Musashi takes a Bath

Musashi breaks out of the bath-house, and he's not happy. A triptych by Utagawa Kuniyoshi

The fictional Musashi has a life of his own, so for a change, I thought I would write bit about one of his lesser known fictional episodes.

Despite its being a novel, the episodes presented in Yoshikawa Eiji's 'Musashi' have had a powerful influence on the way we see the historical swordsman. Inoue Takehiko's manga Vagabond, is one of the most notable contemporary versions of the tale - the well known series of movies starring Mifune Toshiro, and the slightly less well-known (but possibly better) series starring Nakamura Kinnosuke are direct adaptations of Yoshikawa's novel, while numerous other versions in various media draw heavily on his work. His novel did not spring, sui generis, from nothing. There had been several films, books and a long history of oral tellings of Musashi's story, not to mention a popular kabuki play, and it is to this we must turn to discover the origin of the particular episode illustrated in the print above.


I first saw this print in Victor Harris's 'A Book of Five Rings', and it was a few years later that I saw the first in the series of the Nakamura Kinnosuke films and discovered the same scene... "Aah, this is where it comes from", I thought. Actually, I was wrong, but it wasn't until quite a lot later that I discovered the real source of this story... an 18th century kabuki play.

These two prints show Musashi threatening Dengoemon.

Unfortunately, I have lost the details of the artist.

Katakiuchi Ganryujima
The play, Katakiuchi Ganryujima 'Vengeance at Ganryu Island' was written in 1737 by the playwright Fujiwara Banzaburo, in Osaka. Its popularity ensured its transfer to Edo theatres the following year, where it hit the big time. It concerns Musashi's vendetta against the villainous Ganryu, who ambushed and killed Musasashi's father, Munisai (with a gun), finally ending with the famous duel in which Ganryu loses his life. Of course, Ganryu is thoroughly villainous, and stoops to all sorts of 'low tricks' (in fact, borrowing something of the real Musashi's use of heiho to defeat his opponents with unexpected tactics - Musashi still bears the stigma, in some quarters of, using less than straight-forward means to win his victories).
 

The bath-house scene occurs when Musashi is on the trail of Ganryu, and having heard of a sword teacher who answers to Ganryu's description, visits him under a pseudonym and applies for a match. When he arrives, he discovers that the man, Shirakura Dengoemon, is actually who he says he is, and not Ganryu. At this stage, he feels he can't turn back, and so fights several of the pupils, and beating them, goes on to fight the teacher, whom he also defeats. Dengoemon, pretends to take his defeat in good form and, after revealing that he suspects Musashi's real identity, asks him to stay a while as his guest and teach him. Musashi agrees, and stays for two or three months, although gradually coming to feel that Dengoemon is not really the kind of person he should have as a student. All the while, Dengoemon is watching out for a chance to kill Musashi. He takes a few of his students into his confidence, and after dismissing various options, decides to shut Musashi in the new bath-house Dengoemon has just had constructed on his property, and there boil/steam him into a weakened condition and kill him, if he hasn't already been killed outright.

Musashi in the bath-house. From a print by Kuniyoshi

With this in mind, they throw a party to celebrate the new bath-house, and when Musashi, slightly the worse for drink, prepares to leave for bed, they persuade him to take the inaugural bath. He goes in, without his weapons, of course, and the men outside bar the door and start adding more and more hot water. Musashi calls out that it's too, hot, then realising that it's a trap, smashes his way through the door, grabs the piece of wood used to bar the door and lays about him, killing anyone who comes too close... including Dengoemon. Running back to his room he grabs his swords and a thin robe, before escaping into the mountains, stopping only briefly to kill Dengoemon's wife, who comes at him wielding a naginata.

It's all fiction, of course, but it's interesting how Yoshikawa included a similar incident in his own novel - given his extensive research, it is likely he knew of this story and adapted it to fit into his own novel and help provide motivation for the young Musashi's feelings of alienation when he returns to his home village after the battle of Sekigahara.

Musashi Koshirae

Poster for an exhibition at the Shimada Art Museum 2009

The subject of swords and koshirae is vast - and one that I`m not really qualified to venture too far into. Koshirae - the term for the various fittings and furniture that go with a blade to make what we generally call a 'sword' - is, nonetheless, interesting to me as a practitioner of swordsmanship, and in that light I will offer a few comments about Musashi's koshirae. Of course, tsuba, which I wrote about in my last post, form part of the koshirae, as well as the tsuka, kashira, fushi, menuki, saya and all the other bits and pieces.

As bushi went through their lives, most would have owned a number of different swords. Good blades would have been kept, though some were no doubt, broken or lost or passed on, depending on circumstances. Sword blades in Japan were often refitted according to the taste of the owner,  and occasionally cut-down or otherwise altered from their original form.

In Musashi's case, it seems that in his younger years he preferred a very functional style of koshirae. In his own writings, he disparages attachment to any particular weapons, and was, of course well-known for his use of bokken in duels. Both from this comment (which I take to mean, not that he didn't value well-made swords, for example, but that he was wary of the limitations that may arise from partiality to particular weapons) and from what we know about his wandering lifestyle in his early years, it is no surprise that his taste tended towards the dour and practical.

It seems there are some differences of opinion on this subject - I was shown a sword with Musashi koshirae some years ago. I didn't ask its provenance - the blade was certainly fairly old and I can't remember exactly what I was told about the koshirae, though they had certainly been fitted long before the current vogue for reproduction swords in the style of famous historical figures.

A modern example of gangi maki

The tsuka was wrapped in the style known as gangi maki (see photo for a modern example) and the saya was lacquered a dull brown - quite different from the shiny (and modern) tamenuri finish of the sword in the Shimada Bijutsukan in Kumamoto.

The tsuka gashira on the example I saw looked something like this

The tsuka gashira (the cap on the end of the hilt) was a slightly pointed arch shape, but not the exaggerated point that is sometimes seen, but obviously intended for striking. In terms of functionality, this also makes sense... there would have been no need to actually penetrate the body with the strike - tsuka gashira merely needed to focus the shock and remain undamaged. The butt end of the saya (saya gashira) was also metal and durable-looking, although I must admit that I have forgotten the exact design.

The advantages of this type of design are apparent for someone who led a life involving a lot of traveling, possibly living rough, combined with hard training and punctuated with fights. Although the normal type of mountings can stand a degree of rough treatment, everyday use can take its toll, even in modern life, let alone if you were tramping through mountains and forests. I can readily see the advantages of something that is more resistant to wear and tear.

An older example of katate kasane maki

On the other hand, the late Rev. Kensho Furuya, who was a sword collector as well as aikido teacher wrote that Musashi's tsuka was wrapped in katate kasane maki, rather than gangi maki. One or two references to this can be found online, as well as this picture, (posted by Furuya) which shows the style of wrapping.

Musashi Tsuba

From the Kumamoto Prefectural Museum

After spending some time looking at the Yagyu tsuba, I thought it was only fair to take a similar look at the tsuba that Miyamoto Musashi made. When I say made, although it is by no means certain to what extent he was actualy involved in their manufacture, his skills as an artist are not in doubt, so it is likely that he was more involved in the work than Yagyu Renyasai; I imagine he actually drew out the designs at some stage and, as we know he had skill as a wood-carver, may even have made maquettes (wooden models) and quite likely worked the metal himself. It is also fairly likely that, when he lived as a guest of the Hosokawa family in his later years, that he would have been able to work with skilled artisans in the same way that Renyasai did.

There are two designs that have come down to us that are normally credited to Musashi. The first might, more properly, be regarded as his version of an already existing design. This is his namako or sea cucumber/sea slug design. Several different versions of this exist, differing only slightly, that were made by him or under supervision, but as anyone who has ever googled 'Musashi' and 'tsuba' will know, it is extremely popular as a design for replica swords, both on account of its connection with Musashi and its elegant simplicity (and thus ease of reproduction).

Although the term namako is used independently to refer to this vaguely slug-shaped design in a variety of contexts, I think Musashi may have been purposely referencing the sea cucumber, given that his other tsuba design, the namazu and hyotan (catfish and gourd) is strongly linked to the same principle characteristic - slipperiness.

This is another variation - I believe it is authentic and belongs to a private collector

The slippery sea slug
If you want more on this, you will have to see Robin D. Gill's book, 'Rise, Ye Sea Slugs', an anthology of sea cucumber poetry, but just a couple of the poems he includes will give you an idea:


Sanehira no te o suberitaru namako kana
It even gave
the slip to Sanehira (i.e. it slipped from his hands)
sea slug sashimi
- Chosui (1700-1769)

Shingen mo hashi ni kufu no namako kana
Even Shingen
had to improvise
eating sea slug (with chopsticks)
-Somaru (1712-1795)

From the Musashi Shiryokan in Mimasaka City

The slippery catfish
The saying 'hyotan de namako wo osaeru' (to hold down a catfish with a gourd) has two closely related meanings - one denotes the impossibility of an endeavor, while the other is somewhat similar to 'as slippery as an eel'. The theme has a long connection with Zen, starting, as far as anyone has been able to reliably ascertain, with a painting by  Josetsu, Hyonenzu, which is usually translated as 'Catching a catfish with a gourd'. The theme was suggested by the shogun Ashikaga Yoshimochi, and above the painting itself are 31 poems brushed by important Zen monks commenting on the difficulty or non-sensical nature of the task. Since then, the theme has been used as an illustration of the difficulty of attaining enlightenment through rational means. As Dave Lowry noted in an old column in Black Belt magazine, the solution is to leave the gourd and allow the curious catfish to find its own way in.

However, if we are using the image in the sense of pinning down the catfish, it is the slippery nature of both the gourd and the fish that are important. The fact that Musashi used the theme of slipperiness on two tsuba designs seems to point to an important aspect of his swordsmanship. The gourd itself had a very similar role as a symbol in the teachings of the Kashima Shinryu, and presumeably also in Yagyu swordsmanship, (there are references to it in poems by Yagyu Sekishusai and in the tsuba designs of Renyasai) relating to the difficulty of pressing down a buoyant gourd underwater. This image almost exactly parallels that of the catfish and the gourd - once you think you have it, it has wriggled out from underneath your sword. I believe this refers to the sensitivity necessary in pressing down an opponent's blade, as well as the irrepressible fluidity the swordsman sought to develop himself.

Other tsuba associated with Musashi

As well as the tsuba he designed, Musashi used a variety of tsuba on his own swords - although one portrait does appear to show the namako tsuba on his sword, the well-known self-portrait does not. I haven't visited the Shimada Art Museum in Kumamoto, but  believe there is a tsuba with a cherry blossom design which is said to have been owned by Musashi. I can find no hard information on it, but I believe it may be this one, which is owned by the museum, and is certainly very beautiful.

Intriguingly, the bridge over the Miyamotogawa in the village of Ohara, which claims to be the birth-place of Musashi, and has done its best to lure the tourists hither, displays both a cherry blossom tsuba design and the common namako design. Whether this was a whim of the artist or based on some hard facts, I have no idea.

Quick edit... I was looking at the design as a sukashi tsuba...with the dark bits cut out...of course it is actually the design in the photo above - I just didn't realise it until now.




I was going to write something about Musashi koshirae, but I think that will have to wait for next time or I'll never get this up!

The Bushu Denraiki - source document for the Musashi story

This was my winter reading - well a bit of it, anyway.

The commonly told of Miyamoto Musashi is a much patched version taken from a variety of sources of varying reliability, stitched together in what has become a familiar pattern, including large doses of speculation and outright fiction. Of course, much of the fiction comes from Yoshikawa Eiji's novel, which many of the subsequent movie and TV versions were based on. His version, which drew heavily from previous versions and documents, some of which contained greater or lesser amounts of reliable historical information, has become a kind of de facto story of Musashi's life.

It was only when reading through William de Lange's new(ish) translation of the Bushu Denraiki, one of these source documents, that I realised how little detail there is on these documents in English, even when you include William Wilson's 'The Lone Swordsman' and Kenji Tokitsu's 'Miyamoto Musashi: his life and writings'. While Wilson used a wide variety of sources, he steers clear of discussing them individually, and while Tokitsu is good on Musashi's own writings (and lots else besides), he gives less information on sources about Musashi's life.

De Lange is particularly good on just this sort of thing, laying the historical context out clearly and providing extensive notes and background on the major figures involved (albeit tangentially, in some cases) in Musashi's life. He gives a valuable explanation of the relationships between these major sources, which goes a long way to helping us understand the roots of the legend.

The source documents which form the basis of what we know about Musashi's life fall into two parallel streams: the Bushu Denraiki (1727) itself, written by a 4th generation successor to the Niten Ichi-ryu, Tachibana Minehira, and the Hyoho (sometimes written as Heiho) Senshi Denki (1782) which was written by a 'grand-student' of Minehira's, who had left Fukuoka and settled in Harima, one Niwa Nobuhide, and based his account on what he could remember of  Minehira's original, embroidering where necessary to fill in the gaps. This stream of knowledge was Kyushu based, and was connected with the Kuroda clan, with whom Musashi had strong connections early in his career.

The other stream was connected with the Hosokawa family, with whom Musashi was close to in his later life. Tokitsu also mention this, (though he gives different readings of the names, as well as different dates). According to de Lange, the Bukoden (1755) was compiled by Toyoda Masanaga, then rewritten in an updated and clearer form by his son, Toyoda Masashige (1776) as the Nitenki (which is perhaps the source most commonly quoted from).

In addition, there is the Kokura Hibun, which is not a document as such, but a stone monument set up by Musashi's adopted son Iori in 1654. This is the earliest account of Musashi's life, and although it is generally considered accurate, it must be considered a partisan account. (There are other, contemporary, references to Musashi, but not accounts of his life).

The book, 'The Real Musashi: Origins of a Legend - the Bushu Denraiki' is valuable as being one of the earliest and purest of the accounts of Musashi's life. There are many details that will probably be unfamiliar to Musashi fans, even ones who are fairly well-read - it gives details of Musashi's involvement in a seige in Kyushu at the time of Sekigahara, rather than fighting in that battle, as well as an alternative, and quite interesting, account of the duel on Ganryujima. As de Lange admits, although some of the stories are almost certainly untrue, there is also much that appears factual, some of which has also been corroborated by other sources - in any case, the whole combines to give a fresh and vivid impression of the master swordsman, written by someone who was concerned to give as accurate a portrait as he could, based on the stories and recollections of his own masters.

This is a nice book - it is well written and presented, with the original text and the accompanying notes clearly differentiated by the use of different fonts. It is limited in  its scope, but purposely so, which gives it a nice compactness. Although I have one or two minor quibbles, they are not really worth detailing here, but as they are particularly germane to this blog I will just mention two.... the place where Musashi fought the Yoshioka's in his final 'duel' with them, is sagarimatsu not kudarimatsu, and the Ichijo Temple (Ichijoji) was not still standing in Musashi's day, as de Lange has it.

Overall, however, de Lange has a firm and confident hand with both the translation and the notes. (It is worth saying, however, that the notes take up as much or more space than the translation, which is not particularly long). It is certainly worth reading if you are interested in Musashi, but it is a rather specialised volume, and is probably best digested after reading some of the broader based works, such as the two mentioned above, to get a more balanced perspective. It is also a touch pricey for its size, at least the imported version was. I noticed that de Lange's accompanying volume, The accompanying volume, The Bukoden, is due out this spring, and it seems de Lange also plans a biography of Musashi. I think I will probably be getting it.

By the way, in case you were wondering, the 'Bushu' in the title Bushu Denraiki, is an early pronunciation of Musashi. The title means "The Recorded Transmissions of Musashi".

Year of the Usagi

Helmet with large hare's ear crest, probably made of lacquered linen or paper

Happy New Year!

Perhaps confusingly, Japan starts the New Year on Jan 1st, but also uses the Chinese astrological designations for each year - the Year of the Tiger is over here, and the Year of the Hare has just begun.

I don't know if there is any value in characterising years by their astrological sign, but if there were, I would say that this past year has lived up to its image of power and ferocity, leaving its claws in to the very last.

The hare is quite different, of course, and interesting as a symbol. Though often translated as rabbit, it is not the Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and Peter kind of animal, but more Brer Rabbit. Many Japanese folktales attest to this side of its nature. The earliest mention I know of is from the Kojiki, where the white hare has got stuck on an island, and to get off tricks all the sharks in the area to line up between the island and the coast on the pretext of counting them to decide whether the hare clan or the shark clan is largest. The hare runs across their backs to the mainland - of course, it can't resist a final quip, telling the sharks what it has done, and gets its skin torn off for its pains (surviving to fight another day). From this comes the common image of the hare and waves.

Rabbit in the Moon menuki - courtesy of the Dayton Art Institute

Artistically, the Japanese hare looks much like our cuddly bunny. It was much used by the samurai as a symbol of speed and determination to go forwards. Interestingly, the samurai didn't feel a need to always use 'tough-looking' symbols to portray military prowess. As part of a wider culture with multiple meanings in different fields (military, religious, political, personal) they had wider concerns than looking mean and surly - if you were a professional, spending a large amount of your life campaigning, you didn't have to try to look military - you were anyway.

Utagawa Kuniyoshi:s depiction of Shinozuka Iga-no-kami, a 14th century warrior

Quite a few examples, from a variety of historical periods show hare crests, sword ornaments, helmet decorations etc. The recent exhibition at the Met in New York had a good example of rabbit ears on a helmet, for example, and in Kurosawa's Throne of Blood, the general Miki Yoshiaki (the noble Banquo character) has a hare crest on his sashimono (banner) and ears on his helmet.

 

Still from Throne of Blood - note the crest on the banner on the left. You can just see the small hare ears on his helmet, too.

So, returning to the story above, the image I have for this year, is running swiftly towards your goal, passing freely over the waves over the backs of the sharks (and avoiding their jaws if you just keep your mouth shut for long enough).

Best wishes to you all.

Tsuba from late 16th/early 17th century (www.ricecracker.com)

The Beautiful Women of Uemura Shoen

Exhibition flyer showing the famous work, 'Start of the Dance' 1938

The recent exhibition of Uemura Shoen’s (1875-1949) work at the Museum of Modern Art, Kyoto, was a good chance to get an overview of this prolific artist. Almost anyone familiar with Japanese art of the twentieth century will have run into her work – indeed, she was one of the most prolific of the Kyoto based artists working in the ‘Bijinga’ (beautiful women) field. Despite the evident beauty of many of her works, I think we can say a little more than that about them. I was very impressed by some of them, and not so much by others. Once again, the catalogue is not necessarily a help in making judgements, as much of the power of the earlier works is lost, and the later ones benefit from having the large empty expanses reduced in scale.

Here are some of my observations...

Detail from 'Preparing to Dance' 

1914

The exhibition included about 100 of her works, including many of the most famous ones, and a room full of sketches, giving a broad overview of her oeuvre. I would say that the first thing that strikes the visitor is how skillfully she uses her medium. The first room, in particular, shows some beautifully painted works – she had clearly mastered the tradition in which she worked and had imbued her subjects with a grace and lightness which makes them perfect exemplars of their type. As a woman in a male dominated world, she must have had to battle for every inch of ground, and in terms of the paintings themselves, she was more than successful. The bokashi (delicate blending) was exquisite, and she showed very sure handling of form, line and colour – which is to say, she drew very well, with delicate, finely articulated figures; her brushwork showed great finesse (for those unfamiliar with it, brushwork is a different quality to that in western art – the outlines of figures and drapery are drawn with long single strokes of the brush… one line = one stroke, and so the firmness, decision and liveliness of the line itself, as well as the form it escribes or the shape it encloses, have value.) Skill with colour is also a technical skill, as well as being a matter of choice. Not only do the colours have decorative and emotional impact, but the manual skill necessary for laying down flat, unblemished areas of colour is also part of the mastery. Looking closely, it was possible to ascertain something of the covering qualities of the different pigments – the reds, in particular looked very strong and solid. This is something it is difficult, if not impossible to judge through a catalogue, in which most of the subtleties have been removed, (partly due to printing coasts, I assume), and is the one of the reasons why paintings can have so much power when you see them as objects, rather than images.

Moving into the next gallery, there was a slow but discernible change in the pictures as Shoen, a mature artist in her 40s-50s, followed different paths of development. The catalogue notes tell us she was searching for inner emotion, expressing it through the restriction of expression, resolving the previous details of the background into larger areas of denser colour. Part of her inspiration for this came from her interest in Noh theatre in which, unlike kabuki, which delights in powerful, expressive movements of the body and face, the actors wear masks that allow for no direct communication of feelings through facial expression. Though I can appreciate her desire to replicate something of this in paint, there are some aspects of particular arts that are resistant to transfer. In fact, this is what gives them their own particular characteristics. Noh is a rather refined art, but it has a dynamism that is expressed through the restraint of the movement and the fine carving of the masks. What works in this context cannot necessarily be transferred to the medium of paint. Whereas in Noh, the control and skill, the suppressed emotional energy are present in the voice, the movements, the gestures, and are evident to the observer, in a painting, that degree of restraint, especially in a style that utilizes thinly brushed lines and colours points to vacancy, rather than pent up, focussed energy. I’m afraid that, to my mind, the paintings fell into this category – they appeared to coarsen and lose their finesses and subtlety. Far from giving greater insight, they gave less, I felt, as there were fewer queues to work from.

Detail of 'Start of the Dance'... the delicate articulation of line of the earlier works is clearly lacking - but what is there in its place?

 

I am aware that this is partly a cultural difference, and that inexpressiveness is supposed to speak volumes, but I am also aware that this can be an excuse for hollowness – a real lack of substance. Look beneath the fine exterior and you will find… nothing. Focus becomes turned in on itself, an exercise in mental tension, with no content other than the concentration itself.

I see the attraction of such theories – paring down the inessentials to focus on content – but in this case, the actual works did not bear them out. I can also see that an artist might move in a direction that doesn’t necessarily result in better work. It may be for personal creative reasons, the result of market pressure, or just a drift with the times as fashions changed.  For Shoen, I think it was probably a combination of all of these.

It seems she was greatly affected by the criticism of bijinga at the 9th National Art exhibition (1915). Although her works were not singled out, the genre came under fire for being out of touch and irrelevant to modern times. Added to this was the suggestion that the women depicted in these paintings were not ‘real’ women, merely pretty, doll-like figures. Of course, not only were many of them indeed, doll-like, but were also geisha, and thus could be regarded as ‘play-things’ in another sense, as-well. In fact, one has only to look at the faces in Shoen’s earlier work to see the truth of this criticism.

This would have been enough to give anyone food for thought. The direction she moved towards was not unique (though on reading the exhibition catalogue, you might be forgiven for thinking so). Many artists took a similar tack, flattening and slightly abstracting the principle images, in so doing, hoping to go beyond the superficial likeness and achieve more psychological insight and universality. In fact, Shoen’s son was one of those who did just this, followed by his son in turn.

Uemura Shoen, 'Contemplation' detail, 1946

Unfortunately, to my eye, many of the best of these paintings appear merely decorative, and the worst, distinctly amateur. It was the beginning of a slow road towards superficiality and prettiness. Not that Shoen’s paintings fall into either of these categories, but she was schooled in a far harder discipline than those who came after her. I think part of the problem is that she abandoned the absolute purity, the finesse and beauty of her line, and what she replaced it with never came up to the same level. Whereas a painter such as Terashima Shimei produced works that employed simplification and gave insight into character, this never really comes out in Shoen’s work.

Terashima Shimei, 'Winter' 1941

However, this should not be taken as detracting from her stature as an artist – the artist brings him or herself to the artwork, and reveals their humanity, in all its glory and all its faults.

The Symbolism of Yagyu Tsuba

Suigetsu                                 Marunami

 

General remarks

This is just a rather general introduction to the symbolism of these tsuba, as I understand it, based on a number of years of desultory research and mulling it over. The illustrations are drawings I did to illustrate a few of the more significant motifs – photos can be found here and there, but there is surprisingly little on the web. Mind you, determined searching has turned up some quite interesting examples.

Symbolism in classical martial arts falls into several categories – when interpreting these symbols we should bear in mind that a number of different interpretations may be plausible, and some of these may be what the symbol was originally intended to convey. Others may be ‘correct’ in that they represent the present teachings of the school (though whether these are still close to the art as it was practiced several hundreds of years ago is not always easy to ascertain), or they may represent concepts or metaphors that are entirely accurate and consistent with the teachings of the schools but are the result of personal insight on the part of the instructor, and were not necessarily passed on from previous generations. Then there are guesses. Some of these may be very good, but some of them may be way off.

Yagyu tsuba incorporate a number of motifs which are familiar to those involved in the martial arts and which relate to the principles of Yagyu heiho. Many of the designs include a combination of symbols in a single image – the symbolism may be composite, or it may contain references which are not apparent to those unfamiliar with the teachings of the ryu. Some of these may be interpreted broadly, but, of course, someone who has undergone extensive training in the Yagyu tradition is likely to have a more subtle understanding of the concept as it is embodied in the ryu. I believe that some of the symbolism operates on several levels, so even a relative beginner in the style may be able to associate certain motifs with the names of kata or techniques, but an advanced practitioner will be able to attach a deeper meaning to the same design.

Categorising the motifs

The designs can be categorised in several different ways – some of the names appear to relate directly to names of kata or concepts which are mentioned in writings of the Yagyu family, while for others I can find no direct written references, but seem connected to concepts that are important in Yagyu heiho. Some of the motifs seem quite obvious at first glance, while others are more abstract, either in terms of the conection to heiho, or in the design itself. Finally, there are those which are merely illustrative.

Another way of looking at the designs is to consider the degree to which the treatment of the motif is related to its meaning. For example, is the way bamboo depicted telling us anything important with regard to heiho, other than the fact of it being bamboo? I believe that the answer is yes in some cases – the repetition of the sinuous line in the water motifs is repeated in well ropes clouds and cords – it is tempting to believe that this has something of the quality of movement employed in Yagyu swordsmanship. Other designs have a symmetry that conveys force and balance…. very different from the wave designs, but perhaps also illustrative of imporant atributes in swordsmanship. Some of the more decorative tsuba from other schools also depict water, waves,bamboo and any number of  motifs, but in none of them do I have the feeling that they are connected in any way to swordsmanship beyond the choice of motif itself.

I have never heard any reliable estimate of the total number that exist – I have seen something like fifty or more different designs, and I am sure there are more.

What do they mean?

Perhaps the most distinctive motif is water. This recurs in a number of different designs, but in each, sinuous ripples and waves fill the tsuba We can imagine Renyasai discussing the design and saying, “Yes, it should be like this.” In terms of heiho, this may relate to the relationship between a swordsman and his opponent, where the superior swordsman, with no pre-planned strategy, responds naturally to the moves of his opponent, slipping into the gaps that appear in his opponent:s defense, flowing around his attacks, filling the empty spaces, just as water does. Though water may not have its own shape, it does have a characteristic movement, and this is what is depicted.

The water motif is perhaps most commonly depicted in ‘The moon in the water’ (suigetsu), which is well known through its connections with Zen Buddhism，although it has older antecedents and connections to other schools of Buddhism and the Confucianism of Chu Hsi. Even outside its martial context you can see different interpretations, depending on what aspect of the relationship between the moon and its relection are being highlighted. I have seen it discussed as referring to the aim in Yagyu swordsmanship of reflecting the opponent’s movements in the same way that water reflects the image of the moon: that is, akind of melding with the opponent’s movement without the intervention of the conscious mind. This interpretation usually lays stress on the calmness of the water as a pre-requisite for accurately reflecting the image of the moon. Similarly, it is said, the swordsman’s mind must be calm. Interestingly, the water in Renyasai’s tsuba is anything but calm, having the same sinuous lines as in his other designs. This reinforces my feelings about the quality of movement that is required, but also makes me think that the specifics of ‘the moon in the water’ are not so easily explained.

Even within the Yagyu school, we can see there are different explanations for suigetsu, and without being personally taught, I think it is difficult to appreciate the precise meaning of the phrase, and the way in which the different descriptions relate to the imagery of the concept. Suffice to say, despite its derivation from philosophy, it is not a theory, but the title of a technique or skill, but one that I think is properly categorized as mukei – shapeless (or not dependent on specific moves or positions).

Visually, there is, of course, a moon in the top of the design, and its image is reflected in the waves at the bottom – although it is sometimes hard to see.

sangaku, dōsasa and tsurubenawa

Another well-known design is one known variously as ippon take, take kirikabu and dōsasa, which shows the base of growing bamboo with twigs and a few leaves. This is an important design, as it was the one Renyasai had on his own sword, Kagotsurube (well basket – suggesting a well bucket made of woven bamboo… obviously not very efficient in drawing up water). The typical image of bamboo as a symbol in the martial arts conjures up images of pliability, bending to release its load of snow, unlike the more rigid trees which eventually break under the weight. In this case, it is clearly being referred to somewhat differently. I have not seen an explanation which strikes me as being entirely correct (perhaps someone with personal experience of this could put me right, but I have my own ideas). I have seen it related to the first technique, itto ryodan, (cutting in two with one stroke) of the first set of Shinkage-ryu kata, but the relationship is not immediately clear. On reflection, I think it probably refers to the importance of the roots and base of the bamboo, which allow the rest of the bamboo to display its characteristic flexibility. This blend of strength and pliability is important in swordsmanship, and similarly, it is the strength of the hips and legs that allow the freedom of movement in the sword and the upper body.

On the subject of itto ryodan, this is also supposed to be the inspiration for the design called tsurube-nawa (well rope), which shows a pair of well buckets and the attached rope. You have to look carefully to make out the buckets – it took me quite a while to see them (that was before I checked the title). If you are familiar with double-bucketed Japanese wells, the symbolism is fairly clear. If you let a full bucket go, it would immediately drop back in to the well, bringing the other one up. Of course, they pass each other on parallel paths, very much like the itto ryodan technique. It is easy to see how this relationship and the immediate descent of the bucket, acting entirely unconsciously, can be applied to the movement of the sword. Likewise, I have seen it applied to raito (lightning sword), a shinkage-ryu technique from a jodan position, which is, I believe, a variation or closely related to itto ryodan.

Also interesting are the motifs that have a theoretical rather than pictorial basis. These include sangaku (three learnings) which is also referenced in the first chapter of Yagyu Munenori’s Heihokadensho, The Shoe Offering Bridge, which came down from Yagyu Sekishusai. They are posture, limbs, and sword. This triangle motif, and the related mitsuboshi (three stars) are repeated in a variety of combinations. This is probably a clue to a deeper meaning – in Legacies of the Sword, Karl Friday describes it as ’code’ for ‘sangaku-no-en’ denoting the way in which the motion of the sword is. or contains a spiral motion built on three points – a triangle within a circle. Also quite common are the square and diamond shapes. These appear to refer to the ability to be centred and maintaining a kamae that has no deviation one way or another – it is facing all four sides.  The wheel is another common motif – it occurs in various technique names and the design known as namiguruma (waves and wheel) or suisha (waterwheel) was used by Renyasai for his wakizashi, Sasa-no-tsuyu (dew on the bamboo grass). It relates directly to various techniques and the ‘wheel’ kamae but in a deeper sense, to the kind of movement that inspired names such as suisha, hana-guruma, oni-guruma.

Yagyu-gasa, marobashi, jumonji, namiguruma

Lastly, for the moment, there are two motifs linked to some key concepts of the school: marobashi, which relates to the freedom to move in any direction, like a rolling ball, and jumonji,  (cross), the meaning of which is better left to those who actually train in shinkage-ryu. (I gather no-one is particularly happy with the translations/explanations that have been given in published versions of Heihokadensho).

I would be glad of any comments or information from shinkage-ryu practitioners (or anyone else, for that matter) who can shed any more light on this fascinating subject.