Information Rich

Advertising for the Ikeda-ya on Sanjo Street

Japan, and particularly Kyoto, it seems, is an extremely information rich environment: walking through the streets, on odd corners, outside temples or next to bridges, you can often see information boards or stone markers to inform passers-by of the historical importance of each location, as well as a huge number and variety of notices everywhere concerned with more immediate details of everyday life.

For non-Japanese, however, the difficulties of accessing this information (which means reading Japanese), makes the experience quite different - there is so little you can actually understand, and much of that is without a familiar context , even if you have some knowledge of the history, that many give up even trying. It's enough to discourage even a well-developed sense of curiosity.

But over the years since I came here, the accessibility of information, both in Japanese and English, has improved enormously. This is partly due to the advance of technology, and the proliferation of on-line sources, but also to the increasing presence of information at street level.

You can just see the sword cuts in the dark area

Recently, I have been involved in some research that has made me look more closely at the city itself. I have been surprised by the richness of information available to those with a little persistence, and also by how much interesting history is attached to places I have passed on an almost daily basis with, totally unaware.

One such that particularly piqued my interest are the sword cuts on one of the bronze finials of Sanjo Bridge.

The finials themselves (giboshi) are, all save one, the originals from when Hideyoshi had the bridge built in 1590, as indeed are some of the stone pillars (on the south side) on which the bridge stands. Another one of these pillars is now outside Starbucks at the northwest end of the bridge. Civil engineering has never been a particular interest of mine but, like almost any subject, the more you look into it, the more interesting it becomes.

Of course, what I was really interested in were those sword cuts. They date, apparently, from the famous Ikedaya incident which occurred just along the street in 1864. I used to work in the building just next to the site of the incident, which was, in those days, marked by a small stone pillar in front of a pachinko parlor. This was in the days when the British Council and Japan Research Foundation libraries, and one or two bookshops, together with the occasional article in Kyoto Visitors Guide constituted the bulk of my research resources, and I was pretty happy to find out that I was working right next to the Ikedaya, site of one of the most famous engagements of the Bakumatsu period.

For those of you unfamiliar with it, this was when the Shinsengumi, a para-military force supporting the ailing government, mounted a surprise attack on a group of pro-Imperial plotters, many from the Choshu Domain, who were meeting at the inn. The battle itself lasted for a couple of hours, and eventually involved some 60 or so people. At first, however, the Shinsengumi members were outnumbered - 9 of them, under their leader Kondo Isami, attacked the plotters, who numbered about 30. Later reinforcements equalled the numbers. Largely confined to the Ikedaya inn itself, the fighting spilled onto the streets as the plotters tried to escape. Some, it seems, made it as far as Sanjo Bridge, hence the scars on the bridge. It was a hard fought battle, but the Shinsengumi lost only 3 men (2 of whom died of their wounds), compared to 8 on the other side, and more than 20 taken prisoner.


For anyone who wants to have a look for themselves, the sword marks are on the second post from the west, on the south side.

And the Ikeda-ya? Now it is an izakaya, with the front made up in period style. A notice-board in front gives an account of the affair, and you can often see interested groups of tourists stopping outside to read. It is, of course, in Japanese.

Go Grrrls - Ishida Mitsunari, the Musical

The Takurazuka Revue is not really my cup of tea, but the poster looks dramatic.

For those of you who don't know, Takurazuka is an all female affair - playing to almost permanently packed houses, composed of devotees and wannabees. Like much of Japanese theatre, it is an institution and a way of life. There is a continual procession of new plays, many of them set in romantic European settings, with the rather odd combination of platinum blond wigs and Japanese faces (not to mention the cross-dressing and moustaches). In this poster, they look the best I have seen them - although a little 'manga-chic'.

Ishida Mitsunari is the star of this production, although he is not one of the more charismatic characters from this period. Of course, he suffers from the usual fate of the loser, whose faults seem overwhelming when he is cast as the foil to Tokugawa Ieyasu in his successful bid for power, which culminated in the Battle of Sekigahara. Wheras Ieyasu was a cunning straegist and battlefield general, who had benefitted from his close association with Oda Nobunaga and had the sense to allow himself to take a subsidiary position to both his predecessors while preserving a degree of independence, Mitsunari's strong skills lay in his powers of administration. Although he could command close loyalties, he had made personal enemies of several of Hideyoshi's generals in Korea (for reporting them for mismanagement of funds), and was not, primarily, a military leader.

Despite Ieyasu's skill in intrigue and politicking, it was still a close run thing (as someone said of another decisive battle).

Like many westerners, my first exposure to him was in James Clavell's Shogun, where he is portrayed as a cruel, power-hungry despot, set on controlling the country. Japanese portrayals tend to be kinder, making him a loyal follower of Hideyoshi, well-meaning but ultimately out-matched. This story, cashing in on the current NHK Taiga drama, concerns the relationship between Mitsunari and  Chacha, who was to become Hideyoshi's mistress. The title: "A Beautiful Life - Ishida Mitsunari, his eternal love and loyalty".

It's not where you're looking but what you look at

This is section of a painting by Ryohei Yamashita..used for the cover of  a novel about (and entitled?) Bokuden

One of the challenges of studying a discipline in another language is understanding the multiple meanings that pertain to certain expressions. I have often found myself quite able to understand an expression in  a particular context, only to fail to realise its wider implications or, indeed, its more general meaning.

My teachers have always taken great pains in their explanations to me and other non-Japanese members of the dojo, but even so, explanations often fail to achieve the resonance that would be felt by a native speaker. This is even more true in the mysterious world of the intangible concepts that form an important part of higher level bujutsu.

An example of this is the term metsuke. This means where you look or what you look at, but it can often be reduced in meaning to a particular kind of looking or gaze, depending largely on the specific circumstances in which it is usually encountered by a student. In kendo, for example, enzan no metsuke is encouraged - abroad gaze that takes in everything... the opposite of tunnel vision.

However, even within that trope, there must be an awareness of what is important or relevant to the confrontation, and what is not. This kind of sight is what enables you to, eventually see through the enemy, to intuit his moves. To what extent this is a function of the conscious mind is a moot point - certainly, enzan no metsuke works on one level by allowing us to see movement that we may not be consciously aware of. On the other hand, a more precise awareness of where such movements begin, of what constitutes this kind of movement, is surely a necessity (or at least a big help) for developing higher level skills.

However, anecdotes are legion of those masters who had developed superlative ability, but were unable or unwilling to analyse the source of this ability, but instead taught only in the broadest of terms. This is what Kano Jigoro experienced when studying jujitsu - his teacher would repeatedly throw him but couldn't explain how he was able to do it.

Another example is the old cat's teacher in Neko no Myojutsu, who could not explain his skills. Similarly Kimura Kyuho, in his Kenjutsu no Fushikihen (The Unknown in Swordsmanship), concludes by saying that the root of this knowledge is unknown and unknowable.

My favorite story, however, is about Tsukuhara Bokuden.

In one 'friendly' duel he fought with wooden swords, he struck his opponent in the head, causing him to go deaf.

His opponent, far from being discouraged, was able to develop his skill to new heights, developing a fearsome concentration through this disability. Some years later, they fought a return match. Bokuden instantly realized his opponent was now of a near equal ability to himself. Putting up his sword as if the contest was at an end, he stepped back. His opponent, assuming the contest was over and that Bokuden had said as much, likewise put up his sword, bowed and turned to exit the field... at which point Bokuden smashed him over the head from behind. This blow caused his hearing to return, and he found he had lost the ability the had developed while he was deaf.

Clearly, his senses, especially those that fall into the intangible category of mukei, had been heightened by his plunge into deafness. Bokuden was quick to realise this, but as other anecdotes show, he was a master of the broader aspects of strategy as well, and was quick to utilise these when appropriate.

Mon - the gateway

A quick sketch I did the other day - a typical mon in Japan

The gateway (or gate), which is called mon in Japanese, is an inescapable part of the landscape, both in the city and in the countryside. Perhaps it is not odd that such a powerful architectural feature should have become part of the conceptual landscape of the culture, but the way in which it has done so is quite different from what the simple words in English might suggest.

The image of a gate where I grew up, is essentially rural – the traditional five-bar gate so common in the countryside of southern England springs to mind – and even where it occurs in the town, it was usually in the context of a garden or back yard. Of course, there was also the school gate, and had I lived in a more industrial area, no doubt the factory gates would also have figured in my consciousness. But all of these are similar in respect to their essential character… they are barriers, but semi-permeable ones. They have bars, but you can see through them. They may be strong, but even so, they are not solid.

The mon, on the other hand, has a massive quality to it. Like the city gates of medieval Europe, they announce their presence at the same time as denying entry. They are markers as well as barriers, indicating the way in and denoting the passage between two worlds.

Despite their strong presence, their role may be largely symbolic, and other, more convenient points of access are used in the comings and goings of everyday life. They may not even be, as the western gate tends to be, the main point of entry in an encircling wall or fence. Sometimes, and this is especially so in the case of shrine gates (torii) they are simply free-standing, with no attached structures. The entrant is perfectly free to walk around instead of through the entrance-way.

This symbolic function exists on several levels.

From their role as the gateways to temples, the term has taken on the meaning of school, and thus someone who studies under a teacher might be known as a monjin or monsei (literally, gate + person, meaning one who has passed through the gate); to join a school was known as nyumon (to enter the gate); to be expelled from a school was known as hamon (breaking the gate).

Indeed, learning itself took on the mon as a concept. Not only did students have to pass through the gate to begin study, but successive stages had their own gates, and higher teachings were barred from those who had nor entered, with more or less elaborate ceremonies and swearing of oaths as part of the process.

This is something that is mentioned both by Miyamoto Musashi and Yagyu Munenori in their most well-known writings, and points to the prevalence of the practice. Munenori is at some pains to explain that the concept shows that skill is not the same as the methods we use to achieve it. After entering the gate, we proceed further within the temple. The gate is not to be mistaken for the temple itself. In the same way, the forms that are used in studying a fluid, ever-changing art are not the art itself, but a way to develop that art.

Musashi, went further, declaring he had no use for gates (and thus presumeably) for teaching structured in levels that had to be passed through before going on to the next body of teaching. He likened the process to passing through the mountains… although you may enter through one gate, you may emerge from another – passing through, you come to the entrance again - who is to say which is the more advanced teaching?

Actually, Musashi’s comment is likely a criticism of the Yagyu approach – his principal patron in later life, Hosokawa Tadaoki, had trained in that style As the Yagyu had become official instructors of the Shogun, the family’s services were in high demand, and they were required to teach a range of pupils, of lesser or greater ability, despite their often high status. No doubt this required some ordering of their curriculum, and the appointment of subsidiary instructors – not everyone could expect to be taught by the instructor to the shogun – resulting in a somewhat standardized curriculum. On the other hand,  Musashi remained essentially a free agent throughout his life.

Instinctively, I tend to follow Musashi’s opinion on this, but at the same time, I have found the concept of a gate as an entryway from one way of seeing things to another, or the first technique in the process of developing a difficult stage of a skill is an apt and useful concept. Seeing these as gates that open out onto to another area of experience or skill is a metaphor I had not internalized before my time in Japan; I don’t think I have been specifically taught using this metaphor, but Musashi’s use of it must have resonated quite deeply as I have found certain specific techniques or skills fit the idea perfectly. I suppose the equivalent concept in English would be a ‘first step’. You can actually see this reflected in book titles… textbooks with the title “xxx Nyumon” are the counterpart of “First Steps in xxx”.

Still, somehow, the image of a gateway seems more resonant than that of a first step. From my own experiences, I can see how apt the concept can be – it represents the searching for a way out of a learning plateau and into a new period of growth. In this sense, sometimes the way out is quite specific and the gate, with its opening onto new vista’s serves very well. However, for some reason, this seems to be distinctly a mon and not a western gate.

Perhaps it is just my latent romanticism coming through.

Samurai Soul

I got a bit busy this week, so only this for now: a light-hearted look at samurai life.

Sword practice in the back garden

Writing about Hirayama Shiryu for the past couple of weeks, put me in mind of this - a life where everything is subsumed into the world of martial arts. It's from the music video for the song Samurai Soul by the pop/rock group Ulfuls. Good song - kind of quirky, soulful rock, I suppose - and a fun video.

Folding the washing

For those of you familiar with Japanese houses, I'm sure you'll appreciate the details. And even sensitive ears needn't be worried about being subjected to screaming guitars and a wall of noise. It helps if you understand Japanese - but it's not essential.

Here's the link for youtube: Samurai Soul-Ulfuls

And if you like that, I also recommend Guts - da ze, which has a really goofy video, complete with a ninja trying to assasinate Tono-sama. It's kind of catchy, too.

Hirayama Shiryu - some stories

Hirayama Shiryu was a rare character, obsessive when it came to the world of bugei (martial arts). All the stories I have heard about him bear out his forceful character and his emphasis on determination and courage as the key components of martial arts.  This example of his calligraphy reads "Angry Frog" - it can be pronounced onomatopoeically "Do-a". It refers to the story of a frog that announced it's defiance as one of the warlords of ancient China was invading a neighboring territory. It certainly displays vigor and energy in the two main characters, which accord well with Hirayama's martial character, as does the bravery of the small frog, but one should also pay attention to the signature at the side. The characters display grace and refinement, indicating that Hirayama developed skills that required more than sheer energy and determination. interestingly, this is also very visible in Musashi's painting and calligraphy, suggesting the high degree of physical control and finesse developed in traditional bugei. Interestingly, this quality is usually not present in the calligraphy of Zen priests, whose work often expresses forcefulness at the expense of flexibility. However, this more refined side of Hirayama's nature is something that does not normally come out in the stories about him.

As a young man, he was a student of Shibukawa Tokifusa, head the style of jujutsu of that name. Once, when practicing with the son of his master, he applied a shime-waza (strangle-hold) that left his partner unconscious. When he did not come to, Hirayama and his fellow students attempted to revive him, but to no avail. After many anxious minutes, he eventually came round. Throughout the whole incident, Hirayama retained his composure, despite the panic of his fellow students. When asked about it, he said that he had already resolved to take responsibility by committing seppuku, should their teacher's son have died, so there was no cause for alarm.

This is somewhat reminiscent of the attitude discussed in Yamamoto Tsunetomo's Hagakure, written a hundred years or so earlier. By Hirayama's time, this was somewhat outdated, I suspect, but it is worth noting that death by seppuku continued both as a judicial punishment and as a personal statement of responsibility until the beginning of the Meiji period, (and, indeed, in the latter case, beyond).

Another story that well illustrates his character is an episode that occurred with one of his friends, Shimizu Akagi, who was obviously of a similar mind to Hirayama. Walking home one cold evening in winter, Shimizu remarked "The heroes of old used to fight in the middle of winter. If we are serious about our martial studies, shouldn't we prepare ourselves for the same. How about a little swim?"
Hirayama, of course, agreed, so they both got into the icy water.
After finishing their swim and getting out, Hirayama proposed a nice bowl of hot noodles, to which his friend replied "Gotcha! They wouldn't have had that kind of luxury on the battlefield!"
Hirayama conceded the point, and they both went their separate ways home.

However, Hirayama's friend, on his way back, figuring Hirayama would go back home and be snuggled up warm in bed, thought he would surprise him and score double points. When he got to Hiryama's place, he was not in bed, but sitting on his normal oak board (which he used in place of a cushion), studying, according to his normal schedule. (In fact, he usually slept on the floor of his dojo rather than in a futon, with only a light cover, so I doubt he would have been getting very warm in any case).

My swordsmanship is for killing!

A brief introduction to Hirayama Shiryu (1759-1828) (Shiryu was one of several pen names he used along with Kozo, Gyozo to name but two, and his real name, Heigen), one of the fiercest and most uncompromising swordsmen of the mid-late Edo period.

What better way to introduce him, than by a picture of his dojo. Apparently out of bounds to women apart from his mother..who was apparently a formidable woman in her own right (his teacher of swordsmanship, Yamada Shosai, was rumoured to have gone even further in his renunciation of the fair sex, but I won't go into details here), a peek through the door gives us a clue to his wide-ranging martial interests with the rack of guns that is just visible.

Like Matsuura Seizan, his contemporary (see last entry) he was a man of many parts, but unlike Seizan, these were nearly all martial. Despite this, I first became aware of him, more than twenty years ago, as a calligrapher, rather than a bugeisha, and it was only later that I began to find out the full extent of his martial studies.

Born into a family with strong martial traditions, he started his training at a young age, eventually establishing a daily regimine which started at 4am and included hundreds of strikes with a variety of weapons, including an extremely large wooden sword, which you can see below. (This one actually belonged to one of his senior students, Soma Daisaku).

He was, in fact, a self-confessed master of the bugei ju-happan (18 weapons), and in his case, this was no idle boast. His dojo and living quarters were filled with a veritable armory of weapons of all sizes, including small cannons, and suits of armour. he was also a prolific reader and collector of military works, and the author of several hundred books and essays himself, two of which: Kensetsu and Kencho, are included in The Samurai Mind.


Inside Hirayama's dojo

 Kensetsu is a short essay which presents Hirayama's theories on swordsmanship, while Kencho is a companion work that provides classical references to back up his ideas. Lest the idea of using classical works strikes you as a little dry and academic (after all, didn't Musashi present his work by specifically not using them?) this should be seen as providing a kind of authority and assuring his public that these weren't solely his own ideas, or mere philosophical ramblings. Perhaps this was wise, because he was highly critical of much of the swordsmanship around him. He noted that famous "martial artists" rarely performed successfully on the battlefield, and extolled the value of bravery over skill.

Despite his wide reading, he was very far from being dry and academic himself. His swordsmanship was simple and effective, based on the idea of an indomitable attacking spirit. Despite the criticism it received for being as inelegant as Hirayama was himself, he had a sign-board at his dojo declaring a willingness to take on all comers with any weapons they desired, firearms included. Invariably, his techniques proved effective.

Despite all this, he retained a somewhat ironic view of his own pursuits - A Verse of Eight Follies which was tacked on the end of Kensetsu when it was prepared for general publication vividly shows his awareness of his position:

Soldiers are curbed, war obsolete—to what extent you cannot guess—yet you have exquisite discourses on the methods of frontal and indirect attacks. 

This is the second folly.

More on this interesting and strangely attractive character next time