Simplicity in Chaos - the aesthetic of kata (and keeping tabs on what you know)

It's well into 2026 now, but the catalyst for this rather freewheeling essay was something that is particularly noticeable around the end of the year, when everything is thoroughly swept and tidied in preparation for the New Year holiday – the aesthetic of neatness and simplicity. 

You can almost feel it as you walk along the streets, even in some of the downtown areas. It is also there in the stripped down aesthetic of the tea ceremony, as well as the look we have come to call, however erroneously, ‘Zen’. More to the point, in terms of this blog, it is also reflected in the clean lines and spare movements of many styles of Japanese martial arts.

It's slightly later in the year, but you get the idea... a quiet temple entrance in north Kyoto

Simplicity and chaos

Yet, in reality, this simplicity exists alongside a dense visual clutter that is common in many aspects of daily life: street signs, websites, kimono designs, homes and offices – sometimes overwhelmingly so. Even the natural world seems chaotic –  with plants and insects in great profusion in untended parts of the city, let alone the countryside.

It might very well be that, from very early times, when land first needed to be cleared for agriculture and habitation, people felt a need to bring some sort of order to the world, and strong, precise boundaries became important, the decisiveness of the boundary line being a statement in itself. In a form of agriculture that involves flooding rice fields every year, there is also a very obvious value to marking clearly what is going to be underwater, and what is not. Many of the farmhouses themselves, some in the countryside no longer, can look like raised islands, mounted on a base of stone. A similar effect can be seen in some of the famous rock gardens.

Certainly, there is something attractive in the way inessentials can be pared away and clarity imposed upon the seeming chaos of the natural world, and this has become a feature of the Japanese aesthetic. 

The chaos of combat – distilled but disorganised?

Combat is another kind of chaos so it may not come as a surprise that a similar approach can be seen in the way unpredictability is reduced in Japanese martial arts by concentrating on the essentials, both in the clarity of the movements themselves, and the variety of movements or techniques that are taught. 

These are typically organised in kata, which may be seen as a distillation of a vast array of potential techniques, rather than a full catalogue of techniques or an approximation of a realistic exchange.

A distillation it may be, but one that may appear somewhat ad hoc, with little obvious sense of organisation (in many cases) beyond the progression through the various kata. To an outsider, this can seem lopsided or incomplete (and perhaps to some insiders, as well), but is this just a matter of perspective? Could it be analagous to another well-known aspect of Japanese aesthetics –  asymmetry (fukinsei)? This is often mentioned as an important feature of Japanese aesthetics (coming from China, of course, and closely linked to Zen), and although few in the west would think anything unusual about asymmetry in design, it may be that this kind of principle in knowledge is more difficult to appreciate.

If a more profound framework exists, it is well hidden. (Which is not to say the art itself or the skills it develops cannot be profound). Instead of a broad organising principle, there are fundamental movements, examples of approaches or solutions to particular problems – a set of ideal or abstracted responses. The shape of the whole remains undefined – the student seeks depth of understanding – a refinement through which he or she develops the ability to deal with the unrehearsed nature of real combat.

A progression

But perhaps I am looking at the wrong model – maybe a framework does exist, but a radically different one, one that is not primarily visual. I began by considering the way organisation of space might affect organisation of knowledge, but if we are going to go down that route, it might be a good idea to look at other ways that might influence the organisation of knowledge in early bujutsu. 

The study of bujutsu is a process – it takes time. In Chinese and Japanese culture, it has been seen as a path – as is clearly referenced in the very word 'budo' (martial way/martial path) – and the major philosophical and religious disciplines are also referred to as ways or paths. 

Early bujutsu seems to have had a particularly close relationship to what we now know as Shinto, and many of the early founders and practitioners of bujutsu had close connections with shrine traditions, particularly those of the Kashima and Katori shrines. Architecturally, there are many points of interest in shrines and temples, but it is the layout that I think may have some relevance here. 

As you can see in the picture above, shrines are laid out very much as a progression with various stops on the way. A visitor enters through the torii on the right, rinses their mouth and hands, then proceeds along the main path, perhaps stopping to pray at one or more of the smaller shrines, before arriving at the main shrine building. Bigger shrines are more complex, often with more subsidiary shrines, and usually with a number or torii on the main route, not to mention the ones at the smaller shrines.

If we return to bujutsu ryu-ha, we can see how the teachings might be compared to this: the student passes through a gate (maybe several) into the knowledge of the school. There might be a whole series of discrete stops on the way (different weapons, anomalous kata and so on) but you know where the main path leads - the inner teachings of the school. You may get there, or you may not, but even the wayside stops are within the precincts of the school.

It is a simple way of organising information, but a natural one, which allows packets of knowledge to be added whole, without the need to do more than find a place for them.

 

An ideal view

Durer's woodcut of an artist and his grid

Of course, kata can develop many facets of skill – positioning, timing and control of distance, for example (for 2 person kata). This is to view kata as, essentially, drills, but it brings us back to the relatively partial coverage that they offer. (You will have to forgive me if you practise a style that takes a maximalist approach). Effective drills tend to have multiple variations and well-articulated aims. Kata, especially with the start and finish sections, which tend not to be strictly combative in nature, are clearly doing something else.

If we ask exactly what that is, it is not immediately clear. This is the way things are taught, and who are we to argue why?

In a sense, perhaps, they can be regarded as a kind of overlay on reality. It reminds me of the kinds of visual tools used by artists: holding up your pencil to gauge proportions, using a grid, or a camera obscura. These are tools by which 'reality' may be grasped (or rendered onto paper, at least). They require discipline to use well, but once mastered, they no longer constrain, but allow the artist to produce pieces of extraordinary power and beauty.

Raphael's School of Athens. The imposed single-point perspective helps us to see the order in the composition. It is worth noting that ideas of order and harmony were central to the aesthetics of the day, not just an add on because it looked nice.

Perhaps, my sense of the underlying order of the world is too deeply rooted in my own background (Greco-Roman art and architecture always did appeal to me) to sense the structure of traditional ryu-ha at a deep enough level that it feels well organised. But then, this is also part of bugei themselves – hidden, secretive, privileged, so that full understanding emerges after long study, rather than being presented in a transparent and fully comprehensible whole. I admire those who can pull abstractions and principles from the techniques and schools they practise, but that has never really been one of my strengths. Maybe, that's not such a bad thing.

When is a sword not a sword? When it's a bokuto

It's a little dark, but you get the idea – a practice fight
with bokuto from the film Gohatto

I’m not a collector – these days, space is at a premium, so I rigorously avoid stimulating any such instinct I may still have, but the other day I chanced upon something that was rather nice, and a steal for the price.

I found it in a junk shop – Japanese antique shops tend to be rather pricey, but cheaper ones have been cropping up recently selling all kinds of interesting stuff, not in very good condition for the most part, but worth an occasional look.

Amid the old fishing poles, rulers and other assorted stick like objects was a bokuto. (Bokken is the more common term in English, but my dojo always used the term bokuto, and it is more common in Japan). 

A bokuto is, as I’m sure you know, a wooden practice sword. They must have been common since a long time back, but I haven’t seen any that pre-date the Edo period.  Mind you, that’s hardly surprising – they were certainly not the kind of thing that would usually be handed down, and I’m sure many of them were little more than sticks. The term ‘wasters’ is commonly used in western martial arts, and it gives a sense of their disposability.

(There are a few from the early Edo period connected with Miyamoto Musashi, and there may well be others I don't know about. I wrote a bit about Musashi's bokuto here: Distance Matters).

Nonetheless, they are important and a well-chosen bokuto can last more or less a lifetime of practice.

I only have a few, all acquired for specific practice reasons. The first – I’m not sure of the wood – was made from a model carved by my teacher. The second (red oak) was shop bought. I went through the whole barrel looking for the one with the best balance. “They’re all the same,” the shopkeeper said – they weren’t and there was some noticeable variation in weight and balance, so I would recommend trying out yours before you buy, if possible. 

And then there’s this one.

It looks short here, but it's actually about 71cm in total (2 shaku 3 sun 5 bu). When swords are measured, what you see are the blade measurements. This is the total length, so that would make it equivalent to a long wakizashi. 

It’s probably a bit older than the others – 30 or 40 years old, I should think, judging from the colour and feel. What attracted me was the balance – it’s reasonably heavy and feels good in either one or both hands.

It is an unusual length, too, somewhere between the normal shoto (short) and long bokuto. That makes it useful both for practice and, if the need ever arose, as a weapon. Bokuto, Miyamoto Musashi notwithstanding, are not designed as weapons. They would do in a pinch, but the normal practice type are a touch too light, and are not as versatile as something like a jo, the short staff used by the riot police here.

That is not to say they are not capable of serious damage – getting whacked around the head by a piece of oak is not going to be good for anyone’s health, but their length makes them susceptible to grabbing and less effective in close quarters. 

The other interesting feature of this bokuto is that it has a squared-off tip. This is slightly unusual these days – most bokuto have kisaki (tip) resembling that of a real blade. I don’t mind this, but I certainly wouldn’t choose this design for my main practice bokuto. 

As there are more than 100 different designs of bokuto, (https://www.seidoshop.com/blogs/the-seido-blog/01-the-different-types-of-bokken-a-visit-at-the-horinouchi-workshop), it would not be surprising if among them, there was something like this. On the other hand, the tip looks quite banged about, and it is possible it got damaged somehow and was cut off.  It also looks as if it might have been cut down purposely to its current length – this is certainly not a standard length, and the tsuka (the end of the hilt) has been cut off square, without the edges being rounded at all (unlike the kissaki). 

Careful examination shows evidence of use – a few marks on the mine (spine), and some marks on the side – some of these have clearly been done with a sharp blade, more likely a practice sword than a real one.

Some koryu styles have bokuto specific to their style, (and there are differences within styles, too) but many make do with what is available. Kendo and aikido tend towards the standard types for kata work and heavier types for developing strength and body connection, but I’m sure there are variations there as well. I have tried some rather poorly balanced bokuto in the past – no doubt mass produced, probably for kendo(?), (although you get poor quality ones sold as souvenirs) and I would not be very happy if I had to use them on a regular basis. 

I have seen comments online about issues connected with weight – I never had any specific instruction on this from my teacher, but on the subject of swords, he once explained that it was good for lighter, less strong practitioners to start with heavier swords to develop the structure to be able to handle them well, and for stronger practitioners to use lighter blades, so they could develop their sensitivity for the weapon. This was under supervision, of course, and with the unspoken corollary that they would eventually progress to a sword that suited them better, if necessary. (Having used several quite heavy swords of varying balance, I can say I have benefitted, but they were not always comfortable to use).

Bokuto occasionally make it to the movies, too. There have been a few noteworthy scenes. Perhaps, the one that most western audiences would know best is in The Last Samurai, where Tom Cruise earns the respect of Sanada Hiroyuki by refusing to give up as he is pounded into the ground again and again. 

Round 2

A more conventional encounter is depicted in Ame Agaru (see below) where Akira Terao proves his worth to the local lord. (You can see it here: https://youtu.be/KaiZBey83rk?si=W3NfRVlwh9mHIrbS) 

This scene was choreographed by Otake Risuke, the head of the Tenshin Shoden Katori Ryu, and reflects the swordplay of that school. Other scenes (e.g. solo practice ) are based on Mugai Ryu, the style the character is supposed to have studied.

There were also interesting scenes in Gohatto (where new members of the Shinsengumi are tested in the dojo - see picture at the top of the page) and Zatoichi (2003). 

In Zatoichi, the character played by Asano Tadanobu, a wandering swordsman who makes short work of most of his opponents, thinks back to when he was in steadier employment and learnt, to his dismay, the shortcomings of thinking a bokuto is the same as a sword – a lesson, perhaps for everyone.

Are you allowed to do that?

Anyway, if any of you have seen a bokuto like this, I’d love to hear about it.

Happy New Year 2026! The Year of the Horse ... and how Kurosawa didn't get it right

 

Kano Sanraku (his signature is there in the bottom left corner) - a votive plaque (ema)

Horses were, of course, a huge part of the life of the bushi. After all, samurai were, from an early period, mounted warriors. there is so much horse lore associated with them that it is a specialist subject, and one that I am not really qualified to say much about - the few times I went riding were long, long ago.

Horses feature prominently in the early war tales, and these high spirited creatures (stallions often went ungelded) were an important part of the samurai war machine, serving as mounted archery platforms. You can still see the air of yabusame practised at some shrines on festival days - the ones in Kyoto are noticeably more proficient than when I first saw them, so I think they are taking their practice seriously. there are also groups that practice with horses that resemble what the bushi might have actually ridden (archaeological investigations put the average size at about 130cm in height - some 20cms shorter than Arabian horses, although notable horses are recorded with heights of 145cm or thereabouts). 

The Kiso horses that can be seen now give a good idea of what the mounted samurai might have looked like, but there were many local breeds before the Edo period (the Kiso being but one of them) and it is quite possible that the northern horses, known as Nambu and valued as warhorses, were a little larger, on average.

This screenshot shows a yabusame rider on a Kiso horse
(from the discoverthehorse Facebook page)

(There is a good discussion of it here: https://www.planetfigure.com/threads/war-horse-of-the-samurai-age.513779/ and if you are interested in this kind of thing, I recommend you taking a look).

Film buffs amongst you may remember the scene in the Kurosawa movie Kagemusha, where the pride of the Takeda cavalry is wiped out as it charges the massed muskets of the Oda and Tokugawa forces at the Battle of Nagashino. You may be interested to know that it is now accepted that this is not how it happened - most of the muskets were concealed behind a far more complex series of fieldworks, hidden in the wooded slopes of the hills, and the Takeda forces were lured into attacking them. Takeda Katsuyori was also unaware of the real size of the opposing source, and that he was actually outnumbered by about 2 to1, but believing he was facing a lesser force, and with his line of retreat cut off by the fall of his castle, perhaps felt that this (attacking the force in front of him) was the wisest move.

This was discovered long after the film was made, so no blame goes to Kurosawa (and it is an excellent film).

As might be expected, horse motifs often appeared in art. Horses were also closely connected with Shinto shrines, and they were offered (as mounts for the kami) when making a vow or asking for divine favour. Horses being quite expensive, this was the prerogative of the wealthy – votive plaques (emanating from) with a depiction of a horse were also acceptable. Real horses are sometimes still kept at shrines, and ema, some of them quite old, are often to be seen if you poke around.

Wishing you all the best for the coming year - Happy 2026!

A rather nice horse from an unidentified artist of the Kano School

Miyamoto Musashi: yokai fighter and monster hunter

There are plenty of questions (and, indeed, legends) surrounding Musashi’s life – where was he born? What, if anything, did he study as a child? Did he fight in the Battle of Sekigahara? Why is there no real record of Sasaki Kojiro? – to name just a few. However, in the fiction of the Edo period, he had another career – slayer of monstrous beasts.

These stories are clearly fictional (unlike his relationship with the monk Takuan, for example, which is believable although untrue); they fall into a genre which sees famous figures from history triumphing over a variety of monsters, some supernatural, some gigantic versions of actual animals. Those familiar with the prints of Utagawa Kuniyoshi will, no doubt, have seen many of these.

The heavily forested mountains that cover much of Japan were, from earliest times, seen as places of mystery, the abode of spirits as well as being home to dangerous wild animals and lawless elements of society. People did not wander through them lightly, and they formed a suitable realm of the unknown for all manner of strange and wonderful things to occur. Japanese folklore is rich in supernatural entities, and to this day there is a tacit respect for old customs that touch on this. Evidently, it was fertile ground for stories that stretch belief.

There might be more to it than that, however. Censorship in Edo period Japan (when these prints were being made) was strong, and overt criticism of the government could bring heavy punishment. Print makers and playwrights would get round this by changing the names of historical figures, so as not to fall foul of the censorship laws – many prints have names that are slightly changed from their historical models, and there are some notable prints that are recognized as overt criticisms of current events in a historical guise (and you only have to look at the recent spat over the use of film of Reagan criticising tariffs to see that governments can still be sensitive to this kind of thing).

But I digress…Musashi has appeared battling such creatures in a number of stories, and even a cursory glance online brings up many examples. Unless otherwise noted, these prints are from the Boston Museum of Fine Art.

The ghost of Himeji Castle

Miyamoto Musashi and Princess Osakabe
From Claremont Colleges Digital Library.
Artist: Chikanobu Yoshu 1886

Story and background 

This story seems to have originated in a novel of the late 19th century, and a similar version appeared in a serialised lecture titled Miyamoto Musashi, printed in the Osaka Mainichi Shinbun (Osaka Daily News) in 1915. A version of this is now seen as folklore in the Himeji area, and it’s this that you are most likely to come across in English (if you come across it at all):

Musashi (under an alias) is working as a guard at Himeji Castle, where there have been reports of strange lights and noises coming from one of the towers. He volunteers to investigate the happenings. He climbs the tower and on the third floor is suddenly assailed by roaring flames and an unearthly cry. Undaunted, he places his hand on his sword hilt and advances – the flames and sound disappears. He climbs to the next floor, and the same thing happens. Climbing to the top floor, the guardian spirit of the the tower - a princess, no less – appears and thanks him for driving away the malicious spirit that was haunting the tower. She rewards him by presenting him with a famous sword. Everyone is happy and Musashi has saved the day!

The original was a little more involved, and has a sting in the tale. Rather than a grateful protector guardian, the spirit at the top is a fox spirit who has set the whole thing up so Musashi will be caught with the stolen sword and executed. Musashi manages to get out of the trap and eventually kills the fox spirit after another attempt on his life.

Here we are clearly into the world of legend, so let’s see if we can glean something useful from it.

For the more practically minded, this could be seen as an illustration of various characteristics associated with accomplished martial artists – calmness, presence of mind, indomitable spirit, and also saya no uchi, which is often explained as the ability to win without drawing the sword – largely through the foregoing abilities. Note how Musashi was able to defeat the spirit without drawing his sword. 

As you might expect, a country rich in esoteric and supernatural traditions might well have a little more to say on the matter. Many traditions of bugei touch on this area, and some respected voices have spoken further on it. Otake Risuke, for example, recounts an anecdote relating to exorcism based on the teachings of Tenshin Shoden Katori Ryu. Perhaps, the practice of an art that is based on ‘divine’ or ‘true’ principles the spiritual strength of the bugeisha is of the same nature, to some degree, as that of the supernatural, and thus can be a potent protection against supernatural phenomena.

Tengu

This print (and most of the others) is by Utagawa Kuniyoshi

Tengu have a long connection with swordsmanship, not merely in legend and literature, but likely because of the connections with esoteric religious practices connected with yamabushi and their martial traditions (and hence wandering swordsmen), and in this connection, they are often presented as teachers.

However, they also have a negative reputation - in Buddhism, for example, they are often seen as beings that seek to lead people away from the true path. This tengu is obviously not the teacher type.

Utagawa Hiroshige

Tsukioka Yoshitoshi

Interestingly, I chanced across a similar (albeit far less dynamic) print on the theme, but with a different swordsman – Yagyu Jubei. 

artist unknown

Wild Beasts

After I had written this post, I found out that the Edo period novel (by Hiraga Baisetsu) that most of the animal encounters below (and, indeed, the tengu one above) are drawn from is now available in translation by Eric Shahan. They also appear in a variety of stage plays and stories presented to audiences by professional storytellers. Novels, ukiyo-e and theatre were all linked, so I am not sure if the novel collected stories which were already going around, or if it was the novel from which everyone else drew their inspiration. If you find this kind of thing interesting I suggest you take a look. Below is a link to his Amazon page: 

Miyamoto Musashi : Two Swords: An Illustrated Tale of Bravery

This illustration is also by Kuniyoshi

At one time, I thought of the dangers of wild animals in Japan to be minimal. Yes, there are poisonous snakes, and you wouldn’t want to get bitten by a monkey or get on the wrong end of a wild boar, but by and large, you would have to go out of your way to look for trouble (watch out for the “murder hornets”, too.)

But not so – there have been a growing number of bear attacks, mostly in the northern half of Honshu, including 13 deaths so far this year (out of more than 200 reported attacks), so it would be wise not to be complacent. 

Musashi was not fighting bears, but there are a few prints that depict him battling creatures that are more or less natural.

Wolves

Utagawa Kuniyoshi

This triptych depicts a scene from the play Kan'ei Miyamoto Musashi Den. Musashi is laying about him in the midst of a pack of wolves - largely extinct by the time the print was made, but perfect as a foil for someone wielding two swords. Sitting watching him is another famous bugeisha, Sekiguchi Yataro (1640-1729), whose school survives to this day. They were near contemporaries (Musashi died in 1645), and Sekiguchi was a popular character in stories that bore little relation to his actual life.

Bats? No, flying squirrels…kind of

Utagawa Kuniyoshi

You would be forgiven for thinking Musashi was fighting a giant bat, but it is actually a nobusuma - possibly a giant flying squirrel (the name means something like ‘wild blanket’) and some pictures depict it as such. Other law says that when bats reach a certain age, they transform into one of these, so perhaps it is a bat after all, but a supercharged one.

Tsukioka Yoshitoshi

Giant lizards

Utagawa Kuniyoshi

Kinchoro Yoshitora

Sharks are often depicted as crocodile-like creatures in Japanese prints – the scales certainly make for a more detailed motif – but these are meant to be mountain dwelling creatures.

A whale

Utagawa Kuniyoshi

It looks as if Kuniyoshi is taking a leaf out of Tarzan or The Savage Sword of Conan in this print. Of course, Kuniyoshi’s piece was much earlier, so this is pure coincidence. What is he doing there? I don’t know, but it is certainly a dramatic composition

A Musashi Miscellany – stories from out of the way places

A dynamic illustration of Musashi by Noriyoshi Ohrai

You read enough on a subject, and sooner or later you come to find yourself going round in circles. These days, it seems almost everything you read about Musashi online seems to be rehashing the same information. And don’t get me started on the rash of ‘new translations’ of Gorin no Sho which seem to be blatant copies of the classic translation by Victor Harris (my advice is to check out the “translator” - if almost nothing comes back, you can have a good guess as to where the translation actually comes from).

Occasionally, however, I come across nuggets of information, or stories or opinions that are new to me and seem to carry some weight. Musashi has certainly been a magnet for stories over the years, so much so that it is sometimes difficult to sift out the facts from the fiction. Perhaps, however, it is not always necessary to – the stories have grown up, sometimes in martial traditions, and have become a kind of folklore, the truth of which reflects the opinions and experience of the traditions it comes from. Or to put it another way, they are consistent with what we know about Musashi and might, indeed, be true. Of course, they should have some provenance, too.

So here are a couple items of interest that are unlikely to crop up on a random search online:

First, a (possibly) true story.

At one time, it is said that Musashi was trying to get a position as instructor to the heir apparent to the Shogun. Although the Yagyu school were official instructors to the Tokugawa, (and to a number of other daimyo), that didn’t mean all other schools were shut out (the Itto Ryu headmaster, Ono Tadaaki, was also employed by them). Musashi was beginning to make a name for himself, and somebody thought he was worth checking out. 

The story goes that officials from the shogunate came to watch Musashi – they were important people, so I presume this demonstration was put on specially for them. Musashi faced off against his opponent, gradually forcing him back with the strength of his sakki, or killing intention. The officials recognised the uncompromising nature and lethal strength of his spirit and the effectiveness of his technique, but that was not what they wanted for a teacher of a possible heir to the shogun. They were looking for someone with a degree of polish who and who could perhaps play the courtier as occasion demanded. Musashi was all about cutting down the enemy. They told him, “No thank you.”

Although I have found no direct corroboration of this story, it is notable that there were at least a couple of contemporary mentions of Musashi and the Yagyu school together. One commentator who had personal knowledge of both (I forget who, which is very lax, I admit) suggested that even with a handicap, Yagyu Munenori was not a match for Musashi. Also interesting is the copy of Musashi’s Heiho Sanjugokajo (35 articles of Strategy) which was owned and annotated by the Yagyu school. They clearly recognised Musashi’s potential as a rival.

Poster for Duel at Hannyazaka Heights

Second, a series of articles on the Nakamura Kinnosuke Miyamoto Musashi movies (the same story as the Toshiro Mifune series, which are generally better known in the west).

You can find the site here:

https://www.uchidatomu.com/the-miyamoto-musashi-series-miyamoto-musashi-parts-i-v-1961-1965/2/

 

Dedicated to the films of Uchida Tomo, this site includes substantial detail on his series of 5 Musashi movies, and a final 6th (with a different studio) that was not really part of the series. 

While I appreciate the depth of information and thought that has gone into this, I must say that I disagree with much of the commentary on the films. I acknowledge that David Baldwin (the site owner) writes as an experienced film critic (and connoisseur of Japanese films), but I feel he doesn’t really get the character of Musashi or fully appreciate the milieu in which the films are set. Perhaps, it is that he can’t suspend his disbelief and enter into a story where the major motivating factor is not love, money or revenge, but the desire for self-development. Rather than the sociopath Baldwin characterizes him as, Nakamura Kinnosuke’s Musashi is a man honing his character through his (martial) art. The episodes in the films are illustrations of various aspects of his learning process and illustrate (to a martial artist) some quite interesting points. This is particularly so in the second film in the series (Duel at Hannyazaka Heights) which Baldwin characterizes as the least interesting.

The climactic scene from Duel at Hannyazaka Heights

To take one example where we differ in opinion, Baldwin complains that Musashi treats Jotaro roughly, pushing him to the ground, and this is an example of his lack of compassion. The scene takes place as Musashi is leaving Nara and has just sighted a group of ne’er do well ronin who have been a source of trouble in the city (and are clearly about to ambush him), as well as a contingent of spear wielding monks from the Hozo-in temple who are seemingly out for revenge. Jotaro starts bawling, begging Musashi to escape. Musashi replies, saying firmly, ‘Samurai are precisely those who don’t run away’, (remember that Jotaro is tagging along with Musashi because he wants to be taught swordsmanship by him). Jotaro continues bawling and Musashi comforts him. Jotaro continues insisting that Musashi escape, Musashi, aware of the fact that he will be fighting for his life in a few moments says, in effect, ‘Ok, get out of here, then’, pushing him away before turning his back and marching to his potential death. Hmm… cruelty? You be the judge.

You can see the scene (or most of it) at about 5:18 in this trailer for the films.

https://natalie.mu/eiga/gallery/news/472699/media/75490

In fact, dealing with fear, (and, indeed, the desire to deal with it as well as other weaknesses) is a fundamental part of the swordsman’s mindset. There is much in Musashi’s approach that reflects the kinds of attitudes that have been promulgated in traditional martial arts for hundreds of years, and certainly, that was the case in my own studies. I came upon a relevant quotation from a Hozo-in densho that includes the line: “the correct attitude (of a student of this school) is always maintaining a high level of dignity”. Kinnosuke does this very successfully.

Still, it’s a good site if you are interested in knowing more about these films (and Uchida Tomo’s work in general) – I first saw them at a festival of samurai movies at the Barbican Centre in London more than 35 years ago – I must admit, I was so bored watching the first one that I almost didn’t come back for the others. I’m glad I did! 

Early summer rains – water and weather in swordsmanship

Travellers sheltering from the rain

‘This endless rain’ wrote Ki no Tsurayuki in the 10th century in a poem about the rainy season. This is a sentiment shared by many in Japan at this time of year, although as that season, exceptionally short this year, ended more than two weeks ago, perhaps less so than usual. Nevertheless, I seem to have been dodging sudden downpours ever since – what is known here as guerilla rain – culminating in heavy rain last week on the very day of the Gion Matsuri procession, when richly decorated wooden floats, some weighing several tons, are pulled through the streets of downtown Kyoto. I’m sure many of those involved in the festival could sympathize with Ki no Tsurayuki’s feelings.

It rains elsewhere, of course, but Japan seems particularly well supplied in this respect. The country is criss-crossed with streams and rivers (often concreted over in the cities) with many, like the gentle Kamogawa which runs through Kyoto, transformed into raging torrents after heavy rain. In times gone by, people must have been acutely aware of the power and danger of these natural forces.

My local stream on a rainy day

It is hardly surprising, then, that they worked their way into the martial disciplines of the time, serving as metaphors for changeability, flow, power and softness. Miyamoto Musashi wrote of water as representing the clarity of his teachings, as well as the key principle of adaptability. In this case, he used the example of the way water can adapt to the shape of its container, as well as the many forms it can appear in. ‘Take water,’ he said, ‘as the model for my school of strategy.’

Although a closer reading doesn’t offer much more specifically on the topic, it is this kind of passage that is suggestive of the depth of his studies and the way in which he intended them to be applied. We can infer that the subsequent techniques are really strategies or tactics that should be applied in a range of situations. And given his statement that he didn’t believe in inner and outer teachings, which is to say ‘secrets’ that were taught to some of his students and not to others, these may be seen as key aspects of his art. 

A detail from a print by Toyokuni showing Musashi fighting
the evil monk, Kainen (from the popular novel A Tale of Two
Swords - Sasaki Miyamoto Eiyo Nito den). Note the water themed background.

To take this further, we have to look at the way concepts are embodied in kata practice in other schools. There is a tendency in Japanese culture not to explain, but to have students repeat their actions until they get it – or not, as the case may be. Those who are familiar with Japanese arts and crafts may well have seen this – it is not limited to martial arts – and there seems to have been a general feeling that this combination of dedication and single-minded striving is the ‘correct’ path to developing skill. It enables practitioners to feel the skill in their body. If that is the way you have developed it yourself, it is probably not easy to conceptualise it verbally, especially in a culture given to vagueness and allusion in its language.

These arts contain a range of strategic and tactical principles that are largely hidden within the movements of the kata. Master practitioners might embody these principles naturally, or they might have been revealed more explicitly to students at the higher levels.

Musashi, then, in observing the nature of water, it’s clarity, mutability, and ability to take on the shape of its container, tells us that the spirit of his art, or his art itself, is present in every move. His pointing to the clarity of water indicates that these deeper principles are there to be seen, not hidden in the kata (unlike, he suggests, most other schools of his time).

It is tempting to read into Musashi’s words that his approach was to explain the concepts as he introduced the techniques to his students, and this might, indeed, be so. One thing that we can be sure about, however, is that he would have required a lot of unforgiving practice to ensure these principles were really reflected in the techniques.

While water is related to flow and change, related phenomena such as mist or fog (kasumi) and thunder also figure in martial lore. Mist indicates things that may be hidden or unclear – in a country as full of mountains as this, often partially obscured by mist or approaching rain, perhaps it is no wonder that this was used as a metaphor (though by no means universal); lightning refers to techniques that strike with extreme speed, usually directly downwards, a cutting through of distractions or barriers.

Familiarity with these elements was a kind of cultural literacy, useful as an aide memoire, but perhaps more so in pointing towards the deeper secrets of the energies of the natural world, energies that were surely recognised and utilized in the disciplines of war. Though these were largely concepts involving patterns of movement, rhythm and mindset, they could also be more esoteric. One of the more interesting techniques involved a way of reading the ki of a situation based on visual clues. This is illustrated in old manuals like mist rising above the mountains or enemy encampments, but the details of how this was perceived and trained remain obscure. 

 

This text shows two kinds of ki - the one on the left is roki – if 'smoke' is broken and and does not rise gradually ... it is defeat; it is weakness; it is evil. The other, ritsuki, shows the 'smoke' rising straight, without a break. the commentary explains that this is a great blessing for all things. Although the text talks about 'smoke', this is not meant literally.

Those techniques may have been lost, but weather continues to feature strongly in Japan’s cultural consciousness. Rain has been used to particularly good effect in the film world, where it is used both to highlight and increase emotional tension, and here, Kurosawa is the master. The final battle in The Seven Samurai is a case in point, but it also goes beyond the creation of heightened drama to create its own distinct aesthetic. It plays an important part in other movies of this genre - Rashomon comes to mind, but more familiar to many in the western audience would be the scene in The Last Samurai where Tom Cruise is soundly beaten by Hiroyuki Sanada, and in doing so, earns his grudging respect. While the aesthetic effect is not as strong as in Kurosawa’s work, its use to heighten tension and mark the significance of an event is similar.

From Rashomon, Kurosawa's first use of rain as a dramatic element

Now, as we approach August, and the heat of summer is truly with us, we might wish for a bit more of that rain from time to time. But not too much of it – the typhoon season is only just around the corner!