The community college where I teach has closed down its fitness program for the summer. In the past, I just kept having training sessions, because there were always students around who wanted to train. This year, for various reasons (some known, some unknown), I do not find myself in that situation. So I have a weeknight free that I have not had free for the past almost four years.
Being myself, I wondered what to do with my newfound freedom (let's put it this way - there is never much on TV worth watching, but a free evening for me usually means coming home, making dinner, and veging out until I feel like crawling off to bed). Many ideas presented themselves, since, like most workers I never seem to have enough time for non-work projects. One of the things that has bummed me for the past couple of years is the dearth of budo colleagues that are closer than a plane ride or 4-hour drive. In addition to being mildly annoyed that the community college is not going through the summer (which is a schlep for me to get to, actually, but has been generally worth it), I was feeling sort of lonely for people who are kind of at my level to train with, hang out with, and swap stories with.
For years, in addition to training in the Old Country, I used to go to seminars in which we just trained together in various art forms of mutual interest. There was no pressure, no rank consideration - the teacher for one session would be alongside you as a beginner in another session. There was plenty of opportunity for informal discussion in addition to training. It's entirely true that we would never learn much about any particular art form in this kind of setting, but we did learn a little bit about a great number of different, traditional koryu over time. It was also true, generally speaking, that these sessions were lousy recruiting tools. I do not think anyone really gained any new students as a result, coming, as we did, from all over the place, departing a mere 3-4 days after we had arrived. But it was fun.
But it went away. At least one former organizer suggested that web entities like YouTube had squelched people's curiosity about other practices. Who needs to come to a seminar when you can just drive the couch? He also noted that the part that appealed so much to most of us - the no pressure, information-only nature of the practice sessions, were less appealing to the majority of people who were more interested in spending their precious time (the sessions were dirt-cheap, and so were the accommodations) testing for and acquiring rank. (I find this situation incredibly sad, but it's a topic for another post, some other time.)
So I was feeling a little wistful for that time, when practice was just for the hell of it, and a bunch of like-minded, though differently-trained, individuals could just come together and explore each other's ryuha. Then for some odd reason, I suddenly remembered a colleague in New Jersey whom I have not heard from for over a year and have not seen for almost ten. I checked out his web page for his current location and training schedule. Voila! Not far from my home, and held late enough in the evening that I could come home, eat, and get in the car for the short drive there. I shot him a quick email asking if I could just join his practice. He was delighted with the idea.
So we now have a mutual summer project going: he is showing me some kata that belong to an auxilliary practice to our mutual style (which I knew about but never had an opportunity to learn) and I am showing him some kata from a small style I am studying in return (and I hope in lieu of a mat fee). Both classes that I have gone to so far have run long because, in addition to training, we are both so busy telling each other stories about this and that. I get home at midnight. On a weeknight. But I don't care.
Generally speaking, I don't like summer in NYC. It's hot and humid and most of us just huddle in our air-conditioned cubicles until after the US Open. But this year, I get to learn something new.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
I can't stand this guy (a follow up)
A number of posts ago I wrote about a student who showed up in no state to practice, and whom I sent home. He wrote afterword that he "quit." No one believed him, of course. But in reading his one sentence email, I freely admit I felt a sigh of relief. To put it in my teacher's parlance, this guy had seen the Buddha twice, already (as in three strikes and yer out). He was self-centered and needy, and even as his technique improved, his attitude didn't. Of his fellow students, the only one who was dubious about him ever returning was the person who runs the space where we practice. Having dealt with needing to get him off the floor before he caused an accident two months ago, the studio manager seemed just as relieved as I was that this guy had decided to quit.
It was not really true that he wanted to quit, of course. I arranged for him to not receive group emails regarding the goings-on of the various classes and demos, and waited for the inevitable. Eventually, it arrived: the remorseful email that asked if he would be allowed to return to okeiko. I forwarded it to the studio manager - what should we do? I suggested he could return to okeiko, but no demos, no travel, and above all, no misbehavior. Since the manager agreed, I wrote to the Bad Boy and explained. He was grateful, of course, and agreed to all the conditions.
Ever since then, I have been dreading the day he stomps back into the dojo and turns on the old youthful charm. Why did I decide to let him come back? My teacher and I once had a chat about Students You Can't Stand. He said, "Usually, with these guys, you hurry up and test them for shodan. Once they get it, they disappear, and the problem is solved." He went on to note, as any traditional budoka knows, that shodan simply means you have been accepted as a beginner student. Sensei's implication was that arrogant American students always think of shodan as some sort of accomplishment, so, having collected their "black belt", they go inflict their bad behavior on some other teacher whose world they wish to conquer. And I saw this activity in action, as any number of students (including, unfortunately, a few who should have known better, and whom we would not have minded keeping around) passed their shodan and subsequently disappeared.
My Guy-I-Can't-Stand is nowhere near shodan test level, unfortunately. In two years, he has missed at least as many okeiko as he has actually attended. And I refuse to test someone who does not minimally come up to the mark, for the sake of the integrity of my practice (I have met some teachers, even in Japan, who will hasten a promotion for reasons other than improved technique - not criticizing, mind you - just sayin'. And I sympathize, but I just can't do it myself).
I have only one motivation for letting this student return, and it has nothing to do with any feeling that I or my students, or budo itself, might be some kind of good influence on him: he pays. The studio manager needs money, always, and as long as this guy actually does no real harm and pays cash, I feel like I have to accept his return. I can't say I am looking forward to it, but ask anyone who teaches swordsmanship and they will tell you that there has never been a time when they had so many students they could afford to be picky.
So I have to rely on the 3-strikes plan if he comes back to okeiko, as he has promised to do, "in a few weeks, as soon as I get it together." I don't wish him any harm, but I hope it takes a good, long time.
It was not really true that he wanted to quit, of course. I arranged for him to not receive group emails regarding the goings-on of the various classes and demos, and waited for the inevitable. Eventually, it arrived: the remorseful email that asked if he would be allowed to return to okeiko. I forwarded it to the studio manager - what should we do? I suggested he could return to okeiko, but no demos, no travel, and above all, no misbehavior. Since the manager agreed, I wrote to the Bad Boy and explained. He was grateful, of course, and agreed to all the conditions.
Ever since then, I have been dreading the day he stomps back into the dojo and turns on the old youthful charm. Why did I decide to let him come back? My teacher and I once had a chat about Students You Can't Stand. He said, "Usually, with these guys, you hurry up and test them for shodan. Once they get it, they disappear, and the problem is solved." He went on to note, as any traditional budoka knows, that shodan simply means you have been accepted as a beginner student. Sensei's implication was that arrogant American students always think of shodan as some sort of accomplishment, so, having collected their "black belt", they go inflict their bad behavior on some other teacher whose world they wish to conquer. And I saw this activity in action, as any number of students (including, unfortunately, a few who should have known better, and whom we would not have minded keeping around) passed their shodan and subsequently disappeared.
My Guy-I-Can't-Stand is nowhere near shodan test level, unfortunately. In two years, he has missed at least as many okeiko as he has actually attended. And I refuse to test someone who does not minimally come up to the mark, for the sake of the integrity of my practice (I have met some teachers, even in Japan, who will hasten a promotion for reasons other than improved technique - not criticizing, mind you - just sayin'. And I sympathize, but I just can't do it myself).
I have only one motivation for letting this student return, and it has nothing to do with any feeling that I or my students, or budo itself, might be some kind of good influence on him: he pays. The studio manager needs money, always, and as long as this guy actually does no real harm and pays cash, I feel like I have to accept his return. I can't say I am looking forward to it, but ask anyone who teaches swordsmanship and they will tell you that there has never been a time when they had so many students they could afford to be picky.
So I have to rely on the 3-strikes plan if he comes back to okeiko, as he has promised to do, "in a few weeks, as soon as I get it together." I don't wish him any harm, but I hope it takes a good, long time.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Budo v. buyo
Some of the performances I have taken part in this (soon to be past, alas) spring have combined nihon buyo (Japanese classical dance) with swordsmanship demos. I study both; though I consider myself much more a budoka who dances than a buyoka who studies budo. I do these performances at the urging of my dance teacher, and I don't mind, because, taking a performance-oriented view of budo, I enjoy being able to perform whenever possible.
I also recognize that there are aesthetic aspects to budo training, and that, among other elements, one can take an aesthetically-oriented approach to training. I would like to be clear, since some people, even if they have read some of my writing on the subject, erroneously think that I believe that the traditional and deliberately applied aesthetics that exist in budo training are more important than actual efficiency in technique or even philosophical considerations. That is not the case; I emphasize the aesthetic properties because (1) they are there, and (2) no one else really writes about them. I would assume that people would give me credit for knowing that one of the original reasons for studying swordsmanship, for example, is to learn how to safely and successfully use a sword.
I have had enough contact with traditional teachers to know they acknowledge those properties, though the extent to which aesthetic principles, such as jo-ha-kyu and in-yo, are discussed during okeiko seems to depend very much on which students are in class. In a most striking example of difference, I remember going to a seminar by a koryu teacher that was held in Switzerland. As part of the practice, he demonstrated how he felt the techniques imbedded in the various kata he was teaching represented the principle of in-yo. However, less than a year later, at seminars in the US, the principle was never brought up. Instead, the same teacher favored a more straightforward curriculum of technique. Since the seminars were both fairly introductory in nature, I wondered for a long time why he chose to emphasize a fairly esoteric principle to the European students, but not the Americans (except for myself - I received a very detailed email from him on the subject some time after the European trip). At first I thought it was sort of snobby - he was probably introducing more esoteric stuff to the Europeans because he thought they were smarter, maybe? But eventually I came around to the conclusion that it was not that the Americans were incapable of understanding the idea, it was more likely that they were more interested in acquiring as many techniques in a short time as possible. Seeing this difference, this highly marketing-oriented teacher was giving each audience (including me) what it wanted.
Getting back to my title point, even though I have given joint performances of budo and buyo, I am well aware, over and over, that even though the aesthetic elements present in dance also exist in traditional budo, they have literally nothing in common. And while I enjoy being able to show people my kata, and explain to them what is happening (and, to an extent, what given kata might mean), I am sometimes troubled to be sharing the performance with dancers. It's not the prejudice against dancing that I sometimes hear in American budo circles. People who presumably study traditional Japanese budo who have no respect for other Japanese cultural practices (allowing for differences in personal preference) get very little respect from me. As a budoka who dances, I'd be pretty weird if I shared that prejudice. I have had my dance teacher come to my budo practice to teach my students proper suriashi footwork, which is important (for practical reasons, not aesthetic ones) in traditional budo. Nihon buyo has embedded in it the way people actually moved in the Edo period, when much traditional budo also developed. I would be seriously remiss if I did not recognize that movement systems with so much in common can beneficially influence each other.
No - the heart of the matter goes back to a story my teacher used to tell at every demo we did, so often that I could repeat the story word for word, complete with accent: "People always say to me - what's the difference between you and Bruce Lee?" (I am certain this story began when Mr. Lee was actually still with us, but Sensei never changed it, and why not? To this day Bruce Lee is still selling websites and magazines as a martial arts icon.) He would continue: "I tell them, it's because what we do is real." (And here, Sensei would take a sheet of paper, draw his sword, and casually cut the paper into fine strips as he continued.) "If Bruce Lee hits someone, they have to fall down. Otherwise they don't get paid. Bruce Lee is a fine actor, but we do real Japanese swordsmanship. We do real techniques." And we would proceed with our demonstration, hoping that we could at least, in some small measure, try to come up to the level of the guy who had instantly earned the audience's complete attention in the quietest and smallest of ways.
And that's why teaming up with buyo sometimes bothers me. Nihon buyo is beautiful, skilful entertainment. I can choreograph a fight scene, and even put it to music, and an audience will (I hope) find it thrilling, or at least interesting. But fight choreography is always much flashier than the real thing. In fact, the flashier the real thing becomes (as in some modern styles of swordsmanship), the less effective it is; but somehow, the more an audience, including one composed of sword-ignorant American martial artists, enjoys it. It's a paradox for me that I deal with every time I go out on a stage or rudely constructed outdoor platform: what is the audience seeing when they see me? Are they seeing budo, or the prelude to a dance?
Sometimes I wonder if my teacher was telling that Bruce Lee story more for the audience, or for us.
I also recognize that there are aesthetic aspects to budo training, and that, among other elements, one can take an aesthetically-oriented approach to training. I would like to be clear, since some people, even if they have read some of my writing on the subject, erroneously think that I believe that the traditional and deliberately applied aesthetics that exist in budo training are more important than actual efficiency in technique or even philosophical considerations. That is not the case; I emphasize the aesthetic properties because (1) they are there, and (2) no one else really writes about them. I would assume that people would give me credit for knowing that one of the original reasons for studying swordsmanship, for example, is to learn how to safely and successfully use a sword.
I have had enough contact with traditional teachers to know they acknowledge those properties, though the extent to which aesthetic principles, such as jo-ha-kyu and in-yo, are discussed during okeiko seems to depend very much on which students are in class. In a most striking example of difference, I remember going to a seminar by a koryu teacher that was held in Switzerland. As part of the practice, he demonstrated how he felt the techniques imbedded in the various kata he was teaching represented the principle of in-yo. However, less than a year later, at seminars in the US, the principle was never brought up. Instead, the same teacher favored a more straightforward curriculum of technique. Since the seminars were both fairly introductory in nature, I wondered for a long time why he chose to emphasize a fairly esoteric principle to the European students, but not the Americans (except for myself - I received a very detailed email from him on the subject some time after the European trip). At first I thought it was sort of snobby - he was probably introducing more esoteric stuff to the Europeans because he thought they were smarter, maybe? But eventually I came around to the conclusion that it was not that the Americans were incapable of understanding the idea, it was more likely that they were more interested in acquiring as many techniques in a short time as possible. Seeing this difference, this highly marketing-oriented teacher was giving each audience (including me) what it wanted.
Getting back to my title point, even though I have given joint performances of budo and buyo, I am well aware, over and over, that even though the aesthetic elements present in dance also exist in traditional budo, they have literally nothing in common. And while I enjoy being able to show people my kata, and explain to them what is happening (and, to an extent, what given kata might mean), I am sometimes troubled to be sharing the performance with dancers. It's not the prejudice against dancing that I sometimes hear in American budo circles. People who presumably study traditional Japanese budo who have no respect for other Japanese cultural practices (allowing for differences in personal preference) get very little respect from me. As a budoka who dances, I'd be pretty weird if I shared that prejudice. I have had my dance teacher come to my budo practice to teach my students proper suriashi footwork, which is important (for practical reasons, not aesthetic ones) in traditional budo. Nihon buyo has embedded in it the way people actually moved in the Edo period, when much traditional budo also developed. I would be seriously remiss if I did not recognize that movement systems with so much in common can beneficially influence each other.
No - the heart of the matter goes back to a story my teacher used to tell at every demo we did, so often that I could repeat the story word for word, complete with accent: "People always say to me - what's the difference between you and Bruce Lee?" (I am certain this story began when Mr. Lee was actually still with us, but Sensei never changed it, and why not? To this day Bruce Lee is still selling websites and magazines as a martial arts icon.) He would continue: "I tell them, it's because what we do is real." (And here, Sensei would take a sheet of paper, draw his sword, and casually cut the paper into fine strips as he continued.) "If Bruce Lee hits someone, they have to fall down. Otherwise they don't get paid. Bruce Lee is a fine actor, but we do real Japanese swordsmanship. We do real techniques." And we would proceed with our demonstration, hoping that we could at least, in some small measure, try to come up to the level of the guy who had instantly earned the audience's complete attention in the quietest and smallest of ways.
And that's why teaming up with buyo sometimes bothers me. Nihon buyo is beautiful, skilful entertainment. I can choreograph a fight scene, and even put it to music, and an audience will (I hope) find it thrilling, or at least interesting. But fight choreography is always much flashier than the real thing. In fact, the flashier the real thing becomes (as in some modern styles of swordsmanship), the less effective it is; but somehow, the more an audience, including one composed of sword-ignorant American martial artists, enjoys it. It's a paradox for me that I deal with every time I go out on a stage or rudely constructed outdoor platform: what is the audience seeing when they see me? Are they seeing budo, or the prelude to a dance?
Sometimes I wonder if my teacher was telling that Bruce Lee story more for the audience, or for us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)