A postcard showing Chinese weapons captured by the Japanese in Manchuria during WWII.

Introduction

Conflict seems to inspire trophy hunting. In the west this often takes the form of fading photographs of someone’s grandfather holding a vintage Luger. A large number of katanas also made their way back to the United States in the hands of returning servicemen. These became the seeds that gave rise to an increasingly sophisticated culture of Japanese sword appreciation on this side of the pacific. Nor does it appear that this impulse is the exclusive domain of the western cultures. As one combs through the historical artifacts of the great conflicts of the 20th century it is not hard to find evidence of similar practices in both China and Japan. Some of these remembrances can even be helpful to later students of martial arts history.

The decreasing cost of photographic reproduction ensured that by the middle of the 20th century images, rather than artifacts, would become some of the most frequently collected items to return home with soldiers. During the WWII period we can think of these as falling into three different categories based on their methods of production and distribution.

First, there are a very small number of personally produced photographic images that were taken by individuals who were actually located on the scene. These items are relatively rare as most soldiers who were actively campaigning did not have access to cameras and a darkroom. Many of these pictures were taken by journalists.  Nevertheless, when located these images can be important historical documents.

Much more common are images produced by professional photographers that were then reproduced for sale to servicemen and officers who were stationed in the local area. Often these images will feature stereotypical local scenes such as “The Great Wall of China,” or images of “The Shanghai Bund.” It is not uncommon for these reproductions to be labeled within the photograph itself, or to have been sold in collected albums, where each page featured a different theme. Such images could be sent home to loved ones and are fairly commonly encountered. In fact, if you spend some time on eBay it is not hard to start spotting duplicates of the more common themes. Execution scenes appear to have been big sellers.

Lastly there are images that were reproduced on an even wider commercial scale. Of course the most common of these are postcards. Whereas actual photographs derive their value from their specificity, being tied to a known place and time, postcards draw on the emotional appeal of the generic. Rather than a specific data point they promise a look at “all Chinese women” through a single portrait, or a sense of the totality of “Manchurian Daily Life” in a single street scene.

Working with these images can be rewarding, but it is not without its challenges. Occasionally some important piece of historical data can be gleaned from these postcards, but in general their value stems from what they betray about the subconscious attitudes and expectation of both those who sent and received them. Because their images are treated as generic and universal they are often reused in anachronistic or geographically puzzling ways. It is not uncommon to find postcards of “Chinese life” mailed in the 1940s that show images of China from before the 1911 revolution. The persistent yearning for an “oriental” and eternal China is portrayed in many of these images.

The inexpensive and widespread nature of the medium also made postcards a useful tool of public diplomacy and educational propaganda. The Japanese, in particular, produced large numbers of postcards that featured scenes of daily military training and camp life to be sent back to the families of soldiers in the mainland.

Other “educational” images seem to have been produced with the soldiers themselves in mind. These might carry useful bits of information, or show something about the forces that they were engaged with. The two postcards that we will be examining today, both taken from longer series, seem to fall into this category.

Weapons of the Enemy

Recently I had the good fortune of running across two postcards on eBay (both located in Japanese collections) that contained images of Chinese swords and other traditional weapons captured by Japanese troops in Manchuria during World War II. The first of these (featured at the head of this essay) was a black and white image of two swords, a Mauser pattern bayonet, a helmet and a gasmask. All of the items in this image are notable for their quality. The broader of the two swords is a dadao.  Note that the scabbard is present and that the blade lacks the distinctive “ring pommel” construction seen on so many surviving examples. Instead this sample appears to have a more traditional peened hilt.

While the dadao was likely produced during the late 1930s, the other sword is of a slightly older vintage. It is a well preserved example of a civilian jian. It is difficult to say much about the quality of the fittings or blade given the poor resolution of this photograph, but it is interesting to compare the length of this sword to the dadao besides it. Such weapons were favored by more extensively trained civilian martial artists. The helmet and gasmask, while core elements of this period’s military technology, feel slightly out of place in this image. We will return to that visual tension shortly.

A Japanese postcard showing swords captured in WWII. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

The second image features an even more diverse array of traditional arms. Readers should begin by noting that this postcard is labeled in Japanese, English and Chinese. Most Japanese postcards from the WWII period are labeled only in Japanese (at least on the front), so this may be a reprinted image that was put back into circulation in the post WWII period. Again, it is hard to say with certainty as these images tended to get passed around and reprinted somewhat randomly.

The first two swords on the left are both patterns of dadao that are still encountered by collectors today. In fact, the first sword with the distinctive ring pommel and broken (probably brass) handguard was the most commonly produced type of dadao. The handle was generally wrapped with cord (sometimes with wooden inserts) to make it usable. The next sword to the left is notable for its wider blade. It appears to have lost its guard altogether (or perhaps it never received one).

The next three blades show a great deal of variety in both size and construction type. Readers should also notice the slender (probably Qing) era dao placed between the various bayonets. Along the bottom the image we see some archaic black powder firearms that were still in circulation and even a socketed spear head. A submachine gun rounds off this collection of weapons, once again adding an anachronistic flair.

One of the most interesting aspects of this image is the generally poor condition of these weapons. They look remarkably like many of random dadaos and lower quality swords that one might encounter at an auction house today. I must admit that I had always assumed that the missing handles and generally poor upkeep of these weapons had something to do with their age. But looking at this image (probably originally taken in the late 1930s or early 1940s), one wonders if perhaps a large percentage of the dadaos issued simply went into the field in an unfinished condition?

Selection Bias: A Double Trap

It might be tempting to look at this selection of images and to immediately draw some conclusions about how the Japanese individuals who bought and consumed them viewed the Chinese. Does this emphasis on traditional weapons betray a certain Orientalizing or infantilizing attitude? Does it constitute an implicit argument as to why Japanese Imperialism is not only necessary but ultimately beneficial?

I have heard a number of similar arguments made as scholars attempt to read similar images as historical texts. Some care is necessary in these exercises. To begin with, how much of the picture are we actually seeing?

I suspect that postcards like these are actually overrepresented in existing collections precisely because they are visually interesting. But how common were they in the 1940s? Recently I had a chance to see a number of other postcards produced in the same series as the first black and white example which we discussed above. All of these images were attempting to “educate” Japanese troops and other individuals as to the weapons that were encountered in Manchuria. But none of them (with the exception of the example given here) contained any traditional weapons at all. Instead they focused their attention on multiple patterns of modern rifles, submachine guns, handguns and poison gas gear. At least 80% of the series focused on modern weapons, yet I can’t find a single high quality image of these once more common postcards to share here.

Ultimately I would not discourage scholars from theoretically informed attempts to interpret or “read” the social meaning of these images. I believe that the exercise is quite fruitful. But some caution is in order. We must consider quite carefully whose discourse we are actually coming into contact with. Certainly we are not seeing the full totality of life under the Japanese occupation of Manchuria in these photographs. Only a tiny fraction of all of the available images was selected for distribution as postcards.

Yet over half a century later we rarely see more than a few of those. Instead we tend to encounter the elements of that discourse that found favor with more recent Japanese and Western collectors. These images survived and were reproduced precisely because they were congruent with the newly emerging discourse about China, WWII and the martial arts that arose in the current era. The Japanese soldiers being exposed to these postcards during WWII seem to have been (understandably) mostly concerned with the modern and deadly weapons in China’s arsenal. Yet the various patterns of bolt action rifles and sub-machine guns that characterized that conflict have faded in the popular imagination while the sword and bayonet have grown.

Nor is this challenge restricted to the realm of ephemera and postcards. Anyone looking at the history of popular culture needs to remember that these discourses usually come to us through multiple stages of evolution, each of which limits and colors what we see.

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

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If you enjoyed this post you might also want to see: Through a Lens Darkly (22): Heavy Knives and Stone Locks – Strength Training in the Traditional Chinese Martial Arts

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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.

Kung Fu Tea Turns Two Years Old!

Today is the second anniversary of my first post here at Kung Fu Tea.  The last two years have been a blast as well as something of a blur.  Looking back at my records it appears that this blog has now hosted over 200 unique posts.  Nor have most of these been “light reading.”  Quick estimations based on average length and word count indicate that I have now written about 1,000 single spaced pages and am closing in on a million words.

To say that this experience has been educational would be a vast understatement.  Education has always been this blog’s central mission.  There are currently no graduate programs that offer a Masters or PhD in “martial arts studies.”  As more writers and academics of various backgrounds enter this field it is necessary for us to explore the literature, encounter new perspectives and begin to craft our own opinions on a vast range of topics.  Kung Fu Tea was created as a vehicle to allow me to do precisely that in a slightly more organized and rigorous way than might otherwise have been the case.  I am continually surprised and elated to discover so many readers from a variety of backgrounds who are enthusiastic to sign on for this journey.  Thank you for all of your support and kind wishes.

I think that I can also say with confidence that the best is yet to come.  Over the next year I hope to tackle a number of exciting topics in semi-regular series of posts, much like our current investigation of piracy and the world of seafarers in the 19th century Chinese martial arts.  The blog will also feature interviews and guest-posts with important scholars in the field, further extending our understanding of what these fighting systems really are and how we can best go about understanding them.  Lastly (once some final timeline details get nailed down) I will have a couple of exciting announcements to make.

For today’s post I would like to go back and revisit an essay that I first published about four months ago.  My initial aims in writing this piece was to relate a few of my most recent findings on the evolution and use of the butterfly sword (or hudiedao) in 19th century China.  However, as I began to think about the topic I realized that the descriptions of life aboard southern Chinese merchant vessels included in this account were just as important as the explicit discussions of these sailor’s weapons.  Our current series of posts on the intersection of piracy and the Chinese martial arts was actually born out of this essay, so it seems only fitting that we go back and revisit it in greater detail today.

One of the issues that I find most interesting is the difference in powers vested in “merchant” verses “pirate” captains.  Robert J. Antony has noted in his volume Like Froth Floating on the Sea: The World of Pirates and Seafarers, that these ships, while manned by identical crews, were often structured quite differently.  Chinese sailors turned to piracy in times of economic stress precisely because it tended to pay rather well.  At minimum the wealth of pirate vessels was much more even distributed than the economic shares (or sometimes cash salaries) which sailors earned on merchant ships.

Still, this was no proto-democratic paradise.  Antony goes to lengths to point out the total and draconian powers that pirate captains had over their crews.  Officers could execute sailors (often in gruesome ways) for violations of the various “ships codes” that they created.  It was also not uncommon for the officers of these vessels to be “related” to each other through either actual or pseudo-kinship ties.  This may not surprise us as it sounds similar to the world of martial artists and secret society members.  Yet in structural terms it served to hamper “upward mobility” within pirate crews.

What was life like in the rest of China’s merchant fleet?  The sources we will be reviewing today paint a very different picture.  Sailors on fishing and merchant vessels were not paid nearly as well.  They were often the victims of various sorts of economic exploitation.  On the other hand relationships within crews, and between the crews and the officers, were not nearly as militarized as what Antony relates.

These descriptions leave us to wonder how much of the institutionalization of pirate life really reflected traditional modes of bandit organization rather than seafaring structures.  All of this is interesting as it suggests why poor peasants might be drawn to a life in trade or on the water in the first place.  That in turn allows us to understand one of the driving mechanisms behind the southern Chinese economy.  But before we get to these aspects of the discussion we will need to take another look at some clues regarding the development of the hudiedao (butterfly sword).  Enjoy!

The Butterfly Sword on Land and Sea

Understanding the actual history and use of hudiedao (or Butterfly Swords) reflects the challenges faced by students of martial studies more generally. These short paired swords, with their distinctive D-shaped hand guards, are one of the most commonly seen weapons in the southern Chinese martial arts. Wing Chun, Choy Li Fut, Hung Gar, White Crane and numerous other styles all train with these distinctive blades.

In fact, these weapons have become emblematic of southern Chinese martial arts. They have been featured in countless movies, television programs, instructional DVDs and public demonstrations. They have been popularized to the point that they are currently making routine appearances in children’s cartoons.

I doubt that it would even be possible to count the number of Wing Chun schools that employ the hudiedao (or Baat Jam Dao, meaning “eight cutting swords”) in their school logos and regalia. These knives function as a symbol of legitimacy on multiple levels. In post-WWII Wing Chun practice and folklore the knives have been reserved for only the “best” and “most dedicated” students. Demonstrating proficiency in their use indicates a mastery of the systems as a whole. At the same time they are undeniably exotic. There is nothing in the traditional western arsenal quite like them. Indeed, they have a number of unique features, and a somewhat shadowy history, even within their original Chinese environment.

Butterfly Swords have benefited immensely from the successive waves of popular interest that followed events such as the rise of Bruce Lee or the various Ip Man movies. This once obscure weapon now has its own pop-culture following. This in turn has led to the rise of all sorts of stories and myths concerning the origins of these blades.

Some seek to tie them to the Shaolin Temple, and claim that the swords were employed by the monks for protection on the road. Of course the actual historic accounts of the monks of Henan province never mention anything like butterfly swords. Other stories focus on the connections between the hudiedao and secret societies. Occasionally they are called “River Pirate Swords” by western weapons collectors. There is some evidence that both land and sea based bandits did employ these blades in southern China, though they had no special claim on the weapon.

It seems that this weapon’s recent popularity has led to a profusion of legends that have obscured and overwritten its more mundane origins. These swords seem to have existed in a fairly stable and recognizable form in southern China since at least the start of the 19th century, and possibly before. In fact, some of the earliest western descriptions of Chinese weapons in the Pearl River Delta region provide us with detailed accounts of these blades including their appearance and use.

Chinese language historical and military records have very little to say on the topic of Butterfly Swords. These weapons were never adopted by either the Banner or Green Standard armies. This is precisely what makes the early western accounts so interesting. They stopped to comment on things that were, at the time, either too basic or utterly uninteresting to warrant mention by most educated Chinese individuals.

Hudiedao appear to have started off as one regional variation of the numerous double sword traditions that had been popular in the Chinese martial arts going back as far as the Ming Dynasty. While different sorts of double sword traditions are seen throughout the country, the blades used normally resemble typical jians or daos. The shorter blades and D-shaped guards seen on southern hudiedao may be a result of contact with Europeans, though this point is still open to debate. Guangdong was more tightly tied into the global trade system than other areas of China in the 18th and 19th centuries and it is hard to ignore the passing resemblance between these weapons and western military hangers and cutlasses.

Far from being the weapon of only the “most elite” warriors, the hudiedao appears to have been popularized and adopted by a large number of 19th century martial artists precisely because it was relatively easy to master and adaptable to a large number of styles. In other posts we have already reviewed how the hudiedao was adopted as a standard sidearm of Guangdong’s provincial militia in the volatile mid 19th century because they could be mass produced and taught to new recruits who probably had some sort of background in village boxing.

During the 1840s government trainers provided daily drilling to literally thousands of militia members on the use of the hudiedao in and around Guangzhou. I suspect that this, more than anything else, might help to explain the subsequent popularity of the weapon with local martial artists. After all, individuals like Leung Jan and Chan Wah Shun were a product of this environment.  Should we be surprised that the two most commonly taught weapons in Wing Chun (the hudiedao and long pole) were also among the most commonly issued militia arms?

Of course double swords are also visually impressive weapons and they have always been a favorite of opera singers. Some of our best early pictures of their use show them in the hands of local performers.

The recent resurgence of interest in the hudiedao has been something of a mixed blessing. On the one hand these swords have become a powerful symbol of what is unique and interesting about the southern Chinese martial arts. Yet their original shape, history and capabilities are not well understood. The following post attempts to build on our previous discussions by introducing four new period observations of these weapons.

Two of these are early accounts (from the 1830s-1840s) in which western observers describe both the physical appearance of these unique weapons and the social environment that surrounds them. One account focuses on land forces while then other provides a much rarer look at the place of the hudiedao on merchant vessels.

The other two witnesses are both late 19th/early 20th century photographs. In both cases these images were published on postcards and have been previously overlooked by students of Chinese martial history. These photos are particularly important because they allow us to match specific examples of these weapons to a known time and place. As important as antique weapons are, they usually come to use as decontextualized artifacts with no known history. Collectors are then left to guess at their age and purpose. Obviously this makes it difficult to reconstruct the social history of these weapons.

Butterfly Swords in Sketches of China by W. W. Wood (1830)

 

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

 

When analyzing period documents it is necessary to start by asking a few questions about the background and general reliability of the author. William Wightman Wood (1804-?) is best remembered today as a poet and for the introduction of photography into the Philippines where he worked as a manager of a coffee and sugar plantation.

As a young adult he spent a few years living in Hong Kong and Macao in the 1820s and 1830s. While there he started the Canton Register in 1827. This was the first English language newspaper in China and it was made possible through the generous support of James and Alexander Matheson of the notorious Jardine, Matheson & Co. In addition to reporting the news Wood published editorials that bitterly attacked the British East India Company’s monopoly on China trade. He also vocally criticized the concessions that foreign traders were forced to make under the “Canton Trade System.” The paper ran only briefly before the East India Company forced Wood out. He later returned to the region and tried his hand at trade with little success. In 1831 he started a second newspaper, but that project also failed.

While he did have extensive “on the ground experience” Wood was notably less sympathetic in his views of the Chinese life and society than some of the other authors I have discussed on the blog. At the same time even his critics conceded that he was a talented writer and artist, and he certainly had an eye for the habits of daily life.

When looking at the specific quote above its interesting to note how Wood situates the hudiedao (always referred to in period sources as “double swords”) within his overall discussion of Chinese arms. He spends more time discussing them any other single weapon. He also introduces both the hudiedao and the bar-maces (sometimes called “iron rulers”) after observing the particularly “cruel” nature of some Chinese weapons. In the case of the butterfly swords he notes that one of the goals of these weapons is to “hamstring” one’s enemies.

This last point is particularly interesting. One would be tempted to simply dismiss it as a western exaggeration except that the guidebook to Nathan Dunn’s extensive collection of Chinese artifacts, displayed in Philadelphia in 1838 (10,000 Chinese Things by Enoch Cobb Vines), makes exactly the same claim. Dunn was an extremely sympathetic observer and a careful collector. He spent years cultivating relationships throughout local society and his Chinese agents brought him a wide assortment of artifacts and descriptions of their use.

I have previously wondered if this association of butterfly swords might not be a remembrance of their use in “hamstringing” as a judicial punishment by the Canton yamen. Some sources indicate that this punishment was used on those who attempted to escape prison or exile before being banned by Chinese legal reformers. However the appearance of this same story in a second source now has me wondering if perhaps the association between this weapon and maiming one’s opponent was not more widespread in 19th century popular culture.

More interesting still is the description of the weapons provided by Wood. Many of the surviving hudiedao and early photographs from the mid 19th century have surprisingly long blades.  Other examples from that period seem more designed as thrusting weapons. However the swords that Wood observed in the 1830s were much shorter, in his opinion no longer than daggers. I had previously assumed that the hudiedao shrank in size late in the 19th century, though this account seems to suggest that there were always shorter weapons in circulation. Or perhaps the length and heft of these blades was actually increased during the tumultuous 1840s and 1850s?

Readers should note that Wood mentions the surprising thickness and weight of the hudiedao blades. Apparently this, and their triangular flat ground profile, are characteristics that have remained stable over time. Lastly his observations about the quality of weapons made during the 19th century (poor fit and finish, but with the nicer swords being notably better) aligns with the description of other early collectors.

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.

Hudiedao and other Arms on Merchant Vessels

 

BOAT MAKING AND SAILING.—A large smuggling-boat constructed at Hong Kong, employed forty carpenters for one month and cost with rigging 1600 dollars. These boats do not last more than three or four years without repairing; their dimensions are about: –

Length…………………..70 cubits
Breadth amidship……….13 “
Depth of hold……………5 “
Height of the main mast…50 “
Do. Mizzen do…………35 “
Drawing water…………..3 ½ “

This boat would only be second class; the first class would be seventy-eight cubits long; a cubit is fifteen inches English. When fully manned, the crew are as follows: first and second captains, sixty rowers, and ten sailors to steer and shift sails. The crews are residents or natives of Whampoa; and if married, their wives are not allowed with them, lest their presence would damp their courage in danger. One of these fast boats will carry 350 chests of opium, or 400 of Congo tea. The profit from each voyage are arranged thus. Provisions, six dollars per day, or 180 Dollars per month; the proprietor then takes half, and the remainder is divided among the crew; the first captain takes 100 percent., the second captain fifty percent about all others on board. With a calm sea and a fair tide the boat can go six miles an hour without using sails, with a good breeze ten or twelve miles at the same time.

At night the “watch” consists of six men relieved every hour. Time is calculated by burning a joss stick (if they have no watch), with four marks at equal distances. A “watch” extends from one mark to another, and is lighted at eight o’clock, so they burn two during the night. The last “watch” ends at four o’clock A.M.

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.

The crew seldom goes on shore. The captain has no power to strike any of the crew nor put a man in irons, but by common consent the disturbers are put ashore; no articles of agreement are entered into; the captain selects his men, and generally advances them a dollar or two. There is no medicine on board; no one is permitted to smoke opium, unless the boat is anchored in a safe place…..

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

Robert Montgomery Martin (1801 – 1868) lived a life of adventure and exploration of the sort that was really only possible in the 19th century. Born into a protestant family in Dublin, as a young man Robert was involved with voyages of exploration to Africa, the Indian Ocean and Asia. Later in life he became deeply involved in “the colonial question” and proved to be a prolific writer. In 1844 Martin was named the treasurer of the newly created colony of Hong Kong. However after falling ill and quarrelling with the governor he left the post in 1845 and thereafter turned to literature. Needless to say his extensive travels provided him with a seemingly unending supply of subject material.

While well-traveled Martin was certainly not an “old China hand.” He only spent a brief period of time in Hong Kong, though he did get to see the colony at a critical point in its development (he famously predicted that it would fail). Still, he had spent a sizable percentage of his life on various sorts of merchant and naval vessels. That probably explains the detailed interest that he took in the outfitting of a typical south China merchant/smuggling ship.

Obviously the important revelation in this quote is that by the 1840s hudiedaos had become a standard part of any ocean going vessel’s armaments. The ship described by Martin above carried a total crew of 72 individuals (including officers). In an engagement up to 20 of those people (more than ¼ of the crew) might be armed with Hudiedao. One would guess that most of the other would carry pikes or man the various guns.

While reviewing the 19th century literature I have certainly come across other references to sailors carrying hudiedao in the waters off Southern China. Yet this in the only inventory of a merchant ship’s armory that I have ever seen.

For years the received wisdom was that the hudiedao was a product of the late 19th century explosion of interest in the martial arts. It was seen as an eccentric, non-practical, weapon of martial arts masters caught up in their own warrior dreams.

These quotes, along with those presented here help to paint a different picture. The hudiedao was in fact one of the most commonly issued and encountered weapons in southern China. The government purchased them in large numbers and issued them to the gentry led militia forces of the mid 19th century. At the same time they were adopted in mass by a wide variety of civilians, ranging from private guards and opera singers to sailors and merchant marines.

Early 20th Century Images of Butterfly Swords

I would now like to briefly turn my attention to the two images which illustrate this post. The first of these shows a group of “soldiers” and civilians apparently engaged in gambling in Yunnan province in the early 20th century, prior to the 1911 revolution. Two of the individuals in the center of this frame are armed. The soldier of the right has some sort of ring handled sword (possibly a dadao like weapon) slung across his back. Unfortunately we can’t see its blade.

We are more fortunate with the individuals on the left. He is holding a single hudiedao in a reverse grip. One can just make out the shape of the D-shaped hand guard at the bottom of the handle. By my own rough estimate the blade of this weapon is probably about 10 inches (or about 15 cm) long. It also appears to widen about three-quarters of the way towards the point, giving it a flare similar to that seen on many ox-tailed daos (a weapon popular with civilian martial artists and marketplace performers). Given the resolution of the original photograph it is hard to make a definitive statement, but I would hazard a guess that this knife had a steel hand guard.

The second image presented in this post continues with the nautical theme introduced by Martin. It is taken from a vintage postcard in my own collection showing the arms room of a vessel called the Wang-Ho. I intend to take a much closer look at the strange story of the Wang-Ho and its sister ships in a future essay. However, for our present purposes it is enough to point out that the above image does not show an authentic mid 19th century armory.

Instead this vessel was bought in the opening years of the 20th century, refitted in Shanghai and sent to California (by way of Japan) to be a tourist attraction. The ship hosted visitors, featured a crew of “authentic” Chinese sailors, fought mock battles against pirates and introduced many people to a certain vision of Chinese martial culture and the martial arts. Of course the ship also featured a gift shop (where this postcard was purchased) which was actually located in the armory pictured above.

I think that we can safely assume that all of the arms in this photograph were either produced in Shanghai at the turn of the century or bought in its secondhand markets. There seems to be some variety in the polearms, but all of the hudiedao look remarkably similar. Given that they are nearly identical to one another I would assume all of these swords were made in a single batch.

While these swords have a more pronounced hatchet point than most modern martial arts weapons, their general blade shape is familiar. Compared to the swords of the mid 19th century these are very short and wide. While still capable of a thrust they have blades that would be effective chopping weapons. The D-guards are thick and highly reflective, leading me to suspect that they are brass. Also interesting is the fact that the quillions on these swords is rather short and clearly intended to protect the wielder’s wrist rather than to catch an opponent’s blade. This photograph indicates that the hudiedao that have dominated the modern imagination are a direct descendant of blades made in the early years of the 20th century. The swords that may have been used when these systems were first coming together in the 1840s-1850s were likely somewhat different.

A detail of the armory in the Whang-Ho showing the butterfly sword collection. Source: Author’s personal collection.

Conclusion: What have we learned about 19th Century Butterfly Swords?

One of the ways of judging the maturity of a research program is by looking at how it responds to the addition of new observation. If our understanding of some theory changes radically every time a new piece of information is added, that is a pretty good sign that we are still building an elementary level of understanding. If, on the other hand, most newly discovered observations fit the general pattern that we have come to expect, that indicates that our theories about the past are starting to gain some traction.

This post has introduced four new puzzle pieces for individuals attempting to reconstruct the history of the hudiedao and understand how it came to occupy the prominent place that it currently enjoy in the southern Chinese martial arts. The two published accounts originate from the early part of the 19th century (the late 1820s and mid 1840s) while the two photographs capture events in the final years of the Qing dynasty.

In general I think that these accounts fit well with the understanding of the butterfly swords that has grown out of the previous posts on this topic here at Kung Fu Tea. The review of a standard ships arms locker certainly reinforces our previous conclusion that by the mid 19th century the Hudiedao had become a standard sidearm for not just martial artists and opera performers but also private guards, militiamen, sailors and law enforcement officers. Further, the weapon was already in widespread use by the 1820s, and possibly earlier.

For me the biggest surprise in these accounts was Wood’s characterization of the early hudiedaos as a dagger sized weapon. It is unfortunate that he never gave us the exact measurements as he did for the bar maces. But this might indicate that during the relatively conflict prone mid 19th century these weapons became longer and heavier as they were expected to see actual battlefield combat.

Finally the butterfly swords of the early 20th century assumed a set of proportions that modern martial artists would be more familiar with. Their blades remained relatively wide and hatchet-pointed, but they shrank in length to 8-10 inches. Of course given the tremendous variety in surviving 19th century examples, we need to be cautious about extrapolating too much from a handful of observations. While this seems to have been a general trend, it would appear that there was always a lot of room for personal preference in the construction of a hudiedao.

As we improve our understanding of these weapons we will simultaneously learn more about the environment that gave rise to martial arts like Wing Chun, Hung Gar, Choy Li Fut and White Crane. This can assist scholars in understanding their place in the development of southern Chinese civil society, and martial artists in assessing their progress as they attempt to understand and master these systems on a more technical level.

oOo

If you are interested in understanding the actual use of traditional weapons please also see: Tools of the Trade: The Use of Firearms and Traditional Weapons among the Tongs of San Francisco, 1877-1878.

oOo

A captured Chinese dadao being held by a Japanese soldier. Note the unique sawback blade. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

The Album

Recently I had the good fortune to come across a photograph of a Chinese dadao (big knife) that dates to the late 1930s. Images such as these were sometimes collected by Japanese soldiers in occupied China and subsequently ended up back in Japan. Obviously photos of Chinese martial artists and traditional weapons are not nearly as common as snapshots of friends or famous places, but they do show up from time to time. Given how rare Chinese photographs of these same subjects are, such images are an important additional source of data. They are particularly helpful in suggesting exactly what sorts of bladed weapons were still being used and encountered by various forces in the 1930s and 1940s.

Images such as these fall into a couple of categories. On the one hand are snapshots that were taken by individuals who were actually on the scene. These tend to be rather rare. More common are photographs that look like they have been taken by local photographers and then sold to various soldiers.  Many of the images of scenic landscapes and monuments which are often seen in these sorts of collection fall into this latter category.

While these sorts of photos are not really all that rare, their usefulness to scholars is limited by the fact that various ephemera dealers in Japan have tended to break up the original albums so that these images can be auctioned off one by one. While this practice increases their profit margins (mostly because a small number of subjects are highly sought after by certain collectors), it destroys the original historical and sociological context of the photographs. Unless these images are labeled (which does happen from time to time) we cannot usually identify their setting or participants.

Today’s image is interesting in that it was part of a large lot of photos all taken from the same album. While the owner of the album is not known, by looking at the photos that he collected we can make some guesses about who he was and where he was stationed. I strongly suspect that this image was originally collected by an enlisted soldier in Japanese army who was stationed in Hangzhou (Zhejiang Province) in the early years of the Japanese occupation of that city.

Most of the pictures in this particular collection did not feature military scenes. Rather this soldier collected a number of very well composed images of famous attractions in the Hangzhou area. Many of these places (including the Six Harmonies Pagoda and the Moon Mirroring Pool) are still tourist destinations today. A couple of less identifiable landscapes pictures were also present, including one very nice image of garden walkway through the middle of a highly manicured bamboo grove.

The only other “military” image in this small collection also focused on the presence of swords on the modern battlefield. That particular photograph featured four or five Japanese soldiers sitting around in various states undress cleaning and inspecting their Gunto (katanas). It was actually one of the more remarkable images that I have ever come across in a soldier’s album.

These particular individuals were going out of their way to look unpleasant. Some of them were actually leering at the camera as they fingered their blades. The entire scene looked as though someone had ordered a group of “Japanese villains” from central casting for a bad Kung Fu film. Needless to say that image went to a collector with deeper pockets than me.

I was a bit disappointed not to have won any of the landscape photos that made up the bulk of this particular album. Often such images are ignored, but for some reason these actually attracted a fair amount of attention. Still, I did manage to take home the one photograph that was really interesting from the perspective of Chinese martial studies.

A detail of the sawback dadao. Source: Author’s personal collection.

The Dadao

This particular image shows a Japanese soldier holding a captured Chinese dadao. The print itself is fairly small, being no larger than a passport photo. The image is quite clear, but unfortunately it has been scratched over the years. Maybe I will try to clean this one up at some point. Readers should also note the sandbag position in the background of the image.

The dadao in this image is fairly unique. In my years of collecting both vintage blades and photographs I have never run across a specimen quite like this one. This is a good sized weapon. While many of these swords had surprising short blades, that is not the case with the current example. The handle is also generous in length and appears to be covered in wood.

Give the angle of the blade it is hard to tell what the pommel looks like, but the sword has a heavy “cup shaped” hand guard. I suspect that this is made from brass or bronze given its lighter color. Note that it appears to be slightly clover shaped and is less deep along the sides of the blade.

The blade of this particular sword is its most remarkable feature. I have never seen a period dadao with a “sawback” design before. The teeth of the saw are pronounced and clearly visible running along the spine of the blade.

Similar features were included on swords and bayonets issued to “pioneer” or engineering units in Europe from about the middle of the 19th century onward.  By 1900-1920 such weapons had fallen distinctly out of favor. I suspect that while originally intended as a multipurpose tool for cutting wood and building wooden structures, the saws on most of these weapons were probably not very effective.

This dadao might have been a different story. The length of the blade would have given this saw a much more useful draw, and the curve of the spine (as well as the weight) might have made for some good cutting ergonomics. If nothing else those teeth look like they might have had real bit. A lot of this would come down to what sort of steel was actually used and how it was hardened, all of which is impossible to tell from a photograph. Still, this looks to be a substantial and well-made weapon, at least by the standards of the dadao. Now that we know that these were out there, I will have to keep my eyes open for other examples.

Over the last few years I have focused a lot of my collecting on Nepalese military kukri. These traditional knives are still issued to Gurkha soldiers today and there are many accounts of their use on the modern battlefield. Still, what has always interested me the most about the kukri is its utility as a general purpose survival tool. Yes, it can be a weapon, but it can also chop wood, build shelters, start fires and butcher animals. I suspect that it is this genuine versatility (as well as a degree of romanticism) that has allowed the kukri to survive as a battlefield tool for this long.

The dadao presents us with a contrasting case. These swords were much bigger and heavier than a kukri. Nor are they particularly useful. While some of them are so poorly weighted that they feel more like an ax than an actual sword, their blades were never intended for chopping wood. They were much more a single purpose weapon.

I have often wondered whether anyone attempted to make the dadao into a more versatile tool. This picture would seem to indicate that at least a few manufactures were thinking along these lines. Still, we will need to inspect some period examples (if any have survived) before we can judge the extent to which they succeeded.

oOo

If you enjoyed this you might also want to see: Through a Lens Darkly (14): Archery Practice in Late Imperial China

oOo

A group photograph of an archery class or society. Ogden Cigarette Card, circa 1901.

A Second Look at a Rare Photograph

It would be an understatement to say that period photographs of Qing-era martial arts activities are rare.  For a variety of reasons these themes were less popular with both western and Chinese photographers than a number of other images.  The various social disruptions of the 20th century (particularly the Cultural Revolution) also helped to insure that much of the material that once existed was destroyed.  One of the purposes of this occasional series is to gather and discuss those images that students of Chinese martial studies still have access too.

Today’s post begins by revisiting an image that I first introduced in a discussion of photographs of Qing era archery training.  Given the nature of early camera technology one can basically assume that all pictures form this period were composed by the photographer, and hence in some way “artificial.”  Still, even highly contrived images can convey important ethnographic or social information.  If nothing else they may at least offer a window into how their intended audience viewed Chinese martial culture at the time.

With the exception of a few newspaper engravings and photographs most of these images never really enjoyed a huge circulation when they were first produced.  That is one of the factors that makes the above photograph (which was also discussed in previous post) so interesting.  In the late 19th and early 20th century cigarette cards were a popular collectible which circulated widely in both Europe, North America and Asia.  The images that they carried both reflected and helped to shape popular beliefs about China.

Interestingly martial themes were not among the most common images of China to be included on these cards.  Give the amount of press that the “Boxer Rebellion” generated one might have suspected that publishers would have gone to greater lengths to feed the public’s desire for pictures of the conflict.  Still, while searching the internet I did locate at least one image of “Chinese Boxers” provided by the Ogden Cigarette Company.  This photograph shows at least ten men and a boy who are evidently part of some type of martial group.  Most of the men hold bows and arrows.  Also present is one individual leaning on a thick pole that somewhat resembled a “jingal” or heavy wall gun.  A second individual (of higher social status) and is seated next to a white horse.

It seems highly unlikely that the people in this image are actually related to the peasant spirit-boxers of Shandong who rose up in 1900 and laid siege to the foreign ligation in Beijing.  To begin they are entirely too well dressed.  Nor can I imagine a group of armed and vehemently anti-foreign Boxers stopping to have their picture taken with western technology.

Of course there were lots of other types of martial groups in late Qing China.  These individuals might belong to some sort of local militia or defensive league.  I also speculated that they might be a more formal group of archery students who (judging from their clothing and boots) had a greater degree of status or social aspiration.  While a rare and fascinating image, its hard to say exactly what we are seeing here.

Another version of the previous image featured on an Ogden Cigarette Card. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

This bring us to the next photograph.  A few weeks ago I decided to try and locate a physical copy of the previous image to add to my collection of vintage photographs and postcards.  Given that most individual cigarette cards are not very expensive, and the fact that Ogden mass produced these images by the tens of thousands, I didn’t think that it would be hard to track down a study specimen.  I found one on ebay later that evening and purchased it for a few dollars.

After receiving it in the mail I sat down to compare it with the previously discussed photograph and discovered, to my surprise, that these two cards were not the same.  While similar in most respects, my newly purchased image included a much wider scene.  Apparently the more commonly seen card is actually a later reissue of the original picture which was cropped to focus on the central figures.  The earlier photograph includes a couple of additional individuals, also armed with bows and arrow.

The greater height of the original image also reveals that the man leaning on the heavy pole was not armed with a jingal, as I had at first guessed, but was instead holding the longest Wukedao (Heavy Knife) that I have seen in a period photo.  These heavily built weapons were employed as a test of strength and skill in the Imperial Military Examination system.  It was common for Qing era martial artists to practice with Wukedao of various seizes and weights as they built up their strength and prepared for the test.  Still, the size of this example, which appears to be almost twice the height of most of individuals pictured in the photograph is exceptional.

After finding this image I began to contact some collectors of cigarette cards to find out if it would be possible to date these two specimens.  Unfortunately it is impossible to say much with certainty.  Ogden produced a staggering 27,000 distinct cards within the “Gold” series between 1897-1907.  Nor is anything like a comprehensive catalog of images available.  While it seems reasonable to assume that the uncropped card is the older, and that they were published during or after the Boxer Rebellion, we cannot say much more than “circa 1900-1907.”

Still, the appearance of the second version of the photograph may be more helpful in terms of interpreting the subject matter of the image.  Given that the Imperial Military Examination consisted of tests of mounted and standing archery, as well as the use of the Wukedao, pulling heavy bows and lifting stones, I am now more inclined to see this as a group of examination students as opposed to militia members.  The appearance of a horse and a heavy knife in the same picture just seems to be too evocative of the examination system.

We may yet discover more about the individuals in this photograph.  Given the huge number of cards that Ogden was producing it seems unlikely that they were doing much original photography.  If this is a reproduction, the original (and hopefully information about the photographer and his subjects) may yet turn up in a museum, university or private collection.

oOo

If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read: Through a Lens Darkly (22): Heavy Knives and Stone Locks – Strength Training in the Traditional Chinese Martial Arts

oOo

French postcard sold in Marseille (circa 1915) showing a “Hindu” member of the Indian Army Bearer Corp (note the belt buckle) holding a kukri. Source: Author’s personal collection.

The Kukri in Three Symbolic Registers

As regular readers will know, I have a keen interest in both the history of bladed weapons and vintage postcards.  The kukri, a type of fighting knife from Nepal made famous by Gurkha troops serving with both the Indian and British armies, has been one of my many areas of interest and study.  The few posts I have written on these weapons have been some of the most popular ever published at Kung Fu Tea.

A few weeks ago it occurred to me that I had yet to address kukris as they appeared in the popular culture and ephemera of the early and mid twentieth century.  As always, vintage postcards provide a unique window onto this subject.

In the following post I would like to share three images taken from my collection.  Initially I acquired these postcards because they provided an interesting look at some historic weapons.  But their actual value goes far beyond any technical information that they might convey about the knives themselves.  Each of these images is also a record of a social moment in time. Together they illustrate some of the ways in the kukri has been used as a signifier of difference, nation, heterogeneity, ethnicity, authority and “otherness.”  While I am always interested in the practical application of various weapon skills, the social scientist in me is equally fixated on the many discourses that have come to be bound up with these artifacts.

Our first image (found at the head of this post) is perhaps the best know of those that I will be sharing today.  Dedicated kukri collectors and students of Indian/Nepalese military history may have run across this picture before, but I suspect that most readers will be encountering it for the fist time.  The massive mobilization of troops necessary to fight World War One (WWI) brought individuals from many nations and ethnicities to the trenches of Europe.

Postcards showing the diverse uniforms and weapons of the various troops become common souvenirs as the war progressed.   In addition to the expected western (French, Scottish, Australian, Italian….) armies, some postcards from this period also featured more exotic forces including the Chinese labor corp and various colonial troops.  A number of these later images focused on the different sorts of soldiers found within the Indian Army.

The preceding postcard (printed in Marseille around 1915) is a classic example of the genera.  Unfortunately it doesn’t provide any detailed information about the soldier in question.  Rather than listing his nationality, rank or even branch of service, he is described simply as a “Hindu soldier” in France.  Yet even this limited information is of dubious value.  His belt buckle denotes that he is part of the “Army Bearer Corp” (ABC)  This was an element of the Indian Army sent to Europe to serve along side British forces.  The ABC was composed of non-combat troops who (as their title suggests) was tasked with moving equipment and other sorts of labor.  In practice they seem to have spent quite a bit of time carrying wounded soldiers off the battlefield in stretchers and incurred their own losses (sometimes heavy) while doing so.

Longtime kukri researcher “Spiral” at IKRHS has had a chance to look at a number of knives carried by this group as well as their social composition.  He points out that the ABC was internally quite diverse.  While formally a unit within the Indian Army, it also contained a variety of troops that had been seconded out from the Royal Nepalese Army.

The turban in the photo might suggest that the individual was a Sikh (though he is lacking a beard).  In fact it was simply a part of the standard ABC uniform.  In addition to coming from multiple nations, ABC troops might be Hindu, Sikh, Muslims, Christian converts or any number of other things.

Rather than showcasing the actual diversity of the south Asian troops serving in France, images like this were an exercise in national, ethnic and religious erasure.  All of these categories were collapsed into a simple (and slightly sinister) veneer of “otherness.”

This brings us to the soldier’s signature weapon, his kukri.  This sidearm became synonymous with troops from Nepal and India, even though only certain units actually carried them.   It goes without saying that these knives were not generally carried in the mouth, but rather in standard issue sheaths and frogs.  Still, the exotic pose seems calculated to invoke stories of the superhuman bravery and aggression that Gurkha troops have long been known for.  The irony is that the individual posing for this photograph is a member of the labor corp and a non-combatant in the classic sense of the term.

Another photograph, often labeled “Indian Troops in France” which features the same individual. You can see the profile of his knife blade better in this shot, strongly suggesting that his weapon is the variant of the MKI service kukri that was produced at Fort William. Source: Old Indian Photos (Public Domain).

Still, no discussion of this photograph would be complete without a closer look at the knife that the soldier is holding.  As postcards bearing this image first started to appear in 1915, we can probably assume that this is a British/Indian Army service pattern MKI knife.  As Spiral has previously noted, the MKII pattern did not come into production until sometime in 1915.  Further, the wide opening and wedge shaped kaudi at the base of the blade, as well as the prominent ring of wood at the bottom of the hilt, suggests that this particular knife is of the style produced by the Fort William arsenal (located in Calcutta.)

The following picture offers us a better look at the same blade.  It shows three members of the ABC, two of whom are holding kukris.  The individual at the far right of this photograph appears to be the same as the the subject of the preceding image.  While not as deep across the belly as some WWI MKIs, I suspect that this is probably what we are looking at.

In both of these (European produced) images, the kukri is held aloft to identify what the soldier “really is.”  Yet it also serves to erase the very markers of nation, ethnicity, religion and even unit of military service that these postcards claimed to record.

Hill Types of Nepal. Probably produced in the 1960s. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

The second image was produced under very different circumstances and provides an important contrast with the first.  While marketed to the public as a “postcard” this particular object is actually a glossy black and white image printed on heavy photographic paper of exactly the same type that you might have used when developing film.  A postcard “mailing template” has been somewhat poorly stamped onto the back of this image.  In that sense it is technically a postcard.  Yet when you hold the object it is clear that this was actually a photograph reproduced for sale at the Das Studio in Darjeeling (a city in West Bengal close to the Nepalese border).  Das Studio was first established as a family business in 1927 and readers might be interested to know that it is still operating as such today.

I have not been able to locate this particular image in their online archive, but my best guess is that it dates to the 1960s.  While the previous pictures tends to collapse any specific local identity, this image both celebrates and constructs it through the use of traditional clothing and the prominent display of kukris.  These are carried in the conventional manner (stuck through a sash around the waste) rather than in an exaggerated pose.

While we don’t have any information about the blades themselves, each of these knives would probably fall into the broad category that modern collectors refer to as “villager kukri.”  As is evident from the photograph above, many of these civilian knives are very interesting, and the one carried by the individuals third from the left seems to be of exceptional length.  Where as western photographers used the kukri to construct an artificial image of the entire Indian subcontinent, here we see a much more specific community displaying the same weapon as an enactment of their own identity.

A 1964 Nepalese Postage Stamp showing both the Olympic Rings and crossed kukri.

The last image is not actually of a postcard, but rather the thing that gives them mobility.  This postage stamp was released by the government of Nepal in 1964.  As should be evident from the rings and torch, it was commissioned to honor the games held in Tokyo.  These were the first Olympics to be hosted in Asia.  Readers may also recall that they were the games in which Judo made its initial debut.

The 1964 games were also the first in which Nepal competed.  The mountain kingdom’s initial Olympic delegation consisted of a pair of marathon runners and four boxers.  Military service had long defined the image of Nepal’s physical culture on the world stage.  Of course the kukri itself had become deeply entwined with this military tradition.  Perhaps it should not be a surprise then that this familiar symbol was once again invoked to represent the Nepalese nation in its Olympic debut.

Conclusion

In addition to introducing some classic images of kukris, the preceding post reminds us that symbols are fundamentally multi-vocal.  The kukri has never had just one social meaning.  In the hands of early 20th century European photographers it became a tool of Said’s “Orientalism.”  To the Gorkha communities in the hills of Darjeeling it was a much more specific ethnic marker and even a sign of nationalist longing.  Finally, when marshaled by the state this quintessentially Nepalese weapon could even mark Nepal’s first steps into global civilian athletic competition.  Nor do these three very different examples begin to exhaust the many meanings which the kukri has come to acquire in Nepalese culture and politics.

In the final analysis the study of weaponry is simply the study of the society that produced it.

oOo

If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read: Through a Lens Darkly (19): China’s other Swords during World War II.

oOo

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

Introduction

I have been meaning to pull together an updated list of “Top Picks” for a couple of months.  Somehow I could never find the time.  But with about 290 posts (most of which are longer essays) there is a lot of material sitting in the archives here at Kung Fu Tea.  Enough that figuring out what to read, or finding what you may have missed, can be a challenge.  To make this easier I have used two different methods to come up with some suggested readings.

For a first cut at the problem we turn to the “wisdom of crowds.”  By looking at long-term trends in page views we may get a rough estimate of what other readers find interesting.  This section has been labeled “Reader’s Picks.”  The first group lists the five most commonly viewed posts of all time at Kung Fu Tea.  Following that there is a more detailed list of the top posts that readers accessed the over the last twelve months.

Next I have outlined some of my favorite essays.  For easy reading I have broken this list down into different categories.  These are “Wing Chun,” “Chinese Martial Studies,” “Visualizing the Martial Art,” “Martial Arts and Popular Culture,” “Martial Arts Studies,” and finally “Traditional Weapons.”  Just find the category that best suits your interest and see what you have been missing.

Do you have a favorite post which didn’t make the cut?  Drop a link in the comments and let us know.  Enjoy!

Working class patrons of a stall selling sequentially illustrated martial arts novels. 1948 AP photo.

Reader’s Picks

Five All Time Most Popular Posts (by Page Views)

1. Taming the Little Dragon: Symbolic Politics and the Translation of Bruce Lee.

2. Identifying and Collecting the Nepalese Military Kukri.

3. The Story of Ip Man’s Wooden Dummy

4. A Social and Visual History of the Hudiedao (Butterfly Sword) in the Southern Chinese Martial Arts.

5. A Social and Visual History of the Dadao: The Chinese “Military Big-Saber.”

Reader’s Top Pics Over the Last 12 Months (Excluding the “All Time Top 5”)

1.Traditional Training Equipment in the Chinese Martial Arts (Part II): Attack of the Wooden Dummies!

2. London, 1851: Kung Fu in the Age of Steam-Punk

3. Did Ip Man Invent the Story of Yim Wing Chun?

4. The “Wing Chun Rules of Conduct”: Rediscovering Ip Man’s Original Statement on the Philosophy of the Martial Arts.

5. Where have all the martial artists gone? Should we blame MMA?

6. Remembering Chu Shong Tin and the Relationship between Theory and Observation in Chinese Martial Studies

7. Through a Lens Darkly (22): Heavy Knives and Stone Locks – Strength Training in the Traditional Chinese Martial Arts

8. The New Economics of Taiji Quan: Culture, Identity and the Rise of China’s Upper Middle Class

9. Ip Man and the Prostitute: Female Sexuality as a Weapon in Traditional Chinese Martial Culture.

10. The British Army Kukri: An artifact of western orientalism or the 20th century’s greatest combat knife?

11. Lives of Chinese Martial Artists (8): Gu Ruzhang-Northern Shaolin Master and Southward Bound Tiger.

12. Lives of Chinese Martial Artists (2): Cheung Lai Chuen (Part I).

13. Understanding Opium Use among Southern Chinese Martial Artists, 1890-1949.

14. Lives of Chinese Martial Artists (4): Sun Lutang and the Invention of the “Traditional” Chinese Martial Arts (Part I).

15. Reevaluating Jingwu: Would Bruce Lee have existed without it?

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

Editor’s Top Picks (By Category)

Wing Chun

Lives of Chinese Martial Artists (6): Ng Chung So – Looking Beyond the “Three Heroes of Wing Chun”

Yim Wing Chun and Gender: the Stories of Ip Man and Yuen Woo Ping in a Comparative Perspective

Conceptualizing the Asian Martial Arts: Ancient Origins, Social Institutions and Leung Jan’s Wing Chun.

Spreading the Gospel of Kung Fu: Print Media and the Popularization of Wing Chun (Part I of 3)

Zhang Songxi, Ming era Southern Boxing and the Ancient Roots of Modern Wing Chun.

Chinese Martial Studies

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

Bruce Lee, Globalization and the Case of Wing Chun: Why do Some Chinese Martial Arts Grow?

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

Zheng Manqing and the “Sick Man of Asia”: Strengthening Chinese Bodies and the Nation through the Martial Arts

Bodhidharma: Historical Fiction, Hyper-Real Religion and Shaolin Kung Fu

Visualizing the Martial Arts

Through a Lens Darkly (6): China Rediscovers the Shaolin Temple, Igniting a Kung Fu Craze.

Through a Lens Darkly (22): Heavy Knives and Stone Locks – Strength Training in the Traditional Chinese Martial Arts

Through a Lens Darkly (13): The Dadao and the Militarization of the Chinese Martial Arts

Through a Lens Darkly (17): “Selling the Art”: Martial Artists in the Marketplace, 1900-1930

“Wing Chun: A Documentary” directed by Jon Braeley.

Martial Arts and Popular Culture

Cantonese Popular Culture and the Creation of Wing Chun’s “Opera Rebels.”

Two Encounters with Bruce Lee: Finding Reality in the Life of the Little Dragon

Jared Miracle on Pokemon, Crickets and Deep Play in Chinese and Japanese Martial Culture

How Yoda Helped to Invent Kung Fu: Star Wars and the Martial Arts in the Western Imagination

Telling Stories about Wong Fei Hung and Ip Man: The Evolution of a Heroic Type

Theory and Martial Arts Studies

Why do difficult and expensive martial arts thrive?

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

Martial Arts Studies: Answering the “So what?” question

Inventing Kung Fu

Lion Dancing, Youth Violence and the Need for Theory in Chinese Martial Studies

Traditional Weapons (and other training gear)

Through a Lens Darkly (9): Swords, Knives and other Traditional Weapons Encountered by the Shanghai Police Department, 1925.

Forgetting about the Gun: Firearms and the Development of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts.

Tools of the Trade: The Use of Firearms and Traditional Weapons among the Tongs of San Francisco, 1877-1878.

Three Thoughts on my New Wooden Dummy

Through a Lens Darkly (8): Butterfly Swords, Dadaos and the Local Militias of Guangdong, 1840 vs. 1940.

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

Donny Yen reprises his role as Ip Man.

Introduction

There are a number of different ways of observing a community.  One of the most frequently overlooked is to pay attention to their physical culture.  What sorts of objects do individuals invest their scarce time and resources into?  How has this changed in recent years?  Of course no object better captures the flavor of the Wing Chun world than the iconic wooden dummy.

We are very fortunate that Aaron Cantrell, the owner of Everything Wing Chun, has been able to stop by and chat with us about the evolving market for wooden dummies as well as their increased visibility within popular culture.  His company is a major supplier of Wing Chun training gear and sells a number of different styles of dummies.  All of this makes Aaron ideally situated to discuss the current state of the market.

oOo

Kung Fu Tea (KFT): How is the market for dummies doing in general?  Does it seem like more “average” Wing Chun students buy dummies today?

Aaron Cantrell (AC):  The market is steady.  It does not seem like more students are buying full wooden dummies today, no matter what their level.

There was an increase in sales at one point, but that came years ago.  I can’t even remember when, but I did notice an increase in Wing Chun popularity, around the time of the Ip Man movies.  It is kind of hard to tell as it probably started to increase just before and then peaked sometime after that first movie.  But for the most part, sales volume does not change much.  That’s true not just of dummies, but of all of the products that have been established.  Advertising doesn’t even seem to increase sales.  The other vendors that I talk to all seem to have a steady business as well. From my point of view the Wing Chun market seems to stay about the same size.

(KFT): How has popular culture (especially the Ip Man movies) affected the market for dummies?

(AC): I think that popular culture, the Ip Man movies in particular, affected the market as a whole as it brought more people into Wing Chun.

Somewhere along the line wooden dummies became something that the general population equated with being a bad-ass in martial arts.  i.e. If you train on a dummy then you can really destroy your foes in devastating fashion. You see dummies everywhere now. We sold some dummy pads to ABC’s Revenge (in Episode 8 of season 4 you can see them used when the heroine is hitting on a dummy). Although the intent is comical, in the Mr. Bean Snickers commercial he is playing on a dummy.  The other day I saw a dummy in the training gym on the TV show Nikita or something like that.  You just see them everywhere now. It is like “the thing” to have in the background when martial-arts training is happening on-screen.

I think this is cool.  It means that in popular media Wing Chun is in some way associated with being a bad-ass.

But as far as the market for dummies or their sales… I don’t think that anyone that doesn’t know how to use a dummy or take wing chun is running out to buy one any more than they have in the past.  They are too expensive for that.

Pan Nam demonstrates the wooden dummy form. Source: Leung Ting, 2004.  Note that this dummy is constructed from a solid log, the base of which is burried in the ground.  This was the most common type of dummy used in the Wing Chun community from the late 19th century until the 1950s.

(KFT):  Do you think that there is a growing market for dummies outside of the Wing Chun world? 

(AC):  I do, but it is very limited. I find that people outside of the Wing Chun world don’t want the full dummies.  They want flat board dummies, half dummies—dummies that they can strap on their heavy bag—they don’t want the real thing.  A lot of JKD guys obviously have dummies, but I consider them part of the Wing Chun world to a degree.

Occasionally we will get people in other martial arts that want to play around on a dummy or who are looking to buy one, but it is not what I would call a “growing market”.

(KFT): It seems that there are basically solid wood, PVC and laminated dummies.  Which are the most popular?  Have you seen a move in one direction or another in recent years?

(AC):   The solid body dummies are the most popular.  They are the most beautiful and the most traditional.  They are also the most difficult to take care of.  If people are in an environment where they can’t care for a solid log dummy then they will go for laminate or PVC.

PVC tends to be an economic consideration rather than a preference.  That is one of the reasons why we try to provide quality PVC dummies. Buying a PVC body is a way to own a dummy useful for training at an economic price for most people.  The solid body dummies can be $1,000-$3,000 dollars, and that is out of the price range for most people – those are the dummies that most Sifu’s or senior students buy. PVC (top quality ones) are $350-$550 depending on the shipping and configuration.

Laminated dummies are really good when made in America (We have not had luck with any overseas manufacturer to date).  They are really solid dummies and they last. If there has been a move in any direction it is towards them… however I think this mainly is due to the mounting that can be done with the laminate dummies, specifically the “freestanding” versions, which you cannot make using a solid-log dummy.

Because the “freestanding” designs are now the most popular mounting system, we actually end up selling more laminated dummies than anything else.  But they are still not the “popular” type of dummies with buyers, if that makes sense. If solid-log dummies could be mounted well on a free-standing stand without breaking, then that would be the most popular item.

Also, what we call “laminated” is simply a dummy with a solid core (usually a 4×4) that has other wood glued and or screwed into it on each side (usually kiln dried ash or red oak) and then lathed down into the round body.  So you have maybe 7-9 pieces of wood that makeup the trunk.  This is not particle board or plywood, or other types of cheap glued/laminated wood. At least this is true for the dummies we sell – it is quality stuff.  The advantage of this is that the wood reacts better to humidity fluctuations and won’t develop checking (or cracks) as easily as a natural log.

The wooden dummy making another cameo appearance on American network TV (ABC’s Revenge Season 4 ep. 8).

(KFT):  Lets talk about mounting systems.  In some ways I have always considered that to be the more interesting question as it has such an impact on how the dummy feels and reacts when you use it.  Have you seen a move away from hanging dummies to “pillar and post” freestanding models have we seen in recent years?

(AC):  Absolutely yes.  The freestanding dummy is now the most popular dummy.  We definitely do not sell very many laminated wall mount dummies.  I would say that 99% of the models that we sell that you can mount on a wall are the Buick Yip dummies—those are solid body traditional dummies that Sifu’s want or that they use in schools.

Since it is difficult for most people living in apartments, or who want to move, to put a permanent fixture in their place of residence, the freestanding models are very popular.  You can pick them up and easily move them.  That is what I use myself because I move a lot.

You do sacrifice a little bit of that springy energy, but that is something that Ip Man brought in with the wall mount, and it didn’t exist before him. The freestanding dummies do have some energy, it just plays differently.  So people are going for portability and the fact that they don’t have to drill holes in the walls of their apartment over the exact springy energy found on a wall mount.

Also, this mounting system allows you to move more than 180 degrees around the dummy.  A lot of Sifu’s these days are teaching techniques that you cannot do on a wall mounted dummy.  These include some of the older techniques from when the dummy post was buried in the ground.

Ip Man demonstrating the wooden dummy form. Photograph was taken in 1967 by Tang Sang and is currently the property of Ip Ching.  This type of dummy was developed for use in Hong Kong apartments where it was no longer possible to use a buried Jong.  The wooden slats that support the dummy also give it a vital springy energy.  This was the dominant form of dummy from the 1950s-2000s.

[KFT]: Are we going to see a laminated bamboo dummy in the future?  What would the advantages of that material be?

[AC]: We do have one vendor who will soon be introducing a bamboo dummy.  It is actually made from bamboo flooring, so it is laminated bamboo.  It appears to be a very solid dummy.  We haven’t completely tested it out yet.  We have just seen a prototype and are waiting for the first ones.  I don’t know if there are any advantages to this material over normal wood but it is definitely very cool.  We will have to see.

[KFT]:  What about smaller, half-sized or flat board dummies?  How popular have they been and what sort of feedback have you gotten on them?

[AC]: Believe it or not, they are actually very popular.  The flat board dummies are the most popular because of their price.  They take up very little space and allow you do some drill work or work on your form.  They are definitely popular with the JKD guys and people who do not need the rounded body for positioning work.

The half sized dummies definitely have their place.  They are for people who have a small space yet need the rounded dummy body to practice their Wing Chun structure and positioning.

[KFT]: Do you think that the greater availability of dummies (as well as greater selection in styles, materials and mounting systems) is generally a positive thing within the Wing Chun community?

[AC]:   I do.  I am not really a traditionalist.  I respect it, and would not arbitrarily change anything, but I am open and very creative as well.  I like seeing new products and new ways to train harder.  I like seeing people thinking of ways to evolve the training of the art.  Having more variety is a great thing so long as it improves the training.

I don’t know who first invented the freestanding dummy.  I have heard several claims.  I think that James from Warrior Martial Arts supply was the first individual to make this mounting system that I am aware of.  If he didn’t invent it, and was just the first person to put it out there, it doesn’t really matter.  Look how popular that has become. It changed the entire landscape of dummy mounting systems.  That kind of thing is great for the Wing Chun world.  Someone who could never have a dummy before (because they lived in an apartment and couldn’t mount it on the wall) can now get a freestanding jong, keep it in a very compact area and really train properly with it.

It is great for the students.  And it is great for Wing Chun in general to have more people be able to practice it.  I am all for innovation and greater selections of unique training equipment, dummy materials, mounting systems, etc, etc.

This dummy has a laminated wooden body and is mounted on a freestanding base. This is currently the most commonly purchased style of (full sized) wooden dummy. Is this the next step in dummy evolution? Photo: Everything Wing Chun.

[KFT]: Do you have any general advice for someone thinking about buying a dummy?

[AC]: The most important thing that I look for when evaluating a dummy are the specs. A lot of people claim that they have “Ip Man” specs, but I have seen so many of these dummies that just have awful specs. A lot of these guys are copying copies or they never understood Wing Chun in the first place. They are just making something cheap that looks like a dummy. I think all dummy carpenters should first be Wing Chun practitioners that have trained beyond the dummy level. (And as a side note, every carpenter we work with has done this).

The few companies that we work with, including Buick Yip who is in Hong Kong, know what they are doing. Take a look at a Buick dummy, or some of the other ones that we sell on the site. You don’t have to buy from us, but just take a look at them and see how the specifications of the arms and legs are formed and compare it to the dummy that you thinking of buying. If it looks close and you don’t need exact specs, then go for it. If it is too far off – stay away.

I see some people training on dummies which have arms that are way too close or too far apart, or not spaced correctly vertically, and it makes me think that their training is going to be quite poor. Their footwork is going to be messed up, their arm positions are going to be messed up, their posture poor as they reach or etc. Look – you can train on any dummy once you know what you are doing. Heck I LIKE training on all sorts of dummies no matter what the specs because it forces me to adjust my footwork and arm positions. But if you are just learning, you need one made properly or you’ll develop bad habits. That is my first piece of advice.

My second suggestion is to know your humidity. If you have a fairly stable humidity level you can buy a solid-body dummies. If you don’t, you should go for laminate. That is probably the second major thing that people need to consider after thinking about the specs. Which wood and which body style? It is all going to depend on your humidity.

Wood will always adjust its water content to the surrounding air. It will absorb moisture and it will release moisture. If it does it too fast your dummy will crack. That is true of laminate dummies as well, it is just a little bit harder for them to crack. It does not matter how long you have had your dummy. If it has been stable for 10 years and then it is moved to a low humidity environment too quickly, the wood will shed its moisture quickly and develop cracks. And BTW, cracks are mainly a cosmetic issue. I’ve never seen a dummy crack so bad it can’t be used. 45-60% relative humidity is a good range to keep a wooden dummy in.

So know your humidity, know your specs and then think about the mounting system that you prefer. These three things are something that you should know before digging into your hard-earned money to buy a dummy. If you have any questions about dummies, feel free to stop by everythingwingchun.com and shoot us an email. We’ll be happy to discuss your situation with you.

[KFT]: Last question, who should not buy a dummy?

[AC]:  That is an interesting question.  I think they are great for everyone to have [laughs].  I’m not sure that I can answer that one.

I actually think that everyone should have a dummy if they are serious about Wing Chun.  You might not need it for a couple of years, but you are going to want to have one.  Same for JKD guys.  I have seen Mixed Martial Artists use dummies effectively in a completely non-Wing Chun manner.  When you are training by yourself, or working on something specific, you have got to have something to practice on… and of course it is also a very important part of the Wing Chun System.

[KFT]: Plus Mr. Bean has one, which means they are now officially cool!  Thanks for taking time out of your schedule to stop by and tell us about some of the recent developments in the market for wooden dummies.

Mr Bean wins the Wing Chun Dummy, courtesy Snickers and Youtube.  Readers should also note that he is clearly quite the traditionalist given his use of a 1920s style buried dummy.

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

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19th century Chinese painting. This image is part of a larger set that shows scenes of a gentry led militia in training. Note the individual in the foreground with long pointed hudiedao. Special thanks to Gavin Gaving Nugent (www.swordsantiqueweapons.com/) for sharing these images.

Introduction: The Weapons of Wing Chun

From time to time I am asked why Wing Chun teaches only two weapons. For those unfamiliar with the system these are the long single-tailed fighting pole, favored by a number of southern Chinese styles, and the butterfly swords. Most of Guangdong’s more popular styles have extensive arsenals. The straight sword (jian) and broadsword (dao) are commonly seen throughout the region as are the trident, iron ruler, spear, fighting chain and rattan shield.

Such a question may well be impossible to answer. One suspects that many of the explanations that are given are basically post-hoc justifications. It could be that the focus on only two weapons reflects the style’s dedication to “parsimony” and its “concept” rather than “technique-based” approach to fighting. Or this could all simply be a matter of coincidence. If you examine the historical record it is not difficult to locate accounts of Republic period Wing Chun enthusiasts who took an interest in a more diverse set of weapons.

Still, there is something undeniably unique about the pole and double swords. While arts like Hung Gar, White Crane and Choy Li Fut teach a greater number of forms, these two are often the first weapons actually introduced to students.

There is also a longstanding tradition (which one can see in the written literature on the Chinese martial arts as far back as the Ming) justifying the long pole’s special place in military training. It was favored by instructors as it could both physically strengthen students and introduce them to techniques that would aid their study of other weapons.

Meir Shahar has argued that it was this idea, rather than any Buddhist prohibition on bladed weapons, that explained the Shaolin Temple’s specialization in cudgel fighting throughout the Ming era. Thus there may be concrete historical reasons why these particular instruments came to be favored as the foundation of 19th century southern weapons training.

We have already seen that the pole and the hudiedao (butterfly swords) came to constitute the core of Guangdong’s 19th century training for gentry led militias and other paramilitary groups. These forces cannot be dismissed as peripheral to the area’s history. They carried out a great deal of the actual fighting that occurred during the Opium Wars and the Red Turban Revolt.

The provincial government was also extensively involved in financing and procuring the arms that these groups used. While some authors have dismissed the hudiedao as an eccentric toy for martial artists, in fact these weapons were critical to southern China’s military identity throughout the 19th century.

This might be one way of understanding modern Wing Chun’s parsimony in the realm of weaponry. The forms it taught would allow a martial artist from the Pearl River Delta region to pick up and competently use the two weapons that they were most likely to be given in the case of a community crisis. Other weapons, such as spears or daos, were (rightly or wrongly) considered close substitutes.

Yet when we look at the martial arts as they developed during the final years of the Qing and Republic periods, we are primarily discussing civilian fighting traditions which were taught in a non-military context. Do we have any witnesses to the use of these specific weapons in a civil setting? How common were they compared to other traditional weapons which were available in Chinese communities during the middle of the 19th century?

A 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.

J. D. Vaughan: Soldier, Police Officer, Lawyer, Writer and Community Organizer
Jonas Daniel Vaughan (1825 – 1891) was a remarkably multifaceted individual.  Born in India he followed his father into service with the British East India Company. Vaughan first saw combat as a young sailor in 1842 during the Opium Wars. After that he was posted to Singapore where he took part in multiple military campaigns, including one directed against a local pirate stronghold.

Governor Butterworth personally convinced Vaughan to take up residence in the area and he was soon serving as a member of law enforcement in Penang. In addition to his normal duties Vaughan was responsible for creating a system of armed local citizens responsible for repulsing the bandit raids that had become a problem in the region. Later he was moved to Singapore where he again served with law enforcement, and eventually as an elected member of the municipal council.

Vaughan became extremely active in both the areas of community organization and social affairs. His interests focused on the local chapter of the Masons (which he helped to get off the ground), charitable works and community theater (where he was remembered as a very gifted comedic actor).

Vaughan’s experience with the police and politics led to an interest in law. He traveled to England to study the subject and passed the bar in 1869. He was then admitted to the Singapore Bar where he entered private practice. His mastery of the Malay language and naval experience made him a popular lawyer. While one might not get this impression from reading the work that we are about to discuss, at the time he was noted for being one of the most sympathetic local officials towards the Malay community.

In addition to his community and legal work, Vaughan was also an amateur scholar. His interests included astronomy, meteorology and the social study of the region’s various communities. He authored written works on both the Malay and Chinese communities as they existed between roughly the 1850s and the 1870s. Of course this is a period of great interest to students of Chinese martial studies as many of the styles that we are familiar with today began to rise in prominence during the late 19th century.

In today’s post we will examine a brief passage from Vaughan’s monograph Manners and Customs of the Chinese of the Straits Settlements (1879). This work can be thought of as a proto-ethnography of the area’s Chinese community compiled from the author’s decades of experience working with local merchants, criminals, courts and community leaders.

What the work lacks in internal organization it makes up in breadth. While short (one could read it in a day) it covers topics as diverse as marriage customs, the political economy of immigration, a census of the local Chinese temples (complete with a discussion of their various services), physical culture, fashion, the varieties of crime and a number of thoughts on the ultimate origins of social violence within the Chinese community.

Vaughan’s work is best remembered for its descriptions of the Triads, Clan Associations and Guilds that comprised the community’s civil and associational life. He tended to view the Chinese secret societies through the lens of his own experience with western Masonry. This approach led him to a number of flawed conclusions. Still, his description of the various groups and their ceremonies has proved to be an important source of information for later scholars including Murray, Ownby and ter Haar. We will be encountering more of this work in future discussions of these organizations.

What I find most interesting in Vaughan’s is his many small asides about the nature of identity (particularly regional and clan based associations) in an era before the rise of anything like what we would now consider to be “modern” Chinese nationalism. While reviewing his work for his insights on this topic (and its relationship with social violence) I stumbled upon the following passage. It speaks directly to the question of weaponry in the southern kung fu systems outlined in the introduction:

“The Chinese in the Straits have no particular arms or weapons. The one in common use is a sharp pointed pole sometimes tipped in iron about eight feet long resembling the ordinary boarding-pike. It is used very skillfully both for offense and defense and has the advantage of keeping the enemy at a respectable distance. It is the usual weapon used in street fights.

Another dangerous weapon is the trident. This is sometimes used in riots but is not in common use.

The double sword is another weapon that is used skillfully. The two swords are carried in one sheath and whilst one is used for attack the other is held in the left hand and serves as a defensive weapon. Firearms are seldom resorted to.

As a rule these people are of peaceful inclination, and do not keep weapons in their houses. Even in isolated places in the country hundreds of houses may be found without a weapon of any kind. In cases of emergency the carrying pole which nearly every laborer possesses, proves a lethal weapon in the hands of a powerful man.”

Jonas Daniel Vaughan. 1879. Manners and Customs of the Chinese of the Straits Settlements. Singapore: The Mission Press. pp. 39-40

A very interesting painting from the previous series. Note that this one shows individuals with clearly rendered Hudiedao, Shuang Jian and Shuang Dao, suggesting the practical use of all three weapons. Special thanks to Gavin Nugent (www.swordsantiqueweapons.com/) for agreeing to share this image.

Conclusion: The Pole and Hudiedao in Singapore

One of the most interesting aspects of this particular passage is its location in the author’s overall discussion. Rather than grouping his thoughts on violence into a single chapter, Vaughan sprinkles them liberally throughout his book. While always at pains to emphasize the Chinese community’s essentially peaceful nature, the end result can actually be somewhat disconcerting. It seems that the unwary reader is constantly encountering a description of a riot, murderous bandit raid or street attack in the most unexpected places.

The passage on arms was not attached to any of these discussions. Rather than occurring in the context of an extended meditation on clan violence, rural banditry or secret society uprisings (all topics Vaughan addresses at length), it pops up in the middle of a chapter on Chinese games and pastimes. More specifically, one can find it wedged between a longer discussion of kite-flying and a detailed digression on chess. Its proximate inspiration seems to have been the author’s observation on the lack of interest in athletics among the area’s Chinese immigrants in comparison to either ethnically Chinese individuals born in Malaysia or Europeans.

While Vaughan never directly addresses the “martial arts” (indeed, I have yet see an author from this time period actually use the phrase), his placement of the long pole and hudiedao in a section on games and pastimes is quite suggestive. While such weapons could show up in street violence, they appear to have also occupied other categories of social meaning. While he offers no hints as to how it happens, his repeated reference to their “skillful use” suggests that at least some individuals spent a great deal of time practicing with these weapons.

One of the things that I found most interesting about this account is the ease with which the long-pole could be transformed into a pike. When considering the frequent thrusts of the “Six and Half Point Pole” form I (and probably every other student who has ever trained in it) have wondered if it was originally intended to function as a platform of both spear and pole training. Vaughan’s observation seems to suggest that southern pole culture acknowledged this flexibility, often with real world consequences. His description of the carriage and use of the hudiedao also fits with other period accounts that we have previously discussed.

While brief, Vaughan’s unexpected aside on local weaponry confirms the importance of the pole and the hudiedao in civilian, rather than strictly militia based, weapons training during the 1850s-1870s. Wing Chun (and many of the other southern arts) likely focused on these weapons precisely because they are a product of the social environment that Vaughan describes. His account, while short, is invaluable as it opens a window onto this world unmediated by the creative imaginations of China’s later martial arts reformers.

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If you enjoyed this post you might also want to see: Through a Lens Darkly (7): Selling Swords and Printed Martial Arts Training Manuals in a 19th century Guangzhou Market.

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Late 19th century performers with a large planted wooden dummy.

Warning: Speculation Ahead

No topic surrounding Wing Chun elicits more interest than its deep historical origins.  Did the art really originate at the southern Shaolin Temple?  Was it connected to late Qing revolutionary groups?  Did Leung Jan actually learn the system from a pair of retired Cantonese opera performers?  And if so, what was this style doing on the Red Boats, whose performances were better known for their elaborate costumes and entertaining acrobatics than actual fighting efficiency?

At the same time the Mook Yan Jong, or “wooden dummy,” has come to define Wing Chun’s image in the public imagination.  For actual students of the system, dummies are an aid in refining everything from footwork to the geometry of the perfect punch.  But to the public they seem to have become the ultimate symbol of esoteric martial prowess.  Increasingly they are showing up in all sorts of unlikely places in popular entertainment (including in a recent episode of Star vs. the Forces of Evil titled “Monster Arm”).

It is probably no coincidence that Wilson Ip opened his 2008 hit film Ip Man with a scene of his eponymous protagonist working away on his jong.  How better to advertise his esoteric skills than by showing his mastery of a training tool that recalls the memory of the sinister room of “wooden dummy men” featured in so many Shaolin temple myths and kung fu movies?

Wing Chun is far from the only Chinese art that employs dummies.  These training tools come in a variety of shapes and sizes and can be seen across the history of that country’s fighting styles. Yet there can be no denying the rapid rise in popularity of the type of dummy favored by Ip Man and Bruce Lee.  Given that this particular training tool has become a ubiquitous symbol of Southern China’s martial heritage and culture, it might be worthwhile to consider the question of its actual origins.

How might the sorts of dummies currently used in Wing Chun have evolved?  Where do they fit into the mythic and more historically grounded genesis of the style?  Given that even the most romantic accounts of this art place its genesis only in the late Qing dynasty (18^th or 19^th century), and the fact that we don’t have any evidence of this type of dummy being used in earlier periods (say the Ming dynasty), it might be possible to make some headway on these questions.

Still, caution is required.  We have few concrete sources on the origins of Wing Chun, and even less on the evolution of its particular style of wooden dummy. This lack of evidence makes it difficult to conclusively falsify theories, and arguments “made from silence” can never be considered wholly reliable.  Barring some unforeseen discovery in the next couple of years, this is a subject that must remain speculative.  The best we can do is to try out some reasonable theories and see how well they stack up against our understanding of other areas of Chinese history.  On the other hand, a blog like this might be a great place to explore some of these “thought experiments.”

Photograph of the bow of a model of an “Earth Boat” at the Foshan Museum included by Yeung in her thesis. Source: Yeung p. 26.

Red Boats and Wooden Dummies

So where does popular mythology locate the origin of the wooden dummy?  For the most part this has not been a major topic of speculation.  But many Wing Chun practitioners are certain that dummies were in active use during the era of the Red Boat Opera companies.  Scholars of southern Chinese popular culture know that these groups plied the waters of the Pearl River Delta in specially built river junks between about 1870 and 1938.

Some accounts place the ultimate origins of the Red Boat system as far back as the 1850s, but given the strictly enforced vernacular opera ban that was put in place after the failed Red Turban Revolt, Barbara Ward (who has probably done more work on the subject in the English language literature than anyone else) concluded that they did not actually become a common sight until the early 1870s. Nor does the Red Boat tradition seem to have survived into the post-WWII era.  During these prosperous years opera performances became a big enough business to be housed in permanent theaters and the older nautical traditions were abandoned.

Wing Chun students who look back to Cantonese Opera as a critical link in the transmission of their system often assert that dummies were either part of the ships rigging or were actually mounted on the specially built (and highly uniform) fleet of Red Boats.  Opera students are said to have used them in both their basic training of performance skills as well as in their pursuits of the higher reaches of Wing Chun system.  In fact, the Red Boats are often imagined as floating martial arts schools.

Nor are martial artists alone in perpetuating these images.  The Cantonese Opera Museum in Foshan contains multiple references to the traditional role of the Mook Yan Jong in performance training.  The museum even displays (a somewhat historically inaccurate) “scale model” of a classic Red Boat that clearly has a training dummy mounted on the rear deck.

It also has in its collection a vintage “buried dummy” (the more traditional type used prior to the 1950s).  The museum’s description of this particular jong notes that “beating the wooden instrument” was a standard part of the training for all beginning opera students.  So was the classic Wing Chun dummy simply inherited from the Red Boats and or other operatic traditions?

Possibly, but there are a few problems with this theory that need to be carefully considered.  First off, this story doesn’t really explain the ultimate origins of these training tools.  It just moves the problem one step back.  Secondly, there are actually a number of practical questions that arise when we try to place wooden dummies in the context of what we actually know about these vessels.

To begin with, most of the accounts that “remember” the use of dummies on the Red Boats were recorded after the 1980s, in the post-Bruce Lee era, when Wing Chun was already growing in popularity.  However, when one looks back at Barbara Ward’s work interviewing hundreds of opera performers and fans in the post WWII-era, no one seemed to remember the presence of wooden dummies on these vessels at all.  Ward did not include them in her reconstructions of these vessels, which are probably the most detailed and reliable that we currently have.

Even more basic problems arise when we consider what life on these vessels was really like.  The conditions for the both the opera troop as well as the vessel’s sailing crew were appalling cramped.  The situation was even worse when one remembers to account for all of the costumes and other material that had to be carried from one performance venue to the next.  In fact, the surviving members of the Red Boats that Ward interviewed all claimed that no training of any kind happened on these vessels.  There was not enough room to move.

Then again, it would also have been basically unnecessary.  The Red Boats were never intended to be blue water vessels undertaking long voyages.  These river barges were somewhat akin to a large tour bus that would move from one town to the next as they worked their way up-stream during the performance seasons.  Voyages might take a day or two, and then they would dock for three days or more.  Any actual training or practice happened on dry land.

In my opinion deck mounted dummies seem unlikely.  They would have been in the way of the crew when the ship was underway, while also being in the wrong place for actual martial arts and performance training when it actually happened on land.

A windlass on the deck of a Vietnamese Junk loaded with rope.

Looking Further into the Nautical Origins of the Jong

I have always been a bit skeptical of the typical story linking the Wing Chun dummy to the style’s supposed origins on the Red Boats.  While it seems entirely likely that Cantonese Opera performers used jongs, something has never really added up for me about the sorts of reconstructions that are imagined.  Does this mean that we can dismiss the nautical origins of the Wing Chun dummy?  Probably not.

I was recently part of a discussion regarding a southern kung fu style that also claimed an operatic origin and used dummies.  One of the individuals mentioned that while he was a northern stylist, he had grown up around sailing vessels, and it would not be hard for him to imagine that these dummies might be descended from some of the deck machinery that he had seen.

This struck me as an interesting comment but having no familiarity with sailing vessels myself I didn’t know what to do with it.  While thinking about this comment a few days later it occurred to me that I knew someone who could speak directly to this issue.  Dr. Hans K. Van Tilburg, the maritime heritage coordinator for NOAA, is one of the foremost authorities on the naval architecture of 19^th century Chinese sailing vessels.  He also offered some generous advice on a couple of posts dealing with the martial arts and maritime culture posted here at Kung Fu Tea last year.

I gathered a number of pictures of various Wing Chun dummies (including the image at the top of this post) and emailed them out to him asking what he thought they were.  His response was both immediate and fascinating.  In his opinion the dummy in this often reproduced (but really somewhat mysterious) image is clearly a ships windlass which had been taken out of its mounting and propped up vertically.  He also noted that the modern dummies bore an uncanny resemblance to the same sorts of windlasses.

These simple pieces of deck machinery were common on all traditional Chinese sailing vessels in the late imperial period.  They might vary in size and configuration depending on the job that they were expected to do.  Generally they consisted of a horizontal barrel or trunk that rope was loaded onto in order to hoist sails, anchors or the rudder (many Chinese junks of the period could raise their rudders when sailing into shallow waters).  These trunks were fitted with a progressive series of holes or slots that held detachable wooden arms.  These could be either long or short and were used by the sailors to hoist and hold the load.

Sometimes the holes were arranged so that if two arms were inserted at one time they would make an acute angle (much like a modern Wing Chun dummy).  This was important as not every Chinese windlass had a gearing or locking mechanism.  Instead an individual arm could be wedged against the deck to hold the load in place.

Above one can find a photograph of a relatively small and simple example of such a machine on a Vietnamese fishing junk.  This image is particularly useful as you can actually see how rope was loaded onto the barrel to lift a load.  The trunk of this windlass is octagonal, whereas all of the pictures I have seen of Chinese examples are round.  [This leads me to wonder what an octagonal dummy would be like to work with?]  Readers should also note that it seems to have three sets of “arms” which, if one were to set the trunk up vertically, would correspond to the high and low arms plus the leg.  In fact, the individual employing the windlass as a dummy in the first picture is actually using the lower most “arm” as though it were a “leg.”

A Windlass on the deck of the famous Chinese junk Keying during its tour of the UK.

Another 19th century European engraving showing a Windlass on the deck of a Chinese ship.

Another important image comes from a 19^th century engraving of the aft deck of the Keying.  We already encountered the Keying in a previous post.  Used as a floating cultural exhibit it was responsible for the first public Kung Fu demonstrations to Europe in the 1850s.

In this image we can see an individual sitting on the windlass used to lift the sail.  In this instance the arms have been removed and no rope is loaded on the barrel.  As a result we can see the large diameter circular trunk with a configuration of slots or holes not totally unlike the inverted triangle still seen on the modern Wing Chun dummy.

Still, the Chinese windlass was always installed and used in the horizontal position.  After the introduction of European sailing vessels into the water of southern China some vertically mounted machinery, referred to as a “capstan,” began to be produced.  This type of arrangement was much more common on European vessels.

Needless to say, a vertically mounted Chinese-style windlass would bear an uncanny resemblance to a modern Wing Chun dummy.  In the 1867 volume Notes on Japan and China, Vol. 1-2 (edited by N. B. Denneys, Hong Kong: Charles A. Saint) we read:

“Where a mechanical contrivance for raising an anchor is necessary, the old fashioned principal of the winch is usually seen in force: but the foreign capstan is gradually gaining ground in this respect.” P. 170.

While the vertical capstan may have gained ground in some quarters I was unable to locate a single image of one in all of the pictures and postcards of Chinese junks which I saw. Indeed, it seems that the windlass remained the machine of choice throughout the period of traditional boat building and even into the post-WWII period.

Note both the mast support and the horizontal windlass on this contemporary Chinese ship. Source: special thanks to Hans Van Tilburg for providing this photo from his own collection.

There are a few other bits of Chinese naval architecture that also seem suggestive of the structure of a wooden dummy.  The long curved “leg” of a jong is one of its most striking visual features, yet there is nothing like that on any image of a windlass that I have located.  However, the masts of Chinese vessels were often reinforced and braced with “legs” of very similar shape.  The size of this appendage could vary tremendously depending on the scale of the vessel and the mast that was being supported, but the basic resemblance to a more traditional planted dummy is notable.

What of the Red Boats of the Cantonese Operas?  All of the images that we have seen so far have come from either very large blue water vessels or fishing junks.  Did the sorts of junks and barges that plied the Pearl River also have these sorts of deck machines?

Logically one would expect that the answer to this would have to be yes.  Any ship which needed mechanical help in raising the anchor or hoisting sales could have used the services of a windlass or two.  Unfortunately finding period picture of these machines on river vessels has proved to be more difficult than I expected, possibly because of their more extensive cabins and enclosed decks.  At the same time it is useful to remember that we do not have a single confirmed photograph of a Red Boat.  Given their popularity and social importance this is really surprising.  Yet it is also a valuable reminder of exactly how spotty the historical record of popular culture can be.

While we lack actual images of the machines in question, Barbara Ward’s reconstruction do suggest that each Red Boat came outfitted with a number of windlasses.  One of the really interesting things about the Red Boats is that the entire fleet used by the Guangdong opera guild was built to identical specifications.  Further, every specific cabin location in any ship shared the same name.  As a result any opera company could set foot on every ship and be instantly at home.  These vessels were designed to be perfectly interchangeable.

The names of the various cabins occupied by the performers are often quite evocative with the very best cabins being given soaring titles (‘The Prince’s Palace’).  Less desirable spots tended to carry distressingly literal names (‘Rubbish Dump’ or ‘Mosquito Den’). One of these less preferred cabins was referred to as “hoist sales place,” and Ward’s plans of the vessels indicate that it sat by (or on top of) one of the windlasses used in conjunction with the ships retractable mast.

A view of the interior layout of a Red Boat. Source: Barbara Ward, 1981. pp. 255, Figure 2.8

Conclusion

Wing Chun students occasionally point to the image at the top of this post as an example of a wooden dummy being used on one of the Red Boats of the Cantonese opera.  Indeed, the ship in question does appear to be some sort of river barge, and the martial artist’s actions look like modern dummy usage.  Unfortunately I have never been able to confirm the actual province of that particular photograph (though I have now heard a number of theories on its origin).  But in more technical terms, what is this actually a picture of?

After my conversation with Dr. Van Tilberg and a little research I think that we can be fairly certain that the “dummy” in question is actually a windlass of the type that was used as deck machinery on Chinese vessels in the Late Imperial and Republic periods.  To do work such a device would have to be mounted horizontally, but in this case it has either been mounted vertically, or possibly just propped upright.  The fact that the individuals in question are using it to demonstrate what appears to be movements from a dummy form suggests that they also noted a correspondence between this particular bit of naval machinery and the sort of training tools that would later become common in Wing Chun.

I remain skeptical that very many sailors had something like this permanently installed on the decks of their ships.  All of the photographs I have seen indicate that the decks of smaller vessels were pretty busy and complicated places, and such machines would have been more useful for doing actual work.  Nor did Ward find any evidence of ship board dummies in her investigating of life on the Red Boats (though admittedly that was not the focus of her work).

Still, boats were a ubiquitous part of life in Southern China.  All sorts of individuals traveled on these vessels to visit other villages or conduct mundane business.  Given the constant use that machinery like this endured, one suspects that there must have been a small army of carpenters who made their living rebuilding and repairing these windlasses.  We may never know if the origins of the modern Mook Yan Jong can be found in a spare windlass propped up on a deck (as in the opening image), or in the creativity of an individual boxing master re-purposing or commissioning a custom model from a local carpenter.  Yet it is an important possibility to consider.

A simple striking dummy employed in some Bagua schools.

Of course there are other possibilities.   While we are on the topic of machinery there are some other devices that one might want to take into account.  Chinese engineers developed all sorts of simple machines for moving water, and nowhere was this technology more vital than in the shifting sands and flooded rice fields of the Pearl River Delta.  One such device can be seen above.  Again, note the arrangement of multiple spokes of “arms” along a circular trunk.  Any farmer would have been familiar with similar devices used to raise water into elevated rice patties.  Indeed, it is not possible to rule out these sorts of machines as another source of inspiration for the wooden dummy.

Still, the naval windlass seems to have a number of correspondences that are hard to ignore.  These can be seen in the size and the shape of the trunk, the need for easily detachable arms and even the sorts of hole configurations that were commonly encountered.  Clearly the Mook Yan Jong has undergone an extensive evolution and specialization to become the training tool that we know today.  Yet the iconic Wing Chun’s dummy may be a tangible link to southern Chinese culture’s nautical past.

oOo

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

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

Through a Lens Darkly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Creation of Beijing’s Police

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Police Violence and Moral Theater

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

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

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

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

The Sword as Moral Theater

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Introduction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dating the Image

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oOo

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

oOo

Kendo and Judo as part of life in the Japanese Navy. Source: Vintage Postcard. Author’s personal collection.

Introduction

The martial arts can speak to a number of important questions, but perhaps to none as directly as popular attitudes towards violence. Much of my recent research has looked at what the organization of martial arts groups in China reveals about the nature of social conflict. Yet for those who share my interest in the modern martial arts and conflict, it is hard to imagine a case study quite as rich as the Pacific theater of the Second World War (WWII).

During the years prior to the outbreak of this conflict martial arts played many roles within the domestic political discourses of both Japan and China. Hand combat reformers argued that they were an inexpensive means by which the state could reform physical education in schools, promote physical fitness among the general population and improve public health. Yet they were also turned to as vehicles for promoting nationalism, strengthening state control of civil society and structuring the ways that civilian populations would perceive other peoples in the coming conflict.

The idea that these fighting systems somehow revealed essential truths about the Japanese (and later Chinese) people even aided the explosion in popularity which these same systems enjoyed in the West after the close of hostilities. Still, as many scholars have previously argued, the seemingly immutable links between the Asian martial arts and specific ethnolinguistic identities were ultimately a byproduct of specific political discourses, the efforts of individual reformers and the power of “invented traditions.”

In today’s post I would like to take a look at a couple of period artifacts that help to illustrate the process by which these discourses were created and spread throughout society. Both of the postcards that we will be discussing were printed in Japan during WWII and were intended to illustrate and humanize scenes of daily military life. Presumably these sorts of images were created for the benefit of both the soldiers who might have bought them as well as their families back home.

These seem to have been fairly popular and it is not hard to find them in auctions and specialized collections. They exist in multiple series, some of which focus on the army, while others tackle the challenges of naval life. I have always suspected that some of them were actually reprinted after the end of the war, but because postcards are usually not dated I have yet to definitively confirm this.

As one might expect the vast majority of images presented on these cards have nothing to do with the martial arts. Topics such as “swabbing the decks”, eating lunch in the field and feeding the horses dominate these series. Yet a few cards in each series seem to be dedicated explicitly to the practice of hand combat.

This is not surprising as martial arts training had become a mandatory part of most primary and secondary educational programs in Japan during the late Meiji period. The military itself also made use of various martial disciplines in its training. Sumo wrestling, judo and kendo are all well represented in these series and soldiers are seen both participating in these events as well as watching them as spectators. Yet this does not exhaust the limits of the artist’s martial imagination. From time to time we even catch glimpses of the Chinese martial arts as well, always seen from the perspective of victorious Japanese soldiers.

Before going on I should make a couple of final notes. First, I would like to thank Dr. Jared Miracle for providing me with a rough translation of the contents of these postcards on very short notice. He was also kind enough to share some of his thoughts on these images. Any errors of omission or commission in the discussion below are mine alone.

Another vintage Japanese postcard showing kendo practice on a battleship. Source: Author’s personal collection.

 
Kendo in the Navy Life

Our first postcard focuses on traditional fencing and judo. Of all of the martial themes that appear on these postcards, swords and the practice of kendo are by far the most common. While we in the West tend only to imagine karate or judo when discussing the Japanese martial arts, this emphasis on sword-play accurately represents the importance of kendo in the development of Japan’s martial arts culture during the pre-war period. While it is nice to see a portrayal of ship-board kendo training on this postcard, the brief mention of judo is what makes it really standout in my opinion.

When reading a Japanese cartoon, proceed from right to left, and top to bottom. A rough translation of dialog runs as follows:

Banner: “Gekiken”

Fencing Sailor 1: “He enjoys taking that posture/stance he learned.”

Officer: “Like some kind of ‘Sword Barbarian,’ eh?”

Fencing Sailor 2: “Here I come!”

Judo Guy: “We really prefer judo over gekiken.”

At first glance this postcard would seem to accurately capture a fairly mundane moment in the life of many sailors. Ample photographic evidence exists to demonstrate that shipboard kendo practice and competition was common in the Japanese navy. In fact, I have other photographic postcards that show scenes that are almost identical to the one portrayed in the postcard above. In one sense this image is interesting precisely because it replicates such a mundane moment in time.

Nevertheless, the cartoon is more interesting than its photographic brethren in that they do not attempt to tell us anything about what the various participants in these activities are thinking. Or at least what those who were employing these images to create a certain discourse linking martial arts practice and military service wanted us to believe that they were thinking.

For instance, given that practically all Japanese high school students practiced kendo at one time or another, it may be significant that the side banner on this postcard identifies the scene as one of “gekiken” (or old style fencing) rather than kendo. While I am not an expert in Japanese martial arts history (most of my own research being focused on China), one suspects that this reflects the debate that emerged in the 1930s where certain military officers and martial artists began to worry that “modernized” kendo (which had developed more as a means of self-cultivation and competition) was no longer preparing officers with practical battlefield skills. In fact, Japanese swordsmen faced a number of setbacks when they first entered the Chinese field.

Hence the “older” approach to fencing went into revival during the WWII period in an attempt to update the skills of Japanese soldiers for the modern battlefield. In that sense it may be interesting to observe that the second swordsman appears to be using unorthodox “barbarian” techniques that the first is being forced to adjust to.

This card also appears to intentionally juxtapose such “rough and tumble” combat training techniques with the more structured, fraternal and even “gentle” nature of judo training. While many soldiers practiced judo, the art itself never seems to have undergone the same transformation that gripped the kendo world. This juxtaposition of two different approaches to the martial arts seems to provide the narrative thread that runs through this card.

Glorious Deeds of Arms

Banner: “Glorious Deeds of Arms: Prisoners of War and Spoils of War”

Japanese Officer: “This is banned dum-dum ammunition.”

Japanese Soldier: “Yeah, we also captured the enemy’s tank(s)!”

Captured Chinese Soldier: “POWs certainly enjoy the Japanese Army’s kindness.”

Japanese Soldier: “I’d really like (or it would be nice) to take this Green Dragon Blade home as a souvenir, eh?”

Our second image turns its attention to the infantry in occupied China. There is no indication within the picture to indicate where or when this scene is supposed to have taken place. But photographs of such “victory scenes,” where Japanese soldiers are shown posing with confiscated weapons (or occasionally at important landmarks) are commonly found in soldiers’ photo albums from the period. Again, one of the most interesting aspects of this image is its intentionally generic nature. Images of such scenes were frequently recorded and then reproduced on a massive scale for consumption by viewers on the home front.

The great advantage of the illustrated format of this particular image is that it provides the artist with a way to tell us what is (or should be) going on in the heads of individual soldiers. The first individuals who speaks is probably meant to be an officer (note the mustache, katana, and high leather boots). His interest is focused on the more modern and deadly aspects of the Chinese military. In this case it has just been discovered that the Chinese soldiers in question were armed with “dum-dum” rounds.

This is a slang term for any bullet that is designed to mushroom or expand on impact to inflict more damage on its victim. The name itself is a historical reference to the Dum Dum arsenal in India where the British experimented with such ammunition in the late 19th century before it was banned by the Geneva Convention. While it is not uncommon to come across references to “dum-dum rounds” in English language discussions, I was previously unaware that the term had entered conversational Japanese in the 1930s.

Notice also that the next speaker emphasizes the mechanized nature of the Chinese army by pointing to the captured tank on the far right of the image. The viewer is not meant to feel pity for a “poorly equipped” Chinese army. Obviously this is a fine line to walk given what is going on at the left-hand side of the card. But the “testimony” of the captured Chinese soldiers themselves notes that we need not be concerned for their welfare. Of course this is one place where the images presented by the official propaganda and actual historical events are different in profound ways.

On the left side of the card a very different conversation appears to be happening at exactly the same moment. Here two soldiers pick through a pile of traditional weapons that have been confiscated. One holds a classic dadao aloft, while the other hefts a guandao. He refers to this weapon as a “Green Dragon Blade.”

In so doing he explicitly identifies the weapon as that wielded by the hero Guan Yu in the classic novel The Romance of the Three Kingdoms. The same story was very popular in Japan (where it often went by the title Sangokushi). In fact, this one work has spawned literally countless derivative novels, stories, plays, woodblock prints, poems, manga and movies between the late Tokugawa period and today. It has occupied an important place within Japanese popular culture for literally centuries.

A captured Chinese dadao being held by a Japanese soldier. Note the unique saw back blade. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

Conclusion: The Martial Arts and Modernity

Both of our postcards have built stories around the physical trappings of the martial arts. In the first image we see sailors, faces obscured by kendo masks, training on a ship with bamboo swords. In the second image we instead find real swords, won in an actual fight, while their former owners look on passively. And in both cases the martial arts are shown to be an aspect of the modern battlefield rather than a purely cultural exercise.

Still, it is interesting to consider this relationship with modernity in a slightly more detailed way. The subtle comparison between Japanese gekiken and judo suggests an acute awareness that martial practices in Japan were evolving and changing in response to things happening in their environment. Interestingly, the various martial artists within the image seem to have mixed opinions on the value of these trends. While the two swordsmen throw themselves into the newly revived “old style” fencing practice, the judo players behind them look on with some degree of incredulity. All of this indicates a high level of social literacy regarding the sorts of political debates that were happening within the world of the Japanese martial arts.

In contrast the Japanese vision of the Chinese martial arts seems to be frozen in time. More specifically, it is frozen in a vision of an “Orientalized” past defined by the immensely popular Sangokushi which dominated much of Japanese popular culture throughout the 20th century. This is fascinating as the widespread adoption of the dadao by Chinese troops was in some ways just as recent a trend as the innovations in Japanese military fencing that the first postcard seemed to be commenting on.

Nor did these cards show the Chinese as having only obsolete equipment. Theirs was a mechanized force complete with artillery. How “glorious” could “deeds of arms” be when unleashed against a vastly inferior enemy? Still, while the Japanese fighting arts were viewed as an evolving part of a modern military structure, their Chinese counterparts are reduced to essentialist markers of ethnolinguistic identity. Further, this identity is made accessible to Japanese consumers and readers through the popular novels and media of their day.

There are a number of interesting points to take away from this brief discussion. While forces within Japanese society sought to use their traditional martial arts to promote certain ideological and nationalist positions, readers appear to have been aware of recent changes in how these arts were practiced and political debates within the martial community. This is the opposite of the sort of allochronism that one might expect to see. Secondly, Japanese readers are expected to have some interest in (and familiarity with) the practice of Chinese boxing. If nothing else traditional Chinese weapons are shown as desirable war souvenirs.

Yet these practices are understood only through political discourses and media representations that have the effect of stripping them of their actual history. This misperception of the true nature of the Chinese martial arts becomes one step in the process of reducing them markers of an inferior ethnolinguistic identity that must be overcome or controlled. This would seem to suggest that the misunderstanding of someone else’s martial arts history is at least as dangerous as accepting a false narrative of one’s own practices.

Guan Yu as shown by Utagawa Kuniyoshi in his collection of prints from the Sangokushi.

If you enjoyed these images you might also want to see:  Through a Lens Darkly (31): Red Spears, Big Swords and Civil Resistance in Northern China

Bernard the Kung Fu Elf, training for a spot on the elite North Pole Alpine Search and Rescue team. (Source: late 1940s Swedish Postcard, Authors personal collection.)

“In business, be competent.
In action, watch the timing.
No fight: No blame.”

Introduction

I bet you didn’t know that the Dao De Jing was full of Christmas shopping advice. It turns out that it is, and this is the perfect time to start thinking hard about what you are going to get that hard to please martial artist on your list. Or if you are the one looking for some martial arts books and gear to help you pass those long winter nights, this is the post for you.

This year’s shopping list is split into four categories: books, weapons (mostly sharp), training equipment, and items of cultural interest. I have tried to select items at a variety of price points for each category. Some of the gift ideas are quite reasonable while others are admittedly aspirational. After all, Christmas is a time for dreams, so why not dream big!

Given the emphasis of this blog, most of these ideas pertain to the Chinese martial arts, but I do try to branch out in places. I have also put at least one Wing Chun item in each category. Nevertheless, with a little work many of these ideas could be adapted to fit the interests of just about any martial artists.

As a disclaimer I should point out that I have no financial relationship with any of the firms listed below (except for the part where I plug my own book). This is simply a list of gift ideas that I thought were interesting. It is not an endorsement or a formal product review. Lastly, I would like to thank my friend Bernard the “Kung Fu Elf” (see above) for helping me to brainstorm this list.

Books: Feed your Head

For a supposedly oral branch of popular culture the Chinese martial arts sure do produce a lot of books. In fact, books make the ideal gift as they cater to a wide variety of interests, are never the wrong size and (unlike a number of items slightly further down) will not slow you down in the airport security line.  My first pick for this year would have to be Kung Kuen Fundamentals and Hung Kuen Training by Lam Chun Fai (and Hing Chao).   You can think of these as volumes one and two of the same project.  At about $50 they will be the most interesting to students of Hung Gar in all of its many incarnations.  But the historical discussions in these volumes will also make them of interest to any student of the Southern Chinese martial arts.  The quality of these volumes is excellent and you can find a description of the contents of both books here.

Of course one of the challenge that Bernard and I face every year is coming up with gift ideas that might appeal to a wide range of readers, and not just those from a single style .  That is why I like this next suggestion.  As some of you already know Ted Mancuso has been working on a short series of books looking at the basic weapons that appear in the Chinese (and Asian) martial arts.  Probably no weapon is more commonly encountered than the staff or pole.  In this volume this often overlooked weapon and training tool gets the detailed discussion and focus that it so richly deserves.  If you have been thinking of taking another look at your pole form, you may find the discussion in this book to be interesting and helpful.  While you are at it you might also want to check out his discussion of the spear.

The sorts of literature that we see engaging with the martial arts has now expanded well beyond the “how to” manual.  Those whose tastes run towards the philosophical and autobiographical may want to check out Not Afraid: On Fear, Heartbreak, Raising a Baby Girl, and Cage Fighting by Daniele Bolelli.  This book tackles some pretty intense subject matter but Bolelli is always an engaging writer with a flair to discussing the martial life.  Better yet it just started to ship a few days ago, making it the perfect gift for the martial artist on your list.

Readers interested in exploring beyond the standard literature on the Chinese martial arts may be interested in Alexander C. Bennett’s recent historical, cultural and political account of the development of Kendo.   Kendo: Culture of the Sword (published by the University of California Press) is a nice example of the sort of work that we are seeing in this new generation of martial arts studies research.  Obviously many of the individual events that Bennett discusses are grounded in Japanese history, yet the more general themes that arise in an investigation of the origins of Kendo can be seen in the evolution of a number of arts throughout Asia.  Hopefully the next couple of years will see the publication of some serious comparative studies which will allow us to better leverage our growing understanding of these individual arts to tackle more basic theoretical questions.

The Creation of Wing Chun: A Social History of the Southern Chinese Martial Arts by Benjamin Judkins and Jon Nielson. State University of New York Press, 2015. August 1.

What gift list would be complete without an author plugging their own book?  Obviously students of Wing Chun (and those interested in the lives of Ip Man or Bruce Lee) will find this work to be very interesting.  In addition to providing a detailed case study of the development of Wing Chun in and around Foshan, this book outlines a social history of the broader hand combat community of the Pearl River Delta region.  Thus readers from a variety of Chinese styles may find this discussion quite helpful.  While I realize this book maybe in the “aspirational” category at $90 for some, it is a very good example of how an  interdisplinary approach (economic, political, and historical) can lead to a better understanding of what factors influence the development of martial arts styles.  For those who may not be familiar with the specifics of these systems, don’t worry, it has been written in a very accessible way.  No prior experience in Wing Chun is necessary.   I should also mention that I have seen copies of this book on-line going for about $75 if you shop around.

Weapons: The Cutting Edge

The Christmas Gift Guide is always one of the most popular end of the year features here at Kung Fu Tea, and I know from prior reader feedback the “weapons” category seems to demand the lion’s share of that attention.  The big news this year is that Kris cutlery had brought their line of hand crafted hudiedao back!  I have always really liked these swords as they are in many ways the closest copies that you will see to the sorts of swords that were actually carried for combat purposes in the middle and later parts of the 19th century.  As this post reminds us, we do need to be careful about making broad generalizations as there was always a huge amount of variation in the styles, dimensions and even construction techniques seen in this class of weapon.  Nevertheless, most of the antique hudoiedao that one will encounter today will look a lot more like this than what you typically see hanging on the walls of the average Wing Chun school.

I have always been particularly fond of this blade profile as well as the steel handguards.  The form feels different when performed with knives like these and they force you to reprioritize your approach.  And if you ever wanted to do any cutting exercises, these blades (rather than very expensive period antiques) would be the way to go.  (It goes without saying however that either forms practice or cutting with live blades can be very dangerous and these exercises should be supervised by someone who knows what they are doing).  The last time I I talked with Kris about these swords they had dropped them from their lineup as they were too expensive to make, so I am thrilled to see them back and comparably priced ($265) to what they were.

http://www.everythingwingchun.com/

Those looking to get a feel for this older style of blade without making the big investment necessary to purchase a set of vintage swords (or the more moderate investment necessary to get a set of decent reproductions) might want to consider these plastic training swords from Everything Wing Chun.  The blade profile is close to correct and long enough (14 inches) to get you into the sorts of sizes that were commonly encountered in historic weapons.  Better yet, you can practice your forms or train at the school without having to worry about getting cut or destroying your $1200 antiques!  For $35 these are a great training tool.  And if the “stabbers” are not your style you can get very similar practice swords with a wide range of blade shapes and lengths from the same source.  The Wing Chun practitioner on your list would get a lot of use out of these training knives.

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

Of course the Butterfly Swords are only half of the Wing Chun weapons equation.  Even more critical in the training of basic skills in the long pole.  I love the pole because of its versatility.  In skilled hands its a fearsome weapon, yet it is also a simple piece of equipment for strength training and conditioning.  Really nice poles made from exotic hardwoods can set you back a $200-$300, but for basic daily training its hard to go wrong with these red oak poles, also from everything Wing Chun.  At $70 they are priced to sell.

Of course there is no reason to stick with the tried and true.  Why not consider giving yourself the gift of a new set of weapons skills (and possibly a trip to the emergency room) over the holidays.  Various sorts of chain whips have been a part of southern Kung Fu culture for a long time.  I have always been interested in learning more about them, but never had the time.  But if you decide that this if your project Tiger Claw had both seven and nine section whips as well as instructional DVDs and books.  Just remember what I said about the emergency room.

Qing Damascus Lamellar Zhibeidao. Source: http://armsandantiques.com

Our last selection is strictly for the seasoned weapons collector looking for something really unique.  This late 19th or early 20th century sword appears to be Jian but in fact is slightly different.  The blade has only been sharpened on one edge and had a different cross-section than what you might be expecting.  This style of sword (called a Zhibeidao) shows up from time to time but is not very common.  I have always wanted to handle one of these but have yet to get the chance.  But that chance could be yours for the (not totally unreasonable) price of $1500.

Training Gear

Do you want to train like a Shaolin monk?  No, I don’t either.  But at least you can wear their now iconic foot gear as you train in the (relative) comfort of your local school.  These are inexpensive, no frills, shoes that won’t break the bank.  But they are also instantly recognizable in the world of the Chinese martial arts and sure to bring a smile when unwrapped.  These shoes are available in white and black.  Personally I like the black better, but white is definitely the classic look.

Photo of Wallbag. Source: Everything Wing Chun.

If there is a Wing Chun stylist in your life, why not help them to upgrade their wall bag?  As I tell my own students, a wall bag is both the most important, and the least expensive, piece of training equipment you will ever use.  It does everything from training the basic punch to conditioning the hands and more.  Lots of places on the internet carry decent wall bags, though I have always appreciated the little bit of extra quality that you get when you splurge for the leather lining or embroidery.  For Christmas this year why not give the gift of chain punches?

Speaking of bags, here is something else to consider.   We certainly used the heavy bag in my Wing Chun school, but I didn’t come to appreciate how important a training tool it was until I started with a group of kickboxers as part of an ongoing research project.  Now I am a convert.  Rounds on the heavy bag are always going to be a part of my basic boxing and conditioning workout.  I like this particular model for a couple of reasons.  First, its free standing so you don’t have to worry about hanging it.  Secondly at 72 inches its tall enough to be “realistic.”  At the same time padding goes all the way down to the base allowing you to train the low kicks and knees that are critical for self defense drills.  At $250 its not cheap, but its still a great investment if you have the space.

If you are going to start using the heavy bag for serious training routines you will probably want to invest in a set of gloves at some point.  Either the lighter MMA or the more traditional Boxing models will do.  For bag work I prefer the heavier traditional boxing gloves.  There is no need to spend a fortune on these and you can generally get a pair of decent gloves for between $30 and $70 dollars.  The two most common makers are Title and Everlast.  Between the two I always feel more comfortable with the slightly squarer fist shape of the Everlast gloves.  Your millage may vary.  Its also nice to have some gel in the gloves, especially if you plan on using traditional wrist wraps.  These gloves will only set you back about $60.  And if you ask around at your local gym or YMCA you will probably discover that they already have a heavy bag in a closet or back room.  Add a round timer and an mouth guard and you are ready to add a new dimension to your workout.

Buick Yip – Mui Fa Jong. Source: Everything Wing Chun

No Christmas gift list would be complete without a nod to the traditional wooden dummy (particularly where Wing Chun students are concerned).  But this year I thought I would feature something a little different.  The hanging dummies made famous by Ip Man and Bruce Lee get most of the press, but the Chinese martial arts have generated a lot of other sorts of training devices that are technically “wooden dummies” as well.  Perhaps the best known of these are Plum Blossom Poles.  Wooden pillars are typically sunk into the ground and are supposed to help students with their balance, stepping and shifting.  Some Wing Chun schools (including mine) even practice Chi Sao on the Plum Blossom Poles.  Recently Buick Yip, who makes some of the very nicest wooden dummies out there, has started to produce his own line of portable Plum Blossom poles.  Each pole is seven inches across and six inches high.  They are made of camphor wood and could be attached to a board, though they are meant to be portable.  I think this last feature is great as I have worked in a couple of training spaces that are small enough that it would certainly have been nice to be able to pack up the plum blossom poles when not is use.  Like everything Buick Yip does, this footwork dummy is a thing of beauty, and at $300 you will pay for it.

Artistic and Cultural Objects

Our final set of suggestions is less specific to any given tradition or training method, and instead focuses on the artistic or cultural aspect of the Asian martial arts.  Everyone loves a good martial arts documentary, and one of the best ones to come out in the last couple of years was “The Black Kung Fu Experience” directed by Martha Burr and Mei-Juin Chen.   One of the reasons why I personally like this documentary is that touches on a number of sorts of themes that we often discuss in martial arts studies, but it does so in very concrete and personal ways.  All in all, its a nice introduction to what is too often an overlooked chapter in the history of the martial arts in the west.

Woodblock print of Chinese warrior holding a sword.

Or perhaps you would like to spend a few of the upcoming cold and dark winter evenings exploring the origins of Chinese martial arts culture?  In such case it might be worth investing in a good translation of Outlaws of the Marsh (also sometimes called Water Margin).  This sprawling novel has had a profound impact on the way that the martial arts have been imagined and understood within many successive generations of Chinese popular culture.  Some researchers have gone so far as to call it the “Old Testament” of the Chinese martial art world.  That assessment seems about right to me, and I have always been a bit surprised that we have not seen more discussions of it in the recent literature.  Certainly for those interested in how the Martial Arts may have been imagined in the Song, Yuan and Ming dynasties, this is a critical resource.  But the 108 Heroes of the marsh are also living and vital figures in modern popular culture traditions.

Or how about a little art for the wall?  The Chinese martial arts have always generated great visual images, but these days I find that I am more interested in photographs that manage to escape the stereotyped misty mountains and show these traditions in a more vital, modern and urban context.  While quickly perusing the offerings of allposters.com I found a couple of great images that could grace the wall of either your home or school and are available in wide variety of sizes and framing options.  The first of these is the now iconic image of a Shaolin monk walking onto the grounds of the temple in Henan while carrying an Burger King bag.  This image became somewhat famous after it graced the cover of Matthew Polly’s book American Shaolin (which might also make nice Christmas gift for someone).  Now it can hang on your walls as well.  The second image captures a slice of modern Taiji culture, as well as the Shanghai city skyline.  Both are great pictures.

Mini buick yip dummy. Source: Everything Wing Chun

Miniature wooden dummies are apparently now a thing.  This actually makes me glad as I am always looking for sculptural expressions of Chinese martial arts culture, and I have always felt that the strong lines of the traditional Mook Yan Jong make a great architectural statement.  Now you can put that same statement on your desk.  Buick Yip (the maker of the Plum Blossom Poles that we discussed above) has released his own line of miniature dummies made to the same exacting standards as his full size models.  And like the originals these too are available in a variety of exotic hardwoods including Lychee and Tiger Marble.  The dummy stands about a foot tall and the body has a diameter of one and half inches.  Its the perfect size to use either as a gift or award.  At $130 I suspect that it is as close as I will get to owning a Buick Yip dummy for the next couple of years.

A home silhouetted by the moon on Christmas eve. These architectural cards were some of the most commonly given and are a valuable remainder of the material lives that Americans at the turn of the century aspired to. Note the art nouveau influenced gate. (Source: Vintage American Postcard, authors personal collection.)

Conclusion: The Best Things in Life are Free

Its important to remember that many of the best things about the holidays come free of charge.   These include the chance to spend time with our friends and families, to get caught up with old training partners or teachers, and to reflect on what the new year might hold.  But now you can also add a subscription to the new interdisciplinary journal Martial Arts Studies to that list.  Published twice yearly this journal is available for free to anyone with an internet connection.  It features research and discussion by some of the top names in the field and it will look great on your tablet, desktop or phone.  So as you get caught up with your “Kung Fu Family” over the holidays please consider passing the link along.

And if you still need help shopping for all of the martial artists on your list consider checking out the 2012, 2013 and 2014 gift guides.

Chinese Officer and Soldier with Ring Hilted Sabers

Today’s post is an early Christmas gift.  When I first decided that it would be wise (for research purposes) to collect and catalog images of period martial artists, I was faced with a couple of dilemmas.  Perhaps the most pressing was to determine what constituted a photo of a “martial artist.”  The realm of hand combat instruction in China was filled with all sorts of figures, from opera singers to private security guards and even bandits, who depended on the martial arts to make a living.  Yet they do not all fit into a modern understanding of “proper” kung fu students and schools.

Soldiers also fall into this category.  For many individuals the martial arts were a very practical educational choice to prepare for a career in the military.  So under what circumstances is a photo of a late 19th century soldier also a potentially important image of a martial artist?

My answer to this question has shifted over the years.  At the moment I have decided that a soldier is also a martial artist if he is acting as such (for instance, practicing archery) or displaying either objects of values associated with Chinese martial culture (e.g., one occasionally finds photos of soldiers participating in lion or dragon dancing at festivals).  I will be the first to admit that this is more of a rule of thumb than a comprehensive typology for classifying images.  Unfortunately I had yet to work even this out when I first began collecting period postcards and photographs.

You can see a scan of one of the very first postcards that I puzzled over at the top of this article.  For reasons that I have not entirely worked out, some of the best photos of early Chinese martial artists appear on Russian postcards.  Soldier and martial artists were also plentiful in the British, American, Japanese, German and French spheres of influence.  And over the course of this series we have seen interesting images emerge from all of these geographic areas.  But for some reason, whether it was local culture or consumer demand back in Europe, martial images seem to have made up a larger percentage of the Russian catalog.

The image at the top, which probably dates to the very end of the 19th century or the early 20th, shows a Chinese military officer flanked with four soldier who appear to be armed as his personal guard (recall that regular troops in China in the early 20th century generally carried rifles). When I first saw this postcard I was fascinated by the image.  Not being able to read Russian I am not exactly sure where the photo was taken, but one can clearly see the crenelations of a fortress or city wall behind them.  These were quite common in northern and central China at the end of the Qing dynasty.  Even more interesting are the long, ring hilted, sabres carried by each of the soldiers.  The central officer is armed with what appears to be a European style blade.

Unfortunately I decided that these particular soldier were not a “priority” and I passed on the image.  I immediately regretted that decision and spent the next three years looking for another copy of this postcard.  Earlier this month two examples hit the market at exactly the same time.  Luckily I managed to snag one and am now sharing my good fortune with you.

One might assume that such a long search indicates that the image in question was very rare and had little impact on anyone’s perception of Chinese culture or the martial arts.  That is probably not the case.  I suspect that this image was actually quite popular.  Each of the three examples that I have come across in the last few years is slightly different from the others.  This indicates that each of these examples (see below) comes from a different printing of the card.  It must have been commercially successful to warrant this degree of sustained attention.  The scarcity of this image today is probably a better indicator of the incredibly low survival rates for all sorts of ephemera rather than its circulation figures at the time.

Taking a Closer Look at the “Tai Chi Saber”

From a martial arts perspective, the most interesting thing about this image is the swords (or more properly dao) carried by the soldiers.  Pay special attention to the “S” shaped guards, cord wrapped handles (probably over wood scales) and ring pommels seen on each weapon.  Occasionally one sees modern interpretations of this basic blade shape marketed as the “Tai Chi Saber.” The weapon even seems to have achieved a degree of popularity among practitioners of certain forms.  Needless to say this is not an “official” name for these sorts of swords.  Chinese martial artists, in general, seem to have employed the weapons that were at hand rather than commissioning specific designs for their local styles. Instead this was a style of dao that was popular in northern and central China from roughly the middle of the 19th century to the 1930s.  It was carried by a wide range of local militia members, bandit forces, security guards, martial artists and apparently even some more regular soldiers.

One of the reasons why this image has always fascinated me is that I have owned a couple of these swords over the years.  I would have loved to provide detailed photos of one of these blades as it is a pretty close match to the examples in the postcard.  Unfortunately that weapon is currently on loan to my Sifu on the other side of the country.  Instead I found a couple of examples that were posted over at Swords and Antique Weapons for study purposes that may help to shed some light on what these blades are like for anyone who has not had a chance to handle one.

http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com/s205_full.html

http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com/s205_full.html

The first of these is the sort of blade that may have been used as a presentation sword or carried by more elite guards whose employer was looking to make an ostentatious statement.  This particular sword is 111 cm long (about 44 inches).  Its blade is decorated with both piercings and fullers, and the spine has been incised with a bamboo pattern.  That last flourish actually seems to have been somewhat common on these swords and can even be seen on my own, much more plebeian, example.

In general these swords are lighter and faster in the hand than you might expect given their length and width.  This is possible as the profile of the blade is rather thin and flat coming to a sharp edge optimized for slicing rather than bashing armored targets.  As you move towards the tip this tendency becomes even more pronounced, much as you might expect with an ox-tailed dao of the same period.  Of course one has to be careful making generalizations about blades of this era as they have often been polished more than once and this can change both their weight and geometry.  If you see one of these swords with a oddly rounded tip and fullers that lack definition or depth, this is an indication that you are dealing with a “tired blade” that has seen too many polishings.  Given the lengths and weight of the handle, it seems that many of these swords could have been used with either one or two hands.

http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com/s109_full.html

The second example of a blade of this type is more typical of what one might encounter today.  Because these swords appear to have been popular with civilian martial artists and militia members, they show up on the antique market with some frequency.  Unfortunately a lot of these swords are in “relic” or “dug” condition.  Still, it is possible to get a real sense of how they would have handled, and many of them are sturdy enough for forms practice.  Needless to say, all of the normal disclaimers about the proper inspection and careful use of antique weapons apply here.

This more typical sword is about 93 cm in length, 69 of which is blade.  Aside from that, the basic profile of the blade appears to be similar.  It was also a nicely decorated weapon in its day.

Over the years I have seen some discussion of these swords and whether they could be considered true “military” weapons or if they were the exclusive domain of civilian martial artists.  In a sense these sorts of questions are impossible to answer because of the ever shifting boundaries between the “official” military, sanctioned and unsanctioned local militias, bandit groups and warlord armies.  Soldiers and even important commanders moved back and forth across these lines and when they did they took their weapons with them.  Thus what one might encounter at any given garrison in the final years of the Qing dynasty might deviate substantially from the official regulations for the Green Standard Army. Still, the postcards discussed here provide a suggestion that at least some of these swords ended up in military hands.

oOo

If you enjoyed this post you might also want to read:  Through a Lens Darkly (18): Chinese Martial Arts and Early 20th Century Cigarette Cards: Building the Global Image of Kung Fu.

oOo

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

The TCMA as a Perpetual Revival Movement

Kung Fu has an odd relationship with the past. It seems that for the last century (at least) each generation has discovered the beauty of the Chinese martial arts only to realize that they are quickly “dying out,” and will likely succeed in doing so unless steps are taken. In other words, there is a strain of the Chinese martial arts that exists in a state of perpetual revival. This is not just to say that each generation must discover these arts for themselves, but that the very language of “loss” and “preservation” are inherently bound up in this process.

Once we understand this, we come closer to grasping the social meaning and function of these practices throughout time. This same discourse seems to be deeply meaningful in our own era. In striving to preserve an ‘authentic’ aspect of martial history, practitioners find something equally authentic within themselves. It may be an increased awareness of their Chinese heritage, a sense of self-creation and empowerment, or simply the awe of touching a relic from humanity’s deep past. After all, few things in our daily life claim to be as ancient as Kung Fu.

Recently I was struck by the notion that not only is there a degree of regularity in the on-going rediscovery of Kung Fu, but that certain rhetoric regarding its social meaning and significance also reappears, with surprising regularity, over the decades. Each generation is bound to rediscover, more or less, the same thing about Chinese masculinity, whether it is embodied in Huo Yunjia, Bruce Lee or, more recently, Daniel Wu. Not only have these individuals carried the same symbolic torch, but they have even been discussed in broadly similar terms by their contemporaries.

This is not to say that they have all played identical roles. Ideas about gender, nationalism and identity are in constant flux. Change is a vital part of this process. Still, the similarities between them are interesting enough that it causes one to stop and think.

The need to look into the past and discover something of value, an idea or symbol that will point the way to a better future, is not confined to the present moment in history. This seems to be an almost universal impulse. Perhaps we enthusiastically rediscover similar inspirations in the lives of each of these figures because there is a ‘Kung Fu shaped hole’ in the human soul?

Alternatively, if we dig deeply enough we will find that the archaeology of popular history and media provides valuable insights into the motivations and meanings driving the current embrace of the Chinese martial arts. The fact that each generation is compelled to “discover” so much anew also mandates that much must also be “forgotten” just as regularly. I personally find the odd forgetfulness that surrounds the contemporary history of the Chinese martial arts to be one of their most fascinating traits. Yet one still suspects that deep currents of discourse from the past shape at least some attitudes in the present even if most of us remain blissfully unaware of this cultural inheritance.

For this reason I am always looking for clues as to how the Chinese martial arts were perceived within the ‘trans-national’ or ‘global’ community prior to their rediscovery in the 1970s. It is tempting to allow our impressions of these attitudes to be shaped by the narratives of popular Kung Fu films in which Western forces were always implacably hostile to the Chinese martial arts. These practices were, after all, tasked with defending the nation’s dignity against the forces of imperialism and spiritual colonization.

Nor is it all that difficult to find racist or bigoted accounts of the Chinese martial arts. Still, it is interesting to note that many of these hostile accounts date to the middle or later periods of the 19th century. This was an era of active military conflict throughout the region and doubts about the Qing government’s ability to adapt to its rapidly changing environment.

By the second and third decades of the 20th century there was a notable change in foreign language discussions of the Chinese martial arts. The main sentiment expressed by these writers was one of mild curiosity rather than derision. And a notable percentage of western authors were inclined to see positive values and potential strengths in these systems of boxing and gymnastics. (Readers should recall that the Chinese hand combat systems were rarely referred to as “martial arts” in the pre-WWII period).

The following Research Note includes two articles found in Hong Kong’s English language newspapers written nearly a decade apart. Both are interesting in their own right and introduce some important facts about the period in question.

The first documents a Jingwu (Chin Woo) demonstration at a local school. This specific organization did much to promote the practice of the Chinese martial arts among students during this decade, spreading their base of support widely throughout society. Readers should also note that this article follows Jingwu’s linguistic convention and uses the term “Kung Fu” as a label for the traditional Chinese martial arts. This usage provides further evidence reinforcing certain arguments about the historical evolution of the term that I made here.

The second article reminds us of the importance of court records and legal proceeding as historical resources. It is a notice of charges against a Kung Fu teacher in Kowloon for the possession of unregistered weapons. The brief nature of this account raises as many questions as it resolves about how the martial arts community interacted with law enforcement during the 1930s.

The police appear to have had no interest in pressing charges against the Sifu as they were aware that the weapons were only used in teaching, and the judge dismissed the case as a technicality after imposing a minimal fine. Still, one wonders why the instructor was dragged into court at all for a weapons offense that no one was interested in enforcing. We know that during the 1950s-1980s there was a degree of hostility between the Hong Kong police and traditional martial arts schools, whom they often viewed as fronts for organized crime and Triad activity. Cases such as this one raises the question of how far back these tensions went.

Taken together these articles seem to illustrate a more nuanced reception of the traditional Chinese martial arts on the part of Westerners in southern China than current popular culture troupes might lead one to suspect. Their attitude was not always one of derision or implacable hostility. Jingwu’s involvement with the education of the youth was seen in a generally positive light. Both the police and presiding judge in the second account seemed capable of distinguishing the social function of the Kowloon school as a place of instruction from any technical infractions of weapons regulations that existed at the time.  As a set these articles shed light on how the Chinese martial arts were being discussed and imagined prior to their “re-discovery” by the English speaking world in the 1960 and 1970s.

A typical Jingwu training class in front of the second Shanghai Headquarters of the group. Note the emphasis on forms and line-drills.

CHINA’S YOUNG IDEA
The China Mail, Page 4
2/25/1924

What the “Chin Woo” is Doing.

Unique Show at Queen’s College.

Small Chinese boys whirling huge swords around their heads and, grotesquely costumed in clownish rigs, performing quaint ballet. Chinese flappers swinging an equally nimble blade and then dancing a graceful pas a deux—these were some of the sights seen in the hall of Queen’s College yesterday afternoon, when prominent members of the Chin Woo Athletic Association gave a demonstration of the form of physical culture which it is their purpose to persuade the young people of China to take up.

It was altogether a unique show. The hall was filled with scholars from Queen’s college, who applauded the performances with much warmth, and members of the teaching staff, who looked on with evident interest. Under the genial supervision of Mr. Tang, a squad of boys kept the fry occupying the front “stalls” in a permanent state of apprehension by their smartly performed evolutions with a sort of Chinese claymore and following this came a vimful exhibition of kung fu, or Chinese boxing.

Mr. Lo Wei-tsong, one of the directors in Shanghai of the Chin woo, who had earlier explained to the gathering the objects aimed at by the system of physical culture the association teaches, proceeded to practice what he preached by demonstrating, with the help of Mr. Yao Shur-pao a number of useful holds and grips which might be used in self-defence. Clad only in tiger skins they looked a picturesque pair and certainly proved themselves exceedingly capable exponents of their art.

But the piece de resistance, as far as the audience was concerned, was unquestionably the comic ballet in which half a dozen Queens College boys participated. Dressed as clowns, they wore absurd masks and their antics made them appear for all the world like a collection of mechanical toys. The basic principal underlying this performance is that it must be done to music and it said much for the training of the youngsters that, owing to the fact that someone had lost the key of the cabinet containing the musical instruments, they did their “turn” remarkably well without other accompaniment than a sort of sing-song chant by their instructor. Later when one of the “property” swords had been requisitioned to break open the music box, and the musicians had fished out their instruments, clamorous demands for an encore were yielded to and they repeated their quaint performance with added gusto.

How far the modern young woman of China has succeeded in overstepping the bounds previously imposed upon her by prejudice and tradition may be gauged from the fact that three Chinese girls from Canton took part in the programme and followed an exhibition of swords dancing and kung fu with something rather less martial in the shape of an elegant minuet with which their juvenile audience was obviously, as one of the lady teachers put it, “tickled to death.”

As an exhibition of Chinese Calisthenics the performance was extremely interesting and the Chin Woo Association whose motto appears to be something like our own mens sna in corpore sano deserve high praise for their efforts in this way to advance the physical development of China’s youth. Thanks expressed by the headmaster (Mr. B. T. Tanner) to Mr. Lo Wei-tsong, and cheers for all concerned ended a highly entertaining afternoon.

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

POSSESSION OF WEAPONS
Hong Kong Daily Press, Page 11
5-28-1938
CHINESE BOXING INSTRUCTOR FINED

Ng Hak Keung, boxing instructor of the Yuk Chi School and the Ching Wah Boxing Club, was charged before Mr. Macfadyen at the Kowloon Court yesterday with possession of three swords, two daggers, four spear heads and four fighting irons.

Dept.-Sergt. Pope said that the weapons were used for instruction purposes and the police were not pressing the case.

Defendant said that he was under the impression that as the blades were not sharp he need not have a licence.

His Worship remarked that it was only a technical offense, and fined the defendant $10.

oOo

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

oOo

Mount Tobisu Dawn Moon, from the 100 Aspects of the Moon by Yoshitoshi (1839 – 1892).

Introduction

Opportunities come in many forms, even in the guise of a sore throat. Since I have been feeling a bit under the weather I decided to use the next few days to catch up on my reading. While it is annoying to be away from the gym, any student can attest that there is never enough time to get through all of the books and articles that are out there. I have never been one to let a virus go to waste.

Still, tackling new literature is never as straight forward as one might think. The social sciences and humanities are an inherently social undertaking, meaning that every argument stands on the shoulders of those that came before. My study is always the most meaningful when I approach a new work as the next step in an ongoing research program.

The act of reading is also very context specific. You do not have to be a black turtleneck wearing post-modernist to realize that what you are likely to get out of a document depends in large part on what you have read before. What theories, facts, alternative cases and biases will you bring to this new text?

As a student of martial arts studies this is a something that I am often reminded of. It quickly becomes apparent that most authors write only on a single topic (Taijiquan, Southern China, Filipino Kali, etc). Serious works of sustained comparative analysis, or even shorter comparative case studies, are pretty rare.

There are some good reasons for this. The depth of personal, linguistic and social experience needed to address these subjects tends to nudge scholars more towards an “area studies” approach. A given author can only be expected to be an “expert” in so many languages, national histories or hand combat systems. In truth any one of these research tools could be the study of a lifetime.

Rich descriptive detail is good, yet granular emphasis comes at a cost. Too narrow a research focus will do a disservice even to those who are only interested in a single case. In our literature this is most obvious when dealing with historical or social scientific text that want to explain the development or nature of a given martial arts style.

Recently I received a copy of Alexander C. Bennett’s 2015 University of California Press book Kendo: Culture of the Sword. While Japan is not my main area of focus, it has been strongly recommended by a number of scholars. Heeding my own warning, I would like to expand my field of inquiry to take in some additional comparative cases. Given that the martial arts studies literature on Japan is already well developed, it seems like a logical place to start.

Nevertheless, I have been hesitant to dive directly into Bennett. I am not a specialist, or even a practitioner, of the Japanese martial arts. Nor would it be possible to grasp what is new and innovative about his research without brushing up on some of the prior literature first. So rather than reading the book which I just bought, I dug out my much older copy of G. Cameron Hurst’s Armed Martial Arts of Japan: Swordsmanship and Archery (Yale University Press, 1998).

Hurst’s volume must be considered one of the foundational classics of the modern martial arts studies literature. Published two years after Douglas Wile’s Lost Tai Chi Classics (SUNY, 1996), it is unlikely that our current research area could exist in its current form without their pioneering efforts to argue that these subjects revealed critical historical insights that were worthy of publication by top university presses.

I first encountered Bennett’s work because of my own (mostly unfulfilled) interest in Kendo. Armed Martial Arts of Japan was one of the first serious books on the martial arts which I read, long before I had any idea that I might someday be writing in the same literature. In college I took numerous courses on Japanese history, society and language. I even spent the better part of a year as a student in Japan. As such I was already very familiar with the basic factual outline that structured Hurst’s historical narrative. Yet I found his discussion of the martial arts intoxicating. It made all of the political and popular history that I had been studying come alive. As a much younger reader of martial arts studies, this book made a very good first impression.

Unfortunately this auspicious introduction went nowhere. In graduate school my own studies became more theoretically focused and Japanese interests receded into the background. When I did turn my attention to martial arts studies it was the tumultuous situation in 19th century southern China, rather than Japan, that caught my attention.

Hurst may have remained in the shadows if not for a visit last autumn to TJ Hinrich undergraduate class on the martial arts in East Asia at Cornell University. Her reading list drew on a wide range of book chapters and articles, but Hurst was the thread that held it all together. Students read a different section of his work each week augmented with additional materials. While watching the ensuing class discussion I realized that it was time to take another look at this volume. And the recent purchase of Bennett’s book provided me with the perfect excuse to make time to do so.

A European trade card showing traditional Japanese archery (probably circa 1930). Kyudo was one of the martial arts promoted by the Butokukai. Source: Author’s Personal Collection.

Swordsmanship and Archery: Reading Hurst

It is not the purpose of this post to provide a detailed and comprehensive review of the Armed Martial Arts of Japan. Instead there are a couple of issues that I want to touch on as they speak to the what we have accomplished in the recent development of martial arts studies, and what is still left to be done. But even this, less formal, discussion might benefit from a brief overview of the contents of the text.

Hurst’s study is in many ways ideally suited for use in undergraduate classrooms. At just under 200 pages it is relatively brief. Nor does it presuppose more than a passing familiarity with Japanese history or culture. With some strategic classroom discussion even that is negotiable.

The author’s straight forward and highly accessible tone must be considered this work’s greatest asset. Most of his discussions are relatively short and to the point. Nor will students be confronted with either theoretical or linguistic/cultural jargon. Ideas that are central to Hurst’s presentation are introduced to the reader in an easy to digest manner. It is not surprising that so many professors turn to this work as an initial introduction to the field of martial arts studies.

What I considered to be some of the most interesting material in this study can actually be found in the introduction and first chapter. In addition to situating the martial arts within Japanese culture (itself a fascinating exercise given their very different associations in China) the author repeatedly returns to questions surrounding the meaning and social development of competitive sports in both the East and West. As the text progresses, his reasoning on this point becomes increasingly clear. The meta-narrative of the Japanese martial arts, as understood by Hurst, is a process by which combat exercises were increasingly seen as avenues for self-cultivation, and then further developed into pure competitive sports, during the period of their obsolescence in the Tokugawa and Meiji eras.

This process is most easily seen with archery, where the very act of scoring practice sessions easily lends itself to the development of both competitive sports and religious/social rituals. As Selby would no doubt remind us, some of the earliest written accounts of Chinese court culture make reference to non-combative archery. While this process took longer to unfold in the world of Japanese swordsmanship, the development of bamboo training swords (Shinai) and their use in what can only be described as competitive matches within urban dojos during the second half of the Tokugawa period eventually brought swordsmanship to a similar place.

While we tend to think of combat sports as an entirely modern phenomenon, even treating them as a symptom of industrial and post-industrial materialist values, in fact, they are firmly grounded in a much older set of historical processes. Yet the idea of competitive sports has been seemingly invisible in most discussions of the history of Japanese popular culture. To the extent that Hurst’s work can be said to address theoretical questions, or to draw on a broader framework of arguments, this is where readers are likely to find their orientation. How did combat swordsmanship and archery evolve into the types of Kendo and Kyudo that we are familiar with today? And what does this suggest about the nature of Japanese society at various points in time?

Following what is a well-established pattern in the writing of martial arts history, Hurst then turns his attention to the earliest known martial traditions in Japan. In this case he focused on the development of ancient sword traditions (up through the start of the Heian period) and the various social roles of archery at roughly the same time. The use of these skills in realms not normally associated with either the martial arts or combat sports today, such as religious ritual or court hunting, were also explored.

This is a common discursive strategy and it has the benefit of establishing a shared foundation of terms, concepts and facts that the rest of the discussion can draw from. Yet the more I read within the martial arts studies literature, the less satisfying I find these deep historical discussions. Increasingly I suspect that they betray a certain conceptual confusion as to what is actually being researched. While Hurst is by no means alone in grounding his martial history in the Bronze or early Iron Age, it might be helpful to consider what exactly this implies.

If the subject of the book at hand was the evolution of the Japanese sword as a physical object (say as a reference manual for archaeologists or museum curators) such an approach would be essential. One would want to be able to identify swords from various eras, know some details of their construction and how they were used by different classes of warriors. One would also want to explore period accounts detailing all of these facts.

Yet both the title and introduction to this book make it clear that Hurst did not set out to write a book about physical objects. Rather he is researching the “armed martial arts” that on the most fundamental level are social institutions, supported by other aspects of both the state and society, which in the case of Japan have tended to perpetuate themselves through very specific types of social organizations. In short, the Japanese martial arts which Hurst is most interested in (Kendo and Kyudo) are practices that are deeply tied to, and in some ways epiphenomenal of, specific moments in Japanese history. What technical debt they may owe to the battlefield skills of prior centuries is of relatively little importance to understanding how they were established as basically civilian arts dedicated to self-cultivation (and social advancement) in an entirely different era characterized by fundamentally different social structures.

In short, if we take seriously the fact that we are studying social institutions, and not the physical objects or technologies that they may use and venerate, it seems odd to begin our discussion of the modern Japanese martial arts in the period of ancient history. The actual stories of Kendo and Kyudo, as outlined in this book, appear to be ones of the early modern and modern periods.

This fact is readily apparent in the structure of Hurst’s two part volume (the first half of which is dedicated to swordsmanship while the second half tackles archery). In the very next chapter readers find themselves transported directly to the early Tokugawa period for a discussion of the immense social transformations that the new government of a unified Japan brought about.

The critical issues that arise in this discussion are the advent of a prolonged peace after a period of civil war, and the transformation of the Samurai from mostly rural (illiterate) warriors tied directly to feudal landholdings to an urban (highly educated) group of bureaucrats capable of serving the needs of an increasingly sophisticated government.

It was at this moment that the wide scale movement away from battlefield skills, usually learned by individuals in a military context under realistic conditions, towards “martial arts,” typified by demilitarized instruction in formal (usually indoor) schools began to occur. Dueling was still common early in this period. As a result self-defense, rather than battlefield tactics, came to dominate discussions of swordsmanship.

Later, with increased social stability and the organization of the dominant fencing schools, this gave way to an emphasis on Kata performance and conceptually driven study as a means of “self-cultivation.” Eventually civilians even took up a greater role in the development and teaching of what had become a fundamentally demilitarized skill-set. Chapter three really captures the moment of the creation of the Japanese “martial arts.”

I suspect that many readers, particularly those who have spent much time follow the debate about the value of “realism” in training and competition within the Mixed Martial Arts (MMA), will find the fourth chapter of the book to be the most interesting in the volume. In it Hurst relates a fascinating set of developments that began to dominant the discussion of swordsmanship in the late Tokugawa (though elements of this shift can be seen throughout the entire period of study).

Increasingly certain swordsman (mostly associated with the competitive dojos located in major cities, rather than the more traditional teachers in the domain academies) began to question the value of Kata and traditional training methods. The development of new types of training gear, from better bamboo Shinai, to masks, chest protectors and gloves, made it safer and easier for (often low status) samurai to engage in vigorous sparring and competition, thereby creating a name for themselves. With either a Katana or Bokken (wooden sword) such activity could easily result in serious injury or death. But now it was possible to put various training methods to the test and see (after hundreds of years of peace) which “sword” techniques were truly “realistic” and “effective.”

Not all schools jumped at this new development. It was evident to everyone that these “realistic” matches were essentially competitive sporting contests which were fundamentally about establishing social status. In short, for something claiming the mantle of “realism” they were about as far removed from the actual battlefield as one could get. Practitioners of Kata based training methods knew perfectly well that they were engaged in an abstraction. Yet they saw the transformation of fencing into a competitive sport as a step away from realism.

The second half of Hurst’s book then turns to the question of archery. If this discussion feels substantially briefer, it is because the author devotes only half as many pages to the topic. The same division between the early and late feudal periods that structured his earlier study of swordsmanship is once again employed.

In chapter 5 a number of stories of battlefield archery are related impressing upon readers why the bow was seen as the “soul of the Bushi” long before the sword became the “soul of the Samurai.” Various types of ceremonial court archery, hunts and competitions (many of which carried at least some hint of spiritual or ritual undertones) were introduced.

In the second half of the discussion readers are introduced to changes in the practice of archery following the end of Japan’s long period of civil war. In some ways the Tokugawa transition was a smoother one for archers. Firearms were already displacing them from the battlefield. Yet the nature of archery practice made sporting competitions obvious and popular ventures. And the idea of archery as a means of self-cultivation could claim a well-established and illustrious pedigree going back to no less a figure than Confucius himself.

The end result was that the lords of many domains were willing to support and pour resources into the cultivation of competitive archers. All of this manifested in a sudden mania for record setting. Some of the most popular of these including grueling endurance competitions in which archers vied to see how many “clear shots” could be sent down long and low temple corridors without hitting the roof, walls or floor. From an initial record of about 50 shots, Japan’s competitive archers were soon sending thousands of arrows down these corridors in marathon 24 hour shooting sessions. A note at the end of Hurst’s volume indicates that as of the time of its writing no modern Japanese archer has come close to replicating the feats of an earlier generation of bowman.

In the final section of the book Hurst turns his attention to the reform of both archery and swordsmanship in Meiji and 20th century Japan. Again, the fall of the Tokugawa government and the massive social dislocation which followed were initially quite disruptive to martial artists. Seeking to modernize (and stabilize) society the government did away with the Samurai class, banned the wearing of swords in public and forcibly closed many of the urban dojos (throwing countless martial artists out of work). Archery too suffered similar setbacks, though in truth its prior transformation into a sport (and means of self-cultivation) eased this later transformation as well.

Still, Japan’s martial artists did not simply give up. Some entrepreneurial former-Samurai began to stage public fencing matches (based on models for sporting spectacles already established by Sumo wrestlers) which pit swordsman from various locations and schools against each other. These were initially very popular with the public as civilians had always maintained an interest in the martial arts. Japan’s new police forces also decided that fencing skills were more of a practical skill than an anachronism given their experience in local uprisings and the frequent arrests of former Samurai. This resulted in the first efforts to create a standardized set of national Kendo Kata for the training of new recruits.

The establishment of the Butokukai, civilian group dedicated to the promotion of the martial arts and martial virtues in both the educational system and Japanese society at large, also helped to ensure that these fighting systems would find a place within Japanese modernity. In fact, given the tenacity and creativity that these arts showed in their continual efforts to accommodate changing social situations, it should probably come as no surprise that American efforts to marginalize the place of the martial arts in the Japanese educational system (and society) following WWII ultimately came to nothing. The story of the development and survival of the Japanese fighting arts is ultimately a very modern one in which these practices have been the means by which numerous individuals have sought to promote their own vision of what a modern, yet fully authentic, Japanese society should look like.

A vintage Japanese postcard showing Kendo practice on a battleship. Source: Author’s personal collection.

Conclusion: The Need for Theory and Comparative Case Studies in Martial Arts Studies

Hurst’s pioneering volume has much to recommend it. It provides an easily digestible, well researched, overview of critical developments in the Japanese martial arts since the 16th century. In publishing this book Hurst demonstrated that martial arts studies was a subject that university presses could not ignore. He has also given us a great classroom resource for those seeking to introduce this material to undergraduates. I would not hesitate to use sections of this book on my own reading list.

Yet there is also something about this work that feels a bit tired. It looks back to a style of historical writing in which, after extensive research, “facts” were simply presented to the reader without any sort of theoretical or interpretive framework to contextualize them. Hurst himself rarely enters into either causal or descriptive arguments. As he states on page 198, this volume was to be more dedicated to “narrative than analysis.”

He only seeks to draw two firm conclusions in his book’s final chapter. First, too much has been made of the conceptual difference between the “martial arts” and other types of “sports.” Second, while ritual and personal development have certainly been part of the Japanese martial arts, Western students have tended to overemphasize the place of Zen Buddhism in their development.

Both are helpful reminders, yet after 200 pages of reading one is left wondering whether the game has been worth the candle. Is there really nothing else that we can say about the nature and the development of the Japanese martial arts?

Hurst’s coy statement about “narrative over analysis” notwithstanding, one suspects that quite a bit of interpretive and causal theorizing must have gone into this work. Yet following the conventions of some historians of earlier generations, the author is content to let the readers guess what his assumptions have been, and how they may have colored his investigation of the “facts.”

More specifically, Hurst’s discussion of the transition of swordsmanship from a roughly trained battlefield skill to a refined, inward focused, martial art by the third decade of the Tokugawa period advanced quite a bit of subtle analysis. Yet it did so in the guise of “letting the facts speak for themselves.” After all, this remarkable transformation happened at exactly the same time as the dawning of Japan’s great period of peace. Thus it does not seem so difficult to explain the origin of the nation’s most popular martial art.

Upon rereading Hurst this narrative strikes me as incomplete at best, and potentially misleading. It also nicely illustrates the potential benefits of the comparative case study method, even if it means giving up some descriptive detail.

The dawning of peace was only one of many elements that changed in Japanese society at the start of the Tokugawa period. The class structure was frozen with new social regulations. The economy was overhauled. Buddhism was largely sidelined in favor of a renewed emphasis on neo-Confucian leadership strategies. The many small feudal governments that had ruled the state were consolidated into increasingly bureaucratized institutions. It is hard to think of a single element of Japanese life that did not change during this period.

Yet from the perspective of the martial arts the most important of these changes was the rapid urbanization that occurred throughout Japan. The growth of large and vibrant cities with robust economies and bustling entertainment quarters would have been perhaps the most obvious of these changes to an outside observer.

The transformation of the Samurai class was deeply bound up with this process of urbanization. As Hurst points out, they were cut off from their feudal obligations to the land and relocated to the city in mass, paving the way for a new type of bureaucrat…and martial artist. As such, the links between dawning era of peace and the development of the martial arts may not be as obvious as it first appears. Hurst even notes that urbanization co-varied with this process in his description of the period. Yet all subsequent discussions in the book focus to the cessation of warfare. If anything Hurst seems to see urbanization, like the martial arts themselves, as yet another result of the Tokugawa peace.

The Chinese case, however, suggest something very different. The first great eras of urbanization in the Late Imperial period occurred during the Song and Ming dynasties. Yet these were not notably peaceful times. In fact, invasion, conquest, and flows of refugees drove much of the process of urbanization during the Song dynasty. It was almost the exact opposite of the security environment seen in Japan.

And yet some of our first written references to what appear to be recognizable lineages of boxing and wrestling in China date back to this period. Specifically, as Chinese cities grew the martial arts became a popular element of urban entertainment. This took the form of both theatrical martial performances on stage, but also the opening of wrestling and martial arts schools. Again, this basic pattern is quite similar to what would be seen in Japan during the 17th century.

Even at its most peaceful the countryside of the Ming dynasty never enjoyed the degree of stability seen in much of Japan. Yet this was also a period of urbanization. And as the security situation degenerated in the final century of the dynasty, there was an immense outpouring of interest in the martial arts. Some individuals seem to have been primarily interested in these skills as potential resources for training local militias and such. Yet as Shahar has demonstrated, it was in this fractious security environment that the connections between unarmed boxing, traditional medicine and spiritual development were first seen in China.

In short, at exactly the same time that one might expect a return to rough and ready sword training, many individuals in China were expressing interest in esoteric types of martial arts that spoke directly to the need for self-cultivation. Clearly the exact nature of the relationship between these variables and the development of the modern martial arts is a topic that requires additional research. Yet the Chinese case suggest that we must take a much harder look at variables such as urbanization and the development of economic markets if we want to understand how this process worked.

This sort of multi-variate causal analysis cannot simply be subsumed in a “narrative” exercises like the one offered by Hurst. The facts cannot speak for themselves. A movement towards comparative case study will require the development of much more explicit theoretical frameworks.

A similar problem arises when Hurst tackles another paradox having to do with the social organization of the Japanese martial arts. He notes in his conclusion that all sorts of artistic activities, from flower arranging to tea ceremony, are organized through highly structured ryu systems. These institutional forms are by no means unique to the Japanese martial arts. In fact, these fighting systems can be thought of as “late adopters” of this important cultural pattern.

In other cases these institutions did a much better job of creating cohesive social organizations than they did for the Japanese martial arts. Whereas students of tea ceremony tended to remain loyal to their teachers, both personally and artistically, Japanese swordsmen were forever creating splinter organizations which would in turn break down along segmentary lines in future generations. As in China the Japanese martial arts organized themselves through a pseudo-kinship structure.  But it seems that they were never particularly happy families.

Hurst explained this puzzle by noting some unique features of Japan’s political organization during the Tokugawa period. To forestall the possibility of rebellion the central government closely regulated the movement of individuals and ideas. It was necessary to have a visa to travel even from one domain to the next. Under this system famous teachers would have to fully transmit their methods to their students prior to their return home to protect the reputation of their schools. Yet it would be difficult to maintain an ongoing relationship within the state’s feudal structures.  As a result these students had an incentive to form their own schools.

For Hurst the splintering of martial arts schools seen in Tokugawa Japan might be a byproduct of the government’s Machiavellian approach to ensuring peace by making cross-domain relationships as difficult to maintain as possible. This theory seems reasonable, until we again consider the case of the traditional Chinese martial arts.

There are both similarities and differences between the lineage groups that preserve the martial arts in China and the more highly structured schools that arose in Japan. And the political structures overseeing these countries were quite different. Yet the propensity to splinter along generational and lineage lines described by Hurst almost exactly fits the situation in China as well. In fact, we see something substantially similar in China in the 19th century, China in the 20th century, and China today. We even see the same pattern in the Chinese martial arts as practiced in Europe and America. While the principles of political and social organization between these observations fluctuates tremendously, the same basic outcome (messy lineage politics within martial arts styles), seems to be a constant. As any social scientist can tell you, a variable cannot explain a constant.

Despite his protestations to the contrary, it is almost impossible to write only “narrative” history while leaving the “analysis” to others. Simply describing the “facts” requires that one make inferences about what is going on and how these events are linked. “Analysis” is never separate from description. It is at the heart of the narrative enterprise. Whether he intended to or not, Hurst wrote a theoretical and explanatory book. You simply cannot avoid it when telling any story of sufficient complexity.

Given that causal and descriptive theory are unavoidable, it is better to confront the problem in as transparent a way as possible. One of the great advances that we have made in martial arts studies is to be much more conscious of what work our theories are actually doing for us. Ultimately this will lead to the development of better interpretive and social scientific theories.

Yet Hurst has also illustrated the danger of a single case. Social change is a complicated process in which multiple variables are always at play. Yet we cannot control for multiple factors if we only have a single observation to draw on. In that case there is a tendency to try and reduce the complexity of history too far, to reach for simplistic single variable models of outcomes because they are the only thing that we can test.

The best way to deal with this is through the use of the comparative case study method. As we have seen, many of the conclusions that Hurst reaches about the Japanese case read quite different when we set them besides events in China.

Yet this is an area where we have not seen nearly as much progress in recent years. Nor are such projects always easy to construct. They may require the use of historical sources in multiple languages or a movement away from the sorts of area studies approaches that have been common as scholars look for social scientific models offering more theoretical rigor. Still, the interdisciplinary nature of martial arts studies suggests that we may have certain advantages when undertaking this sort of work.

That then may be the ultimate value of the Armed Martial Arts of Japan. It is too easy to dismiss a book or a theory for being “wrong” in some detail. In reality such a critique tells us nothing. As simplifications of a vastly more complex underlying reality, all theories are born falsified. That is the original sin of academic thought.

The question then is whether you can be wrong in an important way, one that suggest future avenues for exploration or development. While Hurst’s pioneering working is now almost two decades old, I think that this post demonstrates that it still has the power to inspire those who want to think more deeply about the origin and meaning of the Asian martial arts. That is a sure sign of an important work.

oOo

If you enjoyed this essay you might also want to read: Bruce Lee: Memory, Philosophy and the Tao of Gung Fu

oOo

A photograph (probably 1930s) showing a marketplace martial arts demonstration. Note the Shuang Gau led by the man on the left. Source: The personal collection of Benjamin Judkins

Introduction

 
Ephemera, such as postcards, tourist snapshots and newspaper accounts are an important (if often overlooked) source of information regarding the traditional Chinese martial arts. While a number of printed manuals and detailed philosophical discussions do exist from the period of the 1920s onward, I am always surprised at how difficult it is to find period accounts of a set of practices and organizations that have done so much to shape our modern perception of Chinese identity. When rediscovered, ephemera is fascinating precisely because it suggests something about the individuals who consumed it as well as offering a few nuggets of information regarding the social place of the practices that they report.

 
A Marketplace Demonstration of Heroic Kung Fu

The main image for today’s post is no exception. It records a fascinating snapshot of the modern evolution of the traditional Chinese martial arts. But which moment is it?

I first acquired this image in the from of a vintage photograph taken form a tourist’s travel album. Unfortunately, as is often the case, a dealer had already broken up the individual collection and was selling off the photos one at a time. While a common sales strategy this is regrettable as it deprives students of the opportunity to use the rest of the album to contextualize, and hopefully identify, the scene that we are interested in.

The photograph itself measures 3.5 by 5.5 inches and is in generally good condition. Its surface has been scratched in a few places and the scene is generally a bit overexposed. It was probably taken on a bright and sunny day.

The backside of the photo has no labels but does show signs that it was once pasted onto a scrapbook page. Images like this were often printed in large numbers by local photographers for sales to tourists and travelers. Unfortunately, the lack of studio marks means that we have no idea where the image was taken or by whom.

The label under which the photo was sold has also been singularly unhelpful. When it was first auctioned the photograph was said to show two martial artists training in Hong Kong during the 1940s.

Given the arid look of the landscape and the fortress walls in the background, I suspect that this is unlikely. The image was probably taken in Northern China at any point between the late 1920s and the 1940s. When I first saw this image my gut instinct was to date it to some point in the 1930s.

But again, what exactly is this a picture of?

At first glance we are meant to see a recording of a typical marketplace martial arts performance. As we have argued elsewhere, these were a critical element of China’s hand combat subculture and were the places where non-practitioners were most likely to actually see and be exposed to these systems. That may also help to explain (in part) the low esteem in which many ordinary citizens held the tradition martial arts at this point in time.

Yet upon closer inspection we immediately notice that the image has actually been rather extensively staged. To create a sense of “activity” the cameraman stood close to his subjects, requiring that they stand close to one another. A good swing from the sword held by the man on the left could take off the near child’s leg at the hip. Likewise, the sharpened tip of the spear held by this child is positioned only a few inches away from a spectator’s spleen. While this shot successfully conveys a feeling of drama and action, it is not an example of spontaneous “street photography.” Rather it is an attempt to convey the photographer’s impression of a dynamic and quickly moving hand combat demonstration.

A detailed look at a pair of Shuang Gau. This is pair measures 95 cm in length and may be of a similar vintage to the swords seen in these images. Source: http://www.swordsantiqueweapons.com/s1015_full.html

The most interesting element of this photograph is probably the matching hooked swords held by the instructor of the two young fighters. This weapon, referred to by a number of names including the Shuang Gau, or “tiger head hook swords,” is rarely seen in antique collections. Nor, for that matter, is much known about its development and use.

While commonly employed by modern martial arts practitioners today, there are only a limited number of antique examples available for study. Most of these date to either the late 19th or early 20th century. Nor are there any clear literary, military or artistic references to this weapon prior to the late 19th century. As such we can safely assume that these weapons were developed and popularized by civilian martial artists in Northern China during the late Qing revival of interest in boxing. In fact, the creation of such esoteric weapons and accompanying oral traditions may suggest something important about the fundamental nature of this movement.

This is not to suggest that these swords are not “real” weapons. They most certainly were.

While they were never issued by the military, reliable reports from those who have handled well-made period examples suggest that they could have been quite deadly in skilled hands. By the Republic period these weapons were being used in a few Northern styles including Seven Star Mantis. They later made their way south and were adopted into the Choy Li Fut system. Still, their appearance in this relatively early photograph further suggests a northern location.

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

 

Conclusion: Efficacy and Entertainment in Republic Era Martial Arts

It may also be of some interest to note that the very first photo published in this series also featured a martial artist wielding a pair of tiger head hook swords. Both of these images captured this rare weapon’s appearance as one element of a larger public performance. They collectively suggests an element of theatricality and possibly the ultimate reason why these swords began to spread throughout the Chinese martial arts world during the Republic period.

As D. S. Farrer reminds us, the martial arts are by their very nature social activities mediated by cultural forms. If this was not the case they could not be taught by one generation to the next. Yet this fundamental truth also suggests that every aspect of these systems, including their weapons, will include elements of “efficacy” and “entertainment.” Nor is it ultimately possible to disentangle these elements as an increase on one side of the equation leads to new possibilities opening up for the other.

The sudden appearance of the Shuang Gau in both the training halls and performance stages of Northern China suggests something about the fundamental trends that were driving innovation within the Northern martial arts during the Republic period. These photographs and postcards are valuable historical documents precisely because they grant insights into how both of these elements, the practical and the symbolic, were being framed for the audience at a specific moment in time.

oOo

If you enjoyed this you might also want to read: London, 1851: Kung Fu in the Age of Steam-Punk

oOo

A meeting of the Golden Gates Knights. Instructor Alain Block (right) leads a class. Source: Associated press, image by Jeff Chiu.

***This is the first half of two part article.  However, readers may actually want to begin by reading my recent post  What are “martial arts,” and why does knowing matter?***

“It [Ludosport] started in 2006 in Italy. A few friends got some lightsabers as gifts and being into martial arts and re-enactment fanatics they decided to see if there was a way they could make it into a sport, and they did. They spent hundreds of hours consulting many different martial artists and fencing coaches to make sure that they got a really good sport.

It’s not a martial art. We’re not trying to teach people how to cause physical harm, in fact that’s exactly the opposite of what we’re trying to do. We want something that’s fast and fun, that people can enjoy.”

Jordan Court, Instructor of the Ludosport England, Lighstaber Combat Academy in Bristol (UK) as quoted in the Bristol Post, January 29th 2015.

 

“[Flynn:] People laugh at us and say, “That’s not a real martial art!” I say, why don’t you pick one up and try.

[Damon Honeycutt:] They can say all they want…you know what I mean. But the fact is we are practicing and they are not.”

“Flynn” and Damon Honeycutt. Reclaiming the Blade, DVD2. Bonus Feature: New York Jedi. 2009. Min. 4:14.

Introduction: What are Martial Arts?

Is lightsaber combat a martial art? This seemingly odd question may have important implications for how we understand critical concepts within the field of martial arts studies. It also promises to shed light on the fundamental processes by which the traditional martial arts have been revived, reimagined and invented in the modern era.

As both a relatively new and radically interdisciplinary research area, martial arts studies is currently enjoying a period of rapid conceptual development. Nowhere is this more evident than in attempts to define the term ‘martial art.’ While it is in many ways synonymous with the field, only a minority of the foundational texts in our literature have attempted to define this concept or to explore it in ways that would point to new avenues for research. Nor has the existing literature coalesced around a single definition.

In a previous post we saw that researchers have adopted at least three discrete strategies when attempting to craft their understanding of this concept. The first, and most widely used, might be referred to as the “sociological strategy.” It simply accepts the social or cultural consensus on the question as it has arisen within a tightly focused research area.

Given that everyone in 21st century Japan simply “knows” that kendo, karate and aikido are martial arts, there may not be an urgent need to further explore the matter when discussing some aspect of Japanese martial studies. This is especially true as so many works currently being produced adopt an “area studies” approach which calls for a deep examination of the historical, social or even linguistic forces affecting developments in only a single region or state. It may seem beyond the bounds of a given research project to deeply explore what characteristics make both kendo and karate “martial arts” given their many historical differences. The existing consensus is simply accepted as a social fact.

Nevertheless, future theoretical development within martial arts studies requires a greater emphasis on comparative case studies. This research strategy often necessitates comparing practices that have arisen in very different times or places. For instance, what makes both capoeira and kendo martial arts, and how can both be understood in light of the economic, political and social changes that swept the globe in the 19th century? In cases such as this it is no longer possible to avoid definitional discussion. For better or worse, classification and categorization are at the heart of the comparative enterprise.

Towards this end scholars have attempted to define the martial arts in at least two different ways. First, they have advanced short “universal” definitions meant to identify those activities deemed to be “martial arts” within the broader category of all social practices. Further, most of these authors have attempted to advance relatively abstract definitions that can be applied to any society, time or place.

As we saw in our previous post, such efforts can be challenging. And while identifying “martial arts” in the abstract, most of these discussions provide no way of knowing where one style ends and the next begins. Are wing chun, weng chun and white crane three different styles, or simply three interpretations of the same regional fighting tradition? Scholars need a concept that can help us to address questions such as this.

A second group of authors have developed definitions that seek to classify the wide range of observed martial arts along different metrics. Some authors, such as Donn Draeger, sought to separate the truly “martial” from the “civilian” fighting systems. Unfortunately his system seems to be based on a now dated understanding of Japanese military history. And in any case, it is not always possible to draw a clean distinction between the military and civil realms.

Other students have looked at the specific goals motivating individuals to practice the martial arts. Perhaps the most common division in the literature is a three part typology separating the competitive combat sports, traditional arts (focused on self-development and health) and self-defense or combat arts. While this cuts to the heart of the ways in which the martial arts are often discussed in popular culture, this approach has trouble dealing with the huge amount of variation found within any single tradition. In China it is not that hard to find Wushu coaches who approach the Taiji forms as competitive sports, while some of their students will go on to teach similar forms as traditional health practices.

Lastly, Sixt Wetzler has proposed that we move away from efforts to definitively place certain practices in one conceptual box or another. He argues that we should instead acknowledge that the martial arts owe much of their popularity to their fungiblity. The fact that a single set of practices can play many social roles in a student’s life gives them great practical utility. The social functions of a children’s afterschool Tae Kwon Do class might be very different from those pursued in the adult Saturday afternoon session of the very same school. It is precisely this multi- vocality that allows these hand combat systems to function as central organizing symbols in the lives of their practitioners.

Wetzler suggest that the best way to understand what a martial art is, and to compare various schools or approaches, is to examine their impact on five dimensions of social meaning. Briefly these are:

1. Preparation for violent conflict
2. Play and Competitive Sports
3. Performance
4. Transcendent Goals
5. Health Care

Unfortunately this is more of a framework for analysis than a traditional definition. And Wetzler freely admits that future researchers may find it necessary to add additional categories to his list.

Nor does his approach solve the problem of sociological relativism. The flexible nature of Wetzler’s concept opens the field up to a wide range of activities that not all researchers might be willing to accept as martial arts. For instance, would realistic combative movements learned from a video-game count as a “martial art” if their practitioner claimed them as such? What about the many apps currently on the market to help students learn taiji or wing chun? Is this simply a novel way of teaching an old art, or is it something very different? Do we simply accept as a martial art anything that claims to be one?

The problem of relativism can also be seen on the other end of the spectrum. Because the martial arts are often seen as somewhat “odd,” “eccentric” or “socially marginal” some individuals may try to evade the label all together. Students taking a “boxing essentials” or even kickboxing class at the local YMCA might claim not to be studying a martial art, even though any martial arts studies conference will include multiple papers on participation in amateur boxing and kickboxing activities.

It would seem that self-identification might be a poor metric to judge what activities qualify as a martial art, or how we as researchers should structure our case studies. Indeed, this has always been a potential weakness of the “sociological approach.” Lacking a universally agreed upon definition, how should we move forward?

This puzzle is a useful one in that it helps us to clarify our goals. When we ask “Is lightsaber combat a martial art?” we must be clear that this question does not intend to establish a value hierarchy in which the researcher draws on their expertise to offer a binding opinion on what does or does not qualify as an authentic combat system. Nor are we even asking whether a given activity is worthy of consideration in martial arts studies as a research area. After all, our interdisciplinary literature routinely tackles a variety of topics and sources (including novels, films, community festivals and public rituals) that are not the product of any specific training hall.

What this question really points to is the relationship between our object of study (in this case Lightsaber combat) and the theoretical toolkit that we have developed to explore these sorts of systems within martial arts studies. Put slightly differently, do we expect that our core concepts and theories will help us to make sense of lightsaber combat in the same way that they might be useful when thinking about the rise of judo or wing chun? And if they fail in this specific case (as theories often do), will the lessons learned improve our understanding of the traditional martial arts as well?

Within the social sciences progress rarely comes from theoretical development or empirical observation in isolation. It is the triangulation of approaches that is the most likely to lead to the development of a successful research program. Do all martial arts arise from authentic combat activities? Must they be historically grounded? Can an activity be a martial art even if its students and teacher do not claim it as such?

Ultimately these are all important questions as they help us to expand the borders of martial arts studies, and demonstrate the broader utility of our field. They are also the sorts of issues that deserve to be empirically examined rather than simply accepted or dismissed by definitional fiat.

Concept art by Ralph McQuarrie showing an early version of the lightsaber.

Getting a Grip on the Lightsaber

Towards that ends, the current post investigates the case of lightsaber combat. Any attempt to define these practices as an authentic martial art will face a number of obvious objections. The typical lightsaber class usually introduces students to some combination of forms training, practical drills, competitive fencing and stage combat/choreography. The emphasis on each activity varies from school to school and depends in large part on the goals of the instructors.

Yet the lightsaber is not a historical, or even a real, weapon. The idea that one might be able to systematically study “lightsaber combat” is a relatively recent notion inspired by a successful film franchise. In that sense we are dealing with a “hyper-real” martial art. By this we mean that it is an “invented tradition” that everyone acknowledges is based on a fictional text rather than a more or less accurate transmission of some historical practice.

Lightsaber combat presents students of martial arts studies with a set of theoretical fighting systems coalescing around the image of a (wildly popular) fictional weapon. Nevertheless, many of the individuals working to develop lightsaber combat programs are traditional martial artists with extensive training in both Eastern and Western fighting arts. Their historically grounded skills are being married to the mythos and world view of the Star Wars franchise and then marketed to the public. Finally, the resulting synthesis is presented to new students in classroom environments that practitioners of the traditional martial arts would find very recognizable.

Nor is the practice of lightsaber combat limited to a few isolated individuals. The renewed popularity of the Star Wars franchise following first the release of the prequel films in the early 2000s (Episodes I-III), and the Force Awakens (Episode VII) in 2015, has given rise to a dramatic increase in demand for “practical” lightsaber training. With a number of additional films already in the works, we may be well positioned to watch the birth of a substantial new hyper-real martial movement. But are these systems true martial arts?

What does the answer to that question suggest about the various ways in which the older and more established systems can also be understood as “invented traditions?” Should this change anything about the way we view the relationship between media portrayals of violence and the creation (or practice) of actual combat systems? How will our understanding of the relationship between the martial arts and the historical forces of ethno-nationalism and culture need to be adjusted when we see individuals turning to hyper-real martial arts to pursue their need for self-development or transcendence?

Using Wetzler’s five dimensions of social meaning I explore the various ways in which lightsaber combat functions as an authentic martial art for its practitioners. Some of these may be obvious, others will be less so. Ultimately this discussion suggests that a set of activities functions as a martial art not because of their historical authenticity or connection to “real-world” combat. Rather, the martial arts have always been defined primarily through their modes of social organization and the individual, group and systemic roles that they play. At heart they are social institutions rather than collections of isolated techniques. More specifically the modern martial arts are a social project by which individuals hope to secure multiple aspects of their personal and social destiny, and not simply their physical safety.

This should not be understood as a new development. We see this same pattern at the very moment of the genesis of the Asian martial arts. Japanese warriors did not need formal sword schools organized as ryu-ha to ply their trade or survive on the battlefield. They had succeeded in these tasks quite nicely for hundreds of years without them.

Rather, as Alexander C. Bennett has cogently argued, these social institutions were created as a means of demonstrating social sophistication and self-discipline when Bushi warriors found themselves transitioning to political roles in urban areas which brought them into direct contact with Japan’s highly cultured aristocracy. The original Japanese swords arts functioned just as much as a source of social legitimization as martial capital. These schools again saw massive growth under the later Tokugawa government, a period of protracted peace in which they once again served mostly social, cultural and economic functions.

While history is not unimportant (indeed, we will see that it is deeply implicated in the creation of even hyper-real martial arts) researchers may ultimately wish to pay more attention to how ideas and beliefs about the martial arts, as a social project, are created and transmitted from one generation to the next. Nor is this set of conclusions unique to the world of lightsaber combat. Instead the existence and rapid growth of hyper-real martial arts requires us to reevaluate what we think we know about the invention of the traditional martial arts more generally.

Luke receiving his fathers lightsaber in Episode IV: A New Hope (1977).  Its interesting to compare Luke’s lightsaber in this shot to the original concept art above.

Creating the Seven Classic Forms of Lightsaber Combat: A Very Brief History

While various 20th century science fiction stories had mentioned weapons like the lightsaber, the image of this now iconic weapon seared its way into the popular consciousness in 1977 with George Lucas release of his first Star Wars film (Episode IV: A New Hope). Luke Skywalker igniting his father’s arctic blue lightsaber (“an elegant weapon for a more civilized age”) in the presence of the mysterious Obi-Wan Kenobi became a symbol that defined the hopes and aspiration of an entire generation of film goes.

They too wished for an adventure that would allow them to take their first steps onto a broader stage. What better weapon for the knight-errants of the quickly dawning technological age than the lightsaber. It captured the romance and esoteric promises of our half-remembered, half-imagined, collective past, while pointedly reminding us that it was an “artifact” from the distant future. The symbolism of the lightsaber seamlessly combines a weapon of truly fearsome destructive potential with the promise of spiritual renewal. Once seen it is an image that is not easily forgotten.

The lightsaber’s strangely hypnotic blade has now gone on to colonize the imagination of multiple generations, spawning countless novels, comic books, video games, collectibles, sequels and most recently, entire combat systems. It goes without saying that in the absence of the Star Wars film franchise, and the immense marketing empire that surrounds and supports it, there would be no lightsaber combat training today. Our first conclusion must be that media generated images of lightsaber combat led directly to the creation of later combat systems, albeit with a somewhat puzzling delay.

I strongly suspect that the first fan-based “lightsaber duel” was probably performed with broom sticks the day after Lucas’ original vision was revealed to the public in 1977. Yet I have found very little evidence of organized attempts to institutionalize and spread specific ideas about what lightsaber combat might look like until the early 2000s. Systematized lightsaber fencing, as it currently exists, dates only to the middle of that decade.

This presents us with our first challenge. Given the immense popularity and huge cultural impact of the initial three movies, why did lightsaber combat organizations emerge only in the 2000s? More specifically, what was their relationship to the less popular, and critically reviled, prequel trilogy chronicling the Clone Wars and the rise of Darth Vader?

The answer to both of these questions can be found in the complex mix of materiality and mythos that lies as the heart of the Star Wars enterprise, as well as the efforts to market its merchandise to the public. After all, what is more powerful than a myth whose relics can be held in one’s own hands…for a price.

The Ultrasabers display at the 2012 Phoenix Comicon. Ultrasabers is one of the largest manufactures of stunt sabers intended for use is lightsaber combat.  Source: Wikimedia

It is a proven fact that if you put replica lightsabers in the hands of any two normal adults, they will immediately try to beat each other about the head with them. The impulse to attempt to use a replica lightsaber seems to be an inescapable part of human nature. This actually makes replica and “stunt lightsabers” (simple sabers without elaborate sound effects created by third party vendors for the express purpose of dueling) somewhat dangerous. On the one hand their metal hilts and heavy, glowing, polycarbonate blades provide the same sort of psychological gratification that comes from handling any other sort of weapon.

At the same time, the fact that we all know that these replicas are “not real” can lead to problems. While not actually filled with jets of hot plasma, the purely kinetic energy that a rigid 1 inch polycarbonate blade can deliver is roughly equivalent to any wooden stick of similar length. It is certainly enough to cause pain or injury if full contact dueling is attempted without some basic safety equipment. In short, corporate liability issues may have initially limited the creation of licensed replicas of these iconic weapons.  The fact that large costuming groups, such as the 501st Legion and Jedi Council, have a no combat/choreography policy would also have diminished the demand for more durable prop replicas.

There would have been technical issues to consider as well. Most sabers today utilize LED technology to “ignite” their blades. These can withstand more forceful blows than delicate incandescent bulbs and they do not burn out. Integrated circuit boards with motion detectors can also be added to provide sound effects or special lighting effects. By the early 2000s the technology to mass produce convincing replica lightsabers became cheap enough to make the project economically viable while at the same time a new generation of (now adult) fans was in place to spend hundreds of dollars on each new model.

I hypothesize that it was the appearance of relatively high quality replica (and later stunt) sabers which sparked the sudden boom of interest in practical lightsaber combat. These marketing efforts were also supported by the expansion of other aspects of the Star Wars universe. In October of 2002 Dr. David West Reynolds (the holder of a PhD in Archaeology from the University of Michigan who went on to write multiple Star Wars reference books) published an article in Star Wars Insider (#62) titled “Fightsaber: Jedi Lightsaber Combat.”

While the movies themselves say almost nothing about the details of lightsaber training, Reynolds, drawing on his academic background, wrote an essay outlining the “Seven Forms” of lightsaber combat as taught within the Jedi Order. He provided each numbered form with a short description outlining its philosophy as well as its strengths and weaknesses. Later resources augmented these with exotic sounding names (such as “Shii-cho” or Form I), associated them with mythic creatures from the Star Wars universe in ways that seem to intentionally mimic the use of animal imagery in the Asian martial arts (Shii-cho is “The Way of the Sarlacc”). They also concocted increasingly complex backstories. While Reynolds is an archaeologist rather than a martial artist, he set in motion a story-development arch which created a rich body of invented lore around the seven forms, giving them an alluring feel of verisimilitude.

By the early 2000s Star Wars fans had been given access to both a steady supply of replica lightsabers, a new trilogy of films which featured many iconic lightsaber battles, and an increasingly complex system of invented traditions explicitly designed to create a history for lightsaber usage that would feel “realistic.” While the Star Wars franchise has always emphasized the role of merchandise, the situation for would be Jedi and Sith acolytes was more favorable in the 2000s than it was in the 1980s.

The next major step forward took place in 2005. Inspired by some short fan-films in which lightsabers had been digitally recreated, “Flynn” a founding member of the group NY Jedi, bought two Master Replicas lightsabers, took them to the roof of his New City apartment building at night, and began to duel with a friend.

The resulting enthusiasm on the part of his neighbors was great enough that he then decided to bring a larger group of sabers to the 2005 Greenwich Village Halloween parade where their demonstration was again met with great enthusiasm and numerous inquiries as to where one could go to learn to fight with a “real” lightsaber. The group NY Jedi was formed shortly thereafter, and has offered weekly lessons taught be a variety of martial artists, choreographers and stage combat coaches.

The simultaneous worldwide dissemination of the newly created mythos and marketing of replica sabers makes it difficult to reconstruct a single linear history of lightsaber combat. NY Jedi raised the profile of the practice and inspired the creation of a number of other similar groups all along the East Coast of the United States. Some of them emphasized costuming and performance, others attempted to focus on the creation of a “pure” martial art.

Only a few months later three friends in Italy (all trained martial artists) brought a bunch of replica lightsabers to a birthday party. They were impressed with the technical flexibility that this new training weapon allowed. Almost immediately they started to develop their own martial system (Ludosport) based on the physical characteristics of replica lightsabers as well as elements of the Star Wars mythos.

Most lightsaber groups seem to combine multiple elements in their training. While NY Jedi mixes traditional martial arts training with a heavy emphasis on stage combat and performance, Ludosport instead emphasizes the development of lightsaber fencing as a type of competitive combat sport. They have since opened branch schools across Europe and organized a system of international tournaments and rankings.

A match at the Combat Saber Tournament held in Singapore at Liang Court, on 20 Nov 2015. Source: http://www.thesaberauthority.com

One of the most interesting things about the recent spread of lightsaber combat has been its diverse and global nature. Clubs and schools dedicated to promoting the practice have been opened in the Americas, Europe, Asia and Australia. Indeed, much of the early development of the art was taking place nearly simultaneously in the United States, Italy and South East Asia (where such groups have proved to be popular in the Philippines, Singapore, Malaysia and Indonesia.)

These organizations approach lightsaber training with a variety of goals and methods. They also have a variety of opinions on whether or not what they do can be considered a martial art.

As the introductory quote suggests, Ludosport appears to have distanced themselves from the claim that lightsaber fencing might be considered a “martial art.” In their vernacular terminology, an activity only qualifies as a martial art if it is aggressive in nature and focused on causing harm. Thus for their own marketing purposes they seem to have decided to emphasize the athletic and competitive aspects of their practice.

Other groups, such as the Terra Prime Lightsaber Academy, have instead emphasized the degree to which lightsaber fencing is, and should be thought of, as a martial art. After all, the fight choreography that influenced the development of the Star Wars films was highly influenced by a variety of traditional martial arts including kendo, kali and historic European practices such as longsword fencing.

Many of the instructors teaching lightsaber combat today also bring their own background in the martial arts to the table. For them the challenge is to find a ways to recreate the “Seven Forms” of lightsaber combat outlined in the Star Wars mythology using historic techniques, concepts and strategies. Drawing on their individual training, and the unique physical properties of commercially available stunt lightsabers, they have attempted to “recreate” effective and historically grounded systems of lightsaber combat which are still true to the texture of the movies and the Star Wars mythology. All of this has then been packaged in a way that it can be taught to succeeding generations of students in something that very much resembles a standard classroom environment. Some instructors even see in lightsaber combat a possible tool for promoting, preserving and disseminating traditional types of martial knowledge.

If you enjoyed this discussion be sure to read the second half: Five Social Dimensions of Lightsaber Combat as a Martial Art (Episode II)

A choreographed reenactment of the final duel in Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. Public performances like these have helped to popularize lightsaber combat.  Photo by Jenny Elwick. Source: Wikimedia.

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Are you interested in taking a more detailed look at the world of Lightsaber Combat? If so start here!

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***This is the second half of our exploration of lightsaber combat as a martial art.  Reader who have not yet read Part I are strongly encouraged to do so before going on. In the last essay we considering some of the basic strategies that scholars have adopted in defining the “martial arts.”  Following that discussion we briefly reviewed the emergence of the current lightsaber combat community.  In this post we attempt to test Wetzler’s theory of the “five dimensions of social meaning” as a strategy for understanding the martial arts by using it to explore various aspects of lightsaber fencing.  Enjoy!***

Five Social Dimensions of Lightsaber Combat
While it helps to ground our discussion, the preceding historical exploration does little to resolve the theoretical question of whether we should consider lightsaber combat to be an authentic martial art. At best we are thrown back on the statements of various practitioners. Some look to their own backgrounds and goals to assert that they are in the process of developing and teaching a martial art. In their view the media driven origins of these practices should have no bearing on our classification of the resulting institutions. What is important is the nature of the techniques used and taught.

Other individuals, even those deeply involved in the lightsaber community, are not so sure. Some see “combat sports” and “martial arts” as mutually exclusive categories. And given the degree of cultural discomfort that still follows the traditional martial arts, a few groups may have decided that it is economically more feasible to market lightsaber combat as a sporting, fitness or recreational activity.

Nor would it be difficult to find practitioners of more traditional sword arts who might claim that lightsaber fencing simply cannot be a martial art at all. So many of the small details that are critical in traditional forms training or cutting practice (e.g., edge control) simply disappear when we begin to discuss fictional all cutting plasma blades. For them the potent symbolism of a futuristic sword cannot displace the historically grounded reality of the blade.

This sort of indeterminacy has always dogged both the sociological and universal strategies for defining the martial arts. The current essay seeks to move beyond this impasse by empirically examining the practice of lightsaber combat in light of Wetzler’s theory of the “five dimensions of social meaning.” This will provide us with an appropriate baseline from which to explore whether the fictional origins of lightsaber combat alters the sorts of social roles that it plays in the lives of its students. It should also suggest something about the utility of the existing martial arts studies literature in making sense of these practices. As such we will briefly consider how lightsaber combat ranks on each of these five dimensions.

Early concept art by Ralph McQuarrie showing a Storm Trooper holding a lightsaber. In the Star Wars mythos a hero may well have to rely on the lightsaber as a means of self-defense.

Preparation for violent conflict: When interviewed, new students of the martial arts often claim that they have been inspired to join a school by a need for self-defense training. Indeed, there has always been a strong linkage between (some) martial arts and the perceived need to prepare oneself for the reality of violent conflict. Yet at the same time students of martial studies have noted that many of the sorts of techniques that are commonly used in these systems lack an element of “realism.”

Students of Japanese military history have noted that high-school kendo training did a poor job of preparing Japanese military officers to actually use their swords in the field during WWII. Practitioners of the Mixed Martial Arts often complain about the lack of “realism” in more traditional styles. Yet weapons are a sadly common element of actual criminal assaults and they are banned from the octagon. Indeed, one cannot escape the conclusion that the ways in which the martial arts attempt to prepare their students for the future cannot simply by reduced to “violence simulators” of greater or lesser degrees of accuracy. Equally important has been the building of physical strength, mental toughness and a tactical tool kit in environments that are quite different from what might be encountered in an actual attack.

Lightsaber combat also has a complex relationship with Wetzler’s first dimension of social meaning. The chance of an individual being called upon to defend themselves from an actual lightsaber attack today is only slightly less than the probability that they will encounter a villain wielding a traditional Chinese three meter long spear in a dark alley. Which is to say, few people take up traditional weapons training (such as swords, spears or bows) because of their great utility “on the street.”

Yet in a kendo class one will be called upon to defend against a mock (but still very spirited) sword attack. Likewise, in a modern lightsaber duel fencers will be called upon to defend themselves against a determined attacker who has been systematically trained in a variety of techniques. A failure to do so (especially if proper safety measures are not observed) might result in injury. In that sense lightsaber students are preparing themselves for combative encounters. All of this also contributes to the creation of a degree of physical and mental resilience.

Many forms of traditional weapons training have become functionally obsolete in the current era. Spears, swords and bows are no longer encountered on the battlefield and they play a limited role in any discussion of self-defense. While lightsabers can be placed further along the continuum of abstraction, these are fundamentally differences of degree rather than kind.

A Sportlight Saber League Tournament held in Paris, France. Source: http://www.themalaymailonline.com

Play and Competitive Sports: There can be no doubt that for most students the fundamental appeal of lightsaber combat is to be found in its recreational value. Indeed, the central mythos and symbolism of the exercise derives from the realm of film and commercial entertainment. Of course in the current era what most of us know about past military battles and personal duels is also heavily mediated by media representations rather than firsthand experience.

Even in Hong Kong in the 1950s-1970s, a supposed golden age of traditional martial arts practice, wuxia novels and martial arts films were the medium by which most individuals were introduced to, and developed an interest in, the martial arts. While not as frequently discussed, the traditional martial arts have always been closely tied to the worlds of physical recreation and story-telling.

The very nature of lightsaber fencing has also contributed to the development of a strong sporting impulse. Whether in the form of Olympic fencing or Japanese kendo, in the current era the sword arts have come to be seen largely as combat sports. Students of lightsaber fencing will approach their new practice with an already well established set of ideas about what a “proper” match will look like. Inevitably this includes safety equipment (eye protection, fencing masks, armored gloves, other protective gear), one or more judges to call points, a transparent scoring system and a limited number of timed rounds. All of these practices come from previous innovations in other arts, but they are immediately available to lightsaber fencers. The end result is that for many students lightsaber combat is primarily thought of as a faced paced, highly enjoyable, combat sport.

As I have interviewed various instructors in the field, some have pointed to these sorts of matches as sites for “technical research.” A few have asserted that the traditional martial arts might benefit from a “neutral” platform where students of western, Chinese, Japanese or South East Asian systems can come together to compare techniques with those whose training is different from their own. The physical simplicity of a stunt saber (which is essentially a smooth polycarbonate tube), and the ease with which it can be used by a variety of styles, has even led to some discussion of whether lightsaber combat might develop as a type of “mixed martial art” for swords (albeit one with a very different world view). While this possibility is not what attracts most new students to their local lightsaber combat group, it is certainly a possibility that is being considered by key teachers and promoters of the practice.

The Force is strong with this one. Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKELWe6dACA

Performance: The anthropologist D. S. Farrer has argued at length that every martial system contains both a practical and performative aspect. Further, these two elements cannot easily be separated. While all sorts of practitioners may find that they have an economic or a social motive to promote their practice as a “pure fighting art” (or alternatively, and probably more lucratively, as “pure combat choreography”) this is usually far from the truth. Developments in the practical realm tend to drive new innovations in the “realistic” portray of the martial arts on stage, and the public discussion of these recreational images has inspired new thoughts about the more practical aspects of violence.

For example, throughout Asian history, archery did double duty as a cornerstone of public ritual as well as a critical military skill. Even the periodic military exams held by the Chinese government in the late imperial period tended to draw a large crowd and functioned as public spectacles as much as a rational mechanism for choosing the best military recruits (well into the age of the gun). Nor can we forget about the important social place of practices like “wedding silat,” dance like capoeira matches or the public performance of traditional martial arts styles on the stage of southern China’s Cantonese opera. All of this has a long and established history within the cultural realm of the martial arts.

Still, the relationship between the practical and the performative aspects of the martial arts is one of the most vexing aspects of these systems for current scholars. The development of lightsaber combat has the potential to contribute much to this aspect of the martial studies literature.

When looking at the variety of lightsaber combat groups, some individuals may be tempted to separate them into two categories. On the one hand we have those doing “real” martial arts, such as Ludosport, Saber Legion or the Terra Prime Lightsaber Academy. They focus almost exclusively on the practice of historically derived techniques and competition. On the other hand we have a number of schools, such as NY Jedi, whose main activities seem to be the staging of elaborate public spectacles through choreographed duels and storytelling.

Yet none of these groups function in pristine isolation. As a result innovations in one area tend to impact the others. While NY Jedi is known for its stage combat and public choreography, a number of its members are also martial artists. One such individual is Damon Honeycutt. A practitioner of the Chinese martial arts, he developed a basic lightsaber training form (or kata) called “Shii-cho” (based on Japanese and Chinese saber techniques) which has gone on to become perhaps the most widely distributed training tool within the lightsaber community. It is widely practiced by both theatrical and martially oriented groups and both seem to find it quite useful.

Nor is there always a clear division between the sorts of individuals who will be attracted to more “traditional” martial training and those who might find themselves making and posting fan-films on the internet. Rather than having two distinct sets of individuals, often what we see are related practices used to fulfill multiple sets of social goals by the same individuals. While on the surface this might appear paradoxical, it has always been part of the appeal of the traditional Asian martial arts. Current developments within the lightsaber combat community are useful precisely because they serve to illustrate the arguments of scholars such as Farrer and Wetzler.

Luke Skywalker meditating on the assembly of his new lightsaber. Image by Frank Stockton. Source: rebloggy.

Transcendent Goals: Even if lightsaber combat succeeds as a fast paced combat sport, or as a channel for martial performance, what psychological or spiritual value could it have? In the current era many individuals turn to the traditional (usually Asian) martial arts precisely because they see in them a font of ancient wisdom. For the less esoterically inclined, the physical and mental discipline of the martial arts has also been seen as a way to “develop character.”

While many actual martial arts instructors go out of their way to avoid discuss their practice in these terms, the idea that the martial arts should be a pathway to some sort of “transcendent attainment” seems firmly fixed in the popular imagination. It is one of the promises that draws students, in both the East and the West, to these practices. Much of the commercial success of the traditional martial arts appears to be rooted in a near mystical faith in their ability to promote balanced development in both children and adolescents. One wonders how much of this belief we can attribute to Luke Skywalker’s very public journey to adulthood aided by the dual disciplines of the Force and the lightsaber training during the 1970s and 1980s.

Can lightsaber students find transcendent values in a practice grounded in what they know to be a set of fictional texts? The fact that we now have a literature on the existence of hyper-real religions (systems of religious belief based on fictional texts such as Star War or the Matrix) strongly suggests that the answer is, “yes.” The underlying values that students can detect in a story or practice are more important for many people than its connection to an authentic ancient history.

My own, very preliminary, ethnographic research with a lightsaber combat group in a mid-sized city in New York State has revealed a surprising degree of dedication on the part of many of the students. The often repeated mantra that it is all “just for fun” notwithstanding, it is clear that many students are approaching lightsaber combat as a key organizing symbol in their lives. The weapons may be fictional, but the feelings that are invoked through practice are clearly authentic and deeply felt. Nor are the sorts of mentoring relationships that students seek from their instructor any different from what one might find in a traditional martial arts institution.

Given the resources being dedicated to lightsaber combat, it should come as no surprise that students so often see their norms and beliefs (or perhaps those that they aspire to hold) reflected in these practices. The Jedi and Sith themselves are readymade symbols ripe for spiritual or psychological appropriation.

When addressing a related point in an interview Damon Honeycutt of NY Jedi said:

“You can bring about things in a subculture; you can create change through that. You can elevate consciousness through it. That is what I would like to see it do, really bring people to a heightened potential of what they really are. To be a lens for that, outside of comicons or conventions or competitions or forms or fighting or sparring or whatever people think that they are doing with it. That really would be the greatest thing.

With NY Jedi we are making ourselves better people to serve humanity, you know, the same thing that I do with the Kung Fu school. In a lot of ways they are the same. Its just that the myth behind it is different. The lineage behind it is different. The world view is different. But the overall goal is the same.” Damon Honeycutt. Reclaiming the Blade, DVD2. Bonus Feature: New York Jedi. 2009. Min. 11:01-11:46.

 

This description matches my own preliminary observations. Future research might fruitfully focus on the underlying social changes that have opened a space for hyper-real martial arts to play these roles at this particular moment in social history.

A Jedi healing a wounded storm trooper through her manipulation of the Force. Current discussions of health in relation to lightsaber combat seem to be more focused on mundane factors such as regular exercise.  Still, there is a strong mythic association between the Jedi and accelerated healing. Source: starwars.wikia

Healthcare: As we have already seen, a number of factors separate the martial arts from simple collections of combat techniques. One of them is the multiplicity of social roles that these systems are expected to play in the lives of their practitioners. In the current era individuals often turn to the martial arts to defend not just their physical safety but their personal health.

Many martial arts studios offer basic fitness and conditioning classes. Weight loss is a frequently advertised benefit of all kinds of martial arts training. And every month a new set of articles is published about the medical benefits of taijiquan for senior citizens in both the Western and Chinese press.

This may seem like yet another example of the commercial appropriation of the martial art. Fitness is a multi-billion dollar industry and the average individual is constantly subjected to powerful media discourses extolling the benefits of athleticism. Is it any wonder that all sorts of martial arts teachers attempt to link their practices to the culturally dominant athletic paradigm?

In light of this it may be necessary to remind ourselves that the links between the practice of the martial arts and health promotion are actually quite old. Meir Shahar has demonstrated that by the end of the Ming dynasty unarmed boxing training was gaining popularity around China partially because of the unique synthesis of self-defense and health promoting practices which it offered.

While less pronounced than some of the other dimension of social meaning, it is clear that lightsaber combat is viewed as an avenue for promoting physical health by some of its students. In this case the emphasis is less on esoteric practices and Daoist medical ideas than western notions of physical fitness and exercise. Many of the students that I have spoken with mentioned the need to “get in shape” and “stay active” as primary motivations for taking up lightsaber combat.

A quick review of news stories in the popular press indicates that a number of lightsaber groups have been created throughout the English speaking world in recent years. While most of these are run by individuals coming out of the traditional martial arts, others are being started by Yoga teachers. Their emphasis is usually focused on the health and fitness benefits of lightsaber training rather than it’s more competitive or combative aspects.

Yet fitness also plays a role in the ways that lightsaber combat is discussed by more traditional martial arts instructors. More than one has noted that these classes attract individuals who might otherwise have no interest in setting foot in a martial arts school or gym. Lightsaber combat gives such students a means to stay active and an incentive to get in shape.

For some students lightsaber combat also sparks an interest in other martial arts. Indeed, one suspects that this is exactly why so many traditional martial artists are currently opening classes dedicated to the subject. They have the potential to expand the appeal of the martial arts to groups of consumers who might not otherwise have ever been attracted to them.

The health benefits of any martial art depend in large part on how it is introduced to students and subsequently practiced. The same is certainly true for lightsaber combat. Once again, when comparing this practice to historically grounded martial arts what we find are differences in degree rather than kind.

Stunt sabers and helmets at a Paris lightsaber tournament. Photo by Charles Platiau. Source: http://avax.news

Conclusion: Lightsaber Combat as a Martial Art

Is lightsaber combat a martial art? The answer is almost certainly yes. At its core are a group of combative and performance techniques, almost all of which have been gathered from previously existing martial traditions. These have been developed into pedagogical systems capable of transmitting not only physical practices but also elaborate pseudo-histories, invented identities and a mythic world view that seem to be a no less potent for their fictional origin. All of this provides students with a variety of tools to craft social and personal meaning in their lives.

An examination of Wetzler’s “five dimensions of social meaning” suggests that in its current incarnation students of lightsaber combat understand their practice in much the same way that traditional martial artists approach their training in the West today. More importantly, both set of activities play broadly similar roles in the lives of students, and respond to the same social forces in basically similar ways. As such we have no a priori reason to believe that the theories developed within martial arts studies cannot also be applied to the investigation of hyper-real combat systems.

More importantly, our brief investigation of lightsaber combat may suggest a few ways to improve our understanding of the social meaning of these systems. Martial artists are often reluctant to discuss the economic consequences of their practice. On the one hand many individuals make a living teaching these systems, and students sacrifice notable resources (in capital, time and opportunity cost) to practice them.

In the current era the distribution of martial knowledge is closely tied to economic markets. Yet openly discussing this fact seems like a violation of an unspoken norm. Among practitioners there is a strong presumption that the martial arts “cannot be bought or sold;” that the attainment of excellence transcends such “base” considerations. Given that many academic students of martial arts studies are also practitioners of these same systems, such attitudes can easily shape our own research as well.

The rapid growth of lightsaber combat over the last decade is interesting for a number of reasons. One of the most important is what it suggests about the power of economic markets to shape the development of martial arts systems and the ways that consumers encounter and experience them. At the most basic level there would be no lightsaber combat without the production of successive generations of Star Wars films and massively expensive campaigns to market them to the public. More specifically, the exact timing of the boom of interest in lightsaber combat owes much to the creation (and marketing) of high quality replica and stunt lightsabers in the early 2000s.

Economic variables can be seen to play important roles in other places as well. The major manufacturers of stunt sabers host message boards and social media groups that play an important part in creating a sense of community. Individual teachers have turned to lightsaber fencing as a means of spreading the message of the martial arts beyond the horizons of the normal reachable market. And it is sometimes surprising to see how much money individual students are willing to pay for a personally meaningful replica lightsaber or for the opportunity to attend a seminar with a specific instructor or group. It is even interesting to think about why different lightsaber organizations adopt the various economic models that they have.

None of this is all that different from what we see in the world of the more traditional martial arts. The ability to offer instruction can become an important source of personal income. The sudden appearance of a popular new action film can lift a little known fighting system out of obscurity. And economic markets strongly condition how the martial arts can be taught, and who they can potentially reach, at any given point in history.

While these sorts of considerations receive little attention in many of our studies, they simply cannot be avoided when thinking about the nature and recent origin of lightsaber combat. As such we should consider adding a sixth category to Wetzler’s discussion of social meaning within the martial arts. Economic markets are a means by which scarce resources are distributed within society. The martial arts have often served similar functions through their attempts to control community violence, support new status hierarchies and even create social capital. We should not be surprised to see powerful synergies emerging through the interactions of these systems. In fact, no student or teacher can approach the martial arts in the current era without taking their economic aspect into careful consideration. This suggests that students of martial arts studies should also be more mindful of this dimension of social meaning.

Critics of the time and energy being devoted to the development of lightsaber combat may voice a number of complaints. Stunt lightsabers, despite their seeming versatility, are essentially cylindrical sticks rather than copies of true blades. And given the unique mythology of this weapon, there is no incentive to imagine it as a metal sword for the purposes of practice and training. As such lightsaber combat is bound to depart from historically derived techniques in important ways. Ultimately an hour invested in the investigation of German longsword fencing, or even kendo, would probably grant a better understanding of real military history than an equal amount of practice with a lightsaber.

Though it may be possible to find key norms within the practice of lightsaber fencing, or while the rich symbolism of the Force and the Jedi may point some students towards transcendent themes, the development of these ideas within the Star Wars universe is still shallow compared to the depth of lived religious experience that can be found within real Buddhist, Daoist or Christian monastic communities. Again, why invest scarce resources in a second order reflection of reality when the real thing is almost immediately available?

These are valid concerns. And ultimately most martial artists will not be interested in lightsaber combat. Then again, most martial artists also have little interest in kendo, wing chun or any other specific style. Many of these objections also revolve around questions of taste rather than objective conceptual categories. Why practice that style when “everyone knows” that mine is superior?

The very fact that lightsaber combat can so easily be drawn into this all too familiar mode of debate is yet another indication that it is seen as residing within the set of practices which we call “martial arts.” Yet as Wetzler reminded us in his discussion, when it comes to definitions, scholars must rely on more objective measures. Ultimately the student of martial arts studies cannot become merely a critic of good taste in martial arts practice (Wetzler, 23-25).

Instead we should ask why, when so much information about many historical styles is readily available, these specific individuals are choosing to study a hyper-real martial art? Why are seekers suddenly more open to finding transcendent meaning in a fictional story than in actual organized religions which espouse many of the same values and views? Lastly, how have consumers appropriated the products of a vast commercial entertainment empire to create independent social groups that better allow them to exercise their agency in creating more empowered identities?

None of these puzzles are unique to lightsaber combat. In realty we could ask a very similar set of questions of most of the traditional martial arts that are practiced in the world today. Nothing simply arises from the past tabula rasa. We seek to understand the invention of the martial arts because every hand combat system must find a place for itself in the social system of its day if it wishes to survive. Their many solutions to this dilemma reveal critical data about the nature of social struggles.

All arts, even the most historically grounded, are caught in a continual cycle of renewal and reinvention. The study of practices such as lightsaber combat is valuable precisely because it forces us to focus on the details of how that process unfolds within specific communities. Yet to be fully realized, we must first understand that hyper-real combat practices can be authentic martial arts.

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