"What should I write? Sensei? Shihan? Kyoshi?" The woman, whose own name badge said "kyoshi," did not have even the remotest hint of irony in her voice. I replied that just my name was fine, though I added, sympathetically, that some people would have been offended had she not asked the question. "You got that right," she said.
For the past two years, I have been invited to an end-of-the-year party (though no one calls it that) by a long-ago student of my teacher. This gentleman is 71 years old, still built like a tank, and, in some U.S. martial art circles, is still famous, or at least well-known. He is a larger-than-life figure, and if he is not automatically the center of attention, he will find a way to become one, even if it's just announcing new arrivals in a very loud voice.
We all wore name tags, even though I believe I was perhaps the lone exception in knowing practically no one except the teacher, his wife (the "kyoshi" who welcomed me) and a couple of people I had also seen last year. For everyone else it was old home week - mostly an older crowd of mostly guys in their 60's, 70's and beyond - a reunion of survivors from the U.S. martial arts boom of the 1960's and '70's. Everyone, their students included, was a "sensei," a "kyoshi" or a "shihan." There was even a 30-something "sifu" present.
For me, a traditional, koryu-trained budoka, the party was a chance to wander, more or less obscurely, in a world that constitutes the other side of martial arts here - guys who trained in the "early days" in what was understood at the time as "martial arts." Their teachers were vets who were stationed briefly in Japan or Okinawa, or, in the case of our host, who trained (however briefly) with my teacher, the rare Japanese immigrant. In every case, their sense of Americanism allowed them to take whatever traditional training they may have received and transform it into something few traditional teachers of budo would recognize. Very often they had good reason - New York City in that era was a very different place. Our host had spent time working in nightclubs in Harlem as a bouncer in his youth, defending himself and patrons against every weapon imaginable, and doing it successfully. Many of the other attendees could tell similar stories. Some fought gangs. Some fought in gangs. One younger (60's) gentleman recalled that he started karate as a boy, before there were youth divisions (or protective equipment). He told stories about himself as a 13-year-old, pitted against full grown men, in the days before formal tournaments, when people went from school to school to spar. A number of them despaired of modern parents who object to their kids sparring even with equipment nowadays, worried that junior might suffer hurt, or, worse, be beaten in a match.
And everywhere I turned, there was someone who studied "iaido." I have seen my sempai-host's version of what he had learned from my teacher - a small amount of traditional kata combined with plain old badass showmanship from every samurai movie ever made. Crowds love it. I wondered what the others had done or were doing. Then I asked myself if I really wanted to know.
It's easy to be a koryu snob when faced a crowd like this (though, if you want to make it out alive, better to not say anything while there). Their lack of education generally, but about Japanese culture in particular, the inflated titles (I felt very humbled to be surrounded by so many "kyoshi" and "shihan") can provide ample fuel for a whole year's worth of snark on the web (which is a lot of snark). Except for one thing - that they all love budo - even if it's their own version of it. I kept hearing two things over and over again - that it's important to preserve budo for future generations, because it had given them so much, and for which they were so grateful to their teachers - my teacher included. And that it wasn't about fighting and being badass (in spite of the war stories), it was about character and self-discipline and commitment - the commitment to becoming a better person than you are. And then trying to do the same for your students in turn.
My teacher once said about this sempai that he had a good heart, in spite of the seeming-bombast. He said I should always treat him with respect whenever I encounter him. Those are the reasons I have accepted his invitations for the past two years. That, and it's one of the best shows in town!
Monday, December 30, 2013
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Demos part 2 - A Demo is not a class
So, as I was saying, about demos...
I have a background in performing arts. In Western theatre, I have acted, directed, stage managed and designed. As a company stage manager, I ran a summer theatre for 12 very long weeks - everything from rehearsal schedules, car schedules, housekeeping, and - oh, yeah - calling the light and sound cues for shows at night and herding actors around on stage and off. As a director, I had the responsibility of interpreting for the audience what a given play was about. Since practically all plays are capable of endless interpretation (look at the terrible things people have done to poor Shakespeare!), it is up to the director to pick some ideas that work and present them clearly to the audience. When it works, even those who don't like your interpretation will at least respect your choices. If it doesn't work, well, look out. The audience votes with its feet; then there's the critics...
At the demo a couple of weeks ago, several teachers who presented chose not so much to give a demonstration as to teach a class. One teacher who was not satisfied with several of his students' phrase d'armes had them do their kihon waza again (and again). Another spent 10 minutes of his 20-minute time slot having his students do their warm-up exercises. In both cases, I had to call time before either teacher got to the heart of his presentation. This was too bad on many fronts - the teachers did not get to show what they really did in their respective dojo, the students did not really get to show what they knew, and the audience - well, the audience was very patient.
As I thought about these performances later on, I realized that, even though the teachers are competent and talented at teaching, they did not have the theatrical sense to arrange a proper demo that would inform the audience and keep things interesting. All they knew how to do was teach, and so they did. Of course, this was not the first time I had ever seen a class-as-demo, but this time around, it got me thinking about how to resolve the dilemma. As a former director, I was wondering if there was something I could say that would benefit everyone while still being respectful of the different practices involved. I also have to add that directors are famously tactless; some even think that being disrespectful makes them more effective, an idea I thoroughly disagree with. At the same time, I understand the reason for being assertive - otherwise people are unlikely to do what you ask. It's bad enough working with some egocentric actors. Throw some egocentric senior martial arts teachers into the mix and tact becomes really important.
Therefore (even though I know that not many people who arrange demos will read this), I am providing the Ronin/Rogue Scholar's Guide to Successful Demo Planning.
1. The first thing every director needs is a "through line." The through line is what you want your presentation to be about. In the case of most martial arts demos, it's to present, in a confined place and time, the best possible picture of what you do at your dojo. The through line does not have to be confined to simply showing the style(s) being practiced, it can pull in another unifying idea - use of space, maybe, or a historical reference. However, since, in the U.S., your demo is not likely to be much like anyone else's, simply showing what you practice is a great start.
2. Create the performance. Decide what you want to show. For many groups, you would want to show beginner, intermediate and advanced forms or techniques. Keep it simple and do exactly that. Show your primary practice first, and if you have an auxiliary practice, show it in the second half. Very important - stick to the time allotted. As a teacher, you know how long each thing takes. Make a list with the number of minutes for each kata or technique. CUT if you have too much (do those techniques some other time). Make an outline and give copies to everyone so they know what they will be doing when. Then stick to it.
3. Pick your "cast members". My general rule has been that anyone who has practiced for 6 months or more can take part in at least the beginner techniques. Get commitments from your students that they must be available on the day you need them. If they can't commit, tell them you will ask them another time.
4. Arrange your demo - decide which students will do what. In my experience, beginners do much better in a group. Group kata looks really cool. Put a couple of seniors in the front to lead the others. Senior students have more leeway in deciding what to do for their parts, but get them to commit to doing whatever they are going to perform. Don't let them change at the last minute because they just learned something really cool in class and want to show everyone. Get used to saying, "Next time." Consider assigning someone (you or someone else) to be the emcee who introduces students, gives the name of kata or techniques, and explains what is happening when necessary. A bonus to this approach is that an explanation of a kata for an audience can jar a nervous student's memory and keep her on track. However, don't rely on totally off-the-cuff remarks. At the very least, the emcee should be able to work their way through the outline. I wrote scripts for years - it's tedious, but if someone else has to sub as emcee at the last minute, at least he would have something to go on. And you can use a script (or parts of it) over and over again. Try to balance what is being shown among the people taking part. I have been to demos that might as well have been subtitled All About The Teacher. As the teacher, everyone knows you are supposed to know what you're doing; what they want to know is how well your students are able to show what they are learning from you.
5. Rehearse. I usually work with people starting about a month in advance. To keep things interesting, I involve everyone in the dojo in practicing the techniques that will be done at the demo. Beginners might get a chance to stretch a little, and more senior students keep reviewing basics - all of which is good. I have learned to include things like how to walk into the performance space, how to bow properly in front of an audience, etc. This is all good manners anyway, and it gives you a chance to tighten up etiquette a little, which is never a bad thing. This past spring, we ended up doing a whole series of demos over the course of about 3-4 weeks. As a result, since the locations were different for each one (and hence each audience was different), we did the same beginner/intermediate techniques, with only the senior students allowed to make decisions to try some variations (within reason). It was nice for me as a teacher to watch students get more and more comfortable with each performance.
6. Be prepared - the performance day is almost never what you expect. What if it rains, when you are performing outdoors? What if one of your senior students gets hopelessly stuck in traffic? The outline of the demo will help you decide what to cut if necessary, or if someone else can take over a given student's role. To make this easier, *never* tell people to show up just before your scheduled time. At the very latest, they should follow the theatrical rule of showing up 1/2 hour before the event begins. Yes, they may end up having to watch others' performances, but then, they might learn something, too. Being ready at the start of an event might save the organizer's butt if someone cancels at the last minute - it never hurts to be the savior in those circumstances.
7. And lastly, relax and have fun. Stuff *will* happen. I have heard many "war stories" from seasoned budoka about some unexpected thing or other happening at a demo. One very high-ranking iaidoka once told me he was taking part in a televised demo in Tokyo. When he put his sword in his obi, he accidentally caught the saya in his hakama - on national TV. He had no choice, of course, but to fix the problem and go on. He survived. And the moral of the story was: even the most senior budoka are not immune to chance. How you handle chance is what makes you a senior budoka.
8. Assess your performance. After the demo, review what worked and what didn't. Keep those lessons in mind for the next time.
Demos are not just an opportunity to show an audience what you do. It is also an opportunity to perform under pressure. Let's face it - we don't go into combat with swords and sticks anymore. By performing in demos, we get to adapt to conditions that change every time - a great opportunity to find out what you really know. Even though I have been doing this for over 25 years, I am always excited by performing a demo. What will happen this time? How will we do? The results may be mixed, but there's always next time to look forward to.
I have a background in performing arts. In Western theatre, I have acted, directed, stage managed and designed. As a company stage manager, I ran a summer theatre for 12 very long weeks - everything from rehearsal schedules, car schedules, housekeeping, and - oh, yeah - calling the light and sound cues for shows at night and herding actors around on stage and off. As a director, I had the responsibility of interpreting for the audience what a given play was about. Since practically all plays are capable of endless interpretation (look at the terrible things people have done to poor Shakespeare!), it is up to the director to pick some ideas that work and present them clearly to the audience. When it works, even those who don't like your interpretation will at least respect your choices. If it doesn't work, well, look out. The audience votes with its feet; then there's the critics...
At the demo a couple of weeks ago, several teachers who presented chose not so much to give a demonstration as to teach a class. One teacher who was not satisfied with several of his students' phrase d'armes had them do their kihon waza again (and again). Another spent 10 minutes of his 20-minute time slot having his students do their warm-up exercises. In both cases, I had to call time before either teacher got to the heart of his presentation. This was too bad on many fronts - the teachers did not get to show what they really did in their respective dojo, the students did not really get to show what they knew, and the audience - well, the audience was very patient.
As I thought about these performances later on, I realized that, even though the teachers are competent and talented at teaching, they did not have the theatrical sense to arrange a proper demo that would inform the audience and keep things interesting. All they knew how to do was teach, and so they did. Of course, this was not the first time I had ever seen a class-as-demo, but this time around, it got me thinking about how to resolve the dilemma. As a former director, I was wondering if there was something I could say that would benefit everyone while still being respectful of the different practices involved. I also have to add that directors are famously tactless; some even think that being disrespectful makes them more effective, an idea I thoroughly disagree with. At the same time, I understand the reason for being assertive - otherwise people are unlikely to do what you ask. It's bad enough working with some egocentric actors. Throw some egocentric senior martial arts teachers into the mix and tact becomes really important.
Therefore (even though I know that not many people who arrange demos will read this), I am providing the Ronin/Rogue Scholar's Guide to Successful Demo Planning.
1. The first thing every director needs is a "through line." The through line is what you want your presentation to be about. In the case of most martial arts demos, it's to present, in a confined place and time, the best possible picture of what you do at your dojo. The through line does not have to be confined to simply showing the style(s) being practiced, it can pull in another unifying idea - use of space, maybe, or a historical reference. However, since, in the U.S., your demo is not likely to be much like anyone else's, simply showing what you practice is a great start.
2. Create the performance. Decide what you want to show. For many groups, you would want to show beginner, intermediate and advanced forms or techniques. Keep it simple and do exactly that. Show your primary practice first, and if you have an auxiliary practice, show it in the second half. Very important - stick to the time allotted. As a teacher, you know how long each thing takes. Make a list with the number of minutes for each kata or technique. CUT if you have too much (do those techniques some other time). Make an outline and give copies to everyone so they know what they will be doing when. Then stick to it.
3. Pick your "cast members". My general rule has been that anyone who has practiced for 6 months or more can take part in at least the beginner techniques. Get commitments from your students that they must be available on the day you need them. If they can't commit, tell them you will ask them another time.
4. Arrange your demo - decide which students will do what. In my experience, beginners do much better in a group. Group kata looks really cool. Put a couple of seniors in the front to lead the others. Senior students have more leeway in deciding what to do for their parts, but get them to commit to doing whatever they are going to perform. Don't let them change at the last minute because they just learned something really cool in class and want to show everyone. Get used to saying, "Next time." Consider assigning someone (you or someone else) to be the emcee who introduces students, gives the name of kata or techniques, and explains what is happening when necessary. A bonus to this approach is that an explanation of a kata for an audience can jar a nervous student's memory and keep her on track. However, don't rely on totally off-the-cuff remarks. At the very least, the emcee should be able to work their way through the outline. I wrote scripts for years - it's tedious, but if someone else has to sub as emcee at the last minute, at least he would have something to go on. And you can use a script (or parts of it) over and over again. Try to balance what is being shown among the people taking part. I have been to demos that might as well have been subtitled All About The Teacher. As the teacher, everyone knows you are supposed to know what you're doing; what they want to know is how well your students are able to show what they are learning from you.
5. Rehearse. I usually work with people starting about a month in advance. To keep things interesting, I involve everyone in the dojo in practicing the techniques that will be done at the demo. Beginners might get a chance to stretch a little, and more senior students keep reviewing basics - all of which is good. I have learned to include things like how to walk into the performance space, how to bow properly in front of an audience, etc. This is all good manners anyway, and it gives you a chance to tighten up etiquette a little, which is never a bad thing. This past spring, we ended up doing a whole series of demos over the course of about 3-4 weeks. As a result, since the locations were different for each one (and hence each audience was different), we did the same beginner/intermediate techniques, with only the senior students allowed to make decisions to try some variations (within reason). It was nice for me as a teacher to watch students get more and more comfortable with each performance.
6. Be prepared - the performance day is almost never what you expect. What if it rains, when you are performing outdoors? What if one of your senior students gets hopelessly stuck in traffic? The outline of the demo will help you decide what to cut if necessary, or if someone else can take over a given student's role. To make this easier, *never* tell people to show up just before your scheduled time. At the very latest, they should follow the theatrical rule of showing up 1/2 hour before the event begins. Yes, they may end up having to watch others' performances, but then, they might learn something, too. Being ready at the start of an event might save the organizer's butt if someone cancels at the last minute - it never hurts to be the savior in those circumstances.
7. And lastly, relax and have fun. Stuff *will* happen. I have heard many "war stories" from seasoned budoka about some unexpected thing or other happening at a demo. One very high-ranking iaidoka once told me he was taking part in a televised demo in Tokyo. When he put his sword in his obi, he accidentally caught the saya in his hakama - on national TV. He had no choice, of course, but to fix the problem and go on. He survived. And the moral of the story was: even the most senior budoka are not immune to chance. How you handle chance is what makes you a senior budoka.
8. Assess your performance. After the demo, review what worked and what didn't. Keep those lessons in mind for the next time.
Demos are not just an opportunity to show an audience what you do. It is also an opportunity to perform under pressure. Let's face it - we don't go into combat with swords and sticks anymore. By performing in demos, we get to adapt to conditions that change every time - a great opportunity to find out what you really know. Even though I have been doing this for over 25 years, I am always excited by performing a demo. What will happen this time? How will we do? The results may be mixed, but there's always next time to look forward to.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
On demos - part 1 - Revealing the heart
So a good friend and fellow budoka came to NYC for a weekend of training. I have not seen him for nearly two years, though we have communicated during that whole time. We had a GREAT weekend of practice, visiting and recreation.
The sponsor of my Thursday night space decided at some point a few weeks earlier that he wanted to have a "Samurai Night" enbu for the Saturday my colleague was in town. This idea came out of practically nowhere, and the time for planning was very tight. But what the heck. We decided to go for it, and invited some budo teachers to demonstrate at a nouveau coffee house not far from our practice space. Due to the modern miracle of social media, we ended up with about 40 people in the audience(!), along with the members of the various groups taking part.
A word about enbu - in Japan, enbu are prestigious. Usually, a teacher and his very top students are the ones who take part, though there are exceptions. I know one prominent teacher who, if he is doing an enbu in the context of a gasshuku (training seminar), will drag out virtually everyone to show what they know, no matter how well they might know it! The audience, however, is generally of the friends-and-family sort, making the stakes relatively low. However, for high-level, invitation-only enbu the idea is to put only one's best students out there for public viewing. There are excellent reasons for this, of course, besides just skill level. Enbu performers must be flexible, especially if they are walking into a space for the first time. Perhaps some of the techniques they planned for aren't feasible; in which case the students have to be capable of adjusting or changing what they are doing. Students also have to be calm and collected and sure of their technique so as not to be rattled by the stress of performing for an audience. For really haute enbu, the audience may include special guests and dignitaries, so being cool in front of such an audience is essential.
Most importantly, performing in an enbu as a senior student marks one as a bearer of the teacher's faith -the student gets the honor of representing the dojo and his teacher, and the teacher's reputation rests on how well the student performs. Personally, I would find this supremely stressful. Happily, for all the years I have put in to budo, I am not really at a level comparable to my sempai in Japan, so performing in a high-level enbu can comfortably remain an aspiration, maybe forever (but that's ok).
In the US, however, demos can be all over the map. Who performs and what they do can say a lot about the practices at various dojo. Without getting too specific, I would like to analyze some of the performers from last week and try to draw some correlations between what they showed us and what it said about their practices.
Here, in part 1, I can start with my own choices. This is how I handled this particular event.
Of course, I want my most senior students to be present. My group has been very small, but I did have two people who qualified, turned out and I thought did quite well. Both of them, though they have been with me for at least two years but not more than five (which makes them still *very beginners* in the koryu budo world). However, they both have experience in other styles and were therefore aware of what was expected.
Like a lot of US dojo, I have only a couple of senior students and many more beginners. Since we had so little time to prepare, the beginners did not take part, since none of the current crop have been around long enough to perform even simple techniques effectively. I have seen students fumble through demos where they are not confident. I don't know what is going through instructors' heads that they think this is a good idea. I have never seen anyone get hurt, happily, but I doubt the fumblers were enjoying themselves. As an audience member, I can say that watching someone fumble to sheathe a sword is a very unnerving sight.
What I never want, though, is for people who studied for a few years and then drifted away to drift back when they hear there is a demo. So I made it clear that the demo performers had to have been in attendance regularly for the preceding three months. In fact, I find it incredible that there are students who will reappear for a turn in the spotlight, but it does happen. I have had people show up in the weeks before a demo whom I have not seen for some time. Maybe they don't find it obvious that they have shown up because they are stage-struck hams, but I actually do notice. I do. I have let them perform on occasion, but not this time.
Former students showing up to show off does not just happen here in the US. Many years ago I happened to be practicing at a dojo in Tokyo for six months, which was to be featured on a local TV show. People I had never met, even though I had come to every practice for months, showed up for the taping. The teacher took everything in stride, I think mostly because we were just background. It was really the teacher and daisempai who got all the screen time (and who had prepared for months in advance).
At one point, when I was at the old place, the sempai (my teacher was on a leave of absence) would perform demos that included things we no longer practiced regularly (like kendo, and not very well). At the same time, some of the things we were actually practicing were not represented at all. I felt this was misleading the audience, since anyone who felt tempted to actually show up for training would find out that we didn't actually teach some of the techniques they had seen. When I got to the point of seniority where I could have some influence, I asked that we please only show the techniques we were actually doing. It worked, but the penalty was that I got to be organizer of demos from then on. But that was ok. I set about having beginners do beginner techniques, which they could do well. The sempai had more latitude in what they wanted to prepare (in fact, this was how I learned the okuden forms - I volunteered to perform them, and then spent months preparing three or four at a time. Over several years, I got through the whole set, though I wish I was better at them). Generally speaking, though some of the kata and kihon were obscure, at least everything had the potential to be seen in a random okeiko. And since we did more than just solo sword kata, we still had a lot of variety to offer an audience.
Last week, since we had our guest instructor with us, we were able to put together enough material to make a good, competent demo within the time limit (and it's much better to run a little under the time allotment than over it). Once the audience was assembled, the space turned out to be smaller than we thought (never a good thing), but since the performers were more senior people, everyone was able to adapt without too much trouble.
My teacher had this habit of looking at us as though he could see right into us. This was disconcerting, especially to beginners (some of whom could not take that kind of scrutiny, and quit). To him, it was the essence of what our practice was about. Anyone can learn to wield a sword and hurt someone. There are, in fact, modern sword styles that emphasize exactly that. But that was not my teacher's way. To him, the practice should reflect what is in the heart. I want our demos reflect not only what we do physically, but to show (to the extent possible) that inner sense of what we do. It's certainly not for everyone, and it can't be accomplished by only showing up for a few weeks around Sakura Matsuri time. Not everyone in the audience gets it, either. But among those who do, the reaction is usually something like: "That was beautiful."
The sponsor of my Thursday night space decided at some point a few weeks earlier that he wanted to have a "Samurai Night" enbu for the Saturday my colleague was in town. This idea came out of practically nowhere, and the time for planning was very tight. But what the heck. We decided to go for it, and invited some budo teachers to demonstrate at a nouveau coffee house not far from our practice space. Due to the modern miracle of social media, we ended up with about 40 people in the audience(!), along with the members of the various groups taking part.
A word about enbu - in Japan, enbu are prestigious. Usually, a teacher and his very top students are the ones who take part, though there are exceptions. I know one prominent teacher who, if he is doing an enbu in the context of a gasshuku (training seminar), will drag out virtually everyone to show what they know, no matter how well they might know it! The audience, however, is generally of the friends-and-family sort, making the stakes relatively low. However, for high-level, invitation-only enbu the idea is to put only one's best students out there for public viewing. There are excellent reasons for this, of course, besides just skill level. Enbu performers must be flexible, especially if they are walking into a space for the first time. Perhaps some of the techniques they planned for aren't feasible; in which case the students have to be capable of adjusting or changing what they are doing. Students also have to be calm and collected and sure of their technique so as not to be rattled by the stress of performing for an audience. For really haute enbu, the audience may include special guests and dignitaries, so being cool in front of such an audience is essential.
Most importantly, performing in an enbu as a senior student marks one as a bearer of the teacher's faith -the student gets the honor of representing the dojo and his teacher, and the teacher's reputation rests on how well the student performs. Personally, I would find this supremely stressful. Happily, for all the years I have put in to budo, I am not really at a level comparable to my sempai in Japan, so performing in a high-level enbu can comfortably remain an aspiration, maybe forever (but that's ok).
In the US, however, demos can be all over the map. Who performs and what they do can say a lot about the practices at various dojo. Without getting too specific, I would like to analyze some of the performers from last week and try to draw some correlations between what they showed us and what it said about their practices.
Here, in part 1, I can start with my own choices. This is how I handled this particular event.
Of course, I want my most senior students to be present. My group has been very small, but I did have two people who qualified, turned out and I thought did quite well. Both of them, though they have been with me for at least two years but not more than five (which makes them still *very beginners* in the koryu budo world). However, they both have experience in other styles and were therefore aware of what was expected.
Like a lot of US dojo, I have only a couple of senior students and many more beginners. Since we had so little time to prepare, the beginners did not take part, since none of the current crop have been around long enough to perform even simple techniques effectively. I have seen students fumble through demos where they are not confident. I don't know what is going through instructors' heads that they think this is a good idea. I have never seen anyone get hurt, happily, but I doubt the fumblers were enjoying themselves. As an audience member, I can say that watching someone fumble to sheathe a sword is a very unnerving sight.
What I never want, though, is for people who studied for a few years and then drifted away to drift back when they hear there is a demo. So I made it clear that the demo performers had to have been in attendance regularly for the preceding three months. In fact, I find it incredible that there are students who will reappear for a turn in the spotlight, but it does happen. I have had people show up in the weeks before a demo whom I have not seen for some time. Maybe they don't find it obvious that they have shown up because they are stage-struck hams, but I actually do notice. I do. I have let them perform on occasion, but not this time.
Former students showing up to show off does not just happen here in the US. Many years ago I happened to be practicing at a dojo in Tokyo for six months, which was to be featured on a local TV show. People I had never met, even though I had come to every practice for months, showed up for the taping. The teacher took everything in stride, I think mostly because we were just background. It was really the teacher and daisempai who got all the screen time (and who had prepared for months in advance).
At one point, when I was at the old place, the sempai (my teacher was on a leave of absence) would perform demos that included things we no longer practiced regularly (like kendo, and not very well). At the same time, some of the things we were actually practicing were not represented at all. I felt this was misleading the audience, since anyone who felt tempted to actually show up for training would find out that we didn't actually teach some of the techniques they had seen. When I got to the point of seniority where I could have some influence, I asked that we please only show the techniques we were actually doing. It worked, but the penalty was that I got to be organizer of demos from then on. But that was ok. I set about having beginners do beginner techniques, which they could do well. The sempai had more latitude in what they wanted to prepare (in fact, this was how I learned the okuden forms - I volunteered to perform them, and then spent months preparing three or four at a time. Over several years, I got through the whole set, though I wish I was better at them). Generally speaking, though some of the kata and kihon were obscure, at least everything had the potential to be seen in a random okeiko. And since we did more than just solo sword kata, we still had a lot of variety to offer an audience.
Last week, since we had our guest instructor with us, we were able to put together enough material to make a good, competent demo within the time limit (and it's much better to run a little under the time allotment than over it). Once the audience was assembled, the space turned out to be smaller than we thought (never a good thing), but since the performers were more senior people, everyone was able to adapt without too much trouble.
My teacher had this habit of looking at us as though he could see right into us. This was disconcerting, especially to beginners (some of whom could not take that kind of scrutiny, and quit). To him, it was the essence of what our practice was about. Anyone can learn to wield a sword and hurt someone. There are, in fact, modern sword styles that emphasize exactly that. But that was not my teacher's way. To him, the practice should reflect what is in the heart. I want our demos reflect not only what we do physically, but to show (to the extent possible) that inner sense of what we do. It's certainly not for everyone, and it can't be accomplished by only showing up for a few weeks around Sakura Matsuri time. Not everyone in the audience gets it, either. But among those who do, the reaction is usually something like: "That was beautiful."
Friday, December 6, 2013
The sound of thumps and laughter
Once a week I train with a colleague in New Jersey. We divide the time between his teaching me a style of iai that he does, and I teach what I do. We have a lot of fun and learn a lot, and in between we swap lore and stories.
The class starts at 9:00pm, a time when most people are settling down to a news analysis program or two, having cleared up from dinner. Most people, I expect, at that hour, are more or less winding down from the day. 9:00pm sounds like a crazy time to start a practice session, but for me, it's perfect: come home, do something about dinner, maybe a chore or two, jump in the car around 8:00pm - a little early for the start time, but I like to allow for traffic, etc.
I get there generally around 8:30-8:40, so I get to watch the end of the Daito ryu class. Daito ryu is one of the forerunners of aikido, a form of grappling that is highly effective with minimal effort. (Theoretically, at least. This is a beginners' class, and the newbies put much more effort into it than they need to, but I digress.) The Daito class takes up about 1/2 of the floor, while usually a karate class is taking place on the other half at the same time. The teacher spends most of his time with the Daito group, but steps in to correct the karate group from time to time (did I mention this guy is multi-talented?).
Anyway, the other night I came in and crossed the floor to the rest room to change my clothes. From the other side of the closed door I could hear the predictable thump of bodies hitting the mat, whether from the karate class practicing disarms or the Daito class unbalancing people. And I heard a great deal of something else - laughter. Laughter - from the instructor making a point with some sort of witty aphorism, or someone making a silly mistake, or (usually) some combination of both. Both of these groups are necessarily small, to be able to use the same space at the same time, but they are also harmonious - they enjoy each other's company and their practice time together.
Some time ago, I wrote about how the students in a dojo reflect the teacher - if the teacher is a clod or thug, the students will reflect that. If the teacher is sneaky, plays favorites and likes to manipulate people, ditto. If s/he entertains a fantasy about being a modern warrior out of some anime comic, yes, the students will share it. On the other hand, if the teacher is open and generous, very often the students will be the same (though not always; unfortunately, opportunists can find fertile ground for disruption in an open-hearted dojo, but not if the teacher is vigilant). Another colleague I spoke with recently agreed - "You should have a good time at practice. Beware of the places where everyone is deadly serious all the time. If the students aren't having a good time, there's a problem there."
This does not mean that the teacher is ignoring the discipline of practice. Frequently my colleague will use some gentle (or not so-gentle) humor to bring his Daito or karate students, whose technique practice has drifted "off topic" - whether from long-winded explanations by the sempai or too much repetition of the setup to a technique - back down to earth with a deceptively simple takedown or disarm. People laugh, but they get the point. They refocus their attention and the work goes on.
I totally enjoy these late-night practices, even though I get home some time just short of midnight, with an early morning work call the next day. Sometimes I've had so much fun I can't sleep. Sometimes I can't sleep because I am reviewing the techniques I've just learned in my head, something I have not done since I was a raw beginner. And I try to bring that sense of gentle humor to the classes that I teach the next day. My late night workouts aren't just improving my technique, they're improving ME.
The class starts at 9:00pm, a time when most people are settling down to a news analysis program or two, having cleared up from dinner. Most people, I expect, at that hour, are more or less winding down from the day. 9:00pm sounds like a crazy time to start a practice session, but for me, it's perfect: come home, do something about dinner, maybe a chore or two, jump in the car around 8:00pm - a little early for the start time, but I like to allow for traffic, etc.
I get there generally around 8:30-8:40, so I get to watch the end of the Daito ryu class. Daito ryu is one of the forerunners of aikido, a form of grappling that is highly effective with minimal effort. (Theoretically, at least. This is a beginners' class, and the newbies put much more effort into it than they need to, but I digress.) The Daito class takes up about 1/2 of the floor, while usually a karate class is taking place on the other half at the same time. The teacher spends most of his time with the Daito group, but steps in to correct the karate group from time to time (did I mention this guy is multi-talented?).
Anyway, the other night I came in and crossed the floor to the rest room to change my clothes. From the other side of the closed door I could hear the predictable thump of bodies hitting the mat, whether from the karate class practicing disarms or the Daito class unbalancing people. And I heard a great deal of something else - laughter. Laughter - from the instructor making a point with some sort of witty aphorism, or someone making a silly mistake, or (usually) some combination of both. Both of these groups are necessarily small, to be able to use the same space at the same time, but they are also harmonious - they enjoy each other's company and their practice time together.
Some time ago, I wrote about how the students in a dojo reflect the teacher - if the teacher is a clod or thug, the students will reflect that. If the teacher is sneaky, plays favorites and likes to manipulate people, ditto. If s/he entertains a fantasy about being a modern warrior out of some anime comic, yes, the students will share it. On the other hand, if the teacher is open and generous, very often the students will be the same (though not always; unfortunately, opportunists can find fertile ground for disruption in an open-hearted dojo, but not if the teacher is vigilant). Another colleague I spoke with recently agreed - "You should have a good time at practice. Beware of the places where everyone is deadly serious all the time. If the students aren't having a good time, there's a problem there."
This does not mean that the teacher is ignoring the discipline of practice. Frequently my colleague will use some gentle (or not so-gentle) humor to bring his Daito or karate students, whose technique practice has drifted "off topic" - whether from long-winded explanations by the sempai or too much repetition of the setup to a technique - back down to earth with a deceptively simple takedown or disarm. People laugh, but they get the point. They refocus their attention and the work goes on.
I totally enjoy these late-night practices, even though I get home some time just short of midnight, with an early morning work call the next day. Sometimes I've had so much fun I can't sleep. Sometimes I can't sleep because I am reviewing the techniques I've just learned in my head, something I have not done since I was a raw beginner. And I try to bring that sense of gentle humor to the classes that I teach the next day. My late night workouts aren't just improving my technique, they're improving ME.
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