what most modern readers want and can be a source of frustration.

 

The economic value of such works dictated that they were only passed on to close disciples.  Nor could the medical (or martial) knowledge encoded in these works be called upon without a period of apprenticeships during which an extensive body of oral lore and clinical insights would be conveyed.  The second chapter of this work extends this textual discussion by exploring the contents and basic structure of four different lineages of the Bubishi textual tradition.

 

In Chapter Three the authors tackle the image of the deity known as General Tian who is occasionally found within these manuscripts.  This exploration begins with a discussion of the centrality of Confucian thought to Chinese martial arts philosophy which many readers will find useful.  I frequently receive questions about the supposed Buddhist or Daoist origins of some specific martial art (in my case its usually Wing Chun) and often end up suggesting that people think about Confucian practice first if they are serious about grasping the “philosophical roots” of their system.  I can now see myself directing individuals to this chapter in the future.  Incidentally, those interested in the links between the southern martial arts and opera will want to pay close attention to the exploration of General Tian and his links to both social spheres.

 

In Chapter Four readers will find a theory on the dating and the authorship of the Bubishi.  Nisan and Liu explicitly link the text to martial arts circles that gathered around the Ryukyu trade/tribute station in Fuzhou.  This compound also included a Confucian school that educated many of the best and brightest minds of the island kingdom.  Of course, Fuzhou was also a regional martial arts hot-spot.  Drawing on subtle clues from the text the authors convincingly argue that the text was compiled in the area sometime after 1860 (and somewhat less convincingly) that it was assembled by successive generations of Kung Fu obsessed students at the Ryukyu House before they were shipped back to their families.

 

Serious students of Southern China’s martial arts history will find Chapter Five even more interesting.  Once an approximate date for the text has been established (and the authors have made real progress in this area), it then becomes possible to ask what this text tells us about the development of the martial arts in a specific city at a known point in time.  Using the text of the Bubishi the authors explore the process by which the mid-century spread of Yongchun White Crane impacted the subsequent development of systems like Luohan Boxing and Five Ancestors.

 

Once dated to a specific period, the Bubishi offers a window onto the process by which the conceptual and philosophical basis of White Crane spread and was layered onto other preexisting regional martial practices.  The mid-19th century was a time of great innovation in the Fujianese martial arts, as masters were challenged to create more effective fighting systems.  They often did this through a process of “martial fusion” facilitated by the spread of the conceptual aspects of White Crane.  Indeed, the Bubishi seems to record an intermediary phase in the formation of Fuzhou White Crane that illustrates the process by which these arts became progressively softer as the century progressed.

 

Fuzhou did not exist in isolation.  Douglas Wile has explored the increasing emphasis on softness seen in Taijiquan circles during the late 19th century. Further, the mid-19th century expansion of martial fusion in Fujian corresponds to the explosive growth of Choy Li Fut (another remarkably acquisitive system) in Guangdong, and eventually the spread of the White Crane creation story and aspects of its conceptual system into the Pearl River Delta. Both forces would have a profound impact on the development of Wing Chun and other regional styles.

 

Their argument is elegant, textually supported and modest in nature.  It reinforces a number of other discussions of what was going on in other regional martial arts centers during the late 19th century.  Yet Nisan and Liu’s contribution is unique as the Bubishi provides an actual record of how this process of fusion and transformation unfolded.

 

Vintage Postcard (undivided back) dating to the late Qing dynasty. Note the resemblance of the queue arrangement of the individual on the left to many of the paintings in The General Tian Wubeizhi.

 

 

Concluding Thoughts

 

 

Beyond its many historical contributions, The General Tian Wubeizhi is clearly a labor of love.  The binding and covers are great, and the full color reproductions of the original manuscript pages (which read from back to front) are surprisingly good.  The authors did not attempt to interpolate areas of missing text.  As they point out, this is already available from other sources.  Nisan must be commended on the quality of his translations and editorial work as the entire argument is laid out in such a way that it is not only clear, but accessible to wide range of readers who may not be all that familiar with Chinese martial arts history or society.

 

Nevertheless, this sort of accessibility comes at a cost.  While this text is sure to reach a wide audience, serious researchers will find themselves wanting a more scholarly apparatus.  While there are footnotes throughout, the book contains no index or reference section.  I repeatedly found myself scanning back through 50 or more pages worth of footnotes in an attempt to identify the full citation of a reference that had sparked my interest.  This quickly becomes a frustration.  If this book ever gets a second edition these oversights need to be corrected.  Readers of a text like this might also appreciate a glossary of Chinese names and specialized terms.

 

The demands of making a nuanced argument about a moment of change ran up against the impulse to be as accessible as possible in other places as well.  Many readers will appreciate Chapter Three’s carefully laid out discussion of the system of filial piety and ancestor worship when it comes to understanding the nature of traditional (and even modern) Kung Fu schools.  Yet these sorts of discussions always run the risk of creating the illusion of an unchanging and static “ethnographic present.”  Authors like Faure and Wakeman have pointed out that some of the region’s most basic social structures (such as lineage organizations and clan temples) underwent substantial changes during the late imperial period.  This was especially evident during the middle years of the 19th century when the relationships between these larger social structures and the clan militias and other paramilitary societies began to shift.

 

Nor am I totally convinced by Nisan and Liu’s arguments about the ultimate authorship of the Bubishi.  To their credit they begin Chapter Four with a frank admission that it is just not possible to prove or reject theories in this area.  The historical record is too thin.  The best we can do is to decide which ideas seem the most credible. That is certainly a frustration that I can empathize with.

 

And in all honesty, I think that the authors made real progress in narrowing the dating of this text and locating it in the Fuzhou diplomatic compound.  Yet one cannot help but wonder whether their carefully constructed arguments in Chapter One actually cuts against their equally interesting theory in Chapter Four.  If the Bubishi really does fall into the “Bronze Man Notebook” genre, it seems much more likely that this text would have been inherited by one or more students in Fuzhou (who then made their own copies) rather than being substantially compiled or authored by them.  Indeed, the authors themselves argue that such works would be useless without the oral traditions of a master, and these insights could only have come from Chinese teachers.  It seems that the easiest way to read the presence of local dialects and orthographic errors is to argue that they were locally produced vernacular texts copied by the foreign students, rather than being notebooks that were composed and compiled by them.

 

I also tend to agree with Quast (p. 94) that the beautifully reproduced paintings in this edition of the Bubishi show Chinese martial artists rather than their Okinawan students.  In my reference collection I have a number of photographs of Chinese individuals who have arranged their queue as a “top knot” so that it cannot be grabbed in fighting or training.  To my eyes, many of the paintings strongly suggest that both the forehead and even the back of the head of these figures have been shaved, as one might expect if they were subjects of the Manchus.  The gauntleted boots/shoes of these figures certainly appear to be Chinese.  It seems eminently reasonable to assume that the Okinawan students were the ones who copied these paintings.  Yet they may very well have been working from Chinese models.

 

In many respects, it probably doesn’t matter whether the Bubishi was compiled by a group of Chinese instructors in the Fuzhou area or their foreign students.  In either case the critical insights of Chapter Five remain valid.  Yet this question does point to another issue.  When attempting to determine what is “unique” about this manuscript tradition, to what other texts should we be comparing it?

 

Many Ming era manuals had dozens of woodcuts, and the paintings in the Golden Saber Illustrated Manual are superior in their elegance and use of color to even this edition of the Bubishi.  One could easily argue that these comparisons are not valid.  The Ming dynasty publications were meant for an elite audience, and the painted sword manual came out of imperial court circles.  The Bubishi, in contrast, began life as a humble “Bronze Man Notebook.”

 

But what does that indicate?  To answer this question the authors would need to provide readers with a much more detailed discussion of this critical genre.  While we learned quite a bit about how these books were used, and their social function, we never saw any textually based discussions of other “Bronze Man Notebooks.”  We were assured that, by their nature, all such notebooks were unique.  But given the academic interest in traditional medicine (this is, after all, the sort of topic that university presses routinely publish books on), what sort of literature exists to describe this manuscript genre?  How many examples of these notebooks are known to exist?  What libraries or private collections can they be found in?  Are discernible “lineages” detectable in these manuscript traditions?  Or are they more personalized than the Bubishi as it came to be passed on in Okinawa?  Were certain boxing styles more likely to appear in one region than another?

 

While most chapters have footnotes throughout, this most critical discussion relied only on a few general comments by Meir Shahar in his work on the development of Qing era boxing (p. 152-153).  As noted above, it is clear that other manuscripts combing martial and medical chapters have played a role in the development of the Southern Chinese martial arts.  One suspects that at least some of these were passed on well into the Republic period (which is when Ip Man probably inherited his example).  Connecting the Bubishi to this larger medical tradition is almost certainly a step forward.  Yet we are not likely to reap the full benefits of this move (or to make progress on the issues raised in Chapter Four) until the basic textual research on this genre has been completed.  Indeed, a serious effort to gather, catalog, analyze and translate these texts is needed for our historical understanding of the Southern Chinese martial arts to advance.

 

This type of study would require both resources and the concerted efforts of multiple scholars.  What might we learn?  There can be no doubt that Nisan and Liu’s work stands as a prime example of the gains to be had through this sort of textual detective work.  The contributions of their book are manifold.  It will be valued not just by Karate and Kung Fu students, but it has made important contributions to our historical understanding of the regions martial arts development as well.  It is my hope that this volume inspires the next set of scholars to sharpen their tools and begin to seriously study the various notebook and manual traditions of the Southern Chinese martial arts.

 

 

oOo

If you enjoyed this review you might also want to read: Zheng Manqing and the “Sick Man of Asia”: Strengthening Chinese Bodies and the Nation through the Martial Arts

 

oOo


Li Pei Xian and the Evolution of Modern Chinese “Martial Arts”

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Chinese Sword Dance. A refined and middle-class vision of the Chinese Martial Arts. Vintage postcard. Source: Author’s personal collection.

 

***Greetings! I am currently preparing for the upcoming Martial Arts Studies conference in Cardiff.  As such we will be taking a deep dive into the archives for today’s post.  This essay and biographical sketch was first published four years ago in our “Lives of Chinese Martial Artists” series.  While not well known in the West, Li Pei Xian is one of the many interesting figures I encountered while researching the history of the martial arts in the Pearl River Delta.  Better yet, his life story provides students with a cross-sectional view of a critical period in the formation of the modern Chinese martial arts.***

 

 

Critiquing the Conceptual Coherence of “Chinese Martial Arts”

 

In this installment of the “Lives of the Chinese Martial Artists” series we will be looking at the life and career of Li Pei Xian.  While a regionally important individual I doubt that many of my readers will be familiar with this name.  Nevertheless, I am very excited to be able to include him in our growing collection of biographical sketches.

The central purpose of this series of posts is to remind modern readers of the variety of life experiences and careers that were experienced by late 19th and 20th century Chinese martial artists.  For current students, both in China and the west, this is a very real blind spot.

The problem starts with our terms.  We assume that we know what the “martial arts” are.  From our perspective they are a single, easily identifiable, activity.  Individuals who are involved in the martial arts are easily identified by their colorful traditional uniforms and can be found carrying on a certain type of economic activity in any self-respecting strip mall.  Further, modern martial artists usually self-identify as such.  They even have trade organizations and publications that usually include the words “martial arts” in their titles to limit the possibility of confusion.

The situation in 19th century China was very different.  I would go so far as to guess that many, maybe even most, individuals who studied martial skills would have been surprised, and in some cases even offended, to discover that they were mere “martial artists.”  When asked about their identity most of these people would have responded that they were professional soldiers, night watchmen or runners for the local yamen.  Many would have been farmers who out of necessity joined a local crop watching society.  Being a “respectable peasant” was a much higher class occupation than being a boxing instructor or guard.  Others may have been traditional medical doctors or opera performers.  In a few cases you might even encounter members of the gentry who studied boxing or archery as a form of self-cultivation and entertainment.

If you would have grouped these individuals together and told the soldier, the farmer, the opera singer and the gentleman that the skills they practiced were all functionally equivalent or interchangeable they would have been very confused.  The idea of the “martial arts” as we use it in contemporary conversation is a modern construction.  These things look similar to us because of our modern perspective.  Indeed many of these categories got mixed together in the early 20th century.

If you search for an 18th century Chinese word that encompassed all of these skills and life experiences what you will quickly discover that there wasn’t one.  The arts of war practiced by soldiers were conceptually distinct from “Quanban” (an archaic term favored by the Qing administration translating roughly to “Fist and Pole”) which by definition could only be studied by a civilian.  And all of that was quite distinct from “medicine” and “theater training.”

Later in the 19th century all of this starts to change.  As China came into deeper contact with the western world conceptual categories were loosened and rearranged.  Ideas like “Chinese culture” and “traditional culture” took on a new relevance when there was an accessible alternative.  Suddenly categories like “traditional dress,” “traditional painting,” “traditional music” and even “traditional physical culture” came into daily use.

By the turn of the century, and even more so in the 1920s, certain intellectuals were scrambling to collect the remains of China’s “traditional culture” and preserve elements of it for posterity.  Yet this entire exercise is predicated on the creation of categories of thought and types of associations that could not have existed a century before.  The modern world never really preserves the past, it recreates it.

This is why I personally tell people that the traditional Chinese martial arts are a product of the late 19th and early 20th century.  Were there schools of boxing and wrestling that existed before this?  Certainly.  We have wonderful accounts of martial performers in the Song dynasty, and many still extant manuals on boxing and fencing from the Ming period.  Daoist medicine involving gymnastics and breathing exercises goes back even further.  But thinking about the “martial arts” as a distinct, coherent, conceptual category that unites all of this within a world of civilian commercial activity?  That is a product of the late 19th and early 20th century.

This is why the exercise behind the “Lives of the Chinese Martial Artists” series is so important.  It helps to explore the variety of life experiences that existed in the past as well as allowing us to study the unification and modernization of the traditional fighting styles.

Indeed, the traditional Chinese arts have gone through an impressive conceptual evolution.  This has not always been a smooth process.  There have certainly been some episodes of high drama.  One can almost follow the story of the creation and the evolution of the modern “martial arts” like the plot of a novel.

A wide variety of mostly unnamed folk combat traditions have existed from time immemorial.  These skills have formed an important means of escape for youth from the countryside looking to move and better their lot in life.  However, with the advent of modernization, different sorts of movement and economic activity are now possible.

Responding to this challenge the “martial arts” reorganize themselves and gain conceptual coherence.  In so doing they reposition themselves from “local traditions” to elements of “national culture.”  This was not possible in previous eras as “the nation,” as a conceptual category, did not yet exist.  While initially resisted by some, this movement of the traditional fighting style proves to be successful.  It was actually so successful that factions within the state (who were actively looking for tools to extend their reach into local society) decide that they could use these newly minted “traditional arts” to craft and reinforce their preferred vision of popular political identity.

However, alignment with a single political faction creates the opportunity for a violent backlash once other forces come to power (as has happened multiple times, including during the Cultural Revolution).  Finally, as the economy advances new types of problems emerge.  Now the martial arts are called upon to address the problems that inevitably accompany rapid urbanization and the growth of a fast paced capitalist society.

The flexibility of the Chinese martial arts in the face of this degree of social change is nothing short of amazing. No character better exemplifies these 20th century trends than Master Li Pei Xian.  While less well known in the west his own stories mirrors each of these larger twists and turns with uncanny precision.

Also Chinese “martial artists.” Troops from the Ma Clique train with Dadao, probably in north western China.

 

 

Li Pei Xian: Local Boy Makes Good

 

I first encountered Li Pei Xian while researching the history of the Foshan branch of the Jingwu (sometimes Chinwoo or “Pure Martial”) association.  Foshan plays an important role in the evolution of Guangdong’s modern martial arts.  As I have discussed elsewhere, one cannot understand the history of this town’s Republic era market for martial arts instruction without coming to terms the role of the local Jingwu chapter.

After the Hung Sing Association, it was the largest martial arts club in the town.  While Hung Sing appealed to the traditionalist sentiments of working class individuals, Jingwu, which had been influenced by the YMCA movement in Shanghai, sought educated middle class students.  More than any other force in China at the time, it sought to modernize the martial arts and to place them in the service of the nation.

The Foshan branch of the movement was large, with thousands of students and dozens of instructors.  It even succeeded in embedding its members as physical education instructors in local schools. Jingwu is also critical to the history of Southern China’s martial arts because of its longevity.  While the Association ceased to exist in most of the country after a financial disaster in 1925, the Foshan branch was well funded and very popular.  Li Pei Xian, its longtime “Director of Athletics and Martial Arts,” was at least partially responsible for this.  As a result the Foshan Jingwu actually managed to survive into the post WWII period.

Li Pei Xian (1892-1985) was born at the end of the Qing dynasty in Xinhu, a town in the Jiangmen area of Guangdong.  His beginnings were rather unremarkable and Jiangmen was economically depressed for much of the early 20th century.  Luckily Li was interested in the martial arts as a youth and was able to study Hakka Kuen.  This art, which originated within the Hakka ethnic minority community, is a classic example of a traditional southern style.  It seems that like so many other country boys with few prospects Li turned to the martial arts both as a form of education and as a means to move up in the world and better himself.

His fortunes began to look up in 1910 when he moved to the bustling, dangerous, metropolis that was Shanghai.  Many of the stories of rural immigrants to this city end in despair and tragedy.  Entire industries were devoted to fleecing hapless and naïve newcomers who arrived seeking opportunity and employment.

Li seems to have avoided the worst of this.  In fact, his background in the martial arts may have even given him a leg up in his new home.  Many important boxers were in and around Shanghai in the first few decades of the 20th century.  This would have been an exciting place to live for any martial artist.  Li appears to have thrown his lot in with the newly created Jingwu Association.  This group was created the same year that Li arrived in Shanghai allowing him to get in on the “ground floor” of a good thing.

In fact, Li likely even had a chance to meet the martial saint Huo Yuanjia, who died on August 20, 1910.  While formally the chief instructor of the Jingwu Association Huo died very shortly after its creation.  His institutional contributions were limited.  However, once the story of his supposed murder by “scheming Japanese imperialists” began to spread, Huo Yuanjia was elevated in the national consciousness to the status of a god.

A dedicated publicity campaign engineered by the young business minds behind the Jingwu Association ensured that the story spread.  Huo’s supposed martyrdom helped to make the group China’s first truly national martial brand.   A heady combination of sanitized and modernized martial arts, nationalist mythology and sophisticated marketing meant that within ten years every major city in eastern and southern China had a branch of the Jingwu association.

Li Pei Xian had bet on the winning horse.  He was already a trained martial artist, but of course it was necessary to retrain and certify in Jingwu’s northern styles and “scientific methods” before he could begin to move up in the organization.  By 1916, he had completed the six years of study necessary to become an instructor within that system.  He studied Shaolin boxing with Zhao Lian He, Northern Mantis with Lo Kuang Yu and Eagle Claw from Chen Zi Zheng.  He also mastered a large number of miscellaneous hand and weapons forms.

Li was hired directly by the Jingwu Association central office after receiving his advanced level certification and he later worked at the organizations headquarters in Shanghai.  Of course there was always more to Jingwu than just the martial arts.  It was meant to be a “one stop shop” for middle class entertainment, so it actively promoted modern and western pastimes.  In addition to teaching martial arts Li also acted as a director in the dance and photography departments.

This wide range of skills would later be critical to his career advancement.  Jingwu encouraged its member to become renaissance men (and women).  Li was no exception.

Founded in 1920 (though classes did not start until 1921) the Foshan branch of the Jingwu association would become one of the organization’s most prosperous and innovative chapters.  It was also one of the longest lived.  In fact, it still exists today in a modified form.

Unfortunately this branch did not enjoy overnight success.  For reasons that go well beyond the scope of this article, after an initial burst of enthusiasm Jingwu struggled to establish itself in Foshan.  The situation deteriorated rapidly over the first few years.  By about 1923 the local organization had almost completely ground to a halt.

The situation only began to recover after a strategic change in leadership.  In 1922, Zhong Miao Zhen, who had been a very passive leader, resigned as president of the Foshan branch.  He was replaced by the much more dynamic and capable Liang Du Yuan.  Liang was a local businessman with excellent organizational skills and a burning faith in the new group.  He had suffered from ill health until he joined the association and began to intensively study martial arts.  As his health improved he became an enthusiastic advocate of Jingwu’s mission of “national salvation.”  Liang would remain the president until the Japanese invasion in 1938.   Under his leadership, the Foshan branch finally gained a central place in the local martial arts subculture.

Upon taking office Liang Du Yuan began an aggressive policy of community outreach.  Under his watch the organization opened schools, free medical clinics, hosted western style sporting events, published newspapers, and held classes on topics as diverse as music, painting and public speaking.  The broader Jingwu Association had always found it necessary to use these more accessible events to attract urban middle class investigators.  Those that stayed could then be convinced to enroll in martial arts classes.

The Foshan Jingwu Association went well beyond this general pattern.  During its first few years the organization had been plagued by the popular perception that it was populated by outsiders who were hostile to the local community.  What is more, that perception may not have been entirely incorrect.  Liang decided that the key to success was to embed his organization within the local community by providing a wide range of subsidized opportunities to the middle class, such as roller skating expeditions or photography classes, and highly publicized charitable projects for the less fortunate.  This allowed the organization to begin to build what sociologists call “social capital,” or mutual bonds of trust and reciprocity.  As people became more familiar with the group and its aims they came to trust it and viewed it as a part of the local community.

Building these bridges proved to be absolutely critical.  Not only did student enrollments begin to rise, but the Foshan branch secured sources of local support and income that were not dependent on Shanghai.   As a result, the collapse of the national Jingwu movement in 1925-1926 had little impact on the Guangdong chapters.

Other changes in the chapter’s organization were also made.  In 1923, Li Pei Xian was transferred to Foshan where he remained as the “Athletics and Martial Arts Director” until 1938.  It is interesting to note that while the branch president was chosen locally the director of athletics (essentially the chief martial arts instructor) had to be appointed directly by the central office in Shanghai.  In fact, all of the martial arts instructors in the Foshan branch came from Shanghai.  This appears to have been a critical aspect of how the central Jingwu Association ensured the integrity of their brand.

The fact that Li was actually from Guangdong, spoke Cantonese and had a background in a southern boxing style may have helped him gain credibility within Foshan’s crowded martial marketplace.  However, his actual teaching activities did not deviate from the orthodox, strictly northern, Jingwu teaching curriculum.

One of his first reforms after taking office was to create a number of “small groups” within the broader student body of the Foshan Branch.  These structures were essentially study groups designed to keep students motivated, allow for mutual support and a sense of belonging.  It is easy to see how these qualities, which are still essential to successful martial arts schools today, could become lost in the Jingwu Association’s more megalithic teaching structures.  These groups were a great success and more were created from 1924-1926.

Li also oversaw the successful introduction of Taiji to the Foshan Jingwu curriculum.  This art, in all of its various guises, has become spectacularly popular throughout China and the Pearl River Delta region is no exception.  The regional success of Taiji demonstrates once again the critical role that the Jingwu Association played in bringing northern styles of hand combat to the south.

Li was also responsible for the martial arts columns published monthly, then weekly, in the branch’s newspaper.  While in Foshan he served both as an editor and author for his organization main mouthpiece.  Li should probably receive much of the credit for the success that the Foshan Jingwu branch eventually enjoyed.

Of course Li Pei Xian’s career extended far beyond his involvement with this one organization.  The Japanese invasion severely hampered the functioning to the Foshan Jingwu Association.  In 1938 he resigned his position and left to join Gu Ru Zhang’s Guangzhou Martial Arts Association where he is supposed to have trained an anti-Japanese Dadao (“military big saber”) squad.

The “internal” martial arts and other Qigong practices tend to be especially popular among senior citizens and others who are seeking relief from chronic conditions.

 

A third image of traditional martial artists.  “Monkey Boxers” performing in a public market in Shanghai circa 1930. Source: Taiping Institute.

 

 

Government Support, Retrenchment and Rehabilitation

 

I have not been able to track down much information on Li’s career between 1945 and 1949.  He did not follow the lead of so many other traditional masters who fled Guangdong after 1949.  If anything his career actually became more active and better supported following the communist takeover.

Prior to 1938 Li had been best known for his classic Jingwu Eagle Claw and Northern Shaolin techniques.   However, after 1949 he became an advocate of Wu style Taiji in Guangzhou.  In fact, Li quite successfully negotiated the change of regimes that ended the careers of so many other local martial artists.  He achieved a degree of official recognition and government support that he had never enjoyed during the 1930s (when the KMT’s Central Guoshu Institute was attempting to craft its own martial arts movement).  In 1957 Li even led the Guangdong provincial martial arts team to Beijing to compete in the National Martial Arts Award & Observation Conference.

In 1959 he was appointed the director of Physical Education Teaching and Research at the Guangzhou College of Traditional Medicine.  There he established a martial arts team which continued to campaign for the overall health benefits of China’s traditional physical culture.  In 1961, he began to offer courses in Qigong, in conjunction with the provinces Department of Health, at a number of universities and high schools.

This interlude is quite significant for a number of reasons.  As both David Palmer and Nancy Chen have demonstrated, the 1950s were something of a turning point for traditional Chinese medicine.  While the Communist Party had traditionally favored western “scientific” medicine, the debate between the “foreign experts” (many of whom were sympathetic western doctors) and the “Reds” (local communist cadres) motivated them to take a second look at traditional Chinese medicine.  Traditional movements and breathing exercises, termed “Qigong” by local medical officials, were vastly cheaper than western medicines.

Of course creating a new branch of traditional Chinese medicine, freed from “feudalism” and “superstition,” was not an easy or quick process.  New clinics and departments of medicine were founded.  These employed a wide range of medical doctors, traditional Qigong practitioners and quite a few martial artists.  Li advanced his career in the late 1950s by moving into this newly opened, relatively well funded area.  In short his sudden interest in TCM reflects both broader social trends and the funding priorities of the Chinese state.

The real tragedy of this burst of government support of Qigong in the 1950s and 1960s is what happened next.  The Red Guards of the Cultural Revolution were in no way convinced that Chinese medicine had freed itself from its superstitious and un-scientific past.  As a result many doctors, martial artists and even healthcare administrators’ suffered their wrath.  It is not clear exactly what Li’s specific situation was like but he appears to have survived the Cultural Revolution relatively unscathed.

In 1960, 1962 and 1977 he released major works on Qigong and Taiji, all published by the People’s Sporting Press.  In 1982, just at the start of the Kung Fu and Qigong “Fevers” he emerged as an expert on the national stage and published an extended series of articles on Shaolin Boxing in Wulin magazine.  In the years before his death he produced literally dozens of articles on different aspects of martial arts for various publications.

 

Conclusion

 

Li’s life story clearly illustrates the opening to the broader national culture that Guangdong’s martial artists faced in the early 20th century.  Born in a relatively undeveloped area and educated in Hakka Kuen, this young martial artist went on to make a name for himself promoting Taiji and traditional medicine on the national stage.  It seems unlikely that any of this would have been possible without the Jingwu Association.  While its classes mostly catered to the urban and well off, within martial arts circles it still filled the traditional role of providing a path for advancement for young men of talent who lacked resources.

Just as important is what Li’s career illuminates about the evolution of China’s traditional fighting arts during the 20th century.  Over the span of his lifetime we have seen the arts move from a strictly local practice, to one with implications for regional and even national identity.  New and sophisticated forms of management were introduced into hand combat organizations including modern advertising, funding and franchising structures.  All of this allowed the “traditional arts” to be expanded on a vast commercial scale.

Once these arts had been established in society they became available to the state as a tool to advance its own agenda.  That included the crafting of political identity during the Republic period (where the state supported Guoshu) and the Cultural Revolution (when the party turned on the traditional arts to promote “scientism”), as well as advancing economically and socially driven agendas (e.g., state backing of Qigong and Taiji during the 1950s and 1980s.)

In each of these cases officials, public intellectuals and hand combat teachers have struggled to redefine how we understand the term “martial arts.”  Economic development and the evolution of efficient markets have also had a huge impact on this process.  All of these factors are illustrated in the life and career of Li Pei Xian.


Imagining Ip Man: Globalization and the Growth of Wing Chun Kung Fu

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Ip Man.Title Image

 

***I am current on the road for the annual Martial Arts Studies conference at Cardiff University in the UK.  As soon as I return home I will be posting a full report of the event and sharing the text and slides from my keynote (titled “Show, Don’t Tell: Making Martial Arts Studies Matter.”)  In the mean time, here is the text from my 2015 keynote, which draws on themes discussed in my book The Creation of Wing Chun: A Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts.  Enjoy!***

 

Introduction

 

In a recent post I discussed some of the major themes and ideas to emerge from the keynote addresses delivered at the recent Martial Arts Studies held at the University of Cardiff.  Astute readers may have noticed that something was missing.  Due to the constraints of time I omitted any mention of my own presentation from that first report.  Now that a few weeks have passed and I have had a chance to get settled, its time to rectify this omission.

This task was made even easier when I received an email from the conference organizer letting me know that a recording of my talk was going to be made available on Youtube.  A number of presentations were taped (with permission) and some of the graduate students at Cardiff have been editing and compiling footage so that this can be shared with the public.  Rather than simply reading my account of my paper, you can go and watch the original presentation here.  The total running time on this video is just over an hour.  Special thanks go to Ester Hu and Ning Wu for their hard work in preparing this and the other recordings.

I am also happy announce that two of the other keynote addresses have also been uploaded and are made available to viewers.  These are the conferences opener by Stephen Chan (“Martial Arts: The Imposture of an Impersonation of an Improvisation of Infidelities (amidst some few residual fidelities”)  and D. S. Farrer (“Efficiency and Entertainment in Martial Arts Studies: Anthropological Perspectives”).  While by no means exhaustive, I think that together these three presentations do convey a sense of the work being done in this newly emerging interdisciplinary field.

Of course not everyone loves video.  I for one would always prefer to read a paper.  For those of you who share my inclination I am also posting the text of the remarks that I prepared below.

Before launching into the substance of this discussion a few words of explanation may be in order.  This paper summarizes some of the final arguments made in my forthcoming volume (with Jon Nielson) The Creation of Wing Chun: A Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts (State University of New York Press, 2015).  It can almost be thought of as a public reading of the volume’s concluding chapter.  Except that it isn’t.  The conclusion would have been too long and it presupposes that one has just read the preceding book.  So this talk combined discussions from both the books introduction and conclusion, as well as some other material bringing it all together.  Still, one might think of this as a “reading” from the upcoming volume. Enjoy!

 

 

Flight Crew.Wing Chun 1

 

 

Imagining Ip Man: Globalization and Growth of Wing Chun Kung Fu

 

In April of 2011 Hong Kong Airlines did something seemingly out of character. Most airlines seeking a share of the lucrative business class market attempt to impress the public with photos of their genteel and sumptuous cabins. Some seem to be engaged in an arms race to find ever more attractive and demure flight attendants. Instead Hong Kong Airlines announced that their flight crews would be taking mandatory training in a southern Chinese form of hand combat called Wing Chun. Having earned a reputation as a street fighting art on the rooftops of Hong Kong in the 1950s, this move appears paradoxical. It is one thing to quietly train cabin crews in rudimentary self-defense skills. It is quite another to offer press releases, give interviews, and post internet videos of how an unruly customer might be restrained.

It would be wrong to suggest that there is no glamour attached to Wing Chun. This was the only martial art that the iconic Bruce Lee ever studied. Nevertheless, when one juxtaposes the image of a bloody Lee (straight from the promotional material for Enter the Dragon) with a petite flight attendant from any competitor’s television commercial, one must ask what the advertising executives of Hong Kong Airlines know about their regional markets that we do not.

On purely historical grounds, it is rather odd that anyone seeking the past should “remember” Wing Chun, or any other traditional martial art, at all. The blunt truth is that for most of China’s history, the martial arts have not been very popular. While there has always been a subset of people who took up these pursuits, they were something that the better elements of society studiously avoided.

In the mid-1950s, when Bruce Lee was learning Wing Chun from his teacher Ip Man, there were probably less than a 1000 practitioners of the art in all of Hong Kong. When Ip Man learned the style from his teacher (or Sifu) in Foshan at the turn of the 20th century, it seems likely that there were less than two dozen students of his version of the art in total. The first realization that we need to wrap our minds around is that in many ways studying the “traditional” Chinese martial arts is actually a quintessentially modern activity.

Given this disconnect, much of my research over the last couple of years has sought to understand how exactly these arts have come to be such effective symbols of local identity and continuity with the past in southern China. But in today’s address I would instead like to shift my focus slightly and ask why some arts, like Wing Chun, have succeeded in the global system while others slipped quietly into obscurity.

What does this success indicate about the nature of the martial arts in general? And what does it suggest about the challenges that individuals perceive in the face of rapid economic, social and cultural dislocation?

The techniques of the traditional Chinese martial arts have a history that stretches back hundreds if not thousands of years. Yet the story of Ip Man, Bruce Lee, and the success of Wing Chun nicely illustrates the degree to which these arts have succeeded precisely because they are modern and global practices. Of course this is not how we generally think about or discuss the “traditional” martial arts.

While Ip Man and his student Bruce Lee are headlining today’s address, in many ways it is “globalization” that actually provides the terrain that we will explore. Originally rooted in the birth of European modernity this system of rapid social, economic and cultural change has since expanded to mark every corner of the globe.

Like much of the world China was first touched by globalization during the rush to construct a free trade system based on open markets during the 19th century. One simply cannot dismiss the influence of larger systemic forces when thinking about critical events in recent Chinese history like the Taiping Rebellion, the growth of regional imperialism or the Opium Wars.

It is also fascinating to note that so many of the martial arts that are popular today, including practices like Taijiquan or Wing Chun, were actually either created or reformulated and disseminated during this late period. Authors like Douglas Wile have suggested some reasons as to why this should not be a surprise. And then we see these same practices explode onto the global scene in during the 1960s-1970s as globalization hit another peak.

Yet just as the martial arts are a complex subject that must be examined from multiple perspectives, there is more than one way of thinking about the challenges posed by globalization. A more conventional, empirically driven, reading of the phenomenon claims that globalization is present when we see three things: the increased flow of goods (meaning trade), capital (or money) and labor (people) crossing state boundaries.

This rather simple conceptualization of globalization is the sort of thing that I was introduced to in my graduate economics training. It’s a very materialist approach to the problem. But it does direct our attention to some factors that are absolutely critical in understanding the challenges that an art like Wing Chun faced as it has sought to expand its presence throughout international markets.

Yet this isn’t the only way to think about globalization or the obstacles and opportunities that it has presented the Asian martial arts. Peter Beyer, in his work on the survival and evolution of religion in a modern era, suggests that we can also conceptualize globalization as the increased flow of ideas or “modes of communication” between previously isolated communities.

Beyer goes on to note that this sort of transformation can have important implications for any social institution responsible for transmitting fundamental social values, and during the late 19th and early 20th century, that is exactly how the Chinese martial arts came to be understood.

Modernization theorists long suspected that traditional types of identity such as ethnicity and religion would vanish in the modern era, and for the most part China’s May 4th intellectuals agreed. They also claimed that the traditional martial arts with their feudal and backwards values could not survive in the current era. Needless to say this hasn’t actually happened. Regional identity is strong, religions still exist in the world today, and more people are currently practicing Wing Chun than at any other time in its past.

So how do practices survive in a hanged world? By evolving. More specifically, while rapid modernization may resolve one set of dilemmas, it often creates a whole host of secondary problems.

This presents the guardians of more traditional ways of defining social meaning with an opportunity. On the one hand they can either find a new problem to offer a solution for, in essence turn themselves into a purveyor of a specialized skill and conform to the demands of modernization. Or they can double down on the more basic question of identity and meaning in a world where these things have become somewhat scarce commodities. But the critical thing to realize is that both of these strategies represent a transformation to accommodate modernity, even if one continues to market your brand based on its long history.

This is where the debates about Ip Man, who he was, what he taught, what sort of art Wing Chun really is, enters the picture. As we look at discussions within the Wing Chun community and other traditions we see exactly this discussion taking place. Do the martial arts need to evolve in order to survive, or does their value come from the timeless message of who we really are? Note also that this dynamic can help us to make sense of the powerful drive to find the supposedly “ancient” and “authentic” roots of these practices that currently dominates so many discussions of the martial arts including, once again, Wing Chun.

 

Bruce Lee. Detailed portrait.

Bruce Lee. Detailed portrait.

Wing Chun as a Commodity in the Global Marketplace

 

Ip Man did much to increase Wing Chun’s profile as a regional martial art after 1949 and he set the stage for its eventual rise to prominence within the larger hand combat community. Still, one cannot understand the global growth of this system, or any of the Asian fighting arts, without appreciating the role of his better known student, Bruce Lee.

Lee is the axiomatic figure in any discussion of the late 20th century internationalization of the martial arts. While some individuals in both North America and Europe had been exposed to these systems during the tumultuous middle decades of the 20th century, often as a result of military service in the Second World War, the Korean War or Vietnam, the appeal of the traditional Asian hand combat systems had remained limited.

These limitations manifest themselves in different ways. Fewer individuals in the west practiced these arts in the 1950s and 1960s than is the case today. Nor did they enjoy the almost constant exposure in the popular media that we have become accustomed to.

A survey of the pages of Black Belt magazine, then the largest American periodical dedicated to the martial arts, shows that most of the articles published in the early to middle years of the 1960s focused on Japanese hand combat systems. Karate and Aikido were probably the best known alternatives to Judo. Indeed, much ink was spilled during the decade debating the relative merits of these different systems.

Bruce Lee’s initial appearances on television, where he played the role of Kato on the Green Hornet (1966-1967), and then on the big screen in the 1973 sensation Enter the Dragon, had a profound effect on the place of the Asian martial arts in western popular culture. Given their current popularity we often forget that prior to the 1970s very few individuals were familiar with the term “kung fu” or even knew that the Chinese had also produced hand combat systems of their own.

Bruce Lee’s appearance on the Green Hornet had an immediate impact on the North American martial arts community. What was not evident at the time was that the boundaries of this still relatively small community were about to be fundamentally redrawn. 1973 saw the release of both Enter the Dragon and the news of Lee’s death at the shockingly young age of 32. The film captivated western audiences with its innovative fight choreography, nods to Asian philosophy (something else which had been growing in popularity with western consumers since WWII) and unabashed violence.

Concerned that the public might not identify with a single leading Asian actor, the film featured a diverse cast which gave important roles to both John Saxon and Jim Kelly. These fears proved to be unfounded as audiences around the globe were drawn to Lee’s charismatic performance. Still, the self-conscious decision to feature an ensemble cast of martial artists from a variety of racial, national, economic and social backgrounds had a powerful impact on viewers. It broadcast once and for all that the potential for both self-realization and group empowerment promised by the martial arts lay within every human being regardless of their personal circumstances or nation of origin.

Lee’s untimely death in 1973 crystallized his image at a single moment in time. He became a prophet to his followers, snatched away at the very moment of revelation. Rather than looking forward to what Lee would have done next, those who struggled to understand the promise of this message were instead forced to look back to his previous films, television appearances, interviews and assorted writings. All of these things could be easily commoditized.

Martial arts instruction could also be commoditized and distributed to the public. The wave of enthusiasm unleashed by Lee’s sudden eruption into the popular consciousness filled martial arts classes of seemingly every style with new students. As one might expect, the previously obscure Chinese martial arts were major beneficiaries of this new attention. Wing Chun’s development was forever shaped by its association with Bruce Lee.

While Lee had been involved with the film industry since his youth (when he starred in a number of movies as a child actor), he was also a dedicated martial artist. Lee had first been introduced to Wing Chun in Hong Kong in the 1950s when he became a student of Ip Man.

After coming to the United States he continued to teach and promote the Chinese martial arts. His skills, personable nature and TV roles led to appearances in Black Belt magazine where he mentioned his background in Wing Chun and his teacher. Multiple articles published in this period actually featured images of Ip Man sitting beside, or practicing chi sao with, his increasingly famous student.

Given how little western media exposure the Chinese arts as a whole received, this was an unprecedented amount of publicity. Even before the advent of the “Kung Fu Craze” in 1973, Bruce Lee had assured that his Sifu would be among the best known Chinese martial artists in the west.

The Bruce Lee phenomenon boosted the ranks of many different Asian martial arts styles. In truth Karate schools, because of their popularity, probably benefited more from his appearance than anyone else. Yet this transformation in the way that the global public perceived these fighting systems was not enough to preserve every fighting style that had been practiced earlier in the 20th century. At the same time that arts like Wing Chun, Taijiquan and the various schools of Karate were reaping the benefits of this unexpected windfall, other traditional Chinese systems were slipping into obscurity.

What are some of the other more material factors that may have facilitated Wing Chun’s spread throughout the international system?

The first, and possibly most critical variable to consider, is geography. Exporting any good, whether physical or cultural, is expensive. All forms of trade are ultimately limited by the size of the “transaction costs” associated with the exchange. These costs include factors such as the expenses of adapting, translating and shipping goods for sale in other markets.

Ip Man’s flight to Hong Kong late in 1949 was, without a doubt, the single most important factor in explaining the subsequent success of his art. Why? This city occupied a unique place in the post-WWII economic order. It had traditionally been a major transit port for trade between western markets and China. As a result residents of Hong Kong were connected to global markets in ways that most individuals on the mainland were not.

These links were manifest in many areas, all of which served to reduce Wing Chun’s transaction costs. Hong Kong itself was one of the most urban and modernized sections of southern China. It had a highly efficient educational system which actually produced more students than the local universities could absorb. Some of these individuals were fluent in English and had either family or business connections abroad. In fact, a number of Ip Man’s younger students in the 1950s and 1960s came from relatively affluent middle class families and traveled to North America, Europe or Australia to pursue additional educational opportunities.

Ip Ching, the son of Ip Man, has noted that this pattern of out-migration was one of the main ways in which the socioeconomic status of his father’s students contributed to the spread of the Wing Chun system. When the Bruce Lee phenomenon hit in the early 1970s, there were already a number of individuals studying and working in various western cities who were able to take on students and begin to teach the Wing Chun system. More soon followed. The transnational flow of labor, in this case students and young adults, was critical to Wing Chun’s eventual success.

Other arts, even ones that had been very popular, had fewer opportunities to take advantage of this outpouring of enthusiasm if they were located in areas less connected to the global transfer of capital, ideas and individuals. The various martial systems of south-west China struggled to gain a foothold within the global market as comparatively few individuals from this region had emigrated to the west prior to the 1970s. Likewise, not all of Hong Kong’s arts were blessed with a relatively affluent group of students who had access to international employment and educational opportunities.

It is also important to consider the general attitude of these students and how that may have interacted with their socio-economic status. It seems to me that in the current era there seems to be a push to reimagine the Wing Chun of the 1960s as something more “traditional” than it actually was. This can be seen in a number of areas, from the re-emergence of the “discipleship” system in a number of schools to the enthusiasm with which some students have greeted the rediscovery of “lost lineages” claiming direct descent from either the Shaolin Temple or late Qing revolutionary groups.

While discussing the Wu Taijiquan community from Shanghai Adam Frank has argued that the shifting economic opportunities presented by global expansion will not always lead to more openness within a fighting style. At times the pressures and potential profits of international markets may actually lead to a renewed emphasis on secrecy and exclusion as organizations attempt to differentiate their product and control the flow of financially valuable teaching opportunities. We should not assume that the process of globalization will necessarily lead to more open or liberal styles.

So how did Wing Chun, and its various students, appear to observers prior to the explosion of interest that would make it a leading Chinese art? Did it give the impression of a forward looking system, or one that was basically reactionary, seeking to preserve tradition?

In 1969 a Wing Chun student named Rolf Clausnitzer and his teacher Greco Wong published a book titled Wing-Chun Kung-Fu: Chinese Self-Defence Methods. Clausnitzer had lived in Hong Kong as a youth and was one of the first westerners to practice and closely observe the Wing Chun system. He had initially interviewed Ip Man in 1960 and later studied with his student Wong Shun Leung. After moving to the UK he continued his studies with Greco Wong, who was a student of Moy Yat.

Readers should carefully consider the timing of this publication. In 1969 the general explosion of interest in the martial arts (and Wing Chun in particular) that would be unleashed with Enter the Dragon was still a few years off. So this early work offers us a suggestion of how Ip Man’s Wing Chun system might have appeared to western martial artists prior to the launch of the “Kung Fu Craze” and the orientalist urges that it seems to have embodied.

Originally from Kwangtung province he migrated to Hong Kong where he still resides. An outspoken man, Yip Man regards Wing Chun as a modern form of Kung Fu, i.e. as a style of boxing highly relevant to modern fighting conditions. Although not decrying the undoubted abilities of gifted individuals in other systems he nevertheless feels that many of their techniques are beyond the capabilities of ordinary students. Their very complexity requires years if not decades to master and hence greatly reduced their practical value in the context of our fast-moving society where time is such a vital factor. Wing Chun on the other hand is an art of which an effective working knowledge can be picked up in a much shorter time than is possible in other systems. It is highly realistic, highly logical and economical, and able to hold its own against any other style or system of unarmed combat.

Even more thought-provoking is Clausnitzer and Wong’s description of Ip Man’s students and how they compared to other groups in Hong Kong’s hand combat marketplace.

An interesting characteristic common to most practitioners of Wing Chun lies in their relatively liberal attitude to the question of teaching the art to foreigners. They are still very selective when it comes to accepting individual students, but compared with the traditional Kung Fu men they are remarkably open and frank about the art. If any one Chinese style of boxing is destined to become the first to gain popularity among foreigners, more likely than not it will be Wing Chun.

Bruce Lee’s rise to superstardom ushered Wing Chun onto a wider stage than Clausnitzer and Wong could have imagined in 1969. Yet, as we have seen, the system did possess certain characteristics that allowed it to capitalize on this windfall during a time when other traditional Chinese styles were falling into obscurity. Perhaps the most important of these were Ip Man’s decision to streamline the art following his move to Hong Kong and the nature of the students that his school attracted. Clausnitzer and Wong’s early observations appear almost prophetic in light of the system’s subsequent emergence as one of the most popular fighting arts within the global arena.

 

 

Ip Man visiting Ho Ka Ming's School in Macau.

Ip Man visiting Ho Kam Ming’s School in Macau.

Two Visions of the Wing Chun Community

 

Some accounts (such as those left by Chu Shong Tin) suggest that Ip Man liked to play the role of the Confucian gentleman. This embodiment of traditional cultural values attracted a certain type of student during the Hong Kong period. Yet, as the previous quotes remind us, Wing Chun succeeded in large part because Ip Man understood it as a modern fighting system.

Even Lee’s films, while examples of visual fantasy, retained a veneer of gritty social reality. His protagonists stood up to racial, social, national and economic oppression in an era when those problems were acutely felt. And Lee’s fame has done much to facilitate the subsequent success of Ip Man as a media figure.

Still, the Ip Man that seems to be the most popular with audiences today is a different sort of hero than his later student. Whereas Bruce Lee’s early films appeared to carry a politically radical subtext, Ip Man as he is imagined on-screen has been a much more conservative figure. Portrayed as a local and national hero, he fights to retain the values and hierarchies of the past rather than to overturn them.

There are a number of ways to approach this disjoint. When reimagining Ip Man for the big screen it is no longer enough to see him only as a local kung fu teacher. For these movies to be a commercial success they had to be embraced by wide audiences in both Hong Kong, on the mainland and in the west. As such a dual discourse was adopted where Ip Man found expression as both a local and a national figure. Wilson Ip’s 2008 effort succeeded precisely because it managed to strike a masterful balance between these various audiences.

So what is the significance of the current reimagining of Ip Man’s legacy for those of us in martial arts studies? Peter Beyer might remind us that there is more than one way to think about the process of globalization. While ultimately a continuation of the drive towards modernity that was launched in 19th century Europe, we can also understand it as a transformation of the ways in which meaning is communicated between society and individuals. This more conceptual understanding of globalization may shine a different light on the sorts of roles that the martial arts, and Wing Chun in particular, are being called on to perform in the current era.

According to Beyer, the process of globalization has resulted in traditional means of value creation being displaced by schools of thought that privilege efficiency and professionalism. Religious modes of communication have been one of the great losers in this process. Indeed, Beyer’s work is centrally concerned with the fate of organized religion in an increasingly global world.

To create systems of meaning (which can then be used to support a variety of administrative and political functions) Beyer argues that religions, and other “generalized” modes of communication, begin by positing the existence of two realms, a “transcendent” and an “imminent.”

Given that the imminent defines the totality of our daily existence, we actually have trouble talking about it as we have no exterior points of reference from which to define abstract values and concepts. This problem is overcome by postulating the existence of a “transcendent” state in which none of the basic conditions that define daily life are said to exist. Through their monopoly on socially meaningful communication, religions (and other ritual systems) were traditionally able to make themselves essential in all sorts of social spheres.

This balance was upset by the rise of more professionalized modes of action during the modern era. Why? Highly focused types of communication are more efficient than those based on general cultural ideas. Modern societies value this increase in efficiency. As a result the priests and nuns that had overseen so many elements of western life were replaced with doctors, nurses, teachers, counselors, lawyers and bureaucrats.

This same process of increased specialization and professionalization has now found expression all over the globe. Nor are religious institutions the only ones to be challenged by these fundamental shifts in social values. Any “generalist” mode of communication can potentially find its social influence threatened by the rise of professionalism and increased rationalization. In fact, when individuals talk about the declining popularity of many martial arts in mainland China today, it is often this sort of narrative that they turn to. The traditional martial arts are seen as incompatible with the demands of modernity.

This is a very brief summary of Beyer’s complex argument as presented in his volume Religion and Globalization (2000). Yet contrary to the expectations of the early modernization and secularization theorists, religion, ethnicity and the like has not simply vanished. Instead the disruptions created by globalization have presented new opportunities for these institutions to retain some degree of social relevance.

On the one hand, they can focus on new aspects of “public performance” by addressing the secondary problems caused by this massive economic and social transformation. This more liberal strategy proved to be popular and can be seen in places as diverse as the rise of “liberation theology” in Latin American or the increased concern with environmental protection by a number of different types of churches in the more affluent west.

Other organizations have instead adopted a more conservative approach by refocusing their energies on the question of “fundamental communication” about the transcendent.
This second strategy is especially useful if one wishes to address questions of identity, and hence the definition and boundaries of the community, in the face of increased global pressures and dislocation. Such approaches have proved to be popular and their influence can be seen in the rise of fundamentalist communities in many world religions.

Nor is there any reason to think that these two adaptive strategies are restricted to discussions of religion. Douglas Wile has noted that the disruptions which imperiled the Chinese empire in the middle of the 19th century (including the Taiping Rebellion and the Opium Wars) badly shook society’s self-confidence. This, in turn, became a critical moment in the formation of modern Taijiquan.

He argues that the Wu brother’s subsequent research and development of the Taiji Classics can be understood as an attempt to find, reevaluate and reassemble what was valuable in Chinese culture in the face of a rapidly evolving existential challenge from the modern west. While Taijiquan clearly has technical roots which stretch back for centuries, it is this late 19th century social agenda, expanded and reimagined in explicitly nationalist terms during the 20th century, which defines how many people experience the system today.

Still, there are debates as to what Taiji should become. On the one hand there are groups who see in the art a cultural repository of what is essentially “Chinese.” While foreign students might learn the techniques, it is doubtful that they could even gain the deep cultural knowledge necessary to correlate and perfect this mass of material. For some practitioners what lies at the root of the system is an essentialist ideal of racial or national identity.

Other reformers have claimed that for Taiji to survive in the modern world it must adapt. Specifically, it must evolve to meet the needs of its changing student. An aging population can benefit from the increased feelings of health, balance and well-being that come with daily forms practice. Busy corporate executives can turn to simplified versions of the art for stress relief and lifestyle advice. I think that the idea of Sifu as life coach is something that many of us are probably familiar with.

Here we see the two adaptive strategies that Beyer suggested were open to all traditional modes of communication threatened by globalization. The first camp has focused on the question of primary communication, which in the modern era so often finds its expression in the exploration of cultural and national identity. The second group has instead sought to adapt the art to deal with the ancillary problems created by life in an increasingly fast paced and interconnected modern society.

This same process can also be seen in the Wing Chun community. Certain schools continue to focus on the “solutions” (be they self-defense, health or psychological well-being) that Wing Chun can provide. Yet not every discussion of the art trends in this utilitarian direction. The endless debates of the deep (and basically unknowable) origins of this style signal an ongoing interest in the idea that a hidden and somehow more “real” identity is out there. It is interesting to note how often that search leads back to nationally motivated myths of resistance grounded in either the Shaolin Temple or legendary rebel groups.

Indeed, the impulse to see Ip Man as something more than a martial arts teacher is not confined to recent films. It also reflects a fundamental current within the Wing Chun community. What defines the heart of this system, and what should it become in the future? Is this a style built around the solutions to pressing technical and social problems? Or is it instead one that attempts to imagine a space in which its members have a better, and more empowered, understanding of who they are?

 

ip man.chair
Conclusion

 

In conclusion I would like to turn to a few lines of dialogue from a more recent reimagining of Ip Man, one that seems almost self-reflective about what he is becoming not just in Chinese popular culture but on the world stage. In an early scene of Wong Kar-wai’s 2013 film The Grandmaster we find Ip Man accepting a challenge from a northern master looking to pass on the mantle of leadership. When mentioning the divide between the Southern and Northern styles of the martial arts Ip Man asserts:

“The world is a big place. Why limit it to “North” and “South?” It holds you back. To you this cake is the country, to me it is so much more. Break from what you know, and you will know more. The southern [martial] arts are bigger than just the North and South.”

This scene is fascinating as it seems to contemplate the rise of Ip Man as a cultural icon and then goes on to address this debate in almost explicit terms. What is the value of the Southern Chinese martial arts? Are they an expression of local identity? Are they subservient to nationalist dreams? Or do they somehow transcend this? Can they become more? Nor, if Beyer is correct, should we expect to see this debate resolved in the near future. A dispute between positions representing such fundamentally different sets of possibilities simply cannot be resolved.

The dialectic tension between these two competing visions generates much of the emotional power that drives the Chinese martial arts today. While these fighting systems may appear to be “traditional,” in their present form they are inescapably the product of a modern global world. Ip Man’s actual genius lay in his perception and embrace of this fundamental truth.

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If you enjoyed this presentation you might also want to see the Keynote addresses by Stephen Chan (“Martial Arts: The Imposture of an Impersonation of an Improvisation of Infidelities (amidst some few residual fidelities”)  and D. S. Farrer (“Efficiency and Entertainment in Martial Arts Studies: Anthropological Perspectives”), which have also been uploaded to Youtube!

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Martial Mythology (1): Yim Wing Chun and the Hero’s Journey

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Introduction

For someone who doesn’t read classical Chinese, I spend a lot of time in seminars listening to presentations on ancient texts.  Cornell regularly invites visiting scholars to discuss their work.  While none of these individuals has ever given a talk on a martial arts related project, they almost always suggest points worth thinking about.

This last week Guolong Lai, a professor of archeology at the University of Florida, gave a fascinating talk on the translation of a Warring States era document.  Like many of the documents that survive from the period, these had been written on thin bamboo strips that were then buried in a tomb.  When the tomb flooded they were trapped in an oxygen starved environment.  After being stabilized each bamboo strip was surprisingly clean and easy to read.

Still, Professor Lai had a problem.  The various strips had been disassociated from each other and mixed with strips taken from other texts (possibly by the individuals who looted the tomb).  Previous scholars had attempted to do a basic reconstruction in which they sorted this mass of separate sentences back into piles representing a handful of documents.  Once you could be fairly certain which strips went together, one could start to reconstruct the narratives like a puzzle.  This part of the process is generally easier than you would think.

Indeed, Prof. Lai observed that it may be entirely too easy.  We should probably treat the speed with which entire texts are reconstructed with a certain degree of skepticism.  The problem is that the human brain is just too good at pattern recognition.  We naturally strive to find and reconstruct meaning.  And when its not there, sometimes we force things.  It turns out there are a number of ways to resurrect a physically deconstructed text, and many of them can be made to tell remarkably coherent stories.

Obviously this is a challenge for archaeologists and students of ancient Chinese literature.  How do you know that you put the sentences in the right order?  Or on a more basic level, how could you tell if an entire group of sentences was just missing?

Lai’s solution to the problem was to approach these texts not from the technical perspective of archaeology or linguistics, but rather through literary analysis.  To do so he turned to a group of (somewhat unfashionable) structuralist theories coming out of the field of narratology.  Looking at similar texts from the Warring States period its easy to find very popular, almost fixed, story telling structures shared across a wide range of texts.  Using these literary patterns as a map he could demonstrate with relative ease where the gaps (in the form of missing bamboo strips) were, and note where other scholars had forced readings and continuities on the text that may not have been there.  The anthropologists in the room were thrilled.  I am not sure everyone else was equally taken with this methodology.  I walked out of the room thinking “Score one for structuralism.”

 

Japanese high school students during the 1930s. Source: Author’s personal collection.

 

Finding the Universal in the Particular

Finding universal patterns in texts is a tricky business.  When we are doing genre analysis on a small group of similar texts all found in the same place, and all produced by a single social class, the identification of repeated patterns may not be much of a stretch.  The problem, however, is that we (being obsessed with pattern recognition) will almost immediately start to find that same pattern in lots of other places as well.  We are then faced with a dilemma.  Do we really have a sound theoretical reason to expect to see this correlation, or are we simply allowing our imagination to get the best of us?

I was struck with these questions as I listened to Lai.  The burial text that he was reconstructing told the story of a religious debate in ancient bronze age China.  It related that after a battle had been fought in which territory was gained at the expense of lives, the natural order was upset.  The kingdom was gripped by a drought, and the King’s sages told him of a river god in the newly conquered territory that was no longer being honored.  The court then faced a dilemma.  Could the king go out and sacrifice to strange gods (separate from his own ancestral and territorial cults) in an attempt to appease them?  Or was this a situation that called for an exorcism of the vanquished gods and ghosts?

It should be remembered that this is a very early text, predating the establishment of the political and religious logic of Empire.  As such the King opted for spiritual warfare rather than appeasement and all was right with the world.  Yet I could not help but reflect on that fact that (while the final solution was different), this was a very familiar story.  It was a dilemma that I had heard many times before.  But I knew the story from Ming dynasty novels (such as the Canonization of the Gods and Water Margin) in which Chinese communities enacted rituals to transform the ghosts of vanquished soldiers and gods into local deities so that they could receive regular sacrifices without upsetting the social order.

On a theoretical level there is very little connection between popular religion and literature in the Ming dynasty and the coffin texts of the Warring States period.  I have no idea how to draw those dotted lines.  Do we postulate the existence of “universal symbols” within “Chinese” culture, or do we do our best to ignore the fact that very similar discussions keep popping up in very different times and places?

China is not the only region that presents such challenges.  Starting in the late 19th century (the era that saw the high water mark of Western imperialism) several writers, including Edward Taylor and James Frazer, began to examine comparative collections of mythology and folklore.  They noted that certain patterns seemed to repeat themselves in stories that were generated by cultures who had no contact with one another, or who had even existed at different times.  Taylor stated that stories of wandering heroes often shared a remarkable number of elements.  The goal of this early research was varied, but some scholars wanted to be able to map the plot elements of story sequence with the same sort of precision that one might chart the elements of grammar in a sentence.  The hunt was on for seemingly universal aspects of the narrative process.

This basic insight found expression in a several theories.  Anthropologists and those interested in rituals identified universal structures, expressed in van Gennep’s tripartite pattern of separation, liminality or initiation, and return.  The nascent field of psychology also found inspiration in these shared narrative patterns. Yet rather than exploring the differences of human culture they tended to fixate on supposedly universal aspects of the human psyche, the problem of the subconscious, and the process by which children became mature individuals.  Being rooted in fundamental structures of biology, the stage was set to transition from a search for the universal rules to narrative construction, to the discovery of humanity’s universal narrative, or monomyth.

Writers such as Otto Rank (a follower of Freud) and Carl Jung, laid the intellectual foundations for such a move.  Yet it found its most popular and widespread expression in the writings of Joseph Campbell.  Campbell was deeply familiar with Jung’s body of work and was a student of world mythology.  Critics have accused him of being a “mere popularizer” of other’s work, and someone who failed to sufficiently research or cite the many story traditions that he drew on.  Certain elements of this critique have merit, but Campbell’s work cannot simply be reduced to Jungian insights and might be better understood as a creative extension and synthesis of intellectual currents that were then popular.

One of the most fruitful hypothesis to emerge from Campbell’s career is the notion that a universal story can be found in the “hero’s journey.” On a purely individual and psychological level, the hero’s journey can be thought of as a metaphor for a universal coming of age process that all human beings experience.   Yet, according to Campbell, the universality of the process has also found expression in a startling wide range of mythic stories.  The basic narrative structure of the hero’s journey can be found in seemingly different traditions such as the life of Christ, the Chinese tale of Mulan and the much more modern adventures of Luke Skywalker.

 

A rough outline of the hero’s journey. Source: Wikimedia.

 

 

The universality of this structure notwithstanding, there is a good bit of confusion as to how to describe it.  Campbell has inspired an entire school of followers, each attempting to make minor improvements on his pattern.  As such, the hero’s journey might have 3, 4, 8, 12 or 17 stages depending who one asks (more on that later).  Further, not every narrative will necessarily include every stage.  This is especially true of the more detailed theories.  Sometimes a stage is omitted, or it may be doubled for increased narrative impact. Yet the various stages are almost always encountered in the same progressive order.

In the interests of time I will only review a very simple version of the hero’s journey, focusing on what might be thought of as five of Campbell’s main stages.  Those wanting to delve deeper into this subject are free to check out his book The Hero With a Thousand Faces, or watch any action/adventure movie made in Hollywood during the last two decades.

Campbell noted that the hero’s journey almost always starts with a “call to adventure.”  It might seem innocuous, such as Gandalf leaving a rune scratched into Bilbo Baggin’s door in the first scene of J. R. R. Tolkien’s Hobbit.  Or it may be more fully developed as a miniature narrative; think of Harry Potter’s battle with the Dursleys to receive his acceptance letter from Hogwarts.  In the case of Star Wars, Luke’s “call to adventure” came in the form of a literal call, pre-recorded by Princes Leia and loaded in R2D2’s memory banks.   The call may be eagerly accepted (Harry Potter) or initially rejected (as in the case of Bilbo.)  Yet psychological maturation, rituals of initiation and narrative structures will not be put off.  Eventually our heroes find themselves swept up into a larger world, far removed from the parochial realm of family and daily affairs where we first met them.

It is interesting to consider how these narrative structures might express themselves in the creation myths that surround the Chinese martial arts.  One suspects that these myths can entrap the imagination of Western students precisely because they contain, or can be read as building upon, similar structures.  The story of Yim Wing Chun as told in the post-Ip Man Wing Chun community would seem to be good candidate for analysis precisely because it self-consciously narrates a heroic journey to maturity through China’s hinterlands of “rivers and lakes.”

Still, in strictly cultural terms, this remains a Chinese story.  Its opening phase revolves not so much around the agency of Yim Wing Chun as her father, the head of the household.  The family’s collective call to adventure comes when he is falsely accused of a crime in Guangzhou sometime after the death of his wife.  Given the vagaries of Qing justice, he decided to flee the city (itself the capital of Guangdong) and to head for White Crane mountain on the far Western edge of the empire.  This flight would take the small family out of the mundane world of the well-ordered empire, and into the mythological realm of heroes, villains and wandering Kung Fu masters.  In this case Yim Wing Chun was either too young or too dutiful to resist the call to the fantasy-land of outlaws and warriors termed the “Rivers and Lakes” in Chinese popular literature.

Campbell noted that no apprentice hero would last long without aid (often divine) and a mentor who can either instruct, or ritually initiate, them.  The need for mentors is still felt quite strongly in modern societies.  I suspect that many individuals sign up for martial arts classes precisely because they are searching for their own personal Yoda or Obi-wan Kenobi.  Adam Franks’ ethnographic work on the Shanghai Wu Taijiquan community suggests that this desire is also experienced cross-culturally.  Even Christ receives his initiation into the realm of the spirit through the administration of John the Baptist.  Everyone, it seems, needs a mentor.

Like so many other young individuals in Kung Fu legends, Yim Wing Chun found assistance in the form of a wandering Shaolin monastic figure.  One suspects that Joseph Campbell would have had much to say on the narrative of the burning of the Shaolin temple, and its many global resonances.  Unfortunately, such a digression would take us beyond the confines of the current essay.  Its sufficient to say that the former Shaolin Abbess Ng Moy, herself in hiding from the Qing government’s watchful eyes, befriended the Yim family shortly after they moved to the region and set up a small tofu shop.

The true nature of the helper is not often revealed until a moment of crisis.  Given that we are discussing heroic narratives, such conflicts are not rare.  The major source of opposition comes in the form of what Campbell termed the “threshold guardian.”  The idea of threshold, or a liminal space, is a rich one, regardless of whether these narratives are approached from a ritual, cultural or psychological perspective.  The crossing of a threshold often symbolizes the process of death and a descent into hell where one must confront some repressed, dark, aspect of the self.  Perhaps there is no more potent threshold guardian in modern mythology than Darth Vader who combines in a single menacing package the promise of death and the rage of being abandoned or betrayed by one’s own parents.  It is clear that the version of Luke Skywalker that we have come to know lacks the mental strength and self-control to face such an opponent. That identity must pass away so that a better version of Skywalker, one that has confronted and mastered his hatred and the need for revenge, can move on.

Wing Chun’s threshold guardian is manifest when her latent sexuality begins to appear.  A marketplace bully, apparently the leader of some sort of local gang, takes an interest in the increasingly beautiful young girl and demands that she “marry” him.  The intrusion of this unwanted proposal sets the rest of the narrative in motion.

To a Western student a “marketplace bully” may not appear to be that important of a threat.  Chinese readers, on the other hand, have a rich library of prior legends and novels to draw on.  Having such a character demand a young woman’s hand in marriage is a common narrative trope. Yet Wing Chun was espoused to be married by her parents shortly after her birth.  Breaking off such an engagement was a serious violation of one’s social duty.  Further, abandoning her father without support in his old age would also be a violation of the Confucian norms of filial piety.

Readers might also recall that in an opening chapter of the Ming novel Water Margin (which basically functions as the Old Testament of the TCMA community) an analogous situation can be found.  Here the “Flowerly Monk” (a different type of escaped monastic) comes across a situation in which the bully’s “proposal” is a thinly disguised metaphor for abducting the girl from her father and using her as a prostitute.  His solution to the problem is characteristically direct, involving only a steel pole and a lot of beating.  In that case it is the monk who is the ostensible hero (or more properly, the antihero) of the narrative.

But this is not the way that the Abbess Ng Moy operates.  In Shaolin stories, she is often the tactician.  Beating one marketplace bully to death, while satisfying, would not really solve Yim Wing Chun’s underlying problem.  The River and Lakes are full of similar characters, and she would be no closer to fulfilling her social duties.

Ng Moy instructed the Yim family to accept the marriage proposal with the following amendment.  Mr. Yim was to apologetically note his daughter (who had never studied the martial arts) was fond of boxing, and would only marry an individual who could beat her in single combat.  The father suggested that the Bully come back in a year, and they could resolve the whole question on a raised platform in the marketplace.

With the trap properly baited, Ng Moy took the young girl to the mountains and instructed Wing Chun in her own variant of the Shaolin tradition.  As we all know, this combined the soft and hard, taking full advantage of the yin, or feminine, traits to overcome “hard,” purely masculine, strength.  The marketplace bully had no idea what he had agreed to, and a year latter he found himself on the wrong end of a public thrashing at the hands of a teenage girl.  One can only imagine that this might decrease his standing in the social register of the River and Lakes.  Wing Chun, on the other hand, had proved to be a master of this dangerous realm.

This is where we are often tempted to end our stories with a “happily ever after.”  Yet Joseph Campbell would remind us that the most important stage of the hero’s journey was still to come.  He noted that these were not simply linear stories, in which a traveler went from point A to B.  Rather, the critical journeys were psychological and social in nature.  We can see the same basic structure in rituals and rites of passage.  First the individual is separated from society, then they are initiated and their social status is changed.  Lastly, they must return to community so that they can fulfill their new role.  And in so doing society itself is also transformed.

Looking at these narratives through a psychological lens, Campbell believed that the individual faced a suppressed or dark aspect of the self in the confrontation with the threshold guardian.  By overcoming this challenge, the hero wins a “great boon” that they then have a responsibility to return to society.  In real life, this takes the form of greater joy, wisdom, service and community participation.

While we often move beyond the marketplace confrontation rather quickly, it is worth considering how these ideas play out in the Yim Wing Chun narrative.  The orthodox version of the story (as related in the Ip Man lineage) says little about the rest of her life.  But we do know two important pieces of information.  From a cultural and a structural standpoint, both of these facts are critical.

First, we know that Yim Wing Chun returns to the world of mundane life and marries her childhood fiancé, who is now some sort of salt merchant.  Put slightly differently, our hero leaves the enchanted world of Rivers and Lakes for a life that affirms conventional social values.  Yet her choice to return also has an impact on the world around her.  She retains her martial arts skills and passes them on to her husband.  From there they begin to make their way around the busy Pearl River Delta where they eventually come down to us, along with Ng Moy’s charge that we should “Oppose the Qing and Restore the Ming.”

At the first cut it might seem that the boon that Yim Wing Chun brings is the martial arts system that bears her name.  Still, the revolutionary charge at the end of her story suggests that something more is going on here.  After all, the Qing were not her threshold guardians.  She never confronted them.  Yet they play an outsized role in all of the early 20th century creation narratives to emerge out of the region’s martial arts subculture.

It is no coincidence that this was also an era of increased imperialism and colonization.  Southern China’s involvement in the Opium Wars meant that they were well ahead of the curve on this issue.  But by the turn of the century the empire’s rapid defeats by the Russians, Japanese and the allied coalition (responding to the Boxer Uprising) left little doubt as to how dire the military situation really was.  In only a few hundred years the Chinese had gone from being one of the most militarily powerful empires the world had ever seen to a seemingly helpless victim of imperialism, unable to even secure the sovereignty of its own borders or economy.

Douglas Wile, in his pioneering work on the Taiji Classics (another collection of late 19th century martial arts texts), notes that we should not underestimate the impact of all of this on the Chinese psyche. The nation had become so weak that one could not save it by directly opposing the foreign powers.  Rather a different sort of strategy was necessary, one in which the wisdom of China’s culture was preserved and called upon in such a way that the forces of misdirection, femininity and yin might overcome the western advantages of science, military might and masculinity.

It would be overstating things to assert that there were no female martial artists in Chinese history.  Still, prior to the 1920s-1930s, this was overwhelmingly a man’s world.  As such its very significant that during the final decades of the Qing Dynasty we see a sudden explosion of interest in stories about female heroes and the use of weakness to overcome strength.  Such narratives gained popularity not because they were a sign of emerging feminist values (though that is how they are often read by martial arts students in the West), but because many of these female heroes could be read as metaphors speaking to the national condition.

Wing Chun is one art among many in a region of China that was known to be an incubator for the creation of new styles.  Yet the narrative of Yim Wing Chun addresses questions that go well beyond the creation of a single martial art.  This is fundamentally a story about rebalancing the relationship between society and the nation.  It speaks to a collective desire to confront the feelings of fear, alienation and powerlessness that wracked society in the Late Qing and Early Republic period.  Wing Chun itself is merely the vessel. The great boon that was restored to the people was a reintegration of martial, or Wu, values into the national psyche.  It promised that China, though apparently weak, could once again harness the destructive power of violence and become the “master of two realms.”

Yet this was no call to perpetual revolution.  On a personal level Ip Man was a conservative Confucian who by all accounts was left embittered by the failed nationalist revolution and the successful Communist effort that followed.  The strength that his version of the Yim Wing Chun tale advocates is the kind that emerges from the rectification of the self and the fulfillment of family and social obligations.  It is the doubling down on those things, combined with the restoration of Wu values, which defines this vision of modern Chinese society.  This should not come as a surprise.  As various critics have noted, these sorts of myths are often the expression of a conservative bias.

 

Many heroes, similar journeys.  What do all these stories have in common? Source: Slate.com

 

Conclusion

The notion of the hero’s journey has become so widely dispersed that it is now a subconscious lens with which many of us try to make sense of our world.  Even if we have never read the work of Jung or Campbell, we have all seen countless movies and television shows created by writers who keep dogeared copies of their works close at hand.  It is a narrative structure that we have come to expect.  And because we expect it, we can see bits of it almost everywhere.

This bring us back to the problem of Warring States texts.  Whether approaching ancient literature or martial arts mythology, scholars are confronting fundamentally similar problems.  We just do not know how to read these texts because they were produced by cultures very different from our own.  In both cases we might turn to narratology for help.

Given the nature of the specific genre that he was working with, I think that Prof. Lai was on safe ground when he applied such a method.  I am not sure that the same can always be said for attempts to use structuralist theories to interpret martial creation myths.  The deeper one delves into these topics, the more one is forced to doubt the universality of the patterns that Campbell and others have claimed to find.

While the hero’s journey seems to fit the story of Yim Wing Chun, one can easily find stories within the annals of Chinese literature that would be a stumbling block.  For instance, we already drew an important contrast between the way that similar themes were dealt with in a turn of the century narrative and the much older Ming Novel Water Margin.  While western readers may find the narrative structure of Ip Man’s story intuitively appealing because of its seeming familiarity, much of what they will encounter in Water Margin is confusing, off-putting and even shocking.  These are heroes that do not conform to our Western expectations, embedded in story structures that seem chaotic.  Yet this is one of the most popular novels in Chinese history.

This realization should cause us to ask additional questions about our initial reading of the Wing Chun creation myth.  Did it really fit Campbell’s narrative structure, or are we simply making a few obvious aspects of the story conform by ignoring large swaths of subtext that escaped our notice as we are not early 20th century Chinese martial artists grappling with the fear that our country might be partitioned and carved up by the Western powers in much same way that they had just dispatched Africa and the Middle East?

The lax nature of the narrative expectations laid out in Campbell’s work (where any specific hero’s journey might exhibit four of his points, or all 13) makes his approach maddeningly difficult to test or falsify.  All of this leads me to doubt the actual existence of a single universal narrative.

Yet hero’s journey may still survive as a strategy for reading certain types of texts.  Thinking carefully about narrative and ritual structure may reveal points about a text that we might otherwise miss.  Properly understood, it should highlight the importance of cultural differences and variant outcomes, rather than obscuring them under the tautological labels of “universal values” and “human psychology.”

Yet it is the very ubiquity of these narrative patterns in modern popular culture that can lead to self-delusion and capture when we attempt to apply them in areas where we have no theoretical reason to expect to see them.  Far from revealing the universal aspects of the human psyche, one suspects that what Campbell may have illustrated is the ease with which an ethnocentric approach to story-telling can obscure the reality of the cultural differences that surround us.

Of course, the term “mythology” has been used many ways, and Campbell’s school of thought is not the only one that might help us to make sense of the narratives that surround these practices.  Critical theorists have developed other approaches for understanding these discussions.  Those will be the subject of an upcoming essay.

 

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If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: Did Ip Man Invent the Story of Yim Wing Chun (a classic post from the early days of Kung Fu Tea).

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