Chinese martial arts display. Northern China, sometime in the 1930s.

Introduction

Certain events stand out in any historical treatment of the Chinese martial arts.  The Boxer Uprising, the rapid popularization of Taijiquan and creation of the Jingwu Association in Shanghai all come to mind.  Yet any discussion of events in the 1930s is dominated by the Nationalist (KMT) backed Guoshu (or “National Arts”) movement.  This government sponsored reform program sought to rejuvenate and modernize China’s various systems of boxing, wrestling and fencing.  Reformers claimed that in the proper hands these fighting systems could be the key to improving public health and hygiene, forging a more cohesive society, strengthening nationalism, creating a feeling of militarism among the Chinese people, and (last but not least) shoring up their support for the government and its ruling party.

The success of Japanese efforts to deploy Bushido as a training regime for the “body politic” suggested that these goals were not as outlandish as they might at first sound.  Indeed, throughout the late Meiji period Kendo, Judo and a handful of other martial practices made important inroads in Japanese education, military and law enforcement structures.  After their defeat of Russia, foreign observers increasingly expressed interest in the various ways that the Japanese martial arts reflected, or strengthened, the “national character.”

In an attempt to replicate this success, China’s government did much to promote its own fighting systems.  Schools created boxing classes for children, and the government created physical education programs needed to train the huge numbers of necessary instructors.  Various sorts of journals, newsletters and educational materials were published and circulated extolling the virtues of the new Guoshu system, and the need to move away from the secrecy, rivalry and feudal superstition that marred China’s traditional fighting art.

Perhaps the most visible aspect of the Guoshu movement was the creation of a network of local, provincial and national tournaments meant to standardize and raise the profile of the Chinese martial arts.  The most important of these events were the periodic “National Examinations,” held only twice (1928 and 1933), in the capital.

Andrew Morris has discussed these events (and their challenges) in great detail in his study of Republic era Chinese sports, Marrow of the Nation.  Likewise, in my own book on the social history of the Southern Chinese martial arts, I discuss at length the difficulty that national reformers had in disrupting the market driven growth of local martial arts movements.  These were often much more “traditional” in character and more focused on local or regional identity.

While modern writers tend to look back on these National Examinations as great achievements, high water marks in the history of the Chinese martial arts, it is often forgotten that the Guoshu program was not without its weaknesses.  Most local martial artists simply ignored the tournament network that the government had established.  As Morris points out, the 1933 National Examination was scheduled to overlap the 1933 National Games because it’s organizers realized (quite correctly) that without the draw of this larger, and much more popular event, it would simply be impossible to attract enough fighters and spectators to hold a successful tournament.

None of this pessimism is evident in the following English language account of the event.  The Shanghai based China Press, originally an American owned newspaper with strong pro-government leanings (often used as an outlet for public diplomacy discussions aimed at a global audience by the KMT) ran a lengthy piece attempting to introduce its western readers both the event and to the changing nature of the Chinese martial arts themselves.

While pointing to the continued vitality of China’s ancient martial arts, this article goes out of its way to demonstrate the degree to which they had been modernized and reformed.  The reporter covering the 1933 event explained to readers the various weight classes used (just as in Western Boxing), the sorts of judges and referees who would present, expectations of sportsmanship, and even the use of modern safety gear in both boxing and weapons based tournaments.

All of this evidence of modernization is at the same time balanced against a revival of distinctly traditional elements.  The entire idea of a “national examination” in the martial arts obviously harkens back to the late imperial period.  Nor would the spectators neglect to notice that fights were staged on the traditional elevated platform favored by Chinese pugilists rather than western style rings.  Yet all of this “tradition” was also observed by a small number of western spectators and reporters who duly reported their observations to the wider world.

As Andrew Morris has suggested, the message that international audiences were meant to draw from this seems clear.  The martial arts, under the guidance of the KMT, had become truly “national arts.”  They reflected the essence of China’s ancient culture.  Yet they could also be “modern” and were fit for the type of universal sporting competition that signaled one’s acceptance on the global stage.  Indeed, within three years of this event the Chinese martial arts would reach a much larger international audience when they were demonstrated at the closing ceremonies of the 1936 Olympics games in Berlin.

The following article offers us a glimpse into a famous and often discussed event.  More importantly, it suggests the sorts of images that the KMT sought to project, not just nationally, but globally, with its martial arts program.  Finally, readers should note the author’s concluding paragraph.  While sportsmanship and modern safety gear are good, readers were to be left in doubt as to what this tournament signaled about the state of China’s “fighting spirit” as it headed into the tumultuous 1930s.

Chinese Pugilistic Artists Entertain Nanking Fans With Classy Exhibition of Skills

Contestants Clash In Broadsword, Quarter-Staff, Fencing, Spear Fighting, Halberd And Boxing Tournaments In Order to Pass Examination

By Teh-Chen T’ang

Nanking, Oct. 23.—After having jammed the Central Stadium to watch 2,200 athletes competing in all kinds of western sports for ten days, October 10 to October 20, Nankingites are now packing the public recreation ground to capacity to witness some 300 pugilistic artists, representing provinces, display their physical prowess at the Second National Boxing Examination, which opened last Friday, October 20.

Although the Central Government has enthusiastically aroused the interest of the public to engage in western sports, as evidenced by the success of the last National Track and Field Meet, Nanking is sparing no attention to preserve, as well as to promote, Chinese boxing, a form of athletics which has taken a deep root among Chinese long before soccer, basketball, track and field and the like were introduced.

It is with this in mind that the present examination is held, an elapse of five years since the first took place in the capital

Spectators Flock to See Battles
Equal fervor is shown on the part of the people over the affair.  Ever since its opening, the stands have been filled up with spectators.  They cheer wildly and applaud heartily over well-fought battles.  Their enthusiasm proves Chinese boxing still holds its place among the common class despite the fact [that] western sports are gaining popularity.

The examination will be a seven day affair, ending October 27.  The first five days will be devoted to physical contests while the last two days will be spent on written, or oral examination.

Six forms of competition are given at the examination.  They are broadsword contests, spear fighting, quarter-staff, boxing, fencing, and halberd competition.

Written Test on the Last Day
Preliminary examinations for boxing were held the first two days.  Yesterday the semi-finals for qualified boxers were held.  Quarter-staff bouts were held today.  Fencing, wrestling, spear fighting and the rest will be on the schedule through the rest of the week.  The written test will take place in the afternoon of October 27.  Party Principles, Chinese and the Origin of Chinese Boxing will be quizzed.

The number of representatives for each province is limited to 30.  Only one entry is allowed for each contestant.  If he fails to make the grade of 60 at the heat, he is eliminated.

Hunan, however, sends the largest contingent, the number being around 100.  Other provinces, with the exception of Mongolia, Tiber, Kansu, and Chinghai, are represented with from 30 to 50 members.  The aforementioned states sent none on account of financial and geographical difficulties.

Curious Rules Govern Boxing
As far as boxing itself is concerned, a round consists of two hits.  The one who makes an attack on his opponent at the right spot is considered the winner of the round.  He who leads in both rounds is the winner.

In a boxing match, no one is supposed to hit the eyes, throat, waist, kidney and other strategic places of his opponent.  To remind the competitors of these regulations a hugh [sic] physiological diagram of a human body is hung on the north side of the ring locating those strategic spots.

Like pugilistic contests in America, participants are divided into five classes of weight.  They are (1) heavyweight, above 182 pounds; (2) light-heavyweight, 165 to 182 pounds; (3) middleweight, 148 to 165 pounds; (4) light-middle weight, 132 to 148 pounds; and (5) light-weight, 132 pounds.

The ring, a rope arena in an octagonal shape, occupies 200 square feet and can accommodate over 500 persons.  The ring is surrounded by stands, also erected octagonally, which can seat 30,000 people.  On the north end are box seats reserved for government officials and honor guests.

2 Teams Fight At the Same Time
Contestants sit around the ring which is three feet above the ground.  Two groups will be in action at the same time since the arena is big enough for two teams.  A radio announcer looks after the roll call and other broadcasting duties.

For Occidentals interested in Oriental pugilistic art, the affair is well worth watching.  When the writer visited the examination ground today, two groups of fighters were seen in action, boxers and quarter-staffers.

Outfits worn by pugilists will be most interesting to westerners.  Instead of appearing on the ring with a pair of short pants and a pair of eight ounce gloves, they don themselves up with a baseball chest protector and a pair of soccer leg pads.  Only ordinary cotton gloves are used.

Contestants are searched by referees before they start to fight.  They are required to bow before the onlookers at the north box seats.  Then they bow to each other instead of shaking hands as western boxers do.  The one wearing a red band takes the east corner and the other with [a] yellow band the west.

There are two umpires for each match and three judges.  One referee holds a red flag while the other a green one.  A whistle and a waving of the green flag starts the fight.  In case of a deadlock, the red-flag referee segregates the two combatants and the battle starts all over again.  Each round takes about five minutes.

As soon as the winner has been decided upon by three judges, his right hand is raised as a sign of victory.  The two contestants then bow before the box seats guests again, shake with each other with both hands and follow with a deep bow.

Quarter-Staff Artists Don Queer Costumes

Stick fighters will look even more queer to visitors.  Each one wears a helmet like that seen on an American foot-ball field with a mask protecting his face.  Front-protectors and shin-guards are also used.  An ordinary pair of winter gloves with a thick piece of leather protecting the wrist is used.

At one end of the rod is fixed a ball of cloth.  The point is dipped with red ink and red powder.  The idea is that the one touched by the stick of the other will have a red mark and be known as the loser.  The quarter-staffmen, too, have to go through the same friendly gestures.

The examination is not without its comical points.  Two hot-headed boxers are often seen resorting to rough tactics sending right and left hooks to each other despite the warning of the referee.  One sometimes wonders if it isn’t a genuine western prize fight as staged in Madison Square Garden!  Some stick-wielders also fall in the same pitch and are seen landing the rod on each other’s head or sweeping the stick across the opponent’s shin.

Not a few have been slightly hurt since the examination was held.  It proves Chinese boxing is just as dangerous as western boxing when seriously applied.  Excellent performances usually bring forth cheers and applause from the crowd.

The China Press, Oct 26, 1933. p. 6

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If you would like to see a contrasting image of the Chinese martial arts (also published in English language newspapers) during the 1930s see: “Research Notes: Han Xing Qiao Opens the “Internal Arts” to the West, 1934″

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Vintage postcard showing a “Young Boxer” with sword. Early 20th century. Source: Authors personal collection.

Another Look at a “Young Boxer” – Martial Arts and National Humiliation in Early 20th Century China

By Benjamin Judkins and Doug Wile

Introduction

Earlier this year I published an image of a “Young Boxer” found on a vintage postcard, mailed between Tianjin and Beijing in 1909.  This was used as a jumping off point for a short essay that attempted to illustrate how various theoretical approaches (in this case social history, religious studies and critical theory) could create contrasting and complimentary views of the same subject.  Because these theories have different underlying assumptions and associated methodological tool kits, each is capable of generating a different set of conclusions about the same image.  When faced with any question of sufficient complexity, students of martial arts studies might find it worthwhile to apply a series of lenses, rather than a single approach.  Of course this is only one possible way of conceptualizing “interdisciplinary work.”

Yet the benefits of such an exercise go beyond the ability to acquire additional theories.  Interdisciplinary work can be exciting because of the conversations that it stimulates.  These sometimes lead one in new and fruitful directions.

It is thus interesting to note that my previous post on the “Young Boxer” generated as much email correspondence between students of martial arts studies as any other post that I have published here at Kung Fu Tea.  Interestingly most of these messages did not attempt to weigh in on the three views (social history, critical theory and religious studies) presented before.  Led by Prof. Douglas Wile (author of the Lost Tai Chi Classics, among other important contributions to Chinese Martial Studies), they instead sought to open a conversation on linguistic based approaches to this image.

As we will see, the Chinese language inscriptions on this postcard may well generate more questions than answers.  Yet the issues that they raise are fascinating.  While I am not clear that we have totally resolved all of the puzzles surrounding this image, it opens a valuable window onto the public discussion of the traditional Chinese martial arts in the early 20^th century, prior to their rehabilitation by various reformers and modernizers (including the Jingwu Association) in the 1910s.

What is this a case of?

In order to understand how this postcard managed to generate so much interest it might be helpful to compare it to a few other images that I have previously posted here at Kung Fu Tea.

A Vintage Postcard showing a Shanghai Sword Juggler. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

“Well Known Sword Juggler n Shanghai City” Vintage postcard, 1907-1914. Source: This particular scan from the digital collection of the NY Public library. They managed to get a better reproduction that I could.

Detail of postcard showing traditional practitioners performing in a marketplace. Japanese postcard circa 1920.  The image dates to the final years of the Qing Dynasty.

 
In comparing these images readers will immediately note multiple similarities.  All of these photographs were taken prior to the 1911 revolution.  They all feature men with swords.  Indeed, an individual holding a sword (or less commonly a spear) was probably the dominant image of Chinese martial artists available to Western consumers prior to the 1960s.  Thus “Chinese Boxers” tended to be imagined quite differently from their Japanese counterparts (usually seen in their identical white Judo uniforms) during the first half of the 20th century.

Given the great variety of actual practices found within the Chinese martial arts, one might wonder how such a uniform set of images emerged.  Why do we have so few postcards featuring wrestling competitions, or middle class archery practice on university campuses?  The historical record informs us that these other sorts of things happened as well.

The nature of the medium itself may be partially to blame to this homogenizing effect.  Most postcards were shot in one of the few larger treaty ports or cities with a substantial Western presence.  Further, readers must remember that practically all of these images were produced for sale to Western (rather than Chinese) consumers.

Additionally, while huge numbers of unique images were marketed through early postcards, Thiriez notes that almost all of them (following the conventions of early photography) can be thought of as falling into one of only four genres.  The most popular category was “topography” in which prominent features of the landscape (including city walls, ancient monuments and tourist attractions) were documented.

Also important were “portrait” cards.  These tended to feature composed scenes of individuals (often women, occasionally prostitutes) or families.  It is interesting to note that with the exceptions of high officials and other important individuals, these images were almost always marketed in general terms (such as “Chinese family” of “Chinese beauty”).  This stripping of individual identity is also seen on most martial arts related postcards.

The remaining two genres of postcards seemed to work at cross purposes with each other.  The first warned its readers of the imminent disappearance of “old China,” while the second served to reassure them that such a thing could never happen.  As such, the first class of postcards focused on images of Western innovation and modernization within China.  Popular subjects seem to have included Christian Churches, industrial factories and newly paved streets lined with European style architecture.  Modern military units and naval vessels also make regular appearances.

This frank acknowledgement of the process of rapid change and urbanization in China was counteracted by the final, and probably most popular, genre of postcards.  These were images of “authentic” Chinese life and customs.  Of course how one understands “authenticity” is always something of an issue.  Almost all of these photos were taken in public spaces.  It appears that neither western photographers nor Chinese models had much interest in actually entering the domestic sphere of Chinese homes.  That would have violated an unspoken sense of propriety for both groups.

While early 19^th century photographers often went to some lengths to capture detailed, almost ethnographically accurate, images, their later followers tended to be more sensational in taste.  Photographs were also reused for decades after their first production.  This can make dating postcards difficult and it certainly contributed to the West’s allochronistic view of China.  For better or worse, the Western public seemed to have an unending appetite for images of “traditional” Chinese barbers, dentists, grocers, farmers, beggars, soldiers, criminals, merchants and fortune tellers, all plying their trade (Thiriez 2004).

Almost all of the early postcards featuring Chinese martial artists fall into this last category.  There are some exceptions.  Hand painted images of martial artists often touched on different themes.  But they are a subject for a future post.  The images of Chinese Boxing that were produced for Western consumers tended to place these activities almost exclusively in the public arena and to focus on the sorts of activities and performances that were either deeply romanticized or an aspect of everyday market life.

When viewed in these terms, there is much about our image of the Young Boxer that is already well understood.  It clearly sits within a tradition of imagining Chinese martial artists (or more likely “sword dancers”) that early 20^th century consumers would have readily understood.

Yet when compared to the images above (or the many additional examples posted previously at Kung Fu Tea), a few differences are also evident.  Whereas many postcards alluded to some aspect of China’s ancient and “unchanging” nature (either in terms of its landscape or the supposedly entrenched customs of its people), this card was specifically referencing the Boxer Rebellion.  At the time it was sent (1909) this was still a recent (and feared) event, rather than a matter of “timeless imagination.”  Indeed the, the Boxer Rebellion spawned its own cottage photography industry seeking to satisfy the appetites of curious western consumers.

Yet such postcards, printed in Europe and intended for Western audiences, were not labeled in Chinese.  Nor did they generally feature much Chinese linguistic content of any kind.  This image is an exception as it bears both a Chinese language label (along the left hand side) and an inscription (on the boy’s chest badge).  Almost none of the postcard’s intended consumers would have been able to read these lines.  And yet they may have a critical impact on how we understand the intentions of the individuals involved with the initial production of this photographic image.

Another image of the chest badge.

A Foolish Farmer

As I mentioned in my previous post, this particular postcard comes up at auction frequently enough that one suspects that it must have been fairly popular when it was first published in the early 20^th century.  As such the vertical inscription on the left hand side of the image has been previously addressed.  Scott Rodell and Peter Dekker noted that it reads “Stupid Farmer Practicing Boxing.”  Douglas Wile concurred and read the same phrase as “Ignorant Peasant Practices Martial Arts.”

Given the financial ruin and national humiliation that the Boxer Rebellion unleashed on the state, the hostility of this title is not surprising.  As I have mentioned elsewhere, the Chinese martial arts probably came closer to actual extinction during the period that this card was produced than at any time since.  It would be another decade before the hard work of a group of nationally minded reformers would launch these fighting systems back into the national consciousness.

Yet for much of the first decade of the 20^th century the rapidly urbanizing Chinese population took an increasingly hostile view towards anything related to the martial arts.  These fighting systems had traditionally been associated with poor youth from the countryside.  Rapidly unfolding processes of modernization shifted the center of social power decisively into the urban sphere.

Thus it seems likely that there is a double mockery embedded in this title.  In addition to taking a swipe at the despised legacy of the Boxer Rebellion, this postcard also appears to take aim that the ignorant, “backwards youth” of the countryside who have not yet been swept up in the unfolding process of urbanization and modernization.

More interesting is the inscription on the boy’s chest badge.  When first thinking about this postcard I simply ignored this inscription.  I had assumed that it would be uninteresting because of the way that most of these images were produced.

Rather than capturing subjects in their natural state, it was common for photographers (either in the street or working in their studios), to provide a variety of props to the individuals that they were photographing.  This might include stock weapons, costumes and furniture.

Further, when examining the boy’s ill-fitting uniform more closely it looked like it was made up of random bits of other cobbled together military uniforms.  As such it was unlikely to be of any significance to its intended audience.  Doug Wile, however, pointed out that there seemed to be something interesting about the boy’s badge.  Rather than simply being recycled costuming, of the sort often found in early studios, the photographer appears to have been attempting to broadcast a more pointed message.  But to who?

After blowing up and enhancing the photo to make it more legible, it was determined that the bottom most vertical line read “Yi He” (義合).   Wile noted that while this particular set of characters was not common, it was an early, previously attested, variant of name “Yi Hi Boxers” (or the Righteous and Harmonious Fist) typically written as 義和.  See for example the 1899 edition of the Wanguo gongbao and A. Henry Savage-Landor’s 1901 China and the Allies.

Of course this is the proper name of the spirit boxing movement that swept across northern China between 1899-1900.  Wile further speculates that a third character (團 or 拳) is hidden under the boy’s sash, completing the typical formulation of the movement’s name.

A Banner from the Boxer Uprising using the more commonly seen characters. Source: Prof. Douglas Wile.

The top two lines are almost certainly meant to be read as place names, noting where the boy’s “Boxer unit” originated.  Oddly it seems that neither of these places actually exist.

Prof. T. J. Hinrichs read the top line as “Ling” (or numinous) township.  Another friend at Cornell thought that it might be rendered “Saint township/county.”  In this case Wile was more circumspect noting that the first character of the name doesn’t appear in any of the standard dictionaries at his disposal.  But all readers seem to agree that this is meant to denote a fictitious place name.

The second line poses similar challenges.  It is not possible to make out all of the characters with the naked eye.  But with some magnification it appears to say “迷谷莊” (Maze Valley Village).  Wile notes that while the name “Maze Valley” is well attested in a number of places, none of them end with the “莊” character (Wile, personal correspondence).  Once again, this is a name that meant to seem real, but is almost certainly fictitious.  As my friend Xiao Rong put it, “such a place cannot exist.”

While looking at the magnified image I realized something else.  The script in question was entirely too legible.  If the boy were really wearing the badge one would expect that it would twist and turn in a natural fashion.  Instead it appears that photographer “whited out” the area and used a brush to paint these cryptic locations directly onto the badge.  One might guess that this was done at the same time that the inscription on the left hand side was added.  The trouble that was gone through to add this detail begs the question of motive.  Who modified this image?  Who was the intended audience?  And what messages were they expected to receive?

Conclusion

Or perhaps a different question might be a better place to start.  Given that Shandong and Zhili were full of villages that actually contributed “Boxer Bandits” (as the official reports of the day often referred to them), why were they not named?  After all, the one thing that seems certain about this image is that the individual who produced it was hostile to both the martial arts and rural life more generally.

On this point Wile notes:

“At the end of the day, the only explanation I can come up with for the two unattested place names is that they were deliberately invented “to protect the innocent,” so to speak, or in this case possibly to protect the guilty, or at least not point fingers or expose any real people…..” (Personal Correspondence)

One suspects that this photograph was not originally produced for a Western postcard at all.  If a western audience could read it, perhaps the message that they might have received was that despite the Boxer’s turn of the century setbacks, the Chinese Tiger still had its teeth.  Indeed, in a mere two years from the time this card was mailed the country would once again be swept up in the tide of revolution.

Nevertheless, the more likely intended audience of the image was Chinese.  In such case meeting the demands of an increasingly urbanized market, while avoiding the attention of the censors, was probably the original publisher’s key aim.

Clearly some questions still surround this image of a “Young Boxer.”  Yet the linguistic approach has made a unique contribution to revealing the origins and semiotic value of this photograph.  It has also provided us with a vivid reminder of the precarious existence of the traditional Chinese martial arts during the long decade between the close of the Boxer Rebellion and the Republic era revival and reinvention of their practice.  The association of these practices with nationalism and pride during the 1920s and 1930s was an accomplishment rather than a given.

A Note of Thanks

I must extend my sincere thanks to a number of individuals who contributed to the discussion of this image.  They include Douglas Wile, whose comments sparked this conversation, T. J. Hinrichs of Cornell University, William Brown of the University of Maryland, Xiao Rong of the University of Shenzhen, Scott Rodell and Peter Dekker.

 
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If you enjoyed this post you might also want to see: Reforming the Chinese Martial Arts in the 1920s-1930s: The Role of Rapid Urbanization.

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Master Chen Zhonghua and Daniel Mroz playing Tui Shou, Daqingshan, Shandong, China, 2007. Photo by Scot Jorgensen.

Introduction
Paul Bowman, Kyle Barrowman and I have all been hard at work over the last couple of weeks putting the finishing touches on Issue 3 of the interdisciplinary journal, Martial Arts Studies.  With seven research articles and a number of book reviews there is sure to be something of interest for all of Kung Fu Tea’s readers within its pages.  We expect to release the issue on the journal’s webpage right after the start of the new year.  As always, it will be freely available to any reader or researcher with an internet connection.

Earlier today I sat down to write my first draft of an opening editorial.  Paul and I will be reviewing and thinking about this for the next couple of days.  But in the mean time I thought that I would share it here as a way offering you a sneak peak of what to expect after New Years.  Also, be sure to check out the journal’s archives to get caught up on anything that you may have missed from Issues 1 or Issue 2.  Or maybe just brush up on the 52 Hand Blocks with Prof. Thomas Green?

Editorial

What is the meaning of ‘forms’ practice within the traditional Asian martial arts?  Were Bruce Lee’s movies actually ‘kung fu’ films? Was the famous Ali vs. Inoki fight a step on the pathway to MMA, or a paradoxical failure to communicate? What pitfalls await the unwary as we rush to define key terms in a newly emerging, but still undertheorized, discipline?

The rich and varied articles offered in the Winter 2016 issue of Martial Arts Studies pose these questions and many more.  Taken as a set they reflect the growing scholarly engagement between our field and a variety of theoretical and methodological traditions.  Each monography, article or proceeding that has been published in the last year directly addresses the question that Paul Bowman raised in the very first issue of this journal [2015].  Is Martial Arts Studies an academic field?

Looking back on the rich achievements of the last year, the answer must certainly be ‘yes’.

Yet as Bowman also reminds us in his contribution to the present issue, fields of study do not simply appear.  They are not spontaneously called forth by the essential characteristics or importance of their subject matter.  Rather, they are achievements of cooperative creativity and vision.  Fields of study, like the martial arts themselves, are social constructions.

Over the next year we hope, in a variety of settings, to think more systematically about the various ways that one might approach the scholarly study of the martial arts.  Given the diversity of our backgrounds and areas of focus, how can we best advance our efforts?  What sort of work do we expect Martial Arts Studies, as an interdisciplinary field, to do?

In this issue’s opening article Bowman turns his attention to the unfolding debate about the definition of marital arts [Channon and Jennings 2014; Wetzler 2015; Judkins 2016; Channon 2016].  This discussion is prefaced with a brief exploration of some of the failed precursors of Martial Arts Studies, including hoplology.  Bowman concludes that efforts to theorize the orientation of Martial Arts Studies as a field are likely to put us on a better pathway for sustained development than arguments for or against any particular definition of the martial arts themselves.  While Bowman does not suggest that any single methodological approach should dominate the emerging field, he offers a strong critique of ‘scientism’ in all of its forms.

Channon and Phipps, in an article titled ‘Pink Gloves Still Give Black Eyes’, ask what Martial Arts Studies can tell us about the construction and performance of gender roles in modern society [2016].  Their ethnographic study focuses on the ways that certain symbols and behaviors, when paired with achievements in the realm of fighting ability, are used to challenge and rewrite an orthodox understanding of gender.  This leads the authors to conclude that future scholars interested in the subversion of gender should carefully study the possibility that appropriation and re-signification may be critical mechanisms in their own areas of study as well.

Daniel Mroz and Timothy Nulty draw heavily on their shared background in Chen Style Taijiquan in a set of separate, yet complimentary, papers.  Both ask us to consider how various theoretical approaches, drawn from a variety of fields, can help us to pragmatically understand basic elements of the embodied practice of the martial arts.

Mroz begins his paper with a brief discussion of the practical, narrative, theatrical and religious explanation of prearranged movement patterns (taolu) within the Chinese martial arts. Noting the shortcomings of such efforts he employs the twin concepts of ‘decipherability’ and ‘credibility’, drawn from the Great Reform movement of 20^th century theater training, to advance a framework that both points out certain shortcomings in the ways that we typically think about the practice of taolu, as well as suggesting a new perspective from which their practice can be understood.  Nulty, drawing on Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s notion of ‘embodied intentionality’, instead focuses on the concepts of gong (skill) and fa (technique).  After demonstrating the ways in which this approach facilitates the understanding of other concepts critical to Taijiquan, Nulty argues that the gong-fa distinction outlined in his article is in fact widely applicable to a variety of martial arts.

The following articles instead examine the representation of the martial arts in various types of media and their use as a semiotic or discursive device.  Jared Miracle draws on the realms of applied linguistics and performance theory in an attempt to reevaluate the famous, but ill fated, 1976 bout which pitted the American boxer Muhammad Ali against the Antonio Inoki, a Japanese professional wrestler.  After reviewing a number of data sources including newspaper reports, eyewitness interviews and personal correspondence, Miracle concludes that the event should be understood as an example of robust, but failed, communication.

Wayne Wong turns his attention to new trends in Hong Kong martial arts cinema.  Following a discussion of the action aesthetic developed in the films of such legendary performers as Kwan Tak-hing and Bruce Lee, Wong turns his attention to Donnie Yen’s immensely successful ‘Ip Man’ franchise.  In discussing the innovative fight choreography in these films Wong notes a new set of possibilities for the positive portrayal of wu (martial) Chinse culture on screen.  Wong argues that the innovative recombination of images and approaches in Yen’s films present students of Martial Arts Studies with a new, and more comprehensive, understanding of the nature of the southern Chinese martial arts.

Lastly, in ‘News of the Duels – Restoration Dueling Culture and the Early Modern Press’, Alexander Hay attempts to bridge the gap between popular representation of violence and our historical understanding of martial culture.  Specifically, he asks what reports in the press both reveal and conceal about the changing nature of violence in British society during the 1660s and 1670s, particularly with regards to duels.  Despite pervasive censorship, a review of historical newspapers suggests insights into how these deadly encounters evolved as individual swordsmen gave way to both firearms and groups on horseback.  The social upheaval that gripped British society during this period was reflected in parallel transformations both in how violence was carried out and publically discussed.

The issue concludes with reviews of recently published books.  This includes a treatment of Jared Miracle’s Now with Kung Fu Grip! – How Bodybuilders, Soldiers and a Hairdresser Reinvented Martial Arts for America [Jared Miracle 2016] by Michael Molasky; Colin P. McGuire then reviews The Fighting Art of Pencak Silat and Its Music: From Southeast Asian Village to Global Movement, edited by Uwe U. Paetzold and Paul H. Mason [2016].  That is followed by a discussion of Raúl Sánchez García and Dale C. Spencer’s edited volume, Fighting Scholars: Habitus and Ethnographies of Martial Arts and Combat Sports, contributed by Anu Vaittinen [García and Spencer 2016].  Lastly, Alex Channon offers his review of Lionel Loh Han Loong’s The Body and Senses in Martial Culture [2016].

Taken as a set these articles illustrate how various theoretical and methodological approaches make substantive contributions to our understanding of the martial arts.  Nor is this list in anyway comprehensive.  A wide variety of tools and lens remain to be explored.  Yet collectively these authors advance a compelling vision of the type of field that Martial Arts Studies may become.

Our  thanks  go  to  all  of  our  contributors,  as  well  as  to  our  editorial assistant Kyle Barrowman, our designer Hugh Griffiths, and all at Cardiff University Press, especially Alice Percival and Sonja Haerkoenen.

References

Bowman, Paul. 2016. ‘The Definition of Martial Arts Studies.’ Martial Arts Studies 3: xxx. Doi:xxxxxx

___________. 2015. ‘Asking the Question: Is Martial Arts Studies an Academic Field?’ Martial Arts Studies 1 (1): 3–19. doi:10.18573/j.2015.10015.

Channon, Alex. 2016. ‘How (not) to Categorise Martial Arts: A Discussion and Example from Gender Studies’. Kung Fu Tea. September 16. https://chinesemartialstudies.com/2016/09/15/how-not-to-categorise-martial-arts-a-discussion-and-example-from-gender-studies/.

Channon, Alex, and George Jennings. 2014. ‘Exploring Embodiment through Martial Arts and Combat Sports: A Review of Empirical Research’. Sport in Society 17 (6): 773–89. doi:10.1080/17430437.2014.882906.

Channon, Alex and Catherine Phipps. 2016. ‘”Pink Gloves Still Give Black Eyes”: Exploring ‘Alternative’ Femininity in Women’s Combat Sports’, Martial Arts Studies 3: xxx. Doi:xxxxxx

García, Raúl Sánchez and Dale C. Spencer. 2014. Fighting Scholars: Habitus and Ethnographies of Martial Arts and Combat Sports. Anthem Press.

Hay, Alexander. 2016. ‘News of the Duels – Restoration Duelling Culture and the Early Modern Press’, Martial Arts Studies 3: xxx. Doi:xxxxxx

Judkins, Benjamin N. 2016. ‘The Seven Forms of Lightsaber Combat: Hyper-Reality and the Invention of the Martial Arts’, Martial Arts Studies 2, available at http://martialartsstudies.org

http://dx.doi.org/10.18573/j.2016.10067

Loong, Lionel Loh Han. 2016. The Body and Senses in Martial Culture. Palgrave Macmillan.

Miracle, Jared. 2016. ‘Applied Linguistics, Performance Theory, and Muhammad Ali’s Japanese Failure’, Martial Arts Studies 3: xxx. Doi:xxxxxx

_____________. 2016. Now with Kung Fu Grip! – How Bodybuilders, Soldiers and a Hairdresser Reinvented Martial Arts for America. McFarland.

Mroz, Daniel. 2016. ‘Taolu: Credibility and Decipherability in the Practice of Chinese Martial Movement’, Martial Arts Studies 3: xxx. Doi:xxxxxx

Nulty, Timothy J. 2016. ‘Gong and Fa in Chinese Martial Arts’, Martial Arts Studies 3: xxx. Doi:xxxxxx

Paetzold, Uwe U. and Paul H. Mason. 2016. The Fighting Art of Pencak Silat and Its Music: From Southeast Asian Village to Global Movement. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill.

Wetzler, Sixt. 2015. ‘Martial Arts Studies as Kulturwissenschaft: A Possible Theoretical Framework’. Martial Arts Studies, no. 1: 20–33. doi:10.18573/j.2016.10016.

Wong, Wayne. 2016. ‘Synthesizing Zhenshi (Authenticity) and Shizhan (Combativity): Reinventing Chinese Kung Fu in Donnie Yen’s Ip Man series (2008-2015)’, Martial Arts Studies 3: xxx. Doi:xxxxxx

oOo

Do you want to read more?  Be sure to check out: Ip Man and the Roots of Wing Chun’s “Multiple Attacker” Principle, Part 1. and Part II.

oOo

Happy Holidays!

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all of Kung Fu Tea’s readers.  Thanks so much for your support and feedback over the last five years.  I think that Santa left me one or two martial arts related items under the tree.  Hopefully he did the same for you.

We will be returning to our normal posting schedule after the first week of January, but I might have one or two short articles to go up before then, so check back often.  If, however, you find yourself looking for some long-reads over the holiday, consider checking out one of these classic posts:

2012: Traditional Chinese Medicine and the Martial Arts: Another Approach to Globalization and Chinese Martial Studies.

2013: “Fighting Styles” or “Martial Brands”? An economic approach to understanding “lost lineages” in the Chinese Martial Arts.

2014: 1928: The Danger of Telling a Single Story about the Chinese Martial Arts

2015: Yim Wing Chun and the “Primitive Passions” of Southern Kung Fu

2016: Letting ‘Real’ Kung Fu Die: Paradoxes of the Traditional Chinese Martial Arts as Intangible Cultural Heritage

Bruce Lee and James Lee at a Christmas Party!

New Years fireworks display at Panama City Beach. Source: Visit Panama City Beach.

Happy New Year!
New Years is always a good time to sit back and reflect on recent events.  Of course it is hard not to note that public opinion on 2016 (at least here in the United States) has been decidedly mixed.  Still, it has been an interesting year for the Chinese martial arts and a great one for Martial Arts Studies.  We have seen quite a bit of reporting on Kung Fu in the popular press and even the emergence of some important trends.

Below is my personal countdown of the 12 news stories that had the greatest impact on the Western Chinese martial arts community in 2016.  While some of these stories made a big splash during the year, others were less well reported.  A few are general patterns that appeared over the course of many months and one or two are just for fun.  Collectively they remind us of where we have been and point to a few places that we might be headed towards in the coming year.

Sifu Allen Lee, 1948-2016. Source: http://www.wingchunnyc.com/

12. Passing of Sifu Allen Lee

Our first Wing Chun related story is a sad one.  As is customary with our New Year’s posts here at Kung Fu Tea, we begin by taking a moment to remember the Masters, instructors and friends that we have lost over the course of the last year.  As always there are too many individual passings to note them all.  Yet the loss of Sifu Allan Lee, of Wing Chun NYC, may serve to inspire us to look back with gratitude for those who came before.  Lee was a personal student of both Ip Man and Lok Yiu and his contributions to the Wing Chun community in North America will be sorely missed.  You can read more about his various contributions here.

Wooden Dummies for sale at a Costco store in Japan.

11.  Costco was selling Wooden Dummies in Japan
Most of the stories that get included in these yearly round-ups fall into one of two categories.  Either they are shocking events (gratefully we had relatively few of those this year), or long term trends.  But to be totally honest, I selected this story as it was one of the most amusing things that I came across in 2016.  Following the successful release of Ip Man 3 (discussed below), a couple of Costco locations in Japan began to carry Wing Chun style wooden dummies in their fitness section.

How do you know when a martial art has gone mainstream?  When you can purchase your training equipment directly from the Walton family.  Needless to say I called my local Costco to see if they would be stocking dummies any time soon but, alas, this seems to have been limited to Japan.  Still, it is a pretty graphic illustration of the impact that the recent Ip Man films have had on the global spread of Wing Chun.

Of course there were many other Wing Chun related news stories in 2016.  Most of them were in the form of instructor and school profiles.  But if your are looking for something a little more substantive, why don’t you check out this news update from March of 2016?

Xing Xi pracctices ar the Zen Kung Fu Center in Beijing. Source: Reuters.

10.  Increased public discussion of “Kung Fu Diplomacy”

In the 2015 countdown of top news stories we noted the spike in news coverage of events related to the use of the traditional Chinese martial arts in efforts related to “public” and “cultural diplomacy.”  Simply put, public diplomacy is any attempt by members of a foreign state (including, but not limited to, government officers) to change the way that their policies, people or culture is viewed by foreign populations.  Some experts have likened this to the building and maintenance of a “national brand,” though members of the diplomatic corp often bristle at the suggestion that they are involved in a simple branding exercise.  Even a brief review of the public news sources coming out of China quickly reveals that the Chinese martial arts are increasingly viewed as an excellent tool to build links with citizens in other countries and to spread the message of China’s “peaceful rise.”

What was a steady stream of stories last year became a torrent in 2016 (see here, here and here for a few of the many examples we discussed).  What was particularly interesting to me about the number of these was how transparent various foreign service officers were when discussing what they were attempting to accomplish with the global promotion of the Chinese martial arts.  In an article on a major event in Nigeria we find quotes such as this.

“Also speaking, the Culture Counsellor in the Embassy of China, Mr. Yan Xaingdong said the Wushu championship was set up to encourage a sustainable relationship between China and Nigeria through sports.”

Senior woman doing Tai Chi exercise to keep her joints flexible, isolated.

9.  Science says Taijiquan is good for you.
Taijiquan practice is good for your health, in a surprising number of ways.  Whether it was balance in senior citizens, arthritis, chronic neck pain, depression, or cardio-vascular health, the last 12 months have seen a barrage of articles in the popular press as to how the practice of Taijiquan (almost always in its guise as a low impact exercise routine, rather than as a combative martial art) is good for your health.  It should be noted that many of these articles are presenting the findings of preliminary studies on small groups of subjects.  Others rely on self-reported (and hence subjective) data.  But there does seem to be growing enthusiasm for the use of Taijiquan (in any of its many forms) as a treatment for a number of chronic conditions.  Of course nothing about these findings would come as a surprise to the reformers who sought to promote the health benefits of Taijiquan in early 20th century China!

Motion capture technology being used to document the traditional Chinese Martial Arts. Source: The Facebook group of the International Guoshu Association.

8.  International Guoshu Association Uses Motion Capture Technology to Preserve and Document Southern Chinese Kung Fu

While not technically a new project, 2016 saw a number of stories reporting on the continuing efforts of the International Guoshu Association’s efforts to preserve southern Chinese Kung Fu through the use of advanced motion sensor technologies.  These efforts are the brain child of Hing Chao, who was also the creator of the short lived (but excellent) Journal of Chinese Martial Studies. (Personally I am still hoping that this publication will be resurrected at some point in the future).  Much of the work in the last year seems to have focused on the region’s rich Hakka fighting traditions.  You can read more about these efforts here and here.

Even more interesting, in my opinion, has been the series of talks, seminars and short conferences that the IGA has helped to host and promote at various Universities around Hong Kong over the last year.  Generally speaking these events do not generate as much press coverage, so they might fly under the radar.  But a number of them have looked very interesting.

Master Li, a practioner of “Body Shrinking” kung fu. Source: Reuters.

7. The Death of Kung Fu!

Still, these efforts do not appear to have convinced everyone of the traditional Chinese Martial Art’s long term viability.  Many news stories came out in the last year predicting their imminent demise (including this one in the NY Times).

Its worth pointing out that this refrain has a long history in Chinese martial culture.  As early as the Ming Dynasty writers like General Yu Dayou were lamenting the commercialization and loss of Shaolin Kung Fu.  Texts from the early 20th century also decried the decline of the Chinese martial arts…which is rather ironic as these practices, as we know them today, are very much a product of the early 20th century (and to a lesser extent the late Ming).  All of which is to say, worries about the imminent death of Kung Fu seems to have been one of the main social forces that actually drove their creation in the first place.

Those interested in the more modern forms of this argument might want to start by checking out this this article here.  It also appears that not even Kung Fu in Chinese cinema is safe from the threat of extinction.

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

6. The Year that the Chinese Martial Arts Officially Took Over Star Wars
Regular readers of Kung Fu Tea have no doubt noticed my recent interest in Lightsaber Combat.   It seems an increasing number of martial artists feel the same way.  And why not?  2016 was the year that the Chinese martial arts officially invaded the Star War’s universe.

The presence of some degree of martial arts in these stories is nothing new.  Lucas has been quite open about the fact that he was greatly influenced (via the Japanese film movement) by the allure of the samurai.  Fight choreographers on the original films included Olympic fencers.  Nor can we forget that Wushu champion Ray Park set an incredibly high bar for all future lightsaber choreography when he was tapped to play Darth Maul.  While originally intended to fill a limited role in the Star War’s universe, Maul has since become a fan favorite through his appearances in various novels and animated series.

As I have argued in other places, the Star Wars films have always had a lot in common with martial arts stories, and this affinity has become steadily more pronounced in each new iteration of the franchise.   But 2016 was the year that it all broke into the open.  While “The Force Awakens” was released in the final weeks of 2015, it was during early months of 2016 that the tonfa wielding storm trooper FN-2199 became a viral sensation.  It was later revealed that this trooper was played by Liang Yang, another very accomplished practitioner of the Chinese arts.

Things were really shaken up by Donnie Yen’s performance as Chirrut Imwe, a blind monk (apparently sensitive to the Force but apparently not able to manipulate it like a Jedi) in “Rogue One.”  This was an important performance from the perspective of the evolving Star Wars canon as Yen introduced an entirely new group to the story line with a different (and more relatable) relationship with the Force than the wizardry exhibited by the likes of Yoda or Darth Vader.  From a professional perspective Yen has noted that he was given great latitude in crafting Chirrut’s screen presence and sought to bring identifiable Chinese values to the role.  He even got to arrange his own fight choreography.  It is thus fitting that of the various martial artists who have contributed to the Star War’s project over the decades, Yen’s character was the first to make a substantive contribution to the dialog and philosophy of the films.  And he managed to do all of this without a lightsaber. Apparently they were not a favored weapon of the “Guardians of the Whills.”

Bruce Lee facing off against Wong Jack Man in George Nolfi’s biopic, Birth of the Dragon.

5. Bruce Lee Bio-Pic Crashes and Burns Amid Fan Accusations of “White-Washing”
The latest installment in the Star Wars series was not the only film making waves among martial arts fans.  George Nolfi’s Bruce Lee bio-pic also generated a lot of talk.  Unfortunately very little of it was positive.  After seeing early trailers for the film fans accused the director of essentially writing Lee out of his own life story so that the camera could focus more fully on its white narrator (who bears an uncanny resemblance to Steve McQueen).  That fact that this was done with no apparent sense of irony led many viewers to surmise that in fact Nolfi was not all that familiar with Lee’s actual career or the problems that he faced in Hollywood.  Wong Jack Man was also re-imagined as a full-on Shaolin Monk because…why not.  In the end accusations of “white-washing” and cultural appropriation overshadowed any other discussion of the film.  Some of the more in-depth reporting on this film seems to suggest that martial arts audiences are increasingly demanding different sorts of stories from the studios.

Shannon Lee, the daughter of Bruce Lee. Source: LA Weekly.

4. The Rise of Shannon Lee
It is never surprising when Bruce Lee makes a list of “top Chinese martial arts related stories.”  He is still featured on the cover of Black Belt Magazine so frequently that it is difficult to tell when there is a new issue.  But lately it is his daughter Shannon who has been making waves.  Through the Bruce Lee Foundation Shannon has launched a number of programs to sustain and spread her father’s legacy.  These include efforts as diverse as a podcast dedicated to his philosophical views, scholarship programs and plans to create a permanent Bruce Lee museum.  But in the last year an increasing number of profiles have focused on Shannon herself as a savvy promoter of her father’s memory and brand.  Apparently we should be looking for some new releases from the Bruce Lee Foundation early in 2017.

Now With Kung Fu Grip! How Bodybuilders, Soldiers and a Hairdresser Reinvented Martial Arts for America. By Jared Miracle. McFarland & Company (March 31, 2016)

3.  The Year Chinese Martial Arts History Went Mainstream
The Chinese martial arts have always inspired a prodigious amount of folklore and mythology.  Carefully researched history, on the other hand, has been more difficult to find.  And the audience for such works have largely been academic rather than popular.  But over the last few years there have been hopeful signs that a new trend is a foot.

All of that culminated in 2016 with the release of a couple of high quality, well researched, projects that aimed to spread the actual history of the Chinese martial arts to the masses.  Perhaps the most important of these were Charlie Russo’s Striking Distance: Bruce Lee & the Dawn of Martial Arts in America, and Jared Miracle’s Now with Kung Fu Grip! How Bodybuilders, Soldiers and a Hairdresser Reinvented Martial Arts for America.  Both works were published by solid academic presses.  Yet it is also clear that they aspire to bring a more accurate (and in many ways more interesting) vision of the history of these fighting systems to the general public.  Readers wanting a more detailed discussion of these efforts can find my reviews of them here and here.

This trend towards the popularization of serious research was not confined to the world of publishing.  A major documentary titled The Professor: Tai Chi’s Journey West, examined the legendary New York City period of Cheng Man-Ching career.  Readers can find reviews of this work here and here.

Or if you are more interested in the early history of Taijiquan in the West why not check out this post profiling the contributions of Gerda Geddes and Sophia Delza?  And did I mention that there is a new book on Wing Chun and the Southern Chinese Martial Arts that released a paperback edition earlier this year?  Or maybe you need free translations of important primary sources? All in all, this is a great time to research the actual history of the Chinese martial arts.

A still from Ip Man 3. Source: The Hollywood Reporter.

2.  Ip Man 3 Packs a Punch
If you find yourself wondering whether we are living in Donnie Yen’s decade, just take a look at some of the press coverage surrounding Ip Man 3.  While this film was released in Hong Kong in the final weeks of December, 2015, it had a huge impact on the public discussion of the Chinese martial arts in the early months of 2016.  In addition to the normal reviews this film inspired more substantive discussions in the popular press.  See for instance Master William Kwok’s thought on whether its OK for Wing Chun students to love these films despite their wildly creative relationship with the very recent past.

More interesting was an article by Marie-Alice McLean-Dreyfus, who advanced a geopolitical take on the film.  Drawing on the work on Dr Merriden Varrall she argued that Ip Man 3 closely reflected the world view and foreign  policy positions of the Chinese government.  Specifically, she argued that audiences in China are likely to view the film as a metaphor for the current conflict between China and other states for influence and access to disputed regions of the South China Sea.  Her discussions included a few obvious misreadings of the film (e.g., Ip Man lives in Hong Kong during the 1950s, not Foshan).  It also wasn’t clear to me that audiences in Hong Kong would approach what to them would be a distinctly local story through the same set of interpretive lens as viewers in Beijing or Shanghai.  Still, its interesting to see the sorts of discussions that Martial Arts Studies promotes appearing in a wider variety of publications.

Unfortunately the film’s release in China was marred with financial improprieties that may lead to new industry wide regulations regarding the reporting of ticket sales.  Nevertheless, between his recent successes in the Star Wars and Ip Man franchises, it looks like Donnie Yen is well positioned to make the leap towards more dramatic roles.

African students studying at the Shaolin Temple.

1.  Kung Fu’s African Moment
We have now reached our top news story of 2016.  After carefully reviewing the international coverage of the Chinese martial arts, it is evident that Kung Fu is enjoying a moment of marked popularity across Africa.

In a sense this is not surprising. Prof. Stephen Chan, among others, has noted that the Asian martial arts have been an important symbol within the region’s popular culture since the 1970s.  But increased economic growth and deepening ties with China has allowed an unprecedented number of local students to take up the study of various types of Chinese martial arts.

Careful readers will have already noted that the Chinese government has enthusiastically deployed “Kung Fu diplomacy” across the region.  This often takes the form of hosting tournaments, setting up local classes, and even instituting exchange programs where aspiring African martial artists can travel to China for additional training.  Still, not all of this interest can be explained through external subsidies and “supply side” push.  The Chinese government has produced quite a bit of media and cultural material for the African market.  Much of it generates relatively little popular interest.  Yet Kung Fu films from the 1970s (not produced or distributed by the government) remain incredibly popular.

This raises a critical question.  Is the Chinese government leading, or following, the martial arts trend?  One thing, however, is clear.  The influence of the Chinese martial arts is set to expand throughout the region for years to come.

Working class patrons of a stall selling or renting 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.

Looking Forward by Looking Back

Admittedly 2016 has been a rough year for many people.  Yet it has been a great year for those interested in serious, thoughtful and even scholarly writing on the martial arts.  It seems clear that publishers have been gearing up to meet the sustained growth in demand for such works.

As such we will be mixing things up a bit with our New Year post.  In previous years Kung Fu Tea has selected a “top webpage” or blog.  But this year I would like to take a closer look at some of the more significant publications to be released during 2016.  As such the following post will offer my own pick for the “Best Martial Arts Studies Book of the Year.”

In many ways I am setting myself up for a thankless task.  So many fascinating books came out in the last 12 months that choosing a single “winner” is almost cruel.  To make this task a bit easier I set a few criteria to help guide by decision.  Almost by definition a book needs to be able to reach a wide audience to have a real impact on any conversation. I am most interested in those works that, to one degree or another, sought a “cross-over audience” audience of both practical and academic students.

As I noted in a previous post detailing the top news stories of 2016, we have seen increased efforts to popularize and spread the findings of scholarly work on the martial arts into the popular realm.  As someone who spends a lot of time thinking about both literatures, this is a fascinating (but by no means inevitable) development.  Still, what greater service can scholars offer current martial arts students than to provide them with resources to think more carefully about where their arts came from, why they function in society and how they create meaning in the lives of individual students.

Of course no single book can capture all of the trends that we have seen in scholarly and popular literatures in the last year.  And readers will certainly need more than one volume to keep them occupied until the next major set of releases in 2017.  This post concludes with a quick review of some of the other books from 2016 that made my own personal reading list.

It would not be fair to call these other works “runners up.”  As we will see, many of them have distinct goals.  Nor do they all attempt to reach a broad cross-over audience.  But collectively they help to remind us of the many great things that students of Martial Arts Studies accomplished in 2016.

And the Winner Is

Charles Russo. 2016. Striking Distance: Bruce Lee & the Dawn of Martial Arts in America. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. 264 pages. $24.95 USD (Hardcover)

Simply put, Charlie Russo’s history of the Bay Area Chinese martial arts community during the middle of the 20^th century was the right book at the right time.  It occupies an interesting middle ground between the rigorously academic and more popular accounts of the Chinese martial arts.  While published by the University of Nebraska Press, this is not, properly speaking, an “academic book.”  It does not attempt to resolve any critical theoretical questions by examining the development of these fighting systems.  Yet Russo is clearly aware of much of this literature.  Further, the detailed local and oral history that he assembled is incredibly engaging.  If any new publication in 2016 might convince the general public that the real history of the Asian martial arts is even more interesting than the myths and legends surrounding these systems, this is it.

What follows below in a brief excerpt from a more detailed review of Russo’s work that I wrote shortly after its initial release.  Readers interested in a more detailed engagement and critique of this work can find my complete review here.

Anyone can tell you that it is easier to review a good book than a bad one.  This simple truth makes Charles Russo’s latest volume a pleasure to discuss.  Striking Distance: Bruce Lee & the Dawn of Martial Arts in America (Nebraska UP, 2016) is one of those rare martial arts volumes that is likely to be widely read by individuals practicing a variety of styles.  It will also be of interest to those who are looking for a better vantage point from which to observe the history of the San Francisco Chinese community at a time of immense social change but have no background in the fighting arts.

Still, it is among martial artists that this book will have its greatest impact.  I fully expect that it will be discussed for years to come.  It may even play a similar role to R. W. Smith’s classic Chinese Boxing: Master and Methods (Kodansha, 1974) for a new generation of martial artists seeking to better understand their roots.

The comparison with Smith is an interesting one.  The first thing that readers will notice is the quality of Russo’s writing.  Simply put, this is a wonderfully written book.  Its style is at turns lyrical yet succinct.  Russo’s descriptions of individual events are rich and evoke a sense of texture and place that I have not encountered in very many descriptions of martial arts history.

His ability to reproduce a sense of intimacy, from smoked filled halls to creaky staircases, give his narrative a gripping quality.  This is amplified by the use of short chapters, each of which flows easily into the next.  The end result is a genuinely compelling story.

Smith was also an engaging writer.  While an intelligence officer by trade his writing reflected the journalism of his day.  His brief yet incisive descriptions of the martial artists that he encountered drew in many readers and earned him a great many fans.  I suspect that Russo’s text will be received in much the same way.

Nevertheless, it is the contrasts that I find most interesting.  Smith was a deeply devoted martial artist.  Like many young men of his generation he had come up through the ranks of boxing and judo before moving on to the newer and more exotic fighting systems (karate, taijiquan, kali and the various schools of kung fu) that would erupt into the public consciousness during the 1970s.

R. W. Smith was an early adopter of the Chinese fighting arts and he eagerly sought to promote these in the West. He hoped to not just to document what he saw, but to shape public opinion about these subjects through his writing. While this gave his prose a bite that many readers found enjoyable, it also led him to make some assertions that now require reevaluation.

In comparison Russo has little skin in the game.  He does not identify as a martial artist and has none of the personal or stylistic loyalties that dominate the work of his literary predecessor.  Russo is a professional Bay Area journalist and writer with a keen interest in local history and a nose for a good story.  The San Francisco martial arts scene, from the 1940s through the 1960s, provided ample material to satisfy both of these instincts.

It is even possible that Russo’s status as a non-practitioner was an advantage while researching this volume.  As quickly becomes apparent, this work is not based so much on the sorts of historical research that one does in a library (though there is some of that) but on literally hundreds of interviews and casual conversations with individuals who were direct observers of the events in question.  A certain “neutrality” on the question of local loyalties was probably beneficial in winning the trust of his various sources.

And like any good journalist Russo has spent a good deal of time cross-checking these verbal accounts and comparing them to previously published sources.  When particularly complex issues arise serious thought is given to the credibility of the different perspectives that exist within the community.

The end result is a nuanced view of individuals like Lau Bun, Wally Jay, Ed Parker and Bruce Lee that steadfastly resists the temptation to romanticize them.    Russo seems to understand that it is the “warts” that humanize us, which make empathy possible in a “warts and all” history.  In this way he avoids the rhetorical extremes of his predecessor.

Yet this is more than the story of a handful of people.  It is also the story of a place.  San Francisco’s Chinatown stands out as a key actor in these events, exerting a type of influence on the unfolding story.  Russo’s history provides critical insights into not just the martial arts, but the neighborhood that supported them.

What Else Should I be Reading?

Perhaps the greatest shortcoming of Russo’s work is that it will leave its audience wanting more.  At about 150 pages of text I suspect that most readers will get through it in a couple of sittings (probably because they will find putting the book down to be difficult).  So what other volumes from 2016 do you need to get caught up on?  To tackle that question I would like to discuss a couple of works from my own personal reading list.

Chris Goto-Jones. 2016. The Virtual Ninja Manifesto: Fighting Games, Martial Arts and Gamic Orientalism. Rowman and Littlefield.

Our first work comes from the Martial Arts Studies book series currently being produced by Roman and Littlefield.  Chris Goto-Jones is a philosopher with some provocative questions to ask.  Specifically, to what extent can we think of video games as being like martial arts?  Can we go beyond the realm of metaphor and simply treat them as martial arts?  Looking at the literature on embodied cognition, Zen philosophy and “techno-Orientalism” Jones argues that these “virtual martial arts” can function as mechanisms for the same sorts of moral transformation and self-realization that people have always sought from the Asian hand combat systems.

While provocative, Jones’ argument stretches the boundaries of Martial Arts Studies in interesting ways.  Nor should we forget that increasingly it is videogames, rather than Sunday afternoon Kung Fu films, that are introducing young people to the martial arts.  Hopefully this monograph will also give me some new insight into my own investigation of “hyper-real” martial arts.

Jared Miracle. 2016. Now with Kung Fu Grip! How Bodybuilders, Soldiers and a Hairdresser Reinvented Martial Arts for America. Jefferson, North Carolina:McFarland & Company. 185 pages. $29.95

The second item on my 2016 reading list forms an interesting counterpoint to Russo’s book.  Both projects are clearly seeking to popularize a more disciplined, even scholarly, approach to martial arts history.  Yet despite their shared goal, they come at the task from strikingly different angles.

Russo approaches the project with the tools of investigative journalism, but Miracle is a trained academic.  While Russo writes as an outsider, Miracle brings with him extensive personal experience in the martial arts.  Russo’s work is largely devoid of theory but shows how much can be accomplished through the disciplined investigation of local history.  Miracle takes a more global view, attempting to explain the modernization and spread of the martial arts in China, Japan and the West across a much longer time frame.  To guide his readers through this labyrinthine journey he frequently turns to anthropological, historical and sociological theory.  Despite these differences it appears that both authors seek to reach many of the same “cross-over” readers.

I think that many readers will find Miracle’s work to be a handy one volume reference to an important subject.  It is at its best when attempting deal with the biographical legacies of figures like R. W. Smith or Don Draeger.  Yet ultimately it attempts to do too much too quickly.  You can see more detailed review of this work here. [Link]

Paul Bowman. 2016. Mythologies of Martial Arts. Rowman and Littlefield

This is Paul Bowman’s second work dedicated to Martial Arts Studies, and non-specialists will find it to be his most accessible work to date.  Bowman does not abandon the tools of “critical theory” in this short volume.  Rather he introduces and explains these theoretical approaches in ways that are rarely seen in academic publications.  The fact that this work was structured as a collection of short essays, each of which tackles a single highly engaging subject, makes it a genuinely enjoyable read.  I have already read this volume once since its release, and I think that it is a book I will find myself going back to frequently in the future.

Alex Channon & Christopher Matthews. 2016. Global perspectives on women in combat sports: Women warriors around the world. Palgrave.

No reading list of scholarly books would be complete without an edited volume.  In this case the editors bring together a number of perspectives on questions of gender and the female experience in the traditional martial arts and combat sports.  I have already looked at a couple of chapters from the project, but I have yet to sit down and read this volume from cover to cover.  That will be a priority for 2017.

Lauren Miller Griffith. 2016. In Search of Legitimacy: How Outsiders Become Part of the Afro-Brazilian Capoeira Tradition. New York: Berghahn Books.

While Channon and Matthews may be near the top of my personal (e.g., non-research related) reading list, Griffith is what I am most looking forward to at the moment.  Her book came out very in early in 2016 but I only just received a review copy in the mail. While her ethnographic study focuses on the practice of Capoeria, the questions that she tackles are critical for students of just about any of the traditional martial arts today, especially given the growing importance of martial arts related tourism.

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

At $110 the hardcover is a bit expensive.  But the good news is that readers can get the ebook for $16.

The next time someone tells you how awful 2016 was, show them one of the books from this list.  Any of them would be a fascinating way to kick off 2017!

oOo

Want to read something shorter by Charles Russo?  Check out this guest post: James Yimm Lee and T. Y. Wong: A Rivalry that Shaped the Chinese Martial Arts in America
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A print from the Gold Saber Illustrated Manual of Saber Swordsmanship, published in 1725. Posted and translated by Scott M. Rodell. Source: http://steelandcotton.tumblr.com

Introduction

The Acta Periodica Duellatorum, an academic journal dedicated to the study of the Western martial arts (edited by Daniel Jaquet), has just released it latest issue.  At least two of these articles will be of interest to readers of Kung Fu Tea and are highly recommended.  The first, by Sixt Wetzler, asks whether a comparative study of European and Chinese fight books is possible and, if so, what it might achieve.  The second, by Eric Burkart, reminds us of the limits of such resources, as well as our efforts to resurrect “authentic” martial arts from the distant past.  Taken as a set these articles make an important contribution to the growing discussion of historic Chinese martial arts training manuals and their uses by modern martial artists.  I hope to discuss both of these works during the coming week.  But first a few thoughts on the relationship between the written word and the traditional Chinese martial arts might be in order.

For a set of practices transmitted only as “oral traditions,” the Chinese martial arts have managed to amass a surprising large collection of written texts over the centuries.  Indeed, it may be time to reevaluate some of our basic assumptions about these arts and the society that passed them on.  Increasingly students of Chinese history are becoming aware that a wide variety of individuals with only marginal literacy managed to take an active interest in China’s written popular culture.

Ethnographers who visited “Phoenix Village” in the early 20^th century found that “book clubs” were a pervasive form of sociality among the town’s housewives.  Much to the consternation of the village leadership, local merchants sold popular novels, plays and all manner of stories which had been transcribed into a phonetic set of characters (probably similar to Japanese hiragana) that allowed these women, few of whom had much in the way of formal education, to read stories of both romance and tragedy.  Meir Shahar, in his groundbreaking work on the popular literature chronically the erstwhile monk and folk hero “Crazy Ji” found exactly the same thing in the northern half of the country.  And as we have previously discussed here, there was apparently an entire genre of cheap, mass produced, boxing pamphlets (complete with wood block illustrations) that were circulating in southern China throughout the 19^th century. Thus the sudden expansion of martial arts publishing in the early 20^th century (documented quite well by Kennedy and Gao) might be better understood as a continuation of previous trends within the market for popular publications rather than a completely new development.

The Chinese martial arts, while at heart an embodied practice, have always had a rich relationship with the written word.  Their popular image was defined as much by classic novels (Water Margin), vernacular operas (Journey to the West) and even fighting manuals (such as Cheng Zongyou’s influential Ming era work popularizing the Shaolin staff tradition) as by village militia instructors.  Indeed, on a personal note I am starting to suspect that the often heard refrain (discussed at length by Andrew Morris and others) that the martial arts needed to be made literate “to be saved” was something of a rouse on the part of 20^th century reformers (including those associated with the Jingwu and later Guoshu movements).

It was not so much that Qing era martial culture had left no written record.  Southern China was practically afloat in hand copied “cotton boxing” manuals (see the Bubishi for an example of this literature), and practically every adult could recite the story of “Wu Song Beats the Tiger” from memory. Rather, the problem was that these were the “wrong” sorts of texts.  They focused on secretive local traditions rather than attempting to “strengthen the nation.”  They popularized magical themes rather than promoting modernization and Western science.  They were hand copied by students rather than being printed with an impressive array of photographs.

In short, they were everything that later 20^th century reformers wanted to forget.  And so they did.    We often forget that reprints of late Ming era fighting manuals (including some of the ones discussed below) circulated throughout the Republic period martial arts community.  Still the message went out.  The traditional Chinese arts are weak and in need of modern reform as they have left no written legacy.  In strictly empirical terms, neither half of that equation was exactly true.

I consider the current rediscovery and study of these earlier textual traditions to be one of the more important trends seen within the Chinese martial arts today.  My own interests lay mostly in 19^th and 20^th century sources as they are more closely related to my own area of interest.  Luckily translators like Paul Brennan and Tim Cartmell have done much to make this material available to western students of martial arts studies. For historians of the Republic period, these manuals are important primary sources, rich not just in technical advice but also social observation.

Other authors and translators, such as Jack Chen (from www.chineselongsword.com) and Scott M. Rodell (who recently wrapped up the “year of the dandao”) have focused on earlier periods of history. The late Ming (and early Qing) produced its own rich collections of manuals focusing on both a variety of weapons as well as unarmed combat.  These illustrated, sometimes beautifully produced, works were the basic historical sources employed by authors like Meir Shahar, Peter Lorge and (much earlier) Tang Hao.

Of course China was not the only area of the world to be producing fight books during the 16^th century.  A parallel literary tradition was developing in Europe at approximately the same time.  Between the 14^th and 17^th centuries that region also produced an intriguing written record of its various combat traditions.

In some respect these European works are better known.  Art historians had long been fascinated by the illumination, illustration and engraving that went into producing these discussions.  Some of these volumes are richly bound visual treasures that one suspects had more to do with the advertising of wealth or status than actual instruction.  Other texts were much simpler in their feel and production.

Students of the Historical European Martial Arts (HEMA) have been hard at work translating, interpreting and experimenting with these volumes for a number of years.  Lacking a “living tradition” to fall back on, they have been forced to rely on textual study and technical experimentation in their attempts to restore these lost fighting arts.

Nor do they labor in isolation.  Recent years have seen increased interest in applying these same research methods to the resurrection of older Ming and Qing era martial and military traditions.  Yet are these two bodies of literature really comparable?  Can similar methods of analysis be applied to both sets of literature?  And what can scholars or students of the martial arts really hope to learn from such a comparative case study?

A comparison of Western and Chinese Fight Book Illustrations used by Wetzler. Source: https://www.degruyter.com/view/j/apd.2016.4.issue-2/

“Your Kung Fu is very good, Master Fiore!”

These are a few of the questions that Sixt Wetzler (an occasional guest author here at Kung Fu Tea) addressed in his paper comparing Chinese and European fight books.  He begins by noting that isolated studies of a single martial art can have certain drawbacks.  Specifically, it is difficult to generalize from a solitary observation how a given fighting system reflects both the realities of combat as well as the social, cultural, economic and other structures that contributed to its development.  To paraphrase Max Mueller, if you have only (academically) studied one martial art, you have really understood none.  Comparison between multiple cases is often the key to bringing a wide range of variables into sharper focus.

Yet, as Wetzler points out, the comparative exercise is not without its pitfalls.  To begin with, none of us can be experts in everything.  Almost inevitably we will be more familiar with one of our objects of study than the other.  In practice this means that we will often approach one of our subjects through a frame of reference that really only works for the other side of the equation.  Hence when we see similar movements, techniques or weapons in a new system, we might misunderstand their actual significance or meaning.  Rarely will a single set of preexisting assumptions work equally well for all of our observations.

While these sorts of assumptions are often troublesome, they are also impossible to escape.  Every attempt to gain new insight must begin somewhere.  Yet careful scholarship, and the use of appropriate theoretical frameworks, can help to ensure that our starting assumptions do not dictate our final conclusions.

At this point Wetzler returns, briefly, to the question of definitions within scholarly enquiry.  As regular readers will note this is a topic that has generated much discussion over the last year. Yet rather than offering a new definition of the martial arts, Wetzler instead makes a few more basic points about their role in research.  Indeed, the comparative method presupposes a certain degree of agreement on basic questions of definition.

Quoting Freiberger he notes:

“The starting point of a comparative study can be a definition of terms (as wide and open as possible) to isolate the topics of study; and a result of the comparison will be a modification and precision of the terms.  These more precise terms can then be the basic for a further comparative study [which] will prevent the essentialisation of terms.”

On a more personal note I will add that in my experience definitions tend to meander and shift between projects in an almost rhizomic way, rather than progressing to an ever more refined state (which might imply exactly the sort of teleological essentialism that both Freiberger and Wetzler) are trying to avoid.  In any case, when we compare two items (in this case Chinese and Western fight books) our aim is not say “Both of these volumes are an example of category X.”  The very fact that such books were produced in different cultures, distant from one another in space and time, makes this class of typological arguments dubious at best.  Rather, our goal is to consider both the similarities and differences between these two phenomenon, and to use them to generate a better set of questions about how society, culture and the nature of combat shape fighting systems in general.

Wetzler then moves on to a brief discussion of both the European and Chinese fight book traditions.  Given the centrality of these texts for HEMA students (and readers of the APD) he assumes a relatively high degree of prior familiarity on the part of the reader.  Thus he passes over the Western tradition more quickly that students approaching this topic from the Chinese perspective might like.  If I have a single complaint about this article it is that I (as a non-specialist) would have liked a more detailed discussion of the breadth and variety of Western manuals that informed his thinking.

Wetzler’s discussion of the Chinese Ming era martial arts training manual tradition is more detailed.  He initially approaches the topic using Kennedy and Gao’s system of classification for Chinese fight books.  In a sense that is not terribly helpful in the present case as most of their work (like my own research) really focuses on the modern period.  Thus if one is only looking at 16^th century manuals their analytical framework does not provide much in the way of typological detail.

However, Wetzler did offer a brief synopsis of the development of this literature, as well as a list of some of the most prominent authors of the period.  I suspect that readers will find this immensely helpful.  I cannot even begin to count the number of times when I have found myself scribbling a similar timeline down in the margin of my notes.  As such, it is nice to have it all in one (easily cited) place.

At this point the author transitions to a more focused discussion of specific areas of comparison between the two traditions.  This begins with questions of materiality.  Who produced these works?  What technologies did they employ?  How were they intended to be marketed or distributed?  Who were their readers?  For what purpose were they produced?

One might be tempted to make broad generalizations about the Chinese and western traditions at the beginning of this exercise.  It might even be possible to point to patterns of difference that would seem to undercut such a cross-cultural comparison in the first place.  For instance, the woodcut illustrations seen in most Chinese manuals are not as detailed and crisp (nor as anatomically accurate) as what one might see in an Italian renaissance fencing manual.  It could be argued that this lack of detail suggests that we are dealing with totally different sorts of manuscript traditions.

Wetzler reminds us, however, that there is a danger in constructing “ideal types.”  In fact the quality of the printing and depth of description varies vastly among both Western and Chinese examples.  The more relevant question might actually be to what extent can, or should, we attempt to treat either of these assumed categories as a unified genre.  The material nature of a book often suggests clues as to who owned it, and what its intended function really was, that can be useful in sorting this out.

The various ways that fighting techniques are textually described also makes an interesting point of comparison.  While some western texts offer expansive descriptions of techniques (often framed as conversations), others appear to be simple lists of notes recorded for personal study.

Both Chinese and western texts adopt a similar strategy of defining a larger movement repertoire that will be taught by dividing it into small digestible pieces, introduced one or two movements at a time.  As a student of the Chinese martial arts I was surprised to discover that the authors of some Western fight books used rhymed formulas to help their students remember key aspects of technique.  Of course these were a standard pedagogical tool in Chinese manuals.  Less surprising was the revelation that both genres developed their own technical vocabularies that are now difficult for specialists to decipher.  It was also fascinating to see the different ways that authors attempted to solve the problem of conveying footwork and movement patterns through a static medium.

Obviously there are limits to what can be accomplished here, no matter how detailed your engravings or expansive your text.  As the old adage goes, one cannot learn Kung Fu from a book.  There is simply too much implicit knowledge embedded in the details of our movement to ever be conveyed in any written manual, especially one that crosses temporal and cultural boundaries.  Burkart expands on these themes in his own article, but I will leave that discussion for next week.  Yet it is interesting to see how authors in various traditions struggled with the limitations of their medium.

Wetzler, a curator at the German Blade Museum, was also interested in what these textual traditions suggested about the role of weapons in their respective cultures.  Both libraries featured a variety of weapons.  Yet he concluded that the balance of weapons favored by the two groups of authors skewed in noticeably different directions.

Since this observation was connected to Wetzler’s final point of comparison I will deal with them together.  While European fight books strongly favored the sword as the de facto weapon of defense, Chinese sources were much more likely to focus on the spear.  As Peter Lorge points out, not only were Chinese spearmen well trained, one could make an argument that they were over trained (at least according to the books that we have inherited from the past).  Rather than focusing on the basic skills needed to fight in ranks, a wider range of techniques were studied covering all conceivable situations.

While our discussion to this point has focused on similarities, this shift in emphasis brings forth a notable difference.  Both Chinese and Western authors were vocally concerned with the fighting efficiency of their respective arts, and dismissed anything that was “flowery” or “impractical.”  Yet this last point suggests that their martial cultures were quite different in certain critical respects.

Many of the Western fight books that Wetzler references were written for an upper middle-class urban, largely civilian, audience.  Swords were a matter of dueling, self-defense and honor.  No matter their advantages, one simply could not walk around town armed with a pike.  While some European texts do address actual battlefield conditions (where pikes were rather common), Wetzler observes that they appear to be in the minority.

In contrast, a larger percentage of the Ming era manuals that he discusses were written by army generals who were concerned with questions of basic troop training.  Even the civilian authors on his list (such as Cheng Zongyou) were engaged with questions of militia training and management.  Given the disorder, banditry and rebellions that plagued the late Ming, this emphasis on battlefield combat is not surprising.  In 16^th century China, the spear was king.

All of that this would change rapidly in the coming decades.  As Shahar notes, the advent of the Qing dynasty did not mark the end of the Chinese martial arts so much as their transformation.  Increasingly the audience for hand combat training was civilian in nature and less interested in the sorts of tactical and strategic considerations that had previously been considered vital. From this point onward fighting manuals gave more weight to unarmed fighting, self-defense and medicine.  The timing and nature of shifts within in a literature is another area that might benefit from the comparative method.

Dr. Sixt Wetzler showing off a fight book from the collection of the German Blade Museum.

Conclusion

Wetzler’s excellent paper provides students of martial arts studies with a brief introduction to a potentially voluminous subject.  Clearly there are differences between the Chinese and European fight book traditions.  For that matter there is an interesting pattern of variation within each of these groups.  Yet fruitful comparative studies draw on differences as well as commonalities.

The recent enthusiasm for the “re-discovery” of historical fighting systems (in both the East and the West) should also cause to stop and ponder why these works, neglected for so long as inscrutable or simply irrelevant to the modern world, are suddenly capturing the imagination of a global audience.  As both Burkart and Wetzler suggest, while these texts may be ancient, the uses they are currently being put to are quite modern.  This raises a number of pressing theoretical questions for students of martial arts studies.  Perhaps some of them will be addressed at the upcoming conference on fight books, hosted at the German Blade Museum in Solingen, in the autumn of 2017.

oOo

If you enjoyed this you might also want to read: Government Subsidization of the Martial Arts and the Question of “Established Churches”

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Two senior students outside Sage Hall at Yenching University, March 1928. Source: http://findit.library.yale.edu

Introduction

At the end of the last class at the “Central Martial Arts Academy” (the location where I am conducing my current research on lightsaber combat and the “hyper-real martial arts”) we all gathered for an impromptu class photo.  Digital technology makes this a quick and easy process, especially compared to what was involved in producing such images a century ago.  As such we do these group photos about once a month.  Students enjoy posting these shots to their social media accounts, and I have found them to be a handy tool in visually tracking the schools progress over time.  Every new class photo (as well as a number of other more candid images) is dutifully recorded in my field notes.

I am not the first such researcher to find such images helpful, and I am sure that I will not be the last. But thinking about the meaning of these photos and their place in the research process reminded me of some great photos that a very generous reader pointed me towards back in November. They will be the focus of today’s post

The history of the Asian martial arts is a fascinating subject.  Yet one of the wrinkles that must be kept always in mind is that in many cases these fighting systems are acutely self-conscious about their identity as “traditional” practices and their place in history.  I have long suspected that beyond the question of immediate goals (improved health, self-defense skills, etc…), many individuals have taken up the martial arts precisely because they want to commune with history.  This has always been the allure of identifying with something larger than the self.  They find meaning in their lives by placing themselves within (what Mircea Eliade might have identified as) “sacred time.”

The Chinese martial arts often rely on “lineage” not just as a means of ensuring the legitimacy of transmission (perhaps the context in which the concept is most frequently invoked in the West) but also the structure and good order of the current community (the nuances of which are more frequently observed in Chinese schools). Thus when individuals take photos with their teachers, or pose for class shots, they are not just recording history.  They are creating and shaping it.

Yet contrary to universalism often found in Eliade’s work, not everyone seeks to live in the same imagined past.  Photos can be helpful precisely because an analysis of their creation or content suggests the many competing visions of both the past and future that the Chinese martial arts have existed simultaneously.

Consider the date and setting of these pictures.  All of them (and a number of others that I did not include here) currently reside in the digital collections of Yale’s Divinity School.  The very first image records two senior female students at the martial arts club of Yenching University (in Beijing).  This photo was taken in March of 1928, and is the only photo in this post that we can establish a definite date for.

The other two images record scenes from a similar student organization at Fukien Christian University (which was subsequently absorbed into Fujian Normal University).  Unfortunately Yale’s archives do not include exact dates for either of these other photographs.  But judging from the style of the clothing (Jingwu inspired uniforms and women in bloomers), one suspects that all of these photos were a product of the late 1920s.

That date should not be particularly surprising.  The Chinese martial arts enjoyed something of a renaissance starting in the middle years of the 1920s.  As a result many middle class high schools and universities rushed to offer martial arts instruction to their students.

The Chinese Boxing Club of Fukien Christian University. Source: http://findit.library.yale.edu

The class photo is interesting on a number of counts.  I assume that the three individuals on the far left of the back row are not students.  They may be instructors or advisers for the club.  That would leave 20 students in the club, three of whom are female.  Interestingly, only the males have any type of official uniform.

Of course we do know that female participation in such programs was fairly common during the 1920s.  The Jingwu Association campaigned hard to promote female involvement in the martial arts and they achieved a fair degree of success.  Many of the newspaper accounts of public martial arts demonstrations during this decade note the typical inclusion of female athletes and performers. [link]

The archival note with this photo reads as follows: “F. C. U. student activities “F. C. U. Girl athletes Chinese boxing” Four students in blouses and bloomers, holding sticks in their right hands, perform a move on a dirt field surrounded by walls. A crowd of spectators watches. Hills visible in background.” Source: http://findit.library.yale.edu

We have already reviewed a number of such accounts, and we will be hearing more about them in the coming months.  As such the final picture in this set is particularly helpful.  In an era when most newspaper articles did not include photographs, it shows four young women (at Fukien Christian University) performing a Jian routine as part of a public martial arts demonstration hosted at the university.  I think that this image is particularly helpful as it gives us a good sense of the crowd that came to these events, and the general atmosphere of the day.  Here we see society’s better elements turned out for a boxing demonstration.

Conclusion

In an earlier post I discussed the “dangers of telling only a single story” about a year in Chinese martial arts history.  Ironically the year that I selected for that essay was 1928, the same year that at least one of the photos presented.

There is a tendency to discuss the Chinese martial arts in monolithic terms, to imagine it as a single entity reflecting a unified set of identities and values.  Yet these photographs remind us of how distorting such simplifications can be.  In reality there was no single accepted vision of what the Chinese were, or what they had been.  Rather than discussing Chinese martial culture (in the singular), we really should begin to discuss Chinese martial cultures (in the plural).

Not only was there disagreement as to where the martial arts had come from, what their relationship with the state should be, and what lay in their future, these questions were publicly contested in the press.  While much of the current academic discussion of the martial arts focuses on marginal individuals (Red spears militia men in the countryside, or struggling industrial workers in the cities), here we see yet another view of what the Chinese martial arts might have become.

This realization becomes particularly important when we begin to think about the early history of the Chinese martial arts in North America.  Many accounts of the martial arts look at developments in the nation’s Chinatowns, typically New York or San Francisco.  The economic and socially marginal nature of these communities is often stressed and the supposed secrecy of China’s martial artists is always part of the mix.  Individuals like Bruce Lee (a later immigrant from China) and James Yimm Lee (an American by birth who moved his family to Oakland) are seen as the pioneers of change.  Charlie Russo’s recent book (discussed here) does an excellent job of telling this aspect of the story.

Yet what these accounts forget is that there was an entire other world of Chinese martial arts in America, located within its Universities as colleges.  While there may have been no legal immigration to the US during the 1920s, a great many university students came to the United States to study at some of the country’s most important institutions.  And given the growing popularity of the martial arts among students in China, we should not be overly surprised to discover that some of these individuals were accomplished boxers by the time that they arrived.

Nor were they in any way restricted by the supposed codes of secrecy that ruled the early Chinatown schools.  These elite university students were instead the product of the modern and expansive vision promoted by the reform movements such as the Jingwu Association or the Guoshu Association.  At the same time that certain teachers were supposedly shunning contact with “foreign students”, reformers like Chu Minyi were working frantically to promote these practices on the Olympic stage before a global audience.  Other reformers went out of their way to make sure that foreign reporters would always be invited to their events to ensure that English language articles on developments in the Chinese martial arts would appear in the next day’s newspapers.

In the future I hope to explore some of the ways that Chinese university students in the West attempted to use their mastery of the martial arts to shape and correct America’s vision of their home.  Far from being hidden and secretive, these individuals went out of their way to organize public demonstrations, sometimes in consultation with Chinese diplomats.  Kung Fu demonstrations were used to raise money for food and famine relief.  At other points in time they were seen as a means of generating support for the Nationalist Party.  Some of these individuals even wrote about the Chinese martial arts, often as a counterpoint to growing public interest in Japanese Judo.  This was public and cultural diplomacy in the truest sense of the term.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about China’s university educated martial artists is the degree to which their efforts have been forgotten, both in China and the West.  Indeed, one occasionally gets the impression that the Chinese martial arts were never publicly demonstrated in the West until the arrival of Bruce Lee or the public emergence of Lau Bun.  This is a false historical narrative based on a narrow vision of the Chinese experience in America.

On a personal level I suspect that it also reflected the 1960s counter culture’s deep desire to discover something “new” and “exotic” as they attempted to look to the East to re-enchant their world. When married to the economy’s need to advertise new and exciting products, the combined result was a powerful incentive to erase even the recent past. Yet every new creation rests on a foundation inherited from the past.  This small collection of photos helps us to peel back a few of these layers.

Special Thanks:  I would like to thank Scott Harrington for first bringing this collection of photographs to my attention.

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If you enjoyed this you might also want to read: Lives of Chinese Martial Artists (4): Sun Lutang and the Invention of the “Traditional” Chinese Martial Arts (Part 1 of 3).

oOo

Chin Woo crouching tiger quarterstaff stance, Singapore, 2007.

Introduction

We are fortunate to be able to share the following guest post as part of our ongoing series on fieldwork in martial arts studies.  This essay, by D. S. Farrer, outlines a number of issues and pitfalls that young ethnographers should consider as they embark on their projects.

Readers may recall that Farrer also contributed the first post for this occasional series, which provided a global overview of issues associated with ethnographic studies of the martial arts. The essay that he is sharing with us today offers a more personal take on some of these same questions, drawn from reflections on his own work.  His introductory discussion of “performance ethnography” alone is worth the price of admission.  Click the link to read more!

The Perils and Pitfalls of Performance Ethnography

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dr. Douglas Farrer is Head of Anthropology at the University of Guam. His research interests include martial arts, the anthropology of performance, visual anthropology, the anthropology of the ocean, digital anthropology, and the sociology of religion. On Guam he is researching Brazilian jiu-jitsu.

Pilot research on Yap, Micronesia, 2013.

We are happy to announce that the Winter 2016 Issue of Martial Arts Studies is now available, free of charge, to any reader or institution.  This open source, peer reviewed, interdisciplinary journal is an imprint of Cardiff University Press.

Simply click the cover image, or this link, to download a complete copy.  You can also click here to find PDFs of individual articles or to search our archives. The current issue features something for practically any student of martial arts studies.  This includes seven original research articles and four reviews of recent and significant publications.

That is a lot of new material, about 115 pages in total.  Wondering where to start? For an overview of the contents of this issue, readers should see our opening editorial.

If you want to get right to the action, be sure to start with Paul Bowmans’ discussion of why theory must come before definition in the development of martial arts studies and his thoughts on how this problem may help to explain the mixed fortunes of hoplology and other past iterations of our project.

Students of the traditional martial arts, and anyone who has ever done “forms practice,” will want to read Daniel Mroz’s exploration of taolu in the Chinese martial arts. Be sure to watch for the embedded video and other links in his text.

Looking for something to read?  Why not start with Colin P. McGuire’s review of The Fighting Art of Pencak Silat and Its Music: From Southeast Asian Village to Global Movement, edited by Uwe U. Paetzold and Paul H. Mason (Brill, 2016).

Are you interested in contributing to Martial Arts Studies?  If so, see our Call for Papers. And as always, please feel free to share any of these links on your social media accounts.  Let your colleagues and friends know that a new issue of Martial Arts Studies is now available!

Lastly, Paul Bowman and I would like to extend our most sincere thanks to all of our contributors, our distinguished Editorial Advisory Panel, editorial assistant Kyle Barrowman, designer Hugh Griffiths, and all at Cardiff University Press, especially Alice Percival and Sonja Haerkoenen.  Without your hard work this journal would not be possible.

Illustration from Meyer’s Longsword.

Situating the Martial Culture of Shii-cho

All of the Jedi I know speak with an accent.  A particularly keen observer might notice them as they walk into the Central Martial Arts Academy, shedding their boots and heavy winter coats.  But anyone with a background in the martial arts can start to pick out the pitches and tones of dialect once they ignite their lightsabers.  This became evident to me on my very first day of actual fieldwork on the hyper-real martial arts.  Looking back at my notes I ran across the following account of a demonstration which occurred at the end of my first class with this group.

As a quick note of background, the hyper-real martial art known as “Lightsaber Combat” is structured around the idea of the “Seven Classical Forms” of combat as laid out in the Star Wars mythology.  Each of these forms has been bequeathed with a basic outline and set of characteristics (Shii-cho is supposedly derived from older methods of fighting with metal swords and is considered a “battlefield art”) as well as some in universe culture (it is also known as the “Way of the Sarlacc” and was the first lightsaber form taught to “younglings” in the Jedi Temple).  Readers wanting to brush up on their lightsaber lore, or wondering what this has to do with the martial arts, may want to start by reviewing the following article that I wrote on that topic. [Following standard ethnographic procedure, pseudonyms are used throughout my field notes to better respect the privacy of my fellow students.]

 

“It was 3:10.  At this point the class had gone over schedule.  But since “we started late” Darth Nihilus decided to go on a bit longer.  Given the number of new students he talked to the class about the recent history of lightsaber fighting, and where the various forms we would be learning came from.  Next he spoke on the philosophy and intended purpose of the first of these forms.

At that point we were invited to sit on the edge of one of the mats.  The students did so casually without the formal discipline that one might see in a more traditional martial arts school.  Some stood off to the side, leaning on their sabers.  Darth Nihilus then called on three of his more senior students who had previously memorized Shii-cho, the first of the “classical forms of lightsaber combat.”

The first of these individuals was a self-described “Grey Jedi.”  As soon as he began to perform the form a distinct “HEMA” accent became evident in his blade work.  His movements alternated between slow nuanced detail and quick flashes which earned the instructor’s admonition to “slow down.”  Clearly he would have been just as at home with a German longsword.

The next student was also quite proficient in the form, but had a noticeably different take on things.  In his hands the lightsaber was transformed into a katana, or probably more properly a bamboo shinai.  This Jedi’s body posture, the rhythm of movement, and even the means of generating power all changed.  It almost felt like a drawn out kendo kata.

The third aspiring Jedi, like the other two, was a white male in his 20s.  He was a bit hesitant in his performance of the form.  His posture was upright and there was not yet a high degree of intentionality in his blade work.  Clearly he was new to the sword, and probably the martial arts in general, but he made it through the form with minimal prompting from the instructor. Everyone clapped at the end of each performance, and the audience watched with evident interest.

Darth Nihilus then turned to those of us clustered at the edge of the mat and pointed out that each student had their own distinct interpretation of the form.  He clarified that they were using it as a means of expressing what they knew and who they were, and that was a good thing.  He encouraged all of the students to contact him on Facebook for links to a recording of the full version of the form so they could continue to memorize and practice it at home throughout the rest of the week.  They were reminded to go slow.

At this point the instructor then claimed the floor to demonstrate a second, more complex and energetic version of Shii-cho which he said would be introduced to students who memorized the more basic introductory form.  The form was similar yet notably different in places.  But even more striking was his specific technique.  In his hands the lightsaber was transformed into something distinctly Chinese, even though few wushu routines seem to employ a double handed saber.  How do I know that this is “Chinese?” Was this the “Terra Prime” form that he mentioned previously?  The reaction of the class was enthusiastic….

Not surprisingly Darth Nihilus has an extensive background in the Chinese martial arts.  Obviously he teaches Wing Chun, but in a previous interview he mentioned a White Crane background as well.  When I approached the other students after class the first mentioned that he had grown up in a household that was obsessed with historical Western fencing, while the second had a brief background in Kendo.  The third student was gaining his initial exposure to the martial arts through this lightsaber class.”

It is not surprising that the lightsaber performances of various students reflect their prior backgrounds.  HEMA, Kung Fu, Kendo and Kali instructors have all contributed to the creation of lightsaber techniques practiced in schools like the Central Lightsaber Academy, or the Terra Prime Light Armory.  And stunt sabers themselves are such simple training tools that they make a great analog for whatever blade or stick weapons you already happen to know.  It is almost too easy to bring your prior training with you.

On the other hand this is also a bit odd.  Star Wars is, if nothing else, a strikingly visual story.  It has created a rich media archive of these supposed fighting systems.  Yes, Wushu is evident in Ray Park’s performance as Darth Maul, and Christopher Lee’s extensive background in Western and Stage fencing comes out in his performance as Count Dooku.  But the fight choreographers never allowed these “real world inflections” to dominate the scene.  That would have risked shattering the bubble of world creation that is at the heart of the storytelling project.  What made it to the silver screen always had a distinctly “Star Wars” feel.  It was at least partially that promise of the timeless and exotic, the familiar yet just out of reach, which seems to have drawn so many students to Lightsaber Combat in the first place.

Yet upon picking up a stunt saber, most students do not do a great job of moving and executing techniques in the same sorts of ways that they are shown on film.  Given the years of fight choreography experience and special effects wizardry that went into creating those scenes that is probably a good thing. Even those of us who have studied the Chinese martial arts for decades are unlikely to move like a young Ray Park.

Still, I get the sense that something else is going on.  In many cases it is not just that lightsaber students cannot do this.  For the most part that is not really their goal.  Or to avoid over-generalization based my specific research area, its not the goal of those individuals whom I have been working with.  Of course I am more than familiar with phenomenon of keyboard warriors in the comments section that are willing to go to war if your version of “Makashii” does not match their preconceived notion of what 17th rapier fencing is supposed to look like.  Yet for the most part this way of thinking does not seem to get dragged into the actual training hall.

Rather than disciplining their movements to replicate what they have seen on screen, most students (or those with some sort of background in prior martial arts training) have something else that they are trying to express with their blade work.  But what is it?  And why does it differ from the master symbols of how the ideal Jedi (or Sith) should fight?  Why does abstract symbolism only take you so far in the construction of a fighting system?

The Seven Form of Lightsaber Combat

Fight Books and the Art of Resurrecting the Past

The answer to this question, as well as a number of much more pressing issues within both the world of HEMA and the traditional Asian martial arts, can be found in Eric Burkart’s recent article titled “The Limits of Understanding in the Study of Lost Martial Arts: Epistemological Reflection on the Mediality of Historical Records of Technique and the Status of Modern (Re-) Constructions.” (Acta Periodica Duellatorum, Volume 4, Issue 2 2016).  This article can be thought of as almost a companion piece to the one by Sixt Wetzler that I wrote about earlier.  While Wetzler suggests possible avenues for the fruitful comparative study of fight books (with his special interest being the intersection of Chinese and European sources), Burkart breaks new ground in determining the ultimate limits and limitations of such studies.

This article is sure to become mandatory reading for anyone involved in the HEMA research community.  And while Burkart confines himself to discussing European sources in the present piece, it is clear that the basic points he raises have wide applicability in a number of other areas as well.  Students of Ming and Qing era Chinese martial arts will also want to heed his warnings.  Indeed, given the relative youth of our current efforts to grapple with lost Chinese fighting systems in more practical terms, we are probably well positioned to digest his warnings and consider what they mean going forward.

Burkart’s article may appeal to other readers as well.  Those interested in the ongoing debate on the definition of the martial arts might want to take notice of his efforts to craft a more limited concept explicitly tailored to the theoretical needs of his specific research project.  Likewise students of embodied culture, and even “carnal sociology,” may find his discussion of Ben Spatz’s recent work on the importance of technique illuminating.  Indeed, this is the core concept that is necessary to grasp the full ramifications of his argument.

Unfortunately within the world of the Chinese martial arts the term “technique” has acquired something of a negative connotation.  Readers should be aware that Burkart’s use of the concept has little in common with the ways that it is tossed around in casual conversations by TCMA practitioners.  I think that most often when I hear that word used in training halls today it is preceded by the qualifier “mere.”

And what could be more empty and robotic than “mere technique?”  What could be more vacuous than copying the instructors movements but not understanding their application?  There are some pretty solid linguistic and historical reasons that Chinese martial arts often oppose the idea of “technique” and “substance” (or maybe “application.”)

Yet along with Spatz, Burkart defines technique as being something more.  Following Marcel Mauss, they see it as that aspect of ‘practice’ that is both repeatable and loaded with information about “application” and “substance.”  Technique always has an informational, and hence a cultural, component to it.  It is at the heart of teaching exercise.  Whereas “practice” and “application” is an individual moment in the stream of history that cannot be recovered, technique is what can be passed from generation to generation.  The realm of technique is therefore, by its very nature, epistemic.  It deals with the fundamental questions of both what a body is capable of doing in any situation, and the closely related issue of what a body should do.

Technique is not just a carrier of abstract movement or knowledge.  It is also both a product of, and a tool used in the creation of, culture.  Like all forms of cultural knowledge, its substance can be transformed during the act of transmission.  In fact, this plasticity is one of the great strengths of “techniques.”

As defined here technique is something that resides within the body.  These are skills that are understood not just on a mental, but also a physical, level.  While I might be able to watch a video of another martial artist doing Shii-cho on Youtube, I cannot rightly claim to “know,” or to have “experienced,” the technique until I can do it myself.

This brings us to our first paradox.  While “technique” implies an understanding capable of being conveyed from one generation to the next, at the present moment, most of it remains trapped within a given body.  My technique is not directly accessible by my students.  The great challenge facing all martial arts systems is how one, in a systematic and reproducible way, conveys embodied skills to the next group of students.  And how does any of this then relate to the actual application of these skills in the field?

Many cultures have turned to various types of “fight books” or manuals to simplify this process.  The vast majority of bodily skills are learned simply by osmosis, observation and repetition.  As Mauss would remind us, one learns to walk like an American teenager by being socialized, over a period of years, with other American teenagers.  Thus each and every one of us carries within our body a vast database of physical culture.  These are embodied techniques that tell us how to relate to our environment in ways that we are only dimly aware of.  Further, these subconscious ways of walking, running, sitting, swimming, eating, dancing and, yes, even fighting, can vary tremendously between locations and across time.

There is also the question of technique and culture within individual combat systems.  Here we move into the realm of basic assumptions that groups make about the nature of violence that one is likely to experience, proper modes of response (am I in a kickboxing school or a dueling salon?), proper tactics, the constraints of period clothing and available armor or weapons.

As Burkart points out, there is simply no way that this vast library of implicit embodied knowledge and cultural assumptions (that we all carry) could be fit into a single fight book.  As such manuals tend to focus explicitly on a limited number of assumptions about violence and the proper techniques to train students in so that they can respond to it.  Thus a symbolic language is adopted in which pictures or verbal descriptions allude to (or trigger the memory of) more complex understandings of embodied techniques, which result in students employing the optimal fighting practices (based on the concepts and cultural understanding embedded within the techniques.)

Diagram by Eric Burkart.

In an ideal case this leads to a triangular relationship like the one outlined by the author in the included diagram.  The symbol in the book trigger a specific conception of a technique that then leads to an optimal response, which is the same as what was described with the first symbol.

If this is all there was to it, then resurrecting a lost martial art would be relatively easy.  One would need to translate the text correctly, and understand both the aims of the author and the nature of the weapons used.  Certainly that can pose some challenges.  But at the end of the day we all have two arms, two legs, one head and there are only so many cuts a sword can make.  This set of assumptions is the root of the argument that one occasionally hears that all fighters and martial arts are essentially the same.  Ultimately there is only one set of “best” techniques and eventually they must rise to the top.

Yet in the lightsaber example above, a group of students can be given an identical set of weapons, goals and techniques (in this case Shii-cho), and we can sit back and watch them take these common ingredients in different directions.

The complicating factor is the small bubble on the upper left hand side of Burkart’s chart labeled “cultural technique.”  Indeed, if I have one suggestion about his article it is that this cycle should be much larger to more effectively convey to the reader just how important cultural history (rather than purely technical factors) is in the enactment of any fighting system.

“Cultural technique” can be seen in any number of areas.  How one walks, runs, dances, the games you play, depends in larger part on where (and when) you lived.  All of these basic motor skills will have an effect on how you approach more complex movement patterns.

The prior body of techniques you have learned will determine in large part what your specific body is capable of.  How strong are you?  How flexible are you?  How much time do you spend squatting on the ground in a resting position each day?  How many miles a day do you walk?  Again, all of these details effect your understanding of what a body is capable of doing.

Material factors must also be taken into account.  What sort of clothing are you wearing?  What type of fight do you anticipate being in, a boxing match or a judicial duel?  Seemingly identical techniques can play out very differently as your answers to these questions change.

We must also deal with the fact that combative situations are by their very nature dynamic.  One must take strategic stock not just of your own techniques, but of your opponent’s as well.  What type of reactions have you been conditioned to expect, either by your environment or your prior training?

Even the best and most detailed fight books are, by their nature, frustratingly limited in terms of the actual information content that they can convey about the martial cultures of their day.  Within their pages we see symbols denoting techniques.  Yet these guide books don’t really give us any clues as to what all of this actually looked like on the battlefield.  One can only venture a guess that practice is universally a much messier affair than theory.  Nor will we ever be able to access the vast, and ever shifting, body of tacit physical knowledge that most period readers would have approached the text with.

Ultimately Burkart concludes that it doesn’t matter whether one is looking at a brief and poetic Chinese manual, illustrated with a handful of line drawings, or an encyclopedic Renaissance masterpiece of the engravers art, in both cases the vast majority of the information that is necessary to understand the text is implicit in nature.  Given that all of this knowledge died with the generation that produced the book, it is basically impossible to fill in the remaining gaps in any “scientific” or “authentic” ways.  Claims to be following the methodology of experimental archeology notwithstanding, he concludes that there are simply too many variables and too little actual information (even in the best case scenarios) to make the exercise plausible.

One suspects that Burkarts conclusions will not be accepted without some debate.  So what he does next is particularly interesting.  In the concluding section of his paper the author turns away from HEMA, and looks instead to the controversies that gripped the literature on medieval music in the 1980s and 1990s.  Indeed, students of musical history have faced many of these same issues.

As in Martial Arts Studies, here we have a body of practitioner/scholars who bringing their personal experiences to the table. On the textual side, medieval manuscript collections exist with various sorts of musical notation systems.  We also have descriptions and artwork portraying musical instruments from the period.  In a few cases original instruments even exist in playable condition.  Thus it would appear possible to recreate the lost masterpieces of medieval European music.

Yet as the ensuing debates in that field conclusively demonstrated, these manuscripts also fail to convey the huge amounts of tacit knowledge that is actually necessary to make sense of the artifacts that have survived.  Musicologists were able to show that rather than reflecting “what really happened” most recreation of medieval music were actually guided by the (constantly shifting) musical tastes to the performer/scholars tasked with resurrecting the genre.  In short, those who followed this musical scene were eventually able to learn quite a bit about modern musical trends, but very little about the “authentic” nature of these songs.

Likewise students of lost fighting systems have no recourse but to turn to their own modern fighting culture(s) and background in contemporary martial arts when attempting to fill in the gaps when dealing with these older sources.  And when one considers how fast our modern fighting culture is changing, the essentialist claim that “everyone” will eventually come to the same “correct” answer rings hollow.

Eric Burkart (left) and Sixt Wetzler engaging in a frank exchange of ideas at the 2016 Martial Arts Studies Conference at the University of Cardiff.

Conclusion

In the field notes that introduced this essay I described four different performances of the same taolu or form. What made them unique was the fact that each martial artist approached the exercise from the perspective of a different set of “cultural techniques.”  Yet all of these individuals lived within 20 miles of each other.

Certainly globalization has led to an explosion in the variety of fighting systems that are available to modern consumers.  Yet one must also suspect that a world in which swordsmanship was a life or death skill (and a great way to make a living) would also have generated its own factions and competing schools.  Even if we could reconstruct the “original” interpretation of a specific classic author, would we derive actual insight from the exercise?  Would it reveal to us what the martial culture of the Middle Ages or Renaissance was “really” like?  Or would such a discovery obscure the more fundamental reality of cultural variety and change in every time period.

It is important to note that Burkart does not appear to be oppose HEMA, or the reconstruction of fight books, per se.  Indeed, one suspects that he rather enjoys swordsmanship.

Rather the author appears to be seeking a greater degree of humility in our discussions of these projects, and a frank acknowledgement that rather than recreating an “authentic” past we are in fact interpreting historical resources in light of our current martial culture(s).  The end result is the construction of something that is new and interesting in its own right, but not a resurrection of the past.

Compared to the HEMA movement, the ongoing efforts to reconstruct Chinese fighting systems found in Ming and Qing era manuals is still in its infancy.  Burkart’s thoughts come at an opportune time for those who are involved in the study of these time periods.  It may also be interesting to consider how the existence of a much richer “living martial arts tradition” in China may (or may not) cause us to approach some of these questions differently.

For students of the Seven Forms of Lightsaber Combat, Burkart suggests that the combative accents I noted are not likely to go away any time soon.  Indeed, the existence of a shared mythology notwithstanding, not everyone in this community shares the same body of “cultural technique.”  Still, having an opportunity to observe the impact of this variation within a new movement might reveal fresh insights into how embodied techniques both accommodate and resist change as new identities come into being.

oOo

If you enjoyed this review you might also want to read: Letting ‘Real’ Kung Fu Die: Paradoxes of the Traditional Chinese Martial Arts as Intangible Cultural Heritage

oOo

Wong You Kau and students in Hong Kong. Source: Reuters.

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

While we try to summarize the major stories over the last month, there is always a chance that we 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 a while since our last update so there is a lot to be covered in today’s post.  Let’s get to the news!

A “warrior monk” and family. Source: Houston Chronicle

News from all Over

If you are married to an American woman and have children, can you still be considered a “Shaolin Warrior monk?”  That is one of the questions that comes up in an article titled “A Warrior Monk Makes Houston Home,” published in the Houston Chronicle.  The entire piece is full of fascinating description and detail.  It even contains a frank discussion of the visa problems that Chinese martial arts teachers face, and a look back on the early origins of the touring Shaolin shows which are now relatively common.  There is lots of good stuff to think about in this article (particularly if you are part of the overseas Shaolin community) though, as always, I think that the most interesting thing is how the press chooses to talk about Chinese martial artists.  All in all this is a very nice description of an important aspect of the modern Kung Fu community.

Kung Fu training at the Shaolin Temple. Source: Global Times.

Of course Houston might not be the exotic destination of which you have been dreaming.  Perhaps you are looking for some of that spectacular Shaolin photography that we have all come to know and love?  No problem. The Global Times has you covered!

A Shaolin martial arts school housed in an abandoned railway station, London.  Source: The Londonist.

Or perhaps you are looking for a uniquely urban Shaolin experience.  In that case be sure to check out the Londonists profile of a Shaolin school that is housed in an abandoned railway station.  As I have mentioned before, I don’t normally post school profiles unless they include some additional item of interest.  There are just too many of them to sort through.  But this location certainly caught my eye.  It is also a fun read.  If there are readers in London with a camera, I would love to get a some pictures of this place!

Continuing on with the Shaolin theme.

Unless you have been living under a rock you are probably aware that Donald Trump has recently been sworn in as the President of the United States.  Controversy surrounding that fact inspired one of the larger conversations about the martial arts to take place in the public sphere over of the last few weeks.

This odd confluence of events all began when Meryl Streep, speaking at the Golden Globes, attempted to throw mixed martial arts (and apparently professional sports more generally) under the proverbial bus in an attempt to defend the cultural value of Hollywood films.  In case you missed it, her exact quote was as follows: ““Hollywood is crawling with outsiders and foreigners, and if we kick ’em all out, you’ll have nothing to watch but football and mixed martial arts, which are not the arts.”

This same quote can be found at the top of an editorial in the Washington Post titled “The Martial Arts are Arts.” It set out to restore the honor and reputation of the Asian martial arts, while arguing that these practices are “arts” in the true sense of the word.  Unfortunately the editorial (which apparently drew rather heavily from a 2007 law review article) quickly degenerated in to rehash of pretty much every myth about the martial arts imaginable.  The author started with Bodhidharma creating Shaolin kung fu, proceeded to disarmed Okinawans inventing karate to defeat the Samurai and then took an extended detour through Zen and Japanese archery.

One would hope that the general caliber of our discussion of martial arts history had improved since 2007.  If nothing else the editorial is a nice illustration of the fact that what is said about the martial arts generally tells us vastly more about our own Western values and fantasies than anything about their actual origins.  Streep’s off-hand comment probably deserved some push-back from the larger martial arts community, but we would have been better served by something a bit more grounded.

A shorter and more focused rebuttal was published in the Northwest Asian Weekly.  It pointed out that some of those immigrants and outsiders that Streep was attempting to defend were in fact central to the creation and the promotion of MMA and other martial arts.  Bruce Lee as the “godfather of MMA” was a central aspect their argument.

Chow Ka Southern Praying Mantis Master Li Tin-loy performs a set at a park in Hong Kong in 2016. Photo by the International Guoshu Association. Source: Time

“The Last Stand of the Southern Praying Mantis: Preserving Hong Kong’s Vanishing Martial Arts.”  This somewhat dire headline can be found at the top of an extensive article in Time magazine that all students of southern Chinese martial arts will want to check out.

As one might expect, it discusses Hing Chao’s efforts to digitally record various types of Hakka Kung Fu in an attempt to preserve them for posterity.  But there is a lot more going on in this article.  Readers will find interesting local history, a discussion of immigration’s adverse impact on some of the region’s martial arts, and clear evidence of how the “intangible cultural heritage” discourse is shaping the way that masters think about their art.  There were even some rumblings about a possible “Chinese martial studies center” in Hong Kong at some point in the future (which would be awesome)!  I was even surprised to find a link in the article that led me back to an early essay that I posted right here at Kung Fu Tea.  This piece is certainly worth checking out, and makes a fascinating counterpoint to the relatively low information discussion published in the Washington Post.

Readers should also note that there is a link to a short video on the lives of MMA fighters in Beijing embedded in this page that is also worth watching.  Finally, a shorter article focused only on the motion capture technology being used by the International Guoshu Association can be found here.

A Taijiquan class in Shanghai. Source: The Shanghai Daily.

The Shanghai Daily recently ran a brief feature on Taijiquan.  It discusses the health benefits of the art, but also spends a bit more time than one might expect on its history (while reviewing a couple of theories it ultimately favors the Chen Wangting school).  This is clearly an introductory piece for the paper’s English speaking audience, but its nicely executed.

Source: African Business Magazine

We have looked at a number of public and cultural diplomacy articles profiling the promotion of the Chinese martial arts in Africa.  There is certainly some of that in the current piece, titled “Africans take on China’s entertainment market.”  But what I really liked about this article (published in African Business) was that it illustrated a bilateral exchange of art, culture and dance and noted the impact that Africans are having on Chinese markets.  Theoretically this is important as there is a debate in the public diplomacy literature as to who the relevant player are in these sorts of exchanges.  Should we only be looking at more or less official government attempts to sway public perception, or is “public diplomacy” something that happens much more effectively when it is carried about by NGOs and private citizens?  What is the value of cultural exchange directly between “the people?”  This article is interesting as it begins to move into some of that territory.

Mixed Martial Artist Angela Lee. Source :http://news.asiaone.com

Our next article provides a glimpse into the different ways that MMA might be evolving in China (and Asia more generally) than what we have previously seen with the UFC in the West.  According to Victor Cui it is all a matter of “cultural values.”  One suspects that there quite a bit more to the UFC’s failure to penetrate the Chinese media markets than that.  But it is a valuable reminder of the power of social expectations to shape any newly emerging hand combat institutions.

Ask One Championship chief executive officer Victor Cui how his mixed martial arts (MMA) organization maintains its superiority in Asia over rivals Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC).

His answer is simple: Just look at the fighters’ post-match conduct.

Last month, after beating Ronda Rousey, UFC bantamweight champion Amanda Nunes infamously said: “F*** Ronda Rousey. Now she is going to retire and go do movies.”

In contrast, Cui pointed to how Mei Yamaguchi responded after losing to Angela Lee in the atomweight title bout last May as the way One Championships sets itself apart.

“First thing they do after going to war with each other over five rounds – they hug. Mei walked up to Angela and said, ‘You’re going to be a great champion’,” said Cui in a conference call with local and international media.

“Respect, loyalty, humility and dedication – these are values Asian fans want to see in their heroes.

“In the west, the sport is about blood, guts, machismo and disrespecting your opponent. In Asia, we are completely opposite.

China’s elite bodyguards are struggling to find enough rich people to protect. Many Wushu academies have, for years, produced students who go on to become soldiers, police officers and, more recently, private security personal.  But, as this article in Time magazine notes, a slowing economy and the accelerating “anti-corruption campaigns” is putting the breaks on this once fast growing industry.  This may be a potentially important observation for anyone interested in China’s broader “martial culture.”

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

Have you been wondering how Donnie Yen’s performance in Rogue One was received in China? This is, after all, one of the few markets in which the Star Wars franchise has faced substantial headwinds in recent years.  When The Force Awakens came out Chinese viewers were notably underwhelmed, but that film still managed to take in $53 million USD on its opening weekend.

Ticket sales number are in (free of the inflation that has plagued these measures in past years), and things are looking ok.  According to the LA Times:

“Rogue One: A Star Wars Story” topped the charts last week, raking in $30.6 million in its first three days, according to consulting firm Artisan Gateway.

Lucasfilm’s epic adventure film, which stars Felicity Jones and Diego Luna alongside Chinese actors Donnie Yen and Jiang Wen, received high praise from Chinese moviegoers: It garnered 7.5 out of 10 on the fan rating site Douban.

Reviewers applauded the performances and depictions of their fellow countrymen.”

Of course, there are different ways of reading those same numbers.  While Rogue One topped the box-office, overall it was still a slow weekend.  Other news outlets looked at the same numbers and came to the conclusion that 1) the movie fell well short of Hollywood’s expectations and 2) favorable reviews notwithstanding, Chinese viewers could not really connect with Donnie Yen’s character, and they certainly didn’t care about the rest of the ill-fated crew.  So maybe Star Wars is still in for a bumpy ride in China.  Then again, China’s entire movie industry seems to be entering a period of contraction and readjustment.  In some ways its hard to evaluate exactly what these numbers mean in the current environment.

Martial Arts Studies

Journals:

Issue 3 of Martial Arts Studies is now available, including seven original research articles and four reviews of recent books.  Read it for free here.  Wondering where to start?  You can find a quick summary of each of the articles in the opening editorial.  Or, if you are fan of the Ip Man movies, why not just skip right to Wayne Wong treatment of “authenticity” and “combativity” in Donnie Yen’s performance?  His paper is one of the best things written on the media image of Wing Chun to date.  Alternatively, those following the ongoing debate on how best to define the martial arts will probably want to check out Paul Bowman’s paper, “The Definition of Martial Arts Studies.”

Acta Periodica Duellatorum (a journal dedicated to the scholarly study of the Historic European Martial Arts) also has a new issue out, which includes must read articles by Eric Burkart and Sixt Wetzler.  They will be of interest to all students of martial arts studies.  Be sure to take a look at both!

Eric Burkart (left) and Sixt Wetzler engaging in a frank exchange of ideas at the 2016 Martial Arts Studies Conference at the University of Cardiff.

Conferences and Other Research:

You will need to register soon to qualify for the early bird discount for the 3^rd Annual 2017 Martial Arts Studies Conference at Cardiff University.  Peter Lorge, Meaghan Morris, and Sixt Wetlzer, among others, have already been confirmed as speakers.  If you are interested in presenting your own research please see our Call for Papers.

Readers may also be interested in an upcoming conference sponsored by the International Martial Arts and Combat Sports Scientific Society in Osaka, Japan.  There is still some time to plan for this one.  The conference is scheduled for September 6^th-8^th, and abstracts need to be submitted between May 20^th and June 20^th.

Do you teach a self-defense class?  If so Mario Staller and Swen Körner (German Sports University of Cologne) are carrying out research into self-defense coaching and they need your help conducting a scientific survey.  The survey does not take long to complete and your cooperation would be very much appreciated.  Feel free to pass the link along.

New Books:

Sara Delamont, Neil Stephens, Claudio Campos book, Embodying Brazil: An ethnography of diasporic capoeira (Routledge. 244 Pages. $147 HC, $57 Kindle) has just been released and is now shipping from the publisher.  Obviously students of capoeira will be interested in this volume, but the authors have addressed a number of subjects of much broader concern throughout the martial arts studies literature.  Here is the publisher’s abstract:

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 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.

Paul Bowman’s most recent book Mythologies of Martial Arts (Rowman and Littlefield, 2016, $39.95 paperback) is also shipping.  This one seems destined to become a standard theoretical guidepost for the field.

What do martial arts signify today? What do they mean for East-West cross cultural exchanges? How does the representation of martial arts in popular culture impact on the wide world? What is authentic practice? What does it all mean?

From Kung Fu to Jiujitsu and from Bruce Lee to The Karate Kid, Mythologies of Martial Arts explores the key myths and ideologies in martial arts in contemporary popular culture. The book combines the author’s practical, professional and academic experience of martial arts to offer new insights into this complex, contradictory world. Inspired by the work of Roland Barthes in Mythologies, the book focusses on the signs, signifiers and practices of martial arts globally. Bringing together cultural studies, film studies, media studies, postcolonial studies with the emerging field of martial arts studies the book explores the broader significance of martial arts in global culture. Using an accessible yet theoretically sophisticated style the book is ideal for students, scholars and anyone interested in any type of martial art.

Lastly, Udo Moenig’s volume Taekwondo: From a Martial Art to a Martial Sport (Routledge, 2016, $54 Paperback) has been released in a new paperback edition.  This is great news.  I quite enjoyed this work and hopefully it will find a broader audience in paperback.

This book provides a comprehensive overview of the historical, political, and technical evolution of taekwondo. Many of the supposedly ‘traditional’ and ‘ancient’ Korean cultural elements attached to taekwondo are, in fact, remnants of East Asia’s modernization drive, and largely inherited from the Japanese martial arts. The current historical portrayal has created an obstacle to a clear understanding of the history of taekwondo, and presents problems and contradictions in philosophy and training methodology. Using rich empirical data, including interviews with leading figures in the field, this book brings together martial arts philosophy with an analysis of the technical aspects and the development of taekwondo, and provides a detailed comparison of karate and taekwondo techniques. It debunks nationalistic mythology surrounding taekwondo to provide a reinterpretation of taekwondo’s evolution.

Chinese tea set. Source: Wikimedia.

Kung Fu Tea on Facebook

A lot has happened on the Kung Fu Tea Facebook group over the last month.  We have talked about Hong Kong Cinema, the Southern Long Pole and pedagogy in Krav Maga training. Joining the Facebook group is also a great way of keeping up with everything that is happening here at Kung Fu Tea.

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

“Chinese Stage Shows.” Cigarette Card. Source: Digital Collections of the NY Public Library.

Introduction

I would like to preface the following research note by dedicating it to any of my readers who enjoy a good Kung Fu comedy.  If you are a fan of Jackie Chan’s work, or maybe Kung Fu Hustle, what follows will be especially appreciated.  But for any historically minded reader, the primary source introduced below offers a wealth of data on the world and social status of the southern Chinese martial arts during the second half of the 19^th century.

Modern students often entertain highly romanticized notions in which all 19^th century Chinese individuals practiced Kung Fu, or held its masters in high esteem.  Yet as this research note reminds us, among the better elements of Chinese society, the martial arts struggled for social recognition.  Additionally this document offers a fascinating window into how these practices were understood and discussed by Western observers during this transformational period.

A Kung Fu Farce

In 1869 the Duke of Edinburgh (Prince Alfred Ernest Albert) visited Hong Kong as part of his larger naval tour of the Pacific.  The event generated considerable public interest and everything that goes along with it.  Press accounts, diaries, photographs and memorial books all ensure that the memory of his visit lives on.

Given the pomp and formality that accompanied a 19^th century royal visit, one of the more surreal moments of the Duke’s stay must have been his November 12^th visit to the Tung Hing Theater.  Before moving on to the night’s entertainment, a word about the venue may be in order.  Indeed, the Tung Hing Theater itself is an important part of this story.

Wing Chun students have always been interested in the history (real or imagined) of Southern China’s traveling “Red Boat Opera” companies.  As I have explained elsewhere, these traveling troops (which really only appeared on the scene in the 1870s), used specialized, purpose built, river barges to travel from village to village and stage Cantonese operas during the festival season.  A great many of the plays that were popular in the Pearl River Delta region featured the martial arts.  As such, certain types of opera performers needed to be competent (or at least convincing) martial artists themselves.

Why do Red Boats no longer ply the waters of Southern China?  The answer to that question has less to do with the supposedly revolutionary nature of these traveling companies than the basic economics of the opera business.  Simply put, the Red Boats were a transitional phase.  They came into being at a time when the local opera guild was making enough money to invest in specialized equipment to increase their efficiency (and hence the number of shows that could be staged in a season), but had yet to acquire enough capital to build permanent theaters in the area’s cities and leading towns.  Once that level of wealth was achieved between the 1910s and 1930s permanent theaters were built and the Red Boats began to vanish.  Ironically it was the changing nature, and growing profit margins, of the opera industry itself that defeated one of the most romantic images to arise from the Southern martial arts.

The Tung Hing Theater (circa 1870) is building “R” on the far right. Source: http://gwulo.com

In many ways the Tung Hing Theater was ahead of its time.  Finished in 1867 it was the first enclosed, dedicated, modern opera theater built in Hong Kong.  By modern standards the three story building was not large.  The building was also one of the first in the city to show films, which were initially screened as a second act following the conclusion of more traditional operas.  Given the fierce competition of various opera companies to produce ever more exciting spectacles (I once saw photos of an Opera costume from the period totally covered in illuminated electric lightbulbs), one wonders whether the initial introduction of film should be viewed as a continuation of an ongoing trend.  The once venerable theater closed its doors in 1910, and the building itself was latter demolished to make way for tenement housing.

During his 1869 visit the Duke viewed two operas.  The first was a historical drama, a genre of performance that was always popular with crowds.  The second opera, however, was an irreverent farce titled “A-lan’s Pig.”  Its main themes were (in no particular order) compulsive gambling, stupidity, domestic abuse and marketplace martial arts instruction (which occurs in the context of the previously mentioned unhappy marriage).

Despite this unlikely mix of subjects, the performance itself was by all accounts incredibly funny.  A historically known colonial officer who had acquired a high degree of fluency in Cantonese by the name of Alfred Lister (who would later serve as Hong Kong’s Treasurer) was so taken by the performance that he wrote two pieces on it.  The first of these was included in a book that was published to memorialize the royal visit.  It is worth checking out for both a quick summary of the play and feel of how it was staged on that particular night.

That was not the end of Lister’s interest in the matter.  Being something of a bibliophile and collector of “street literature,” he immediately purchased a cheaply printed copy of what he had assumed would be the opera’s script.  Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that what he was translating was not like any script he had seen before.

Lister was surprised, and more than a little disappointed, to realize that many of the funniest moments of the opera were improvised on a nightly basis.  The script itself was basically a skeletal telling of the story with a few notations as to who would speak what lines.  There was no punctuation in the document and little in the way of stage direction.  There were, however, occasional prompts instructing the actors to “insert local jokes here.”  What Lister had probably found was a libretto intended for local amateur performers who enjoyed staging shows for their immediate family and friends.  Indeed, it would seem unlikely that seasoned and professional performers (who had been in training since childhood) would be turning to local book vendors for their scripts.

Lister decided that this document would be of interest to Western audiences, especially given its connection to the Duke’s high profile visit.  Yet it was clear to him that anyone unfamiliar with Cantonese popular culture would be baffled by the nature of this sort of production and humor.  And so, firmly grasping the rather modern notion that “the only reliable reading of text is a misreading” (Eco, 60), the author set about turning his short libretto into a “proper” western script with all of the accompanying apparatus and stage direction that he could muster.

Nor was this choice uninformed.  Lister knew that he would be criticized for the transformative nature of his translation as it resulted in a play that no longer “sounded Chinese.” In fact, he spent the first page of his resulting article in the China Review anticipating such criticisms and explaining his own thoughts on the proper way to culturally translate highly idiomatic popular culture.  Current readers should be aware that Lister’s “literally translations” are usually nothing of the sort.

Before any sort of translation was possible a basic stock of cultural facts needed to be conveyed to Western readers.  Chief among these was the nature of “Chinese boxing” (Lister’s preferred term for the martial arts in this article).  Interestingly, his rather condescending description of marketplace boxers closely matches the critiques of such individuals offered by more elite elements of Chinese society.

“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 speciality 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!”

More information on the public perception of martial artists can be gained from the reconstructed dialogue of the play itself.  Consider the ways in which boxing is portrayed in a scene where A-lan (the show’s erstwhile protagonist) manages to get some lessons from a local gambler so that he can better fend off his wife’s attacks.

“A-lan.  Oh no, no, no!  I don’t want any money, I don’t indeed.  But just put me up to a little boxing, do now.

First G. Very well.  Stand like this.

(They spar, A-lan is knocked down.)

A-lan.  What do you call that posture?

First G.  Its name is “Speedy promotion.”

Now try this.

(Teaches him a new attitude, and again knocks him down.)

A-lan. What is that called?

First G. It is called “Kwan Ping presenting the seal.”

A-lan. Are there any more?

First G. Oh yes, “The three hands,” or this, “the bright arrow.”

(Teaches him various postures, then makes an attack upon him as he supposes his wife will, and allows A-lan to knock him down several times.)

Good, good! Well, those are quite enough for you to beat your wife. (Exit.)

A-lan. Very many thanks. Good-bye, good-bye.  I’ll be off home, and give my wife a drubbing.

 

(sings) I’ll go back home to find my wife,

And thrash her soundly on my life!”

Readers should rest assured that when A-lan returns home he discovers that his wife is a far more competent boxer than he. The discussion of the social status of both tofu shops and Buddhist monks is also enlightening, especially given the reverence that these images elicit in the Wing Chun creation myth.  Even the idea of spending enough money “to start a business” on your Kung Fu instruction turns out to have been something of pun in local staged comedies.

Still, from a more theoretical perspective there are a few things to note.  The discussion of the martial arts advanced in this text proceeds on three distinct levels.  The nature of this text itself (an opera libretto) reminds us that the phenomenon of being surrounded by media driven images of the martial arts is not new.  It seems likely that most individuals in a city like Hong Kong probably encountered discussions of the martial arts on the theatrical stage more commonly than anywhere else.

Yet to make sense of the social position of the martial arts for his readers, Lister was forced to bring in a second set of images.  He portrayed the martial arts as a type of activity that could be physically found in busy marketplaces.  To drive this point home he further explained the nature of itinerant boxing teachers by associating them with the patent medicine trade, a relationship that a number of Chinese language sources confirm.

And what about the anonymous author of “A-lan’s Pig?”  He drew on another well attested set of relationships to note the traditional relationship between Chinese boxers and gambling circles.  Indeed, both ethnographic accounts, and English language press reports, reinforced this connection in the public imagination.

Lister does not appear to have had any knowledge of what was going on in the more elite levels of the Chinese martial arts community.  For instance, his discussion does not touch on the sort of training used by individuals preparing for the military examination, or the quickly growing stature of Choy Li Fut around the Pearl River Delta.  Still, it is fascinating that as an outsider with no particular interest in the martial arts he managed to reproduce an image of Chinese boxing that most of Hong Kong’s residents, who did practice (and were not particularly sympathetic to) the martial arts, would likely have found quite familiar.

The marketplace has always been an important nexus for the exchange of information.  It seems that its theaters, performers, book stalls and itinerant teachers spread word of the Chinese martial arts earlier and further than most historical discussions have previously guessed.

I am pretty sure that this is what A-lan’s wife looked like. YMMV.

The China Review, or notes & queries on the Far East

Vol. 1 Number 1 (1872), pp. 26-29, 80-81.

By A. LISTER,H.M.C.S. (Alfred Lister)

A CHINESE FARCE.

Introduction

The translation given below is that of the groundwork of the Chinese Farce performed at the Tung Hing Theatre on Nov. 12, 1869, before H. R. E. the Duke of Edinburgh.  I call it groundwork, because I found, to my very great disappointment, that much of the best fun of the piece was not contained at all in the small “acting edition” (almost as badly printed and got up as if it had cost sixpence at Lacy’s in the Strand) which I purchased for a few cash in Queen’s Road.  In fact, it would seem that the book of a Chinese play bears much the same relation to the play itself that very meagre libretto does to an Opera, and the actors “write up” their parts, and introduce “local jokes” as occasion may demand.  In the printed play before me, also, there is no list of dramatis personae, no stage directions whatever, no orders as to costumes or properties, no entrances or exits, and no punctuation.  The whole reads on in one long sentence from beginning to end, even the names of the persons who speak not being distinguished in any way from the rest.  Figure to yourself, dear reader, a passage of Shakespeare printed like this:–“Falstaff dost thou hear me hal prince ay and mark thee too jack Falstaff do so for it is worth the listening to these nine in buckram that I told thee of prince so two more already Falstaff their points being broken points down fell their hose Falstaff began to give me ground but I followed me close came in foot and hand with a thought seven of the eleven I paid prince o monstrous, etc.”

I have therefore literally translated the dialogue, the only departures from literality being caused once or twice by the manufacture of rhymes in the parts that are sung.  The stage-directions however are necessarily an interpolation, and in them I have endeavoured to restore the spirit of the play as I saw it.

Persons who cannot believe anything to be a translation unless it reads like the speeches of Indians in Cooper’s Novels, or the tall talk of imaginary Romans in Mr. Whyte Melville’s ‘Gladiators,’ or the very astounding English which scholars who translate Chinese think it incumbent upon themselves to write, will be sure to fall foul of at least two points in this attempt at a vernacular rendering of a vernacular play.  One is that the respectable Mr. A-lan calls his wife “my dear,” and the other, that they go off singing “fol-lol.” Now in stern truth, A-lan says “my wife” and says it again and again, but as in English ‘my wife’ is not a common style of address when speaking to the partner of one’s joys, and as “my dear” is, and as “my dear” represents the idea perfectly, that is, the common title by which a husband addresses his wife, I have used it, and people who think it “doesn’t sound Chinese” must perforce be content with this explanation.  Also, as to the “fol-lol” with which the last duet concludes, in serious sober fact the husband and wife leave the stage with a prolonged and triumphant Ah—ah—ah—ah—ah: a sort of cadenza effect, and marked in the book as an ad lib passage, to be sustained in “linked sweetness long drawn out” to any number of musical flourishes that may seem good to the performers.  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 take my stand on fol-lol, I stake my reputation on fol-lol!

The pig is represented by a small piece of wood, about the size of a brick, trailed at the end of a string, the scenery is nil, and the furniture of the stage a table and a chair or two, which represents either the inside or outside of a house, a street or a doorpost, as occasion may require.  The jokes turn in the first place on the inveterate gambling of a Chinese “ne’er do well,” and the following explanation had better be given here, rather than be added in the shape of notes.  When A-lan speaks of having “bought a figure” he is alluding to the game of Fan-tan, in which money is staked on either side of a square board, numbered from 1 to 4, and the player wins or loses according as one, two, three or four counters are left of a handful taken at random and counted away by fours.  “The Black Tortoise drew his head” is a cant phrase signifying an adverse run of luck.  When A-lan is taking his oath, he says, “lost lights,” instead of “three lights,” because his head is full of his gambling loses, and he cannot think of anything else.

“Bean curd” is the white Blanc-mange-like mass which may be often seen hawked about the streets, a preparation of bean flour which looks nicer than it tastes.  As this is almost invariably sold by hawkers, a shop to supply it would be the very humblest kind of establishment, as may be judged from the small amount of capital required to start the business.  “Cash” (English readers may be informed) are bronze coins the size of farthings, with a hole in the centre to string them together; ten are nominally worth a halfpenny.  “Tortoise-egg” is a common abusive epithet.  A faithful translator ought to replace it by some equivalent in English Billingsgate, but it is left untranslated (for such rendering cannot be called “translation”) for the lovers of versions that “sound like Chinese.”

The finale of the play is pointed with as elaborate satire on Buddhist priests.  Weak and simple as A-lan is, he is deep enough to impose on the Monk, who cuts even a more ridiculous figure than the henpecked husband.  Nor is this peculiar to this one play; in Chinese novels and dramas the holy brotherhoods are, as a general rule, the butts for unceasing scorn and ridicule.  In a few cases indeed they figure as hospitable hosts (as they are), judicious friends, and wise counselors; but more often either as defeated villains, detestable panders, or else the dupes of dupes and the fooled of fools.  It is remarkable that there is hardly an expression of contempt for Friars and Monks to be found in English books of the middle ages that may not be found almost verbatim in Chinese.  A-lan’s “Shaven Monk!” is an example.  The priest’s soliloquy too is a cutting satire against himself.  Buddhists are under vows to abstain from flesh, and from the flesh; their reputed leaning towards both is a stranding and inexhaustible joke as well as reproach.  It is a popular belief that a Buddhist will eat dog rather than nothing, witness the common epithet “Dog eating Monk.”  Our hunchbacked friend states that “on the first and the fifteenth” (the great fast-days of the month) he “stewed a young dog.” At the sight of A-lan’s wife his vows are quickly forgotten, and the only wonder is that the soi-disant injured husband does not pursue him with a common cry—“Hungry demon after beauty,” often hooted at Priests in the streets of Canton.

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 speciality 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!

The play is so badly printed that one of the jokes has had to be omitted as illegible and unintelligible, and the invocation with which the Buddhist comes on is (from the same cause) a mere shot at the intention of three undecipherable characters which not improbably mean something else.

A-LAN’S PIG.

Dramatis Personae.

Ho A-lan, an idle shiftless fellow, out of work, given to gambling, and a great fool.

His Wife.

First Gambler.

Second Gambler.

A Hunchbacked Buddhist Priest.

The Stage is empty except for a table and a chair.

__

Music. Enter the Wife, carrying a rattan.  She sits down. 

Wife. (sings)

Alas! Alas! We’re very poor,
We scarce can get along!

My name is Wong and I married Ho A-lan.  To-day I gave him a few yards of cloth which I had woven, to take and sell in the market.  What a time he is coming back!  What a fidget he keeps me in!

(Sings)

I’ll go home now and wait,
‘Tis not far off this spot,
To see if that A-lan
Is coming back or not.

(Exit.)

Enter A-lan, looking very disreputable.

A-lan (sings)

I’m a most unhappy beggar,
I’m out of luck at play,
Ten times I’ve bought a figure,
Nine times I’ve lost to-day!
I staked on one and two,
There turned up three and four;
I thought it must be “right,”
But “left” came up before;
The luck twice changed about,
And so I’m quite cleaned out,
And not a copper have I left (unless
The buttons on my coat) myself to bless!

I say! I’m Mr. Ho A-lan.  Now I come to think of it, my wife gave me some yards of cloth to sell in the market.  I sold ‘em for a thousand ccash, and I’ve lost every rap!  How on earth am I to go home to her?  Ai! Don’t mention it! Beat me if I go home?  I should think she would!  Can’t help it though.  Must go!

(Going.)

(Sings) Home I run to find my dame.
            I shall catch it all the same!

Here we are, this is my house.  Here wife, open the door I say!

Enter the Wife.

Wife. Oh! You’ve come back, have you?

A-lan.  Yes, I’ve come back.

Wife. Have you sold that cloth yet?

A-lan. Yes, I’ve sold it.

Wife. Well-the cash?

A-lan. Lost ‘em all!

Wife.  What have you been playing at to lose them?

(Hitting him on the knuckles, as, during the rest of the conversation, she continues to do with each question.)

A-lan.  Played at Fan-tan.

Wife.  What did you stake on?

A-lan. I’ll tell you, my dear.  I began with 1, and then I went on to 2 and 3.  What do you think I should have staked on my dear?

Wife.  On 4 of course!

A-lan.  My dear!  Let me explain to you.  I had just hedged on 3 and 4, but the confounded tortoise-egg, the croupier, had triplicate counters that could reckon either as one, two or three, and so he could up four whenever he liked.  And that was how I staked and staked, but still the black tortoise pulled his head, and I lost every rap!

Wife. Get along with you! You’ve lost your poor old woman’s money; you wait till I whop you, won’t I just!

(Sings)

Confound your, Sir, you’re cool indeed
To come and tell me what you’ve lost!
A thrashing sound is what you need,
I’ll kill you, that please me most.

(Beating him)

A-lan. Oh! Wife! Oh! I Say!

(Sings)

My Dear, don’t thump me so;
For if you break my head,
No other man, you know,
Will bury you when you are dead.

Oh! Wife! I say! Stop! I won’t do it again.  This time I really will give it up.  I’m thinking of opening a shop.

Wife. You open a shop!  What shop?

A-lan. A pawn-shop.

Wife. Idiot! You haven’t money enough to buy paper for the pawn-tickets!

A-lan. You don’t say so?  Then I’ll set up a big trading Junk, will that do?

Wife. No it won’t. You haven’t a cent to even buy a rope!

A-lan. Deary me, no!  Well, then, I’ll open a bean-curd shop.

Wife.  No capital for that either!

A-lan. No? Well, lets think it over, you and me.  I have it!  We have got a pig. We can sell him for eighteen hundred cash.  That’ll be enough to open a bean-curd shop me dear?

Wife. Oh! You’re after your poor wife’s pig, are you!  Well, you’ll have to swear a solemn oath not to gamble away the money, d’ye hear?

A-lan.  Well I never! Man and wife want some money, and one’s got to swear!  All right, here goes; I have’nt got any sacred paper or candles though.—

“Great Heaven grant me fortune! Heaven and Earth and Illustrious Spirits! Sun and Moon, your lost lights.”

Wife. Stupid! What are you talking about? “Lost” lights! Say, “Sun, Moon and Stars, you three lights.”

A-lan. All right! “Sun, moon and Stars, you three Lights, if A-lan goes gambling, I pray you to do death the third daughter of my mother-in-law!”

Wife. (Beating him.) What? What? You have said you wish me dead! That won’t do.  Begin over again, say it again!

A-lan. Very good.  Say it again it is—

“Heaven and Earth, etc., if A-lan goes gambling may there be no toes growing on his heels, and no navel in the middle of his back; may corns grow on the top of his skull, and a boil as big as your head on the end of his hair!”  There, how do you like that, my dear?

Wife. Won’t do.  Say it properly.

A-lan. Oh! You want it again do you? Well then, “If A-lan goes gambling, may he have never a coffin when he’s dead.” Is that right?

Wife. That’s right, that’ll do.

A-lan.  Produce the animal!  Ugh! Ugh! (Grunts to encourage the Pig.)

Wife.  Here’s the Pig, catch hold and go sell him.  Now, look here; you may take a thousand cash, but don’t go so low as eight hundred.

A-lan.  I see.  If I can get eight hundred I’m to sell him, but not if I can get a thousand.

Wife. No! A thousand you may, eight hundred you’d better not.

A-lan, Ah, well.  More less, I’ll take what I can get, and then come back here, that’s the way.  Go in and wait for me till I come back.

(Exit wife.)

(Sings) Through the Market I will roam,
To sell my pig, and then go home.

Buy a Pig! Pig for sale! Buy a pig!

(Exit with the pig, bawling like a hawker.)

Enter 1^st Gambler and 2^nd Gambler.

First G. (Sings)

            About the street my pal and I
Prowl still to fleece the passers-by.

I say, old chap.

Second G. What?

First G. Look here.  We two have been quite cleaned out.  We must hit some plan to get three or four taels and try our luck again, what do you say?

Second G.  Good. Let’s lay our heads together, that’s the way.  I think we ought to go into the public places, and if we see anybody about, we can, perhaps, do him out of a tael or two.  Will that so, think you?

First G.  Excellently.  Off we go.

(Duet) Let’s roam about the streets to see
What pigeon we can pluck;
And having got his cash, once more
We’ll try our little luck.

Enter A-lan, Bawling.

A-lan. Pig for sale! Pig for sale!

First G. I say, what luck! There’s that tortoise-egg, A-lan, hawking a pig.  I must go and ask him what he wants for it.

Second G. Go on, you’d  better go first.

First G. Wait for me then. (To A-lan)

Hullo A-lan, is that you hawking the pig?

What do you want for him?

A-lan.  My pig is to be sold for a thousand cash.

First G. All right.  I’ll give you a thousand  for him.

A-lan.  No. I’ve made a mistake, I can’t take it, I mustn’t take it.  Wait till I think a minute, and then I’ll tell you. (Aside.)

Lets see, my wife said I was to take a thousand cash if I could get it.  Well, but isn’t eight hundred more than a thousand?  Lets see, this finger stands for a thousand.  Well then, these fingers stand for eight hundred.  What an ass I am, I must have eight hundred, of course.  (To the Gamblers.) I say, you fellows, I must have eight hundred cash for the pig.

First G. Eight hundred it is then.  My dear brother, catch hold of the pig.

Second G. I’ll go and find a piece of grass to string the cash on.

(Exit, with the pig.)

Chinese Opera performer in California during the 1920s, carrying a Qiankun Dao. Source: San Francisco Performing Arts Library and Museum. Thanks to Scott Phillips for sharing this photo with me.

A-lan.  Here! Hullo! Stop! Come back you! You haven’t paid the money, what are bolting like that for?

First G. I’ll soon tell you what he’s bolting like that for.  In April of last year, in the Shing-wong Temple, you borrowed eight hundred cash of me.  Principal and interest together come to over a thousand by this time, and have you the impudence to as for money?  Why, you tortoise-egg, I could stab you!

(Menacing him with a knife.)

A-lan.  Oh no, no, no!  I don’t want any money, I don’t indeed.  But just pit me up to a little boxing, do now.

First G. Very well.  Stand like this.

(They spar, A-lan is knocked down.)

A-lan.  What do you call that posture?

First G.  Its name is “Speedy promotion.”

Now try this.

(Teaches him a new attitude, and again knocks him down.)

A-lan. What is that called?

First G. It is called “Kwan Ping presenting the seal.”

A-lan. Are there any more?

First G. Oh yes, “The three hands,” or this, “the bright arrow.”

(Teaches him various postures, then makes an attack upon him as he supposes his wife will, and allows A-lan to knock him down several times.)

Good, good! Well, those are quite enough for you to beat your wife. (Exit.)

A-lan. Very many thanks. Good-bye, good-bye.  I’ll be off home, and give my wife a drubbing.

(sings) I’ll go back home to find my wife,
            And thrash her soundly on my life!

Wife! Wife! Open the door!

Enter the Wife.

Wife. Oh, you’ve come back, have you?

A-lan. I’ve come back.

Wife. Have you sold the pig?

A-lan. Sold him.

Wife. Where’s the money?

A-lan. Spent it learning to box.

Wife. What on earth do you want to learn to box for?

A-lan. To larrup you, female dog that you are!

Wife. Oh! You’ve been learning to box, and come back to beat me, have you? Well, just try it on, that’s all.

A-lan. Come on! (they fight.) Wait till I give it to you, this is the way. (He tries the methods he has been taught.) That’s it! No, it isn’t, neither.  Why, I’ve tried them all! (Wife knocks him down.)

Wife. There, Now I’ll just tie you up to the door-post here, and give you your deserts by-and-bye.  There, that’ll do.  Now I’m going to have some supper, and when I’ve finished I’ll come and unloose you.

(Exit, having first thrown a petticoat over A-lan’s head and tied him up to the door post.)

Enter the Hunchback Priest.

Priest. Saint Lo-pak! Saint Lo-pak! On the first day of this month, and on the fifteenth, I stewed a young dog.  Ah, ha! I’m a great hand at beef and pork, I am.  And I can carve fish too—(starts at seeing A-lan.) What sort of thing is this? O say you, are you a man or a demon?

A-lan. I’m a man.  Just let me loose and I’ll tell you all about it.

Priest. Oh, very well. Wait till I untie you. (Looses him).  Why, I declare it’s A-lan!

A-lan. Ugh! (Aside.) Ah, ha! Shaven priest! Shaven priest!

Priest. What were you groveling like a crab there for?

A-lan. Can’t say, mustn’t tell you.  Look here, I can cure hunchbacks, I can.

Priest. You can? What’ll you charge for curing mine?

A-lan. Eight hundred cash and eight packs of rice.

Priest. Well now, I haven’t got any money, but I’ll tell you what—here is a subscription list for buying oil for our Monastery lamps, I’ll give you that, if you like, and you can go and collect the subscriptions.  There are several names down. (Reads)

Mr. Ragamuffin, Mr. Lightfingers, Mr. Never-give-a-faggot-

A-lan. Come along! Let me tie you up. You wait patiently here, and a fairy will come presently.

(Ties him up as he himself had been, and exit, muttering.)

Enter the Wife

Wife. Ah, ha! I’ve had a good supper.  Oh, I’ll let you loose fast enough.

(Beats the priest and then unlooses him.  He stares wildly about.)

Priest. Ha! This is indeed a fair damsel descended from the skies.  I must really break my vows!

(He rushes at her to embrace her, she runs away.  Enter A-lan from behind with a long bamboo.)

A-lan. Ah! Vile tortoise-egg! Would you violate my wife’s rouge and powder? Would you though? (Beating him.) Oh, I’ll give it [to] you, take that—and that (drives him out.) What! Vile child of a female dog, would you marry a Buddhist? (To his wife.)

Wife. What did you tie him up here for, A-lan?

A-lan. I’ll explain to you, my dear. By tying up the monk I’ve done him out of no end of money, quite enough to open a shop.

(shews the subscription book.)

Wife. Good good, indeed!

 

A-lan, Wife } Duet-

Now man and wife together we
At home intend to stop,
For we’ve got cash and we’ve got rice
Enough to open shop.
Fol, lol, etc.

(Exeunt.)

Source: Adam Jones. Creative Commons License.

“Taoism in Bits.” A guest post by Paul Bowman [1]

***Xīnnián hǎo.  We are fortunate to have a special guest post this week in honor of the Chinese New Year.  This essay, by Prof. Paul Bowman, will help us to think more systematically about the process by which elements of Chinese culture (specifically Daoism and the practice of the martial arts) have entered Western culture and the sorts of transformations that they have been subject to.  Obviously this is a topic of great importance to the sorts of conversations that we have here at Kung Fu Tea. Jínián jíxiáng!***

A Bit of Orientation

I am not an expert on Chinese thought, culture or philosophy. I am not really an expert on anything. At best I am a scholar of cultural studies, popular culture and ideology with a lifelong interest in martial arts. In fact, everything I have learned about Chinese thought, culture or philosophy I have learned through and in relation to martial arts and popular culture. So what could I possibly have to say to anyone about Taoism?

The main clues here relate to my interests in ideology and popular culture. But there are two further specific bits of information relevant for understanding my orientation in the following presentation – two specific propositions.

First (or on the one hand), that it is widely understood that Taoism is Chinese. Second (or on the other hand), that there was a veritable explosion of interest in Taoism in Western popular culture in the wake of (and arguably in response to) some of the big wars of the second half of the twentieth century, particularly WWII, the Korean War and the Vietnam War (Watts 1990).

In particular, different kinds of Western interest in Taoism can be seen in the interests and orientations of the Beat Generation, the counterculture and, of course, hippies everywhere. It is often said that these interests had much to do with different kinds of rejection or protest against the institutions that carried out the wars. In other words, Western institutions and their ideologies were regarded by the Beats, the counterculture and the hippies in particular as inhuman, or driven by a machine-like rationality, involving industrial-scale, exploitative instrumentality, and so on (Clarke 1997; Heath 2006).

Taoism always seemed very different: a philosophy of the moment, the present, the experience, the natural, the ecological, and the ethical relation to the other. So, among other Eastern worldviews and philosophies, Taoism was received as offering a genuine alternative to the outlooks driving the dominant status quo.

As for Taoism itself, there are many things to say about it. But these first two points – on the one hand, that Taoism is from China, and on the other hand, the Western interest in it, will structure much of what follows. In fact, I will chiefly be dealing with the question of the interest in Taoism in the West. But this will referred back and related to the subject of Taoism in China.

A Bit of Taoism

Because of this large perspective, my coordinates will be the highly problematic notions of the supposed East and the supposed West (Hall and Gieben 1991). Worse than that: Sometimes I am going to talk about China; sometimes East Asia. Sometimes I am going to talk about Europe; sometimes America; and other times some nebulous monster called Euro-America. The reasons for using such shifting and mostly unsatisfactory and imprecise coordinates boil down to familiarity, convenience and the effort to produce an effect of clarity, even at the cost of a huge lack of specificity.

Given that I’m using such problematic and shape-shifting mirages as my East/West coordinates, you may reasonably hope for more precision regarding the object of attention itself, namely ‘Taoism’. However, the problem here is that I have already implied a distinction between ‘Taoism in China’ and ‘Taoism in the West’. So we may already have two different things, with one name.

In fact, there may be many more. There may be considerably more than one understanding of ‘Taoism’. As my distinction already suggests, there may be at least one Eastern one and at least one Western one. And these may not be the same.

Such an idea is going to lead quite a few of us to leap to a predictable conclusion, with two faces. First, some will immediately presume that it must be the case that the Chinese Taoism has to be regarded as the original and therefore authentic and therefore superior or true Taoism. And second, that the Western one must necessarily be secondary, derived, inauthentic, ersatz or inferior.

However, this is not the way I want us to think, at all. This type of thinking is saturated with all sorts of problems, and it introduces all sorts of prejudices (Chow 1995; Bowman 2010a). So I want to avoid it.

Accordingly, for safety’s sake, let me just ask you to bear in mind the possibility that, instead of thinking that there is a Chinese Taoism versus a Western one, let’s remember that there are inevitably going be multiple (even myriad) different understandings and interpretations of Taoism in both East and West, including many which totally undercut, eradicate or dissolve the supposed border between East and West.

In other words, this is not going to be a talk about a true Taoism of China versus a false Taoism of the West. I want you to remember that there will be intricately sophisticated, nuanced and effectively authentic incarnations of Taoism in the West. And, at the same time, there will be multiple modulations of Taoism in China, some of which may well have been made up yesterday, or the day before yesterday.

Source: Jan. Creative Commons License.

Taoism’s Travels

I say all of this because I want to head off at the pass certain types of thinking. I want to dispense with the idea of ‘authenticity’ in particular (Heath 2006), and replace the search for authenticity with the question of what happens when something like Taoism travels.

Can it travel? Can it travel intact? What conditions are required for the smooth transition of something like Taoism from one place to another, one time to another, one linguistic and cultural context to another, without it falling to pieces, breaking up, becoming something else altogether?

All of this requires me to address the question of what Taoism ‘is’. Given what I’ve just been saying, this might be tricky to nail in one go. Nonetheless, as with so many things, it is actually quite easy to come up with a stab at an answer to this question. For, as with anything else (as long as you are not in the PRC itself), you can start by Googling it.

The first page that came up in my Google search results was the Wikipedia entry. For those who worry about the reliability of the information provided by Wikipedia, let me reassure you that I cross-referenced everything thoroughly – to my second search result, which was the BBC pages on Taoism. So my research was rigorous. But let’s not be scared of Wikipedia – even if the entry on Taoism cannot be checked, edited, or even read by any Taoists or Taoism experts based in the PRC itself.

In any case, the first paragraph of the Wikipedia entry on Taoism reads as follows:

 

Taoism (/ˈdaʊɪzəm/), also known as Daoism, is a religious or philosophical tradition of Chinese origin which emphasizes living in harmony with the Tao (道, literally “Way”, also romanized as Dao). The Tao is a fundamental idea in most Chinese philosophical schools; in Taoism, however, it denotes the principle that is both the source, pattern and substance of everything that exists. Taoism differs from Confucianism by not emphasizing rigid rituals and social order. Taoist ethics vary depending on the particular school, but in general tend to emphasize wu wei (effortless action), “naturalness”, simplicity, spontaneity, and the Three Treasures: jing (sperm/ovary energy, or the essence of the physical body), qi (“matter-energy” or “life force”, including the thoughts and emotions), and shén (spirit or generative power).

Typically, academics might lay into such accessible definitions. But – and as unreliable as Wikipedia may sometimes be – I’m pleased to report that this entry squares with the BBC pages and also with much that I have read on Taoism before.

Like other things that I have read on the subject, the Wikipedia entry concurs that: Taoism feeds from and back into lots of different kinds of Chinese intellectual and spiritual traditions; that it doesn’t quite fit into Western categories, yet it is not utterly alien to them; that in Western terms it straddles or flows between familiar Western conceptual categories like religion and philosophy; that it has specific theories, specific ideas and specific principles; but that there are different interpretations, different rituals and different obligations in terms of ethics, norms, mores and injunctions, in different approaches to Taoism, even within and across China.

If such a definition refers heavily to China, let’s flip perspective now, and whizz to Europe or America, as if we were playing on Google Earth. What does Taoism look like here.

If Taoism has a range of different incarnations in China, it seems fair to say that in the West it is mostly present only in bits. There is not much explicit or highly visible Taoism in the West. Of course, there is some. But as the BBC website notes, the ritualistic and religious dimensions of much Chinese Taoism are almost unheard of in the West.

Yet, at the same time, a central symbol of Taoism, the yin-yang (or taijitu), is not at all uncommon. It is all over the place.

Of course, when yin-yangs occur in the West, their status is unclear. Yin-yangs most commonly occur in what I will call subcultural contexts, or in the form of tattoos, or on children’s stickers, or in posters for tai chi lessons at the local community or sports centre.

Books, pictures and paraphernalia can be found on sale in hippy shops, head shops, and alternative lifestyle shops. But Taoism rarely appears in the West as part of a fully formed institutional existence. Words and phrases involving the yin-yang occur frequently in explanations of how martial arts like tai chi or bagua ‘work’ (sometimes also Japanese arts like aikido or even judo), and in relation to the practices of different kinds of qigong. But the Taoism of the West seems to manifest principally in or as bits of Taoism.

Indeed, to many, Taoism may still seem exotic or unusual. But it is far from new to the West. There are several centuries long traditions of Western intellectual engagements with Chinese and other East Asian philosophies and cosmologies (Clarke 1997; Said 1995; Sedgwick 2003). Many Western philosophers, theologians, theorists and thinkers have had many kinds of interest in many of the texts, traditions and practices of Taoism, along with other notable East Asian ‘things’, like Zen or Chan and other forms of Buddhism, as well as many less well known shamanic practices, and so on.

The Circulation of Yin-Yangs

So, what is the status of Taoism in the West? As mentioned, in some ways, Taoism – or at least the trappings of Taoism – or at least bits of it – have become familiar in the West. The yin-yang symbol certainly has, even if an understanding of the logic, argument, principles or cosmology it implies is often absent. The yin-yang is all over the place – but it has mostly found its niche in the West on the bodies and clothes and décor of certain ‘types’: hippies, alternatives, crusties, teens, martial artists, New Agers and so on.[2]

Further empirical cultural or sociological analysis of the contexts in which the images, trappings, paraphernalia and ideas of Taoism have been grafted into the Western world would be rewarding. But my hypothesis is that if we were to do a visual cultural analysis, and to look to see where we could find visual evidence of the signs and symbols of Taoism in the West, the study would reveal that the signs and signifiers of Taoism are most frequently grafted onto or into contexts that present themselves (or are regarded) as alternative, non-mainstream, often possibly oppositional or quasi-oppositional, frequently martial artsy, as well as New Age and orientalist. In other words: marginal (Bowman 2017).

Of course, any such visual or material cultural study could not tell us everything about the status of Taoism in the West. For instance, it would remain blind to the reach, scope, and influence of Taoism in books – books of Taoism and books about Taoism. Nowadays, a lot of this kind of communication and discourse has moved onto blogs, vlogs, and podcasts. And while there might be ways to measure the scale of online discourse about Taoism, it would still ultimately be impossible to ascertain its status, reach, influence or place in any kind of convincing way.

Now, I have neither carried out nor really looked for any extensive or expansive visual or material analysis of the signs and signifiers of Taoism in the West. (At least, not yet.) But my hypothesis about its discursive or cultural status in popular culture is that it arrived in a bit of a jumble, a bit garbled and tangled up with many other often nebulous ideas and associations.

What I mean by this might be illustrated by a brief consideration of an example: the character of Caine (played by David Carradine), the lead protagonist in the early 1970s TV series, Kung Fu.

Although the actor who played him was white, Caine was meant to be from China, ethnically half Chinese, a martial arts graduate monk of the Shaolin Temple, and subsequently a wanderer in the American wild west. It is a TV series that maps onto and encapsulates the peak of what is known as the ‘kung fu craze’ that swept the US, Europe and much of the rest of the world in the 1970s (Brown 1997; Prashad 2002; Prashad 2003; Kato 2012; Bowman 2010b; Bowman 2013). And I actually think it also illustrates the form of one of the most significant recent bursts of Western interest in Eastern philosophy (Bowman 2010b).

For, Caine is not only invincible, he is also stoic, wise, modest, humble, good (see also Nitta 2010; Iwamura 2005). He is a mishmash of the Confucian gent, the Taoist sage and – as certain commentators have noted – the Californian West Coast hippy (Preston 2007). Some of the most critical commentators have argued that the supposed Eastern wisdom embodied and mouthed by Caine has much more to do with Californian ideologies of the hippy era than with anything Chinese (Miller 2000).

This raises at least two interesting questions. First, if a major US TV series (along with Hollywood film companies) produce shows that champion Taoist philosophy, might this suggest that Taoism has (or had, or almost had) a larger, less marginal and more mainstream status in the West than we might otherwise have thought?

But second, if the brand of Taoism disseminated by this hugely popular and enduring TV series seems to hail more from California than a mythic Wudang Mountain, does this suggest that Western versions of Taoism will always be warped by or transformed into something else?

There are other questions raised by Kung Fu, of course (Chong 2012; Bowman 2013; Bowman 2015). But these are the two that I would like to look at today. [2]

A Taijiquan class at Wellesley College.

Eurotaoism

Interestingly, philosophers such as Peter Sloterdijk and Slavoj Žižek have proposed that, far from being alternative or obscure, what they call ‘Western Taoism’ and ‘Western Buddhism’ are actually the hegemonic ideology of (or at least ideal ideological fit for) postmodern Western liberal consumer society (Žižek 2001).

Žižek’s argument is that in situations of deregulated capital in a consumerist society, the ideological imperative becomes one of not clinging and not getting too hung up on things. The first argument here is that things like consumerism and feng shui can be brought into alignment quite easily, via ideas like de-cluttering, deep-cleaning, updating, going ‘out with the old, in with the new’, and refreshing and reinvigorating by buying new stuff.

Indeed, Žižek proposes that a hybrid of ersatz Taoist, Buddhist and yogic ideas often blossom wherever what used to be called yuppie conditions apply. For example, he argues that a chaotic life of stock market speculation or financial trading almost cries out for the calm of feng shui décor, early morning yoga, qigong or ‘mindfulness meditation’, and things like regular retreats (whether ‘glamping’ or in health spas).

Most importantly in such situations, Žižek argues, the yoga, tai chi, qigong or ‘mindfulness’ practices enable the practitioner to console themselves with the belief that their meditative time is where they get in touch with the ‘truth’ of themselves, so that they don’t have to face up to the fact that their working life is their ‘real’ life.

So, for Žižek, Taoism is a kind of ‘spontaneous ideology’ – not imposed from above, but arising organically in response to the real conditions of economic life.

By the same token (but on the other hand), the uncertainty, chaos and instability generated by deregulated capital is a prime breeding ground for the ethos of ‘not clinging’, of ‘keeping moving’, ‘not stagnating’, ‘moving on’, ‘going with the flow’, and so on. As Žižek puts it, the erosion of traditional rights and erstwhile certainties (such as fixed jobs and guaranteed pensions, etc.) is repackaged not as loss but as opportunity. A lost job is represented as an opportunity to retrain. Having no guarantee of a pension is an opportunity to invest. And so on.

Ultimately, Žižek argues (in an almost Taoist move), the very victory of the Western economic global system has produced the emergence of what he calls the West’s ideological opposite. Sloterdijk calls it “Eurotaoism”.

Now, I am not at all sure that ‘Western Buddhism’ or ‘Western Taoism’ could be regarded as ‘hegemonic’ in any empirically verifiable sense, but I think the argument is interesting. It is possible to see how it might apply, where it might apply, and why it might apply.

But whether, where, when, and to what extent it has been so is another matter altogether. Just because kung fu, yin-yangs, tai chi, qigong and feng shui have been popular at different times and in different places, this does not somehow prove that Taoism or Buddhism are hegemonic ideologies.

Of course, establishing the facts of any matter has never stopped Žižek from making a sweeping statement or dramatic argument.

And then there is the question of whether we are supposed to regard this kind of Western Taoism as a good thing or a bad thing. The implication in the Žižekian argument is that, as an ideology arising within and because of changes in capitalism, this kind of Western Taoism must be a bad thing. But would it?

We could discuss this matter as long as we liked, but it might ultimately have the status of the exercises in which Mediaeval Christian theologians would reputedly debate how many angels could stand on the end of a pin. So, instead of arguing for or against Taoism, let us turn to our second question: the question of whether Western Taoism could ever be the same as Eastern Taoism.

A famous statue of Laozi in Fujian. Source: Wikimedia.

A bit of East is East and West is West

On this matter, answers might be divided into two camps. One camp regards the transmission of ideas from East Asian philosophy and thought into the West to be entirely possible. The other regards it as not possible.

One great example of a writer who believed the transmission of ideas from East to West to be difficult but possible is Alan Watts. Watts rose to prominence in the decades after the Second World War with writings that tried to explain the spirit of Zen, Buddhism and Taoism to readers in English. Although not everyone has read Watts, one can often find traces of his accounts of East Asian ideas in the words of others.

For instance, one of my own first encounters with the notion of the Tao came via the writings of the late great martial arts innovator, Bruce Lee, particularly his posthumous book, The Tao of Jeet Kune Do. It was only much later that I read Watts.

As an ethnically Chinese martial artist, Bruce Lee was often called upon, when interacting with his Western students and other audiences, to play the role of the Taoist or Confucian sage. In fact, playing the wise man was a role that he often evidently relished, at least in his daily life (Preston 2007). In terms of his professional life, however, he often complained bitterly about being ethnically stereotyped and typecast in TV and film. But in books like his Tao of Jeet Kune Do, we find Lee using his most ‘oriental wise man’ tone of voice and mode of address. (Ironically, this is so even though what he advocates in that book is actually a totally iconoclastic, non-traditional, deracinated and revolutionary approach to martial arts.)

But, given that Lee was ethnically Chinese and his first language was Cantonese, we might assume his Eastern philosophy to be authentic, right? The irony here is that recent scholarship and archival work in Lee’s own personal library has shown is that he lifted most of his ancient Eastern wisdom straight from the pages of writers like Watts, along with other Western interlocutors (Bishop 2004). Famously, his favourite expression was the very Buddhist or Taoist sounding ‘walk on’. But this was a phrase that he picked up from an early twentieth century English language book on Buddhism, called Walk On, and written by the wonderfully named writer Christmas Humphreys (Humphreys 1947; Bowman 2013).

I mention all of this here to give an indication of the complexity of ideas like ‘transmission’, and also, of course, ‘authenticity’. I am not saying that Bruce Lee only read Western authored English language works on Chinese philosophy. But he certainly also did, and these informed his own discourse on Chinese philosophy.

Whether such texts are right or wrong is a complex matter. There are famous cases of radical misunderstandings of Chinese and Japanese history, society and culture – misunderstandings that have made their way into European consciousness as facts and truths. There have been controversies around the interpretations present in works such as Herrigel’s Zen and the Art of Archery, for instance, and in the supposedly authoritative and certainly enormous body of work on history, culture and civilization in China produced by sinologist Joseph Needham (Needham and Wang 1954; Needham and Wang 1956; Needham and Wang 1959; Needham, Wang, and Lu 1971; Needham and Tsien, n.d.; Needham and Bray 1984; Needham, Harbsmeier, and Robinson 1998; Needham, Robinson, and Huang 2004).

Martial arts historian Stanley Henning, for instance, points out that at points Needham regards all Chinese martial arts as associated with Taoist health exercises. Hence – argues Henning – Needham radically misinterprets the complexity of the places of different martial arts in China in different places and different times. The effects of this misclassification of all martial arts as essentially being Taoist, Henning argues, leads Needham to fundamentally misunderstand some key aspects of Chinese culture and society (Henning 1999; Bowman 2015).

So, there are risks in the face of interpreting across cultures, and across times and places. And this leads us to the second camp: the people who do not believe that transparent translation across distant cultures is possible.

One interesting representative of this camp would be the infamous German philosopher Martin Heidegger (Heidegger 1971). Heidegger was very interested in Taoism. Some have even gone so far as to argue that Heidegger’s own trailblazing ‘Continental’ proto-deconstructive philosophy was explicitly indebted to Taoism and other kinds of East Asian philosophy (May 1996). Heidegger even reputedly harboured dreams of producing his own translation of the key text of Taoism, the Tao te Ching, or Dao de Jing. (This work is sometimes known as the Lao-Tzu, after the name of its attributed author – an author who almost certainly did not write it.)

What is perhaps most interesting about Heidegger’s interest in Taoism is that he is said to have abandoned his dream of translating the Lao-Tzu/Tao because – even though this work is said to be one of the most frequently translated and re-translated texts in the world – some have even claimed that it is the most translated text in the world – Heidegger regarded the task of translating it as being too difficult. In fact, in the end, despite all of his interests in Taoism and what he often referred to as ‘East Asian thought’ (or indeed the ‘East Asian lifeworld’ in toto), Heidegger came to regard the East and the West as fundamentally, constitutively alien to each other. He came to conclude that, on a fundamental and unsurpassable level, ‘East is East and West is West and ne’er the twain shall meet’ (Heidegger 1971; Sandford 2003).

Zheng Manqing, the teacher of William Chen, with sword, possibly on the campus of Columbia University in New York City.

A Bit of Difference

Because of this ambivalent relation, what we might see in the case of Heidegger is interesting. In fact, what might be learned from Heidegger’s relationship with Taoism is quite possibly exemplary of the matrix of possible relationships that Westerners have had with Taoism. Not just Taoism, of course. What I’m saying about Taoism could stand for Western engagements with a wide range of aspects or essences of Chinese and East Asian thought.

Many have been interested in all of this, and heavily involved in it, precisely because it all seems so different. But, if it is all so profoundly different, then perhaps (as Heidegger thought), it may be just too different, meaning that Westerners may never really ‘get it’.

To many of us today, this is a familiar but problematic idea, which sometimes sounds romantic but which often smells a bit too much of essentialism.

Essentialism is one of the dirtiest of dirty academic words, even though essentialism in academia is not unusual. It is possible to find it all over the place, whether just below the surface or luxuriating in plain sight. There are still, for instance, academic studies being published that first propose and then explore the idea of the alleged fundamental difference or uniqueness of ‘the Chinese mind’.

However, for the rest of us, to propose an essential difference between ethnicities (or ethnonationalities), and to reify or dignify such a proposition through any kind of consideration is deeply problematic. It just smacks too much of colonialist (or indeed apartheid) anthropology and psychology, approaches that were premised on the belief not only of racial difference but also (‘therefore’) of racial hierarchy.

To those of us who work in or around cultural studies – with all of the refined (or mandatory) sensitivity to issues of identity that this entails (particularly in terms of class, race, gender, and sexuality) – the proposition of an essential difference (between East and West, or Europe and China) may appear crass to the point of being offensive. It is certainly not an idea we expect to find in our academic field. Here, scholars are more interested in cultural ‘crossovers’, ‘encounters’, ‘communications’ and ‘relations’ than they are in ideas of ‘absolute essences’ and ‘unbridgeable differences’. Just like food, music, fashion, flu viruses, factories, or films, Taoism should surely be regarded as able to travel.

The question is: can it, and if it moves will it stay the same? What would any change signify? If Taoism is taken to be a specific example of otherness (or, at least a bit of a larger field of otherness), then the question is whether Westerners can really truly ‘get’ it. Heidegger thought not. He thought it was all just too different.

I’m dwelling on this for a moment because it points to a wider problem. To paraphrase a question once posed by Stuart Hall, the problem is this: if we are dealing with difference, if we are interested in difference, in respecting difference, trading in difference, and so on, the question is: what do we think difference ‘is’? Does difference refer to something actually different, or are differences merely garnish to something essentially similar? Do we think cultural or ethnic others are actually significantly different from us, or do we think that we are all actually the same ‘deep down’? Does difference mean different, or does difference mean same? What does difference mean? What does difference do?

Many – including many in cultural studies – solve this by imputing a universal value to ‘being human’, whilst adding that what produces cultural difference is different cultural contexts. But, whether difference is essential or entirely contextual, what does it imply for any ‘encounter’, ‘crossover’ and ‘relation’?

Heidegger thought that there were absolute and unbridgeable differences between what he called the East Asian lifeworld and the Euro-American one. As mentioned, this may sound very bad to our contemporary anti-essentialist ears. In this case, it seems all the worse, since many people know that Heidegger was notoriously a fully paid up member of the Nazi party, and that he never renounced or even really reflected on this matter publicly after the war.

But if we bracket off everything we don’t like about Heidegger for the moment, it is possible to reformulate his position in apparently much more palatable ways. For instance, in cultural theory it is not uncommon to hear the idea that all translations from one context to another ought to be regarded as mistranslations, or partial and biased and incomplete translations; that all crossovers should be regarded as transformations, and that all encounters are in some sense asymptotic. And so on.

To poststructuralist ears, formulations like this don’t sound at all essentialist or fundamentalist. Rather, they sound quite subtle and complex – thoroughly deconstructive, even. It is a tenet of deconstruction that all translation is mistranslation. Similarly, Walter Benjamin argued that the best translations are transformations. And the influential psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan often seemed to regard all of the main kinds of encounters in life as being asymptotic.

There is a lot more that could be said about all of this.[1] I have myself just cut loads of words and pasted them into a footnote at this point. These many words barely scratch the surface of some of the matters that arise here. But for now suffice it to say that the idea that we may be barred access to ‘the truth’ or ‘the reality’ of something is very familiar in contemporary cultural theory. And, most importantly, is not an idea that is reserved for application to texts and phenomena from ‘other cultures’. It is an idea that has been applied to texts and phenomena from all cultures, including – especially perhaps – those of our own.

Taiji practice at Chen Village. Source: Shanghai Daily.

Getting it, a Bit

I tend to accept the idea that there is no simple or unmediated access to the supposed truth of a text, and that interpretations of texts and phenomena are contextual, conditional, changeable, and revisable. [3] But this does not mean that anything can just be anything. Interpretations are fought over, fought for, and often strongly policed. Just think about the violence that has ensued when different sects have emerged within and around Christianity by interpreting key texts, like the Gospels, differently.

So I tend to accept the notion that no one has direct or unmediated access to the truth of anything. But the question is whether certain Western interpretations of Taoism are obliterations of it, or a transformation or warping away from some kind of essence. Is the true essence of Taoism simply foreclosed or barred from access by Westerners?

I can accept the idea that I have been raised in a culture in which I have not on a daily basis been exposed to Taoist figures, rituals, sensibilities, words, phrases, legends, allusions, quotations, architectures, objects, practices and practitioners. So, in this sense of context, habitus, texture of life, structure of feeling, history and cultural literacy, the claim that I’m ‘never going to get it’ is fine.

But what about the supposed messages of Taoism – the lessons to be learned of or from Taoism? (In semiotic terms, the signified content or the final signifiers of Taoism.) Can these not be ‘got’?

If the lessons of Taoism are simply or entirely conceptual or communicated in language, and if they are only to be accessed via the texts of Taoism, then arguably all of the complications and caveats and problems and aporias of cross-cultural translation that some call the ‘hermeneutic circle’ will arise here. So we will definitely face some serious obstacles. Cross cultural translation across vast distances of place and time is fraught with hurdles, barriers, mirages, dead ends, wrong trees, halls of mirrors and red herrings. This is because we always interpret from where we are and from what we know; so a Western discourse about Eastern things may always boil down to an internal monologue about a totally invented non-entity.

But the Tao te Ching seems absolutely clear on one or two key points. The first is that the Tao that can be spoken is not the Tao. The second (possibly related point) is that spoken or written language is neither the medium of transmission nor of knowing either the Tao or Taoism. Perhaps the most famous words in the Tao te Ching are ‘he who knows does not speak; he who speaks does not know’.

As Alan Watts himself once noted at the start of one of his early books on the subject, many people have taken these words to mean that the effort of communication is pointless, or ultimately doomed to failure. Watts disagreed with this interpretation and thought that it was worth the effort to try.

This is not least because it is possible to talk about something without falling into the trap of believing that you are thereby doing it, living it, experiencing it, or conjuring it up, in reality. Indeed, perhaps discussing, listening, or even just ‘thinking about’ may be a precondition of experiencing or doing. Or at least a supplement.

It certainly seems that Taoism involves a communicable philosophy or a principled stance in relation to the matter of doing. Western authors have tried to express it through all manner of poetic renderings of different topics, subjects and themes: from archery to fighting to flower arranging, to motorcycle maintenance, and so on.

My own encounter with a practice that conveyed some kind of understanding (through both doing and feeling) of Taoist principles was taijiquan.

My own sense over time came to be that the inevitable and necessary lessons to be learned in taiji practice – especially via the interactive partner-work of push-hands practice – offered me a crystal clear kind of education in Taoism.

This is not to say that taijiquan offered me everything. It did not make me an expert on Taoism. But the interaction of hard and soft, positive and negative, fullness and emptiness, the logic of non-clinging, non-ego, non-striving, yielding, and the constant apperception of change and transition all led me to think that after years of taiji practice I really did ‘get’ the principles of Taoism – at least a bit. At least that bit.

But further reflection reminds me that I have also rejected other bits. For instance, supplementary parts of the practice of taijiquan involve various standing, breathing, concentration, relaxation and awareness practices, referred to as a number of things, such as qigong, nei-gong, zhang zhuang, and so on. Some of these I have always accepted fully – the stretching-and-relaxing breathing and postural exercises called ba duan jin [pa tuan chin], for example. I have never had any problem with these. Standing post qigong [zhang zhuang] too – I am fine with that.

But the exercises that allegedly circulate qi internally through meridians in the body… I have always found within myself a profound resistance to these. Whenever I do them, I do them somewhat cynically. And, to be honest, I have all but abandoned even thinking about doing them. They just seem to rely on a kind of belief that is just too much like religious faith for my liking.

But like someone who has renounced their religion, I still often worry. I worry that if I have rejected this bit, what does it do to the rest? For I know that I only dabble in bits of the entire possible taiji world. I do the solo form, partner-work, any kind of sparring, some stretching exercises and some standing qigong. But I know I have abandoned another huge bit.

So even within the confines of my own limited experience of one syllabus of a more or less Taoist and more or less (once) Chinese practice, I know I don’t have it all. And, what is more, I also know that, besides the ‘all’ that I am aware I do not know, there is a whole lot more out there – many more ‘alls’ and ‘everythings’ – much more that I have ever even imagined.

I console myself by telling myself (sometimes in the manner of an old Chinese sage) that this is true of all things. For could we really ever have it all, or know it all, or get it all? Is the ‘all’, the totality, even a real thing? Or is it not, in fact, just an effect, either of language or of our experience of a certain state of play?

The state of play as we perceive it is always determined by the circulation of ideas and practices, which themselves derive from different kinds of institutions and investments. Institutions and interpretations are variable and contingent, and produce different effects.

Just as I began with reference to such vague and shifting supposed entities as ‘East’ and ‘West’, so we should be aware of the shifting and drifting apparent referents of our focus, their different meanings in different times and places, the genetic mutations and quantum leaps that occur in ‘cultural translation’ from one time to another, one place to another, one language to another, even one utterance or instance to the next, and the rather frustrating fact that, despite our eternal desire to see unity and simplicity, cultures and practices are always ‘in bits’, always in process, incompletion, dispute and contestation. As I read it, the one always gives birth to the ten thousand things and you can never therefore pin down the one. So this means both that no one’s ever going to get it but also that anyone can get it – but really only a bit.

References

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———. 2017. Mythologies of Martial Arts. London: Rowman & Littlefield International.

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Nitta, Keiko. 2010. ‘An Equivocal Space for the Protestant Ethnic: US Popular Culture and Martial Arts Fantasia’. Social Semiotics 20 (4): 377–92.

Prashad, Vijay. 2002. Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting: Afro-Asian Connections and the Myth of Cultural Purity. Beacon Press.

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Said, Edward W. 1995. Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient. London: Penguin.

Sandford, Stella. 2003. ‘Going Back: Heidegger, East Asia and “The West”’. Radical Philosophy, no. 120 (July): 11–22.

Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. 2003. Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity. Durham and London: Duke.

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Notes

[1] Dress rehearsal: JOMEC, Cardiff University, 25^th January 2017.

Public talk: Cardiff University 2^nd February 2017.

Accompanying Prezi at: https://prezi.com/l9ncw9g-zv8t/taoism-in-bits/

[2] I have made similar arguments about the status of martial arts in all but their sporting variants in the West (see Bowman 2017).

[3] Derrida himself was always careful to distance himself from any kind of Heideggerian position vis-à-vis difference as absolute or essential. Indeed, for Derrida, the obligation of the critical thinker was precisely to avoid collapsing difference into opposition. All differences are contextual, contingent effects or institutions. There is no opposition between East and West because these terms and clusters of concepts, notions and ideas are principally the effects of particular ways of thinking more than anything else. So, rather than any kind of retreat from difference, one can find in the work of this father of poststructuralism a principled openness to alterity, difference, encounter and change.

Nonetheless, in one of his earliest and arguably most important works, Of Grammatology, Derrida effectively inaugurates deconstruction by drawing a line. This is a line between the kinds of languages that he will deal with and speak about (European languages), on the one hand, and on the other, the kinds of language that he will not (surprise, surprise: Chinese). Derrida draws this line because, he proposes, the written Chinese language is just too different to be dealt with in the same kind of way that he is going to deal with European speech and writing.

Much has been written about this undeconstructive inauguration of deconstruction, in which Derrida smoothly slices out a distinction between Europe and China, and in which ‘China’ stands for that which he cannot and will not try to think, as the outside of the limits of Europe. I mention it here merely to illustrate the ways that even an avowed openness to the ideas of alterity, difference, encounter, crossover, translation, relation, and so on, can be premised on or can flip over into their supposed opposite.

I will get to Taoism in a minute – I promise. But first I want to emphasise that I have started from such philosophers not out of ignorance or contempt for other kinds of Western engagements – or non-engagements – with either ‘Chinese thought’ in general or ‘Taoism’ specifically; but rather to indicate the complexity of the question of a Western interest in Taoism. Put bluntly: if this kind of thing messes with the heads of both the daddy and the granddaddy of poststructuralism, then what other kinds of mess might we expect?

I’ll mention some of these messes. But before we leave Heidegger, I want to note the mess as he perceived it. Although he believed in an essential Europe (the pinnacle being, of course, German language philosophy), and although be believed in an ‘East Asian lifeworld’ that was essentially inaccessible to Westerners, he also believed that Westernisation was ultimately destroying East Asian alterity.

The effect of Western technology – Heidegger singles out the film camera – was to draw the world into what he called a Europeanised or Americanised ‘objectness’. With this, he refers to the growth and spread and effects of Western conceptuality, ways of thinking, ways of relating technically to the world, ways of capturing and manipulating the world, and so on.

Again, this might sound deeply problematic and Eurocentric. It may romanticise the other, as something essentially vanishing. But this kind of argument is not a world away from some of the strongest impulses in postcolonial theory, which regard Euro-American cultural and ideological hegemony as being carried not just by gunboats and unequal trade deals, but by everything from film and media to language itself and even – or especially – the most subtle and subterranean aspects of the spread of an originally European educational structure and syllabus. (Along with the obvious examples of the effects of the spread of Western medicine and Western science, Dipesh Chakrabarty famously points to the matter of the teaching of history. Along with the nation, history is a Euro-American concept, Chakrabarty argues. The idea that every nation must be a nation with a history ultimately means that Europe is always shown to be the origin and the destination. History always becomes the history of Europe. Emerging nations follow Europe.)

In this kind of perspective the West arguably always obliterates or transforms that which it encounters. So, in any encounter with Taoism, Taoism is obliterated, or transformed, and hence lost. This is because it must be translated into an alien conceptual universe.

Thus, in the West, Taoism has been regarded as alternative or even subtly oppositional to Judeo-Christian and even Islamic traditions, in that it is not a ‘religion of the book’. It has been interpreted as a kind of pantheism, or as a kind of stoic atheism – a kind of religion without religion. It has been regarded as a kind of environmentalism, a kind of green ethos or ideology. It has been regarded as the quintessence of ancient Chinese wisdom. It has also been regarded as a kind of anti-Confucian and hence anti-establishment Chinese philosophy. It has been regarded as involving mystical mumbo-jumbo and bizarre rituals. It has also been regarded as an entirely rational and reasonable laissez-faire individualism, organised by the idea of following the path of least resistance.

About the Author: Paul Bowman, Professor of Cultural Studies at Cardiff University, is author of ten books, including Martial Arts Studies: Disrupting Disciplinary Boundaries (2015). He is founder and director of the AHRC-funded Martial Arts Studies Research Network and co- editor of the journal Martial Arts Studies. His most recent book is Mythologies of Martial Arts (Rowman & Littlefield, 2017). And if there is anything you ever wanted to know about the cultural impact of Bruce Lee, he is the guy to read.

Ip Man and his best known student, Bruce Lee.

An all too Common Conversation

Last week my Sifu and I were discussing the public conversation that surrounds Wing Chun.

 

“So this guy was trying to tell me that we have no head movement in Wing Chun.  Not just bobbing and weaving” he clarified “but that we can literally never move our heads.”

“So he thinks we stand there and get punched in the face?” I asked incredulously.

“Pretty much.  I told him to take a closer look at the forms.”

Such exchanges are not all that uncommon.  Normally I try to ignore them. However, in the last few months I have had a number of almost identical conversations with talented, highly experienced, Sifus all relating practically identical incidents.

Not all of these discussions focused on head movement.  In one case an instructor was approached by an individual (who apparently was not a Wing Chun student) claiming that our system contained only a single punch.  This is a rather odd assertion to make about a fighting system that prides itself on a rich and deep bench of boxing techniques.

I have actually heard a similar claim made before by some practitioners attempting to make a philosophical point.  They note that the basic Wing Chun punch reflects a set of core principles that, when applied in different situations, can yield a variety of techniques that superficially look quite different, but all reflect a common approach to hand combat.  This is sometimes couched in quasi-Taoist terms as “the one thing giving rise to the ten thousands.”  I immediately asked whether this is where my friend’s interlocutor may have been headed.

 

“Nope.  He literally believed that we only have a center-line chain punch.  Anything else, an outside line, an uppercut or hook, ‘cannot be Wing Chun’.”  The instructor absentmindedly went through movements from the second and third unarmed boxing form as he clarified the objection.

“So what did you tell him?” I asked.

“I just kept telling him to go back and look at the forms.  Youtube is full of people doing all sorts of forms.  For Christ sake, just pick anyone of them.”

“Sending someone to Youtube can be a trap for the unwary.” I offered.

“Yeah, I sent him some links.  But I have no idea if it did any good!”

Perhaps the most interesting thing about such challenges is that they do not all arise from outside of the system.  Earlier this summer I had a conversation with a third Sifu that was more serious in nature.  When another instructor (from the same Wing Chun umbrella organization) visited his school, he was aghast to discover that my friend was having his students practice entry drills (or more specifically, techniques that allow one to transition from disengaged, to kicking to boxing ranges as safely as possible).  Nor was he happy to discover that my friend’s more advanced students were starting Chi Sao (a type of sensitive training game) from unbridged positions.  “This is not Traditional Wing Chun!” he objected.

That was certainly news to me.  The system contains entry techniques.  Why not drill them?  Why not create a greater sense of complexity and realism by adding them (or joint locks, or kicks) to your Chi Sao?  My personal training happened in a school built on a “traditional lineages” going back to Ip Man.  We certainly practiced both of these things, nor was it ever considered to be the least bit controversial.  Apparently not all lineages share this same approach to training.  The uproar that resulted from the visit caused my friend to remove his school from an organization that he had been part of for some time.

Who wants their martial practice to be defined only by the things that one (supposedly) does not do?

This is something all Wing Chun students deal with from time to time.  My personal favorite is when people tell me that Wing Chun is an exclusively short range art with highly restricted footwork.  All this tells me is that the individual in question has never seriously studied the swords and has no idea how much distance that footwork can actually cover.  Let’s just say that there is a very good reason why Bruce Lee turned to fencing in his attempt to augment his own incomplete training in Wing Chun.  Nor would I call a 3-4 meter pole a “short range” weapon.  Wing chun is clearly a short range art…except when it is not.

In reality every self-defense art strives to be a complete system of combat.  Granted, all approaches will have their unique strengths and weaknesses, but real martial artists work very hard to present as strong a front as possible.  No one who wants to defend themselves refuses to train kicks, throws or weapons simply because “everyone knows that Wing Chun is a short range boxing art.”

An American Wrestler facing off against a Judo student. This photo is identified as having been taken in the Philippines in 1912, but Joseph Svinth suspects that it was actually taken in the US in 1904. Source: https://calisphere.org

Fighting Strength with Strength

I have never been one for social media debates over statements like this.  There is always too much to read, and time spent arguing about Wing Chun gets in the way of actually doing it.

Recently I came across something in my research that made me start to wonder if perhaps I should think a little more deeply about these conversations.  The Wing Chun community is not the only martial art in which such debates occur.  Why do people try so hard to impose negative definitions on a community of practice, even if it means ignoring techniques that are clearly present in the orthodox forms?  How can we understand the social purpose of these debates?  What sorts of work are they doing in the martial arts community today?

Unsurprisingly Japanese martial artists were among the first to explain their practice to the wider global community.  Rather than allowing systems like Kendo, Jujitsu or Judo to be framed and discussed in English exclusively by foreign reporters and visitors, reformers from within the Japanese martial arts community went out of their way to describe, and even promote, their practices on their own terms.  They frequently discussed their arts as extensions of fundamental Japanese values.  In so doing they entered directly into the ongoing debate as to what the values of the Japanese people actually were, what vision of Japanese modernity should emerge, and what role traditional “physical culture” should play in promoting and cementing these identities.

Kanō Jigorō, internationalist, educator and the creator of Judo was often at the center of these discussions.  Other young, educated, members of the Kodokan also took up his mission of the spreading the gospel of Judo.  On April 18^th of 1888 he and Rev. T. Lindsay presented a paper titled “Jiujitsu: The Old Samurai Art of Fighting Without Weapons” at the British Embassy in Japan.  The paper sought to introduce Kanō’s recently created martial art to the English speaking world while at the same time situating it firmly within the bounds of Japanese martial history and nationalism.  Given the timing, subject matter and location of the talk, one would be hard pressed to see this as anything other than an early example of the martial arts entering the realm of cultural and public diplomacy.

Nor would this be the last that the English speaking world would hear on the subject.  A stream of newspaper and magazine articles would bring Judo to the forefront of Western popular culture following Japan’s victory over Russia in 1905.  Yet even before that the West’s fascination with Japanese culture, and its admiration for its rapid reforms, ensured a fair amount of attention.

Shidachi’s 1892 paper, “Ju-Jitsu: The Ancient Art of Self-Defence by Slight of Body,” in some ways is even more interesting than Kanō’s earlier piece. Its importance in no way derives from its originality. Shidachi, a Judo enthusiast, was serving as the Secretary of the Bank of Japan when he delivered his paper at the Japan Society in London.  At times he followed Kanō’s original presentation so closely that one suspected he might have been editorializing on the previous article.  From the perspective of our current discussion, the most interesting aspect of Shidachi’s paper was the response that it provoked from well-placed members of the area’s “sporting community” (boxers and wrestlers).

Like Kanō, Shidachi spent a great deal of time framing the newly created (or reformed) practice of Judo as a continuation of Japan’s unique history and “national heritage.”  It should be remembered that while still important today, such conversations were especially loaded during the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries.  This was the great era of awakening in which the discovery (or construction) of national identities was in full swing.  Bodies of folk culture were ransacked by intellectual entrepreneurs hoping to support claims of national legitimacy, and to win the global respect that came with it.  Of course such elements could only be seen as evidence of a “primeval national community” if they were ancient and unique.

Naturally this led the early exponents of Judo to spend a lot of time defining their practice by clarifying what it was not.  To begin with, both Kanō and Shidachi knew that there were many lineage myths tracing certain Japanese martial practices back to China.  Modern students of martial arts studies now acknowledge that there was a fair amount of martial exchange between these two states at certain points in time.  For instance, Knutsen and Knutsen (2004) have discussed the many Samurai who traveled to China during the Ming dynasty specifically to study Chinese spear and pole fighting techniques.  Further, it is clear that 19^th century Fujianese Kung Fu had a notable effect on the development of Okinawan Karate.

Given China’s late 19^th century reputation as being a hopeless backwards “failed state” (to use modern political terminology), the last thing that Japanese nationalists wanted was to be in any way associated with “Chinese Boxing.”  And so both authors went to lengths to argue that Chinese boxing practices (focused as they were on hitting and kicking) had no part in the development of Japan’s “pure” jujitsu.  Such techniques were never part of Japanese unarmed combat, even if the lineage histories of some clans suggested otherwise.

This move was only the first step in a more complex balancing act.  While Shidachi sought to distance his martial practice from Chinese Boxing, he did not want his audience to go on and draw the natural conclusion that what he was describing (and demonstrating) was more similar to Western wrestling.

Once again, Shidachi turned to negative arguments.  Judo, he informed his audience, is different from wrestling because it does not employ strength.  Rather, it is a character building exercise.  Beyond that, technique and practice were the keys to victory.  Judo was not about trying to “overpower” your opponent, as was the case in wrestling.  He concluded his talk with a brief demonstration designed, by all accounts, to illustrate why he characterized his practice as “slight of body.”

Shortly thereafter a review of Shidachi’s talk ran in the local press.  The Japan Society did modern students of martial arts studies the great favor of printing the ensuing debate at the end of the original talk in their proceedings. It seems that not all members of the local sporting community were impressed by what Shidachi had said or his subsequent demonstrations.

Certain allowances were made for the fact that Shidachi was by no means a professional wrestler and he had only a hapless (and improperly dressed) volunteer to work with.  It was candidly admitted that one could only expect so much from his demonstration.

Yet critics also objected that very little of what they saw or heard was actually new.  One could already find much sturdier Jujitsu practitioners in the city’s fledgling Japanese community.  Shidachi’s reply to this claim more or less boiled down to an assertion that since these individuals were not Kodokan trained, whatever it was they were doing could not be considered “authentic.” Some types of martial debates, it seems, are eternal.

The author of the review also took offense to the off-handed, yet frequently repeated, assertion that Western wrestling was an amoral endeavor in which victory was achieved by pitting brute strength against brute strength.  Such characterizations of Western boxing and wrestling were common in both China and Japan where martial arts reformers sought to locate the essence of certain foreign sports in an essentialist vision of national identity.  The West had triumphed in the realm of economic, military and scientific might, and that truth must be reflected in its modes of athletics and combat.

Early reformers in martial arts like Taijiquan (Wile 1996) and Jujitsu sought to shore up their own national identities by asserting that they brought a unique form of power to the table.  Rather than relying on strength, they would find victory through flexibility, technique, and cunning (all yin traits), just as the Chinese and Japanese nations would ultimately prevail through these same characteristics.  It is no accident that so much of the early Asian martial arts material featured images of women, or small Asian men, overcoming much larger Western opponents with the aid of mysterious “oriental” arts.  These gendered characterizations of hand combat systems were fundamentally tied to larger narratives of national competition and resistance (see Wendy Rouse’s 2015 article “Jiu-Jitsuing Uncle Sam” Pacific Historical Review, Vol. 84 No. 4, November, pp. 448-477).

The problem with repeating myths like these is that, if one is not careful, you actually start to believe them.  Or in more theoretical terms, they come to structure one’s understanding of both practice and its place in the larger world.

Shidachi’s repeated assertions not withstanding, few Western wrestlers understood their practice as an amoral exercise in brute strength.  Both the UK and the US have long had their own discourses as to how sports like wrestling and boxing function as a type of “moral education” for young men.  Promoting these discourses in the 19^th and early 20^th centuries was an important step in winning society’s tolerance for such activities (and their legalization).  One suspects that Chinese and Japanese arguments about the ethical benefits of their martial arts were accepted so readily in the West because they were a continuation of what was already believed about the social value of wrestling, and to a certain extent boxing.

Shidachi appears to have had little actual familiarity with Western wrestling.  It is clear that his discussion was driven by nationalist considerations rather than detailed ethnographic observation.  And there is something else that is a bit odd about all of this.  While technical skill is certainly an aspect of Western wrestling, gaining physical strength and endurance is also a critical component of Judo training.  Shidachi attempted to define all of this as not being a part of Judo. Yet a visit to the local university Judo team will reveal a group of very strong, well developed, athletes.  Nor is that a recent development.  I was recently looking at some photos of Judo players in the Japanese Navy at the start of WWII and any one those guys could have passed as a modern weight lifter.  One suspects that the Japanese Navy noticed this as well.

These inconsistencies only got worse when the conversation turned to the realm of actual technique.  In an attempt to show how one might deal with an opponent without resorting to the use of strength Shidachi demonstrated a certain technique before the assembled gentlemen of the Japan Society.  Yet the wrestlers in the room immediately realized that this supposed hallmark of the Japanese national character was also a part of their (very English) daily tool kit.  Nor, in their view, was it nearly as clever or as well executed as Shidachi seemed to think.

On a fundamental level Japanese and British wrestlers had more in common than either side might be eager to admit. Or to put it slightly differently, the obvious differences between Western wrestling and Japanese judo stemmed from a number of sources that had little to do with the myths of “national essence” being promoted by Shidachi.

For his part Shidachi had no good response when confronted with the many similarities that his audience perceived.  In the modern age there is no more fundamental type of identity than nationalism.  Like all identities it structures how we perceive the world and the evidence that we are willing to accept.  To point out that a number of Judo techniques also appear in other styles of wrestling was taken (and possibly meant) as a direct affront to the legitimacy of Japan’s unique identity.

Instead of engaging with Western wrestlers on their own terms (and in a way that reflected their own values and understanding of wrestling) Shidachi simply retreated back into his talking points.  Everyone knew that Japan and England were different; therefore their philosophies of wrestling must be fundamentally unique as well. Any perceived similarity could only be a misperception born of ignorance of Judo’s deeper aspects. The Japanese student had no need of strength, and the Western wrestler (all protests to the contrary) must rely on nothing else.  Only in that way could the identity of both communities be preserved.

Ip Ching, the younger son of Ip Man, discussing Chi Sao techniques with a teenage student at the VTAA headquarters in Hong Kong.

Technique as Community, Practice as Research

This incident, culled from the first years of the engagement between Asian and Western martial artists, sheds light on why so many modern students feel compelled to define Wing Chun by what it does not do.   Notice again that almost all of these discussions revolve around the question of technique.

By technique I mean the aspect of martial practice that can be conveyed between generations and taught to students.  Technique can deal with basic movement and body mechanics or specific applications.  It can be transmitted through rote repetition or reinforced with a conceptual framework.  In any case, technique is the embodied aspect of a martial practice that endures.  Whereas individual applications or reaction to acts of violence may be brilliant, they are always singular events, confined to a specific moment in time.  Technique, however, has the possibility of transcending any individual moment (Spatz 2015).

It is this ability to endure through the generations that makes bodies of technique so important within the traditional martial arts.  As I have argued elsewhere, at their heart the martial arts are essentially social institutions.  One cannot understand their origins, social function or individual meaning if you divorce them from the larger cultural, economic, legal, philosophical or aesthetic institutions that tolerate and reinforce them.  That is one of the reasons why interdisciplinary approaches to martial arts studies have such great utility.

Society allows the martial arts to exist because they do work that is collective usefully.  Individuals support these institutions because they desire the social and personal transformation that they promise. Yet none of these goals can be accomplished if the hand combat community does not first find a way to spread and perpetuate its identity through space and time.

A shared body of technique represents the physical embodiment of a new collective identity.  As I have argued in previous papers, the martial arts can be understood as liminal structures that seek to transform their members through an extended initiatory experience. Learning new techniques is almost always at the heart of this progression.  It is the mastery of technique that is put to the test in public spectacles designed to confirm one’s advancement in the system.  Nor can one go on to teach new members of the group without having first mastered this shared body of technique.  Both those inside and outside the community are likely to identify your place within the larger martial world by the range of techniques that you can display.

Within this context to cease to practice (or even forget) certain techniques is not simply matter of expediency.  One may be seen as literally walking away from a community based on shared collective practices.  Likewise, to add new elements to one’s training (such as entry drills) can be taken as an affront to the group’s identity.  One cannot simply dismiss this reaction as all martial arts are first and foremost social institutions.

Yet there is another aspect of practice that must be considered.  Here I draw freely from Ben Spatz’s volume, What a Body Can Do: Technique as Knowledge, Practice as Research (Routledge 2015).  While there is an undeniably social aspect to the formation and transmission of technique, practice also generates types of knowledge that resides within an individual body.  Further, individual practice structures and augments the body in ways that are sometimes predictable (one learns Wing Chun precisely because you wish to punch faster), and sometimes radically unexpected (after five years of Wing Chun practice you find yourself becoming ambidextrous, even though that was never a stated conceptual aim of the system).

Spinoza’s question “What can a body do?” has no simple answer.  What your body can do today is largely a matter of what techniques you learned in the past.  Further, as you delve more deeply into the details of a given practice you are likely to find previously undiscovered depths and insights.  Thus the practice of Wing Chun inevitably shades into more basic research on Wing Chun’s techniques.  As any University professor can tell you, basic theoretical research inevitably leads to innovation in practice.  Innovation is a not a bug in this system, rather it is an essential feature of any pedagogical system based on the practice of bodies of techniques (the protests of Confucian traditionalists not withstanding).

Innovation within the realm of the martial arts is inevitable for another reason as well.  Students of self-defense arts like Wing Chun (or Judo for that matter) are not simply practicing their techniques in a vacuum.  Whether in training or actual combat, they are expected to deploy them against a partner who will react in strategic, innovative and adversarial ways.  Such training forces one to accelerate the process of personal research when it happens in a classroom.  One can only imagine the impact of Ip Man gleefully goading his young students into starting actual street fights to test their techniques.

Of course what was effective in Hong Kong in 1953 was probably pretty different from what Leung Jan was contemplating in Foshan in 1853, as gentry led militias fought their way through the burning streets of Foshan employing muskets, hudiedao and long spears.  Both the internalized process of individual research as well as the need to react strategically to an evolving threat environment ensures that martial arts will change, sometimes in radical ways, over time.

The debates that opened this essay will not disappear anytime soon.  They reflect a dialect process that has been present since the first years of the West’s engagement with the Asian martial arts.  Nor will they be resolved by referencing Youtube’s ever growing archive of martial practice.

These fighting systems, and their pedagogical strategies, are fundamentally social in nature.  Potential students are attracted by the promise of community and a deep personal need for transformation.  All of that implies boundary maintenance.  A closed canon of techniques makes this identity real at an embodied level.  Through practice one’s membership in the community can literally be felt and enacted on a daily basis.  Breaking with that may elicit strong emotions, including feelings of betrayal.

On the other hand, one cannot practice technique without engaging in research.  This is how a student makes a martial art their own.  It is what allows them to respond, in rational ways, to an evolving threat environment.  And the martial arts must continue to change.

While they are quite good at promoting the illusion of eternal continuity, the truth is that they have changed in every previous generation, sometimes in radical ways.  It would be a mistake to assume that our generation alone is exempt from this responsibility.  Perhaps the most generous way to understand the debates about what Wing Chun is missing is as a popular expression of the need to balance these fundamental, yet competing, aspects of practice.  As technique travels through time it enables the renegotiation and movement of identity.  Only through this process can we understand what Wing Chun is, and what it is becoming.

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to see: The “Wing Chun Rules of Conduct”: Rediscovering Ip Man’s Original Statement on the Philosophy of the Martial Arts.

oOo

Two students of Shaolin Kung Fu Training. Source: Wikimedia.

Introduction

I recently stumbled across a 1930s English language newspaper, printed by some office within the Japanese government, designed to promote American tourism.  Leafing through its pages I discovered a glowing article about recent events at the Kodokan, the home of the Judo.

The Western reading public had been well aware of the existence of Judo for at least three decades.  Clubs existed to support the sport in a variety of West Coast cities, and even in European centers like London.  One might even be able to see Judo matches in the various newsreels that were a ubiquitous aspect of the era’s popular culture. Still, I had no idea that there was enough interest in the art to actually make it worthwhile to prioritize the Kodokan as a tourism destination.  It seems that martial arts tourism, like so much else, has deeper roots than one might suspect.

International travel has become a ubiquitous aspect of the modern martial arts environment, yet it remains understudied.  China is currently a major promoter of “Kung Fu tourism,” and there is more than one location (the Shaolin Temple, the Taijiquan schools of Mt. Wudang, Chen Village) whose economic fortunes are closely tied to the influx of both domestic and international seekers.  If Chinese tourists might spend a day or two in one of these august locations, Western students commonly spend a few months (or more) in their schools.

Other localities in China have been diligent in their efforts to appeal to these same markets.  Multiple municipalities within Southern China have claimed to be the home of the (basically legendary) Southern Shaolin temple in an attempt to develop their martial arts sector.  Hong Kong has long been a destination for Western students of a variety of arts, including Hung Gar, Choy Li Fut, Southern Mantis and Wing Chun.  Recent efforts to renovate downtown Foshan (returning it to a more “traditional” appearance) were carried out with an explicit eye towards luring some of these tourists up the Pearl River so that they might visit the former haunts of such luminaries as Wong Fei Hung, Chan Ngau Sing and Ip Man.

Martial arts tourism has become big business.  While conducting phone interviews with a firm that specializes in arranging these sorts of training opportunities I was surprised to discover just how far afield the phenomenon has spread.  Beyond traditional destinations like China and Japan, new generations of students are heading for training camps in Thailand, Israel and Brazil.

One cannot help but wonder what motivates individuals to put their careers and lives on hold for months at a time to pursue this sort of training.  The problem becomes all the more acute when you realize that in a global era it is not really necessary to go to Japan to find really excellent Judo instruction.  The same goes for arts like Wing Chun or Muay Thai.  For better or worse globalization has attenuated the connection between local identity and martial excellence.

So who exactly travels abroad when the forces of globalization have brought a variety of highly trained instructors to one’s own community?  What do these students hope to gain, other than the adventure of a lifetime?  And what sort of lasting effects does martial arts tourism have on those who undertake the journey?

Capoeira, according to the Discover Brazil tourism campaign.

How Outsiders Become Insiders in Brazil

Lauren M. Griffith (Hanover College) has set out to answer these questions in a series projects including a number of articles and her recent book In Search of Legitimacy: How Outsiders Become Part of the Afro-Brazilian Capoeria Tradition (Berghan, 2016).  Unfortunately I have not yet had a chance to read her book, a copy of which currently sits atop the “pile of guilt” that rests beside my computer.

Nevertheless, in the current post I would like to explore a few of the ideas found in her recent article “Beyond Martial Arts Tourism: Outcomes of Capoeiristas’ Apprenticeship Pilgrimages” in the journal IDO MOVEMENT FOR CULTURE. Journal of Martial Arts Anthropology, Vol. 16, no. 2 (2016), pp. 32–40.  This paper is of interest precisely because it focuses on the motivations and outcomes (not all of them expected) arising from martial arts tourism.

Worried that the term “tourism” might be offensive to some students, or be seen as trivializing the depth of their dedication, Griffith begins her project by introducing a new concept.  Noting both the pedagogical aspect of these journeys, as well as their importance to an individual’s identity construction, she terms this sort of travel an “apprenticeship pilgrimage.”  Those interested in her construction and use of this idea, or who would like additional background on her larger project, should be sure to see her short article “Apprenticeship Pilgrimages: An Alternate Analytical Lens” in the  Annals of Tourism Research, Vol. 41, pp. 228–231 (2013).

Even students of Martial Arts Studies not interested in travel or Capoeira will still want to take a look at Griffith’s work.  From a purely methodological standpoint this short article is a fascinating exercise in gaining as much utility as possible from the data at hand.  It is the sort of thing that graduate students, or anyone currently designing their own project, will want to think about.

Griffith notes in her introduction that while there are a variety of literatures on the experience of pilgrimage itself, very little work (especially in the context of the martial arts) has been done to assess the impact of such experiences on those who have returned.  In the medium to long run, how do these experiences influence one’s dedication to a given art?  What do they reveal to a student about themselves and the nature of the global community of which they are a part? Given the ever increasing number of martial artists setting out on their own “Kung Fu Quests,” these are critical questions.

Unfortunately answering them is not easy, particularly in the case of Capoeira.  In a relatively decentralized tradition without a comprehensive regulatory body, Griffith’s first (and in some ways most critical) challenge was simply locating a sizable sample of those individuals who had made the journey to Brazil in the first place.

In any graduate level research design class students will spend a fair amount of time learning how to randomly sample a population in such a way that large-N statistical inferences can be drawn from the data.  Most of my graduate school career was actually spent assembling massive datasets on trade and economic sanctions which could then be subjected to complex multi-level statistical models.

What we often neglect to mention in these classes is that gathering this sort of data is often very expensive.  Without some sort of fairly hefty grant it may be impossible to design your own phone interviews (carried out by professional polling firms), which can provide the sort of data necessary for testing a more complex hypothesis.  Needless to say, there is not much of that kind of money floating around the martial arts studies community at the moment.

Griffith sidestepped these issues by attempting to design a pilot project that would be more manageable for a single researcher.  In her paper she begins by describing her efforts to create a Facebook community called “Capoeira Research.”  She hoped that by engaging in community building activities, and posting links to academic research on the art, she would build a base of followers who might be interested in advancing our understanding of these questions.  She would then be able to sample and interview members of this community in various research projects, including the current one on “apprentice pilgrimages.”

From a purely statistical standpoint there are some issues with this methodology.  Obviously it is not a random sample.  Individuals decide to opt-in at multiple points.  Only those individuals seeking out information on “Capoeira research” are likely to find the group.  Likewise, individuals who speak English as their first language, or who spend a lot of time on Facebook, are likely to be over represented in Griffith’s sample.

Sample size also proved to be an obstacle.  Of the 400 or so followers in her group, only a few dozen individuals who had traveled to Brazil ended up responding to her survey.  A procedure like Snowball sampling may have provided a larger and higher quality sample set, but it would also have been more expensive and time consuming to put together.  Still, with the understanding that we must be careful not to generalize about these findings, did her research turn up anything interesting?

I think that the answer is yes.  Her findings suggest some very interesting puzzles for future investigations that might not otherwise have emerged.  That is particularly valuable when thinking about an undertheorized area, such as the long term impact of martial arts tourism.

Consider the connection between personal crisis and legitimacy. In her earlier 2013 article Griffith provides a valuable description of the sorts of apprentice pilgrims that she encountered during the course of her own ethnographic work in Brazil.  In general these individuals were extremely dedicated to capoeira.  In fact, one gets the feeling that some may have been a bit too dedicated to their art.  She describes individuals who routinely skipped out on their jobs to train, or others who broke off personal relationships with partners who did not understand their obsession with these martial arts.  It was often in the midst of some such crisis that the initial decision to travel to Brazil was made.

This bit of background is important for interpreting the first major finding that Griffith discusses when reviewing the results of her 2016 survey.  One might assume that Western Capoeira teachers would suggest that their students undertake a pilgrimage because it would increase their “fervor” or enthusiasm for their study.  That is certainly how we tend to think about the function of a religious pilgrimage, at least on the popular level.

Surprisingly Griffith found that even extended periods of study in Brazil (the average trip in her sample being two months) tended not to increase a student’s commitment to the art.  That fact makes more sense when we look at her prior description of who was undertaking this sort of travel.  By in large these were individuals with years of experience who already exhibited the highest degree of dedication.  They had already reached the upper bounds of commitment.

While many of these students set out with high expectations, it appears that, by in large, they were met.  When asked about specific shortcomings individuals almost universally expressed a desire for even more training, but relatively few reported disappointment with what they got.  Still, Griffith’s initial findings suggested what the quality of one’s experience was often highly idiosyncratic.  Those students who were most successful at establishing a personal mentorship relationship with a local teacher were the most likely to accomplish their goals.

This led to another major finding.  A notable percentage of female students reported lower long term satisfaction with their pilgrimage experience than males.  Looking at both the individual responses of those in her sample set, as well as her own personal experience in the region, Griffith noted that the machismo that had traditionally dominated the practice of Capoeira continues to be a deterrent for female students, and by extension the global spread of the art.  More specifically it can interfere with the creation of the sorts of relationships with local practitioners that are necessary for a successful experience.

From a theoretical perspective, perhaps the most interesting finding of Griffith’s research was the ongoing importance of the relationships that were forged not just between outside students and Brazilian teachers, but within the membership of the highly diverse body of international students who were all undertaking similar pilgrimages together.  In fact, many of the respondents in her sample set had undertaken more than one journey to Brazil.  After their initial trip they reported that these other sorts of relationships became a more important motivating factor in their continued travel.

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

Martial Practice and the Crisis of Legitimacy

Griffith notes that the underlying crisis that seemed to motivate the majority of her pilgrims was one of legitimacy.  These were individuals who had spent substantial resources studying what was traditionally a local art.  The practice of capoeira emerged from types of identity, moments in history and varieties of struggle that were usually not their own.  How could you know that the Capoeira that one was studying in NY or London was legitimate?  And how could one verify that you were in fact a “legitimate” practitioner of the community (one that was traditionally founded on Afro-Brazilian masculine identity) when you are differently situated in the global system? Griffith hypothesizes that the quest for legitimacy (rather than simply technical excellence) is a driving force behind the growth of martial arts tourism.

This is an interesting point that bears further consideration.  Legitimacy often functions within a community as a source of influence.  As one of her respondents noted, after returning from an extended period of study in Brazil, one’s fellow students back home were more likely to take your thoughts into consideration than they were before you left.

Legitimacy can be conceptualized as one of the many faces of social power as defined by the sociologist Robert Dahl.  For Dahl power was simply any means of influence that might get someone to do (or think) something that they would not otherwise do (or accept).

Given that concepts like “power” or “legitimacy” are inherently relational (meaning that they do not exist in abstract, but are instead a characteristic of a preexisting relationship), we can only discuss about them if we start by specifying scope and domain conditions.  More succinctly, when we say that a student has gained legitimacy we must specify within what audience (scope), and in relation to what questions (domain).  Even a resource as slippery as legitimacy is not infinitely fungible.

This aside is important as it brings to the fore a latent tension in Griffith’s 2016 article.  In whose eyes is the pilgrim really trying to gain legitimacy or social status?  Do they seek to succeed within the orbit of their teacher in Brazil?  Or possibly before the larger body of international Capoeira students, including both their fellow travelers.

Clearly building a strong personal relationship with a local teacher is a critical part of a successful pilgrimage experience.  And the existence of that relationship might assuage a student’s existential concerns as to the authenticity of their acceptance in the community.  Yet I remain unclear as to how the majority of Griffith’s respondents viewed the community in question.  While some seem to have elevated the legitimacy of Brazilian practitioners in almost absolute terms, others saw Brazil as a single (if central) node in a larger web of associations.  One might term these hierarchical versus horizontal modes of social organization.  To oversimplify what is a clearly a subtle situation, does one wish to gain legitimacy in the eyes of a teacher in Brazil, or the local instructors and students back home?

I would like to resist the immediate urge to just assert “both” as I think there might be an important (if difficult to articulate) puzzle lurking in the shadows.  To begin with, strategies for gaining legitimacy within a horizontal group of fellow travelers are often different from what might allow one to make ever higher and tighter orbits of pilgrimage around a central point that is capable of granting legitimacy on a monopoly basis.  While such strategies may overlap at times, they will also have distinctive features.

As I was reading Griffith I found myself remembering Benedict Anderson’s discussion of the contrasting pilgrimages made by Creole officials and Spanish officers in Latin America just prior to the outburst of national independence movements in the region.  The Creole officials, barred by birth from ever serving in the metropole, created very different sorts of horizontal relationships than Spanish officials who were both sent from, and would ultimately return to, the center.  Interestingly both Anderson and Griffith’s observations seem to build upon Victor Turner’s earlier insights about the transformative nature of any pilgrimage.

At the end of her article Griffith notes that the Brazilian Capoeira community will ultimately be forced to respond to the desires and needs of this growing body of transnational students, and so practice within the art’s cultural center (Brazil itself) will eventually change.  Indeed, the advent of larger group classes would seem to indicate that this is happening already.

Yet at the same time one might also find signs of resistance in her narrative.  The persistent problems faced by female students, issues severe enough to have impacted their valuation of their own pilgrimages, suggest that some aspects of the community are not likely to change in response to the demands of global capitalism.  To the extent that female students are deterred from visiting, machismo carries a very real economic price.

Nevertheless, Griffith paints a picture of an art that is increasingly open to international participation. It is one where relationships between pilgrims are becoming as important as relationships with the center.  In short she describes an increasingly horizontal set of associations that is compatible with the demands of the international tourism market.  Increasingly students go to Brazil not just to learn from (and gain the respect of local teachers), but a growing body of global colleagues.

How should we understand all of this?  Does this openness reflect the choices that groups of Capoeira teachers have made, or perhaps a shared cultural environment?  Or instead are we seeing the homogenizing effects of globalization at play?

To answer this question more scholars will need to take up the questions that she ends her paper with.  When looking at the state of Kung Fu tourism in China, it is not hard to agree with Griffith’s assessment that market realities might be driving “facts on the ground.”  On the other hand, Alexander Bennet has recently argued that Kendo has failed to globalize (at least on the same scale as Judo or Karate) precisely because it has refused to make the accommodations necessary to extend the privilege of legitimacy to outsiders.  Its close association with Japanese ethnicity and nationalism has ensured that outsiders will have great trouble becoming insiders, and few will be interested in trying.  Of course Bennett’s analysis is based on his historical research and personal experience, rather than attempts to gather data and interview those making pilgrimages into the heart of Budo.

What is at stake is a fundamental question about the shape of the global martial arts community.  Will market forces push all martial arts towards horizontal modes of social organization, in which legitimacy is ultimately diffused throughout a churning body of international pilgrims?  Or is it possible to resist this trend.  Can socially viable arts continue to organize themselves around closed, vertically organized, sets of values that effectively withhold the promise of true acceptance from those who are nevertheless willing to study them?  To put it slightly differently, is it possible in the current era for the martial arts to reflect the values and identities of those who created them, or does their global translation ensure that they ultimately reflect only the values of those who consume them?

This short article cannot provide a definitive answer to this question.  But by suggesting the growing importance of legitimacy within a horizontally organized community of peers, it exposes a critical puzzle in the global development of the martial arts.

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read:  Yim Wing Chun and the “Primitive Passions” of Southern Kung Fu

oOo

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 19^th 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 19^th 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.

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 17^th 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.

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 19^th 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 20^th 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 19^th 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

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 19^th 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 19^th 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 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 19^th 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.

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 19^th 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 19^th 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 19^th century or even the first few decades of the 20^th.  Further, this would fit with our understanding of the late 19^th 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?

The term “hudiedao,” or “butterfly sword,” never appears in any of the 19^th 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 21^st 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 19^th 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.

The sorts of blades seen on hudiedao from southern China can also vary immensely.  Two types are most commonly encountered on 19^thcentury 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 19^th 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.

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 19^th century.  Occasionally blades in this configuration also show elaborate decorations that are not often evident on other types of hudiedao.

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.  19^th 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 19^th 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.

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 19^th 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.

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.

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 21^st, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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 19^th 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.

“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 19^th 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 19^th 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

Dainu’s hudiedao are shorter and fatter than most of the earlier 19^th 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 20^th 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 19^th 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 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.

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 20^th 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.

Still, “cold weapons” of all types saw less use in the second and third decades of the 20^th 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.

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.

“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-19^th century swords in their hands instead.

Hudiedao, like many other weapons, developed a certain mystique during the 19^th 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.

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 19^th 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 18^th or early 19^th 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 19^th 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.

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. 19^th 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 20^th 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 19^th 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. 19^th 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.

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

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.

“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 19^th 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 19^th 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). 

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.

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 19^th 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?

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

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“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 remains.  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, at the same point in time.  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

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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

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