A quote: "...many people in North America assume that one can learn koryu by training at the occasional seminar. Not true. What one learns at such seminars is only physical technique (and then only in the most superficial way). Learning koryu, though, is much more encompassing than mere waza. It includes the history, the "personality" of the ryu, all the undefined little things that make each ryu different and unique."
Meik Skoss, author of the above, is someone for whom I have enormous respect, even though I don't think he likes me very much. He demands a high degree of commitment from his students, and, as a result, does not have many. But they are among the very best I have ever seen outside Japan (and do better than more than a few I have seen in Japan, for that matter). Years ago, he and I had some similar online discussions - he contended the only way to study a real koryu was in Japan, and I countered that if one had a teacher sufficiently versed in traditional culture even outside Japan, students should be able to get a more in-depth understanding of not only what they were doing, but why. Eventually, we met on this common ground, perhaps in part because he is now teaching in the US, and can't very well advocate for what he himself is doing if he insists it can't be done outside the Old Country.
What brings this subject up is something that recently took place with a teacher from Japan and my old dojo. This teacher is/was my teacher (can't really tell at this point if he is a former teacher or not). I introduced him to my old dojo, and subsequently, yadda yadda yadda. I am no longer there, and have only seen him in Japan or occasionally attempting to train outside the honbu under circumstances that could be described as constrained at best. He comes to the states once or twice a year, goes to Europe once a year, and, last I heard, is working on his debut in Brazil. The ranks of students is growing (at least, outside Japan), and I assume life is good. But what is he teaching, and what are people actually learning, from the workshops?
To address Meik's comment, we need to consider whether iai is koryu or not. The answer is both yes and no. There are some reliably old styles that include the characteristic drawing and resheathing that is part of the definition of iai as opposed to kenjutsu - Tamiya Ryu for one, Shinto Hatakage Ryu for another, as far as we can determine. Some styles are later - Muso Shinden Ryu and its cousins, for example, reliably date from the 19th century and are perhaps more post-Meiji than pre-Meiji, even though their forebears are older. Some styles, like the one the above-mentioned teacher heads up, are brand new. (Specifically, the style broke off from its main branch about 5 years ago, and even the main line had a fuzzy history in the first place.)
If a style fits into this more recent category, and is not technically "koryu," but instead only dredges up echoes of a medieval past, does cultural context matter? Or is physical understanding all that counts?
I have always considered iai in general to be a koryu practice, even if specific ryuha do not date back to the Sengoku Jidai. In that case, as I argued to Meik many years ago, I think cultural understanding of iai is imperative to understanding the practice. Groups such as the ZNKR are busy dragging iai practice into the present, with modern-designed forms and competitions based on physical expertise alone. But while one may become proficient physically (and be physically rewarded for it) one misses a great deal of what iai offers by confining oneself to this level alone. My teacher Otani Sensei understood this, and in his visits to the dojo (or my visits to him when illness prevented his active participation at okeiko) he tried to impart it. Out of respect for his teaching, I also made history and military strategy a part of my practice, as well as - yes - taking seminars in other koryu in order to gain a superficial understanding of what else was out there in the milieu of martial practices of the time.
So, it's not that you can't learn anything from a workshop - I learned a great deal, even if I did not learn that much physical technique. However, you can't learn anything much in depth. Without a competent teacher to lead students to a deeper level, there isn't much left after the master teacher goes home, except to argue technical points, like whether the angle of the sword should be 30 degrees or 35 degrees from plumb. Even a physically competent teacher is shortchanging his students if the deeper level of training is ignored. Does it matter? Obviously, it depends on what people want from their practice. In the case I noted above, "iaido lite" seems to work just fine for everyone concerned, or at least that is how it appears. It is possible that the teacher wishes the foreign students had more interest in the cultural aspects of practice, but he is still willing to teach them kata - and take the fame and recognition (and cash) - even if they don't.
Everyone who walks in my door gets a constant cultural/historical stream of information, whether they like it or not. To me, it is part of the practice as much as anything else. I like to cite the example of newbie students getting to cut makiwara for the first time. Anyone can do this with about 10 minutes of instruction. No kidding - show her the grip, position her feet so she doesn't cut her leg, put her in front of the target at the right distance and step way, way back from her. Then, let 'er fly! But to gain some real understanding of the technique - where did this come from? Aside for the cool factor, why do people still do it? What does it mean? That takes time, along with training with a teacher who gets at least a certain sense of the background of the practice and can impart it to others.
If, however, your local teacher's cultural understanding only reaches to the level of pop culture and anime (or, worse, exists in some fantasy world of his own), don't lose heart - you can always go after that deeper knowledge for yourself. After all, Otani Sensei tried, but only the people who were willing to hear him got any further than skin deep. The opposite can therefore be true. Save your bucks and go to the honbu and find out for yourself. After that, hang out with the sempai. Wander around the countryside. Visit some historic areas. Learn some of the language. Read some books. Repeat for the rest of your life. Don't simply wait for the Big Kahuna's next world tour.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Talent and (versus) Stubbornness
I have a talented student (or maybe former student - I am not sure at this point). The techniques I have taught him came to him relatively easily. He's young and strong and gifted, the kind of man who makes teachers' eyes light up. Lucky him. This past January I tested him for shodan. He was appropriately nervous, and predictably, he did well. The other judge was as impressed with him as I have been, as other teachers who have seen him in action have been.
But of course there's a problem. He's spoiled rotten. And that's where the fairy story runs out. For months he had been borrowing equipment from me, on the excuse that he was saving up for a different set of equipment (not being satisfied with what he already had). After months of lugging extra stuff around with me, especially through snow and ice, I explained that once he became shodan, he would have to get, and carry around, his own equipment. Right away, I knew we were in trouble. His eyebrows went up. Really? Yes. I'm the teacher, not a pack horse.
After that, he still continued to come to class, but without his gi, wearing gym clothes or workout clothes instead. At first he said he was too busy to do laundry, but eventually he dropped that excuse sometime after it became patently ridiculous. I teach one public class a week for college students. Under the circumstances, I cannot tell them they must dress properly, though the serious amongst them seem to want to after awhile anyway. It is obvious that this guy is talented and knows some advanced techniques, so his dress is, in a way, a sign of disrespect. In a public class, however, I cannot really ask him to dress otherwise. I have let him know through intermediaries (fellow students he has known for some time) that his dress is inappropriate given that he is a ranked student, but to no avail. At this point, the student who almost never missed a practice has been gone for about a month. One of his fellows said he complained of being bored with all of the beginners and doing basic exericises all the time. As I have mentioned in a previous post, every time I do basics (and we have done them a lot lately) I try to do them better. Iai is structured, like a lot of other budo, to be cumulative. After basics, you can learn more advanced things, but without contiuous practice of basics, your advanced practice will decline. No matter what you retain mentally, the execution of technique is what really counts. That's just how it is.
So, this person has talent, but no stubbornness, and the truth is, you need both. Talent is great, but anyone who thinks that it will open all doors is simply wrong. And the shock of realizing that talent alone will not bring you everything you want can be too much for some people.
I am not really talented. As a kid, I called myself a "spaz", as in "spastic." I wasn't really spastic, of course, but that was how it felt to me. A left-handed, chubby, awkward kid who kept going left when everyone else went right. I wanted to dance, but there was not dance studio within 45 miles of where I lived, and no public transportation to take a chubby kid where she wanted to go. Alongside my interest in dance was an interest in fencing, but that, too, was an impossibility, given where I lived.
I was 21 before I had an opportunity to begin fencing (by that time, knowing that dancers started as children, I had given up on that idea). But once I had it, I grabbed it with both hands. I was awkward and unshaped (I can't say out of shape - I had never been in shape in my life), and probably too old to have started. One thing - my left-handedness was considered an asset. I worked long hours. I did drills. I went to summer practices (in spite of being a summer Olympic sport, fencers usually knock off during hot weather). I sweated. My knees, never having had to do more than climb a few sets of stairs on any given day, complained. I ached. But, I got better. Honestly, I sucked at competition, but I had so much fun learning to do something I had always wanted to do, it almost didn't matter.
The came iai, which solved the competition question nicely - there wasn't any. But there were other obstacles, like there are with anything. But I worked on them. Actually, there are always obstacles - time, space, money, other people, death. But I worked hard. Really hard. Spent money going to Japan. Spent time - extra time, by myself, in rented studios all over NYC when I had any to spare.
And unlike my talented student, I did not give up when things did not go exactly as I expected them. One thing as you get older, and it's a good thing - you learn not to expect anything. It's fortunately true, as my old teacher used to say, that it is better to go around an object placed in your path than it is to try to go through it, and that has happened in the past few years. But, as he also said, there are many paths up the mountain. The important thing is to keep climbing.
But of course there's a problem. He's spoiled rotten. And that's where the fairy story runs out. For months he had been borrowing equipment from me, on the excuse that he was saving up for a different set of equipment (not being satisfied with what he already had). After months of lugging extra stuff around with me, especially through snow and ice, I explained that once he became shodan, he would have to get, and carry around, his own equipment. Right away, I knew we were in trouble. His eyebrows went up. Really? Yes. I'm the teacher, not a pack horse.
After that, he still continued to come to class, but without his gi, wearing gym clothes or workout clothes instead. At first he said he was too busy to do laundry, but eventually he dropped that excuse sometime after it became patently ridiculous. I teach one public class a week for college students. Under the circumstances, I cannot tell them they must dress properly, though the serious amongst them seem to want to after awhile anyway. It is obvious that this guy is talented and knows some advanced techniques, so his dress is, in a way, a sign of disrespect. In a public class, however, I cannot really ask him to dress otherwise. I have let him know through intermediaries (fellow students he has known for some time) that his dress is inappropriate given that he is a ranked student, but to no avail. At this point, the student who almost never missed a practice has been gone for about a month. One of his fellows said he complained of being bored with all of the beginners and doing basic exericises all the time. As I have mentioned in a previous post, every time I do basics (and we have done them a lot lately) I try to do them better. Iai is structured, like a lot of other budo, to be cumulative. After basics, you can learn more advanced things, but without contiuous practice of basics, your advanced practice will decline. No matter what you retain mentally, the execution of technique is what really counts. That's just how it is.
So, this person has talent, but no stubbornness, and the truth is, you need both. Talent is great, but anyone who thinks that it will open all doors is simply wrong. And the shock of realizing that talent alone will not bring you everything you want can be too much for some people.
I am not really talented. As a kid, I called myself a "spaz", as in "spastic." I wasn't really spastic, of course, but that was how it felt to me. A left-handed, chubby, awkward kid who kept going left when everyone else went right. I wanted to dance, but there was not dance studio within 45 miles of where I lived, and no public transportation to take a chubby kid where she wanted to go. Alongside my interest in dance was an interest in fencing, but that, too, was an impossibility, given where I lived.
I was 21 before I had an opportunity to begin fencing (by that time, knowing that dancers started as children, I had given up on that idea). But once I had it, I grabbed it with both hands. I was awkward and unshaped (I can't say out of shape - I had never been in shape in my life), and probably too old to have started. One thing - my left-handedness was considered an asset. I worked long hours. I did drills. I went to summer practices (in spite of being a summer Olympic sport, fencers usually knock off during hot weather). I sweated. My knees, never having had to do more than climb a few sets of stairs on any given day, complained. I ached. But, I got better. Honestly, I sucked at competition, but I had so much fun learning to do something I had always wanted to do, it almost didn't matter.
The came iai, which solved the competition question nicely - there wasn't any. But there were other obstacles, like there are with anything. But I worked on them. Actually, there are always obstacles - time, space, money, other people, death. But I worked hard. Really hard. Spent money going to Japan. Spent time - extra time, by myself, in rented studios all over NYC when I had any to spare.
And unlike my talented student, I did not give up when things did not go exactly as I expected them. One thing as you get older, and it's a good thing - you learn not to expect anything. It's fortunately true, as my old teacher used to say, that it is better to go around an object placed in your path than it is to try to go through it, and that has happened in the past few years. But, as he also said, there are many paths up the mountain. The important thing is to keep climbing.
Pensive
Country people used to say that things happened in three's. If one of us saw a snake, they'd say "There's bound to be two more of 'em around here somewhere." Actually, in rural Pennsylvania in the summer, that was a pretty safe bet to make, but it just goes to show what passed for folk wisdom when I was growing up (heavy on the "folk").
In the past week, I learned (1) that a friend's wife is nursing her brother who's dying of cancer, while her mother has just found out she has been diagnosed with the same disease; (2) another friend's father died in a terrible car accident; and (3) as the planet knows, that Steve Jobs died.
Now, do not let it be said that I am a tech-head, because I am not. Unlike some others, I came late to the Mac thing, though once I did, I was a convert. Apple products were the first tech gizmos that I did not think of as tools, but as something to be played with. However, that is not the point of this essay.
The point is, devastating things happened to people this week that only touched me tangentially, but touched me enough to make me think about stuff. I know people to whom things involving other people have happened. In the case of Jobs, of course, I did not know him, but, in a way, he knew me.
When I was in my early 30's, my best friend from college died of AIDS. He was a lovely man, and a friend to my whole family. My mother's reaction, when she heard the news was, "Have a good time, whatever you do. Don't wait, because you never know what will happen." As the planet also knows, Jobs made a similar speech to the trust fund babies who are a typical Stanford graduating class - that time was too limited to spend your life living out other people's dreams. Jobs was iconized precisely because he did live his own dream. It was so unusual for a kid from a middle-class background to have the combination of brains, stubborness, pride and self-assurance to be able to do what he did. The vast majority of people will never have that combination of personal characteristics, not to mention luck (like meeting Woz), or fate, or whatever you call it, to be able to do the same. But the kids graduating from Stanford will have to really screw up to avoid following their dreams, don'tcha think?
So what do the rest of us do? We make do, I guess. I wanted to be a teacher. I'm not one, but I teach three times a week. My job is nearly mindless, but I read Great Books on the subway ride down from the Bronx almost every day. Occasionally (if I'm really lucky that day), I engage a thinking person in a meaningful discussion. Or write something someone else finds worth reading now and then.
Oh yeah - I named my iPhone Steve. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
In the past week, I learned (1) that a friend's wife is nursing her brother who's dying of cancer, while her mother has just found out she has been diagnosed with the same disease; (2) another friend's father died in a terrible car accident; and (3) as the planet knows, that Steve Jobs died.
Now, do not let it be said that I am a tech-head, because I am not. Unlike some others, I came late to the Mac thing, though once I did, I was a convert. Apple products were the first tech gizmos that I did not think of as tools, but as something to be played with. However, that is not the point of this essay.
The point is, devastating things happened to people this week that only touched me tangentially, but touched me enough to make me think about stuff. I know people to whom things involving other people have happened. In the case of Jobs, of course, I did not know him, but, in a way, he knew me.
When I was in my early 30's, my best friend from college died of AIDS. He was a lovely man, and a friend to my whole family. My mother's reaction, when she heard the news was, "Have a good time, whatever you do. Don't wait, because you never know what will happen." As the planet also knows, Jobs made a similar speech to the trust fund babies who are a typical Stanford graduating class - that time was too limited to spend your life living out other people's dreams. Jobs was iconized precisely because he did live his own dream. It was so unusual for a kid from a middle-class background to have the combination of brains, stubborness, pride and self-assurance to be able to do what he did. The vast majority of people will never have that combination of personal characteristics, not to mention luck (like meeting Woz), or fate, or whatever you call it, to be able to do the same. But the kids graduating from Stanford will have to really screw up to avoid following their dreams, don'tcha think?
So what do the rest of us do? We make do, I guess. I wanted to be a teacher. I'm not one, but I teach three times a week. My job is nearly mindless, but I read Great Books on the subway ride down from the Bronx almost every day. Occasionally (if I'm really lucky that day), I engage a thinking person in a meaningful discussion. Or write something someone else finds worth reading now and then.
Oh yeah - I named my iPhone Steve. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
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