Spirit Forging – the ‘hard training’ of Meiji swordsmen.

Kendo c.1925 (Courtesy of kenshi 247.net)

One of the distinguishing features of serious martial arts training in the minds of many practitioners, is its severity. This is particularly so in the case of Japanese martial arts, and it reaches some of its most extreme forms in the case of swordsmen from the Meiji period onwards.

That warriors training to develop arts used in life and death struggles should train hard seems beyond question, and the ability to do so raises them in esteem in our eyes. Elite units in the modern military often use extreme training as part of the selection process, and much of this is designed to push people beyond their normal limits, both mentally and physically. There is a darker side as well, with instances of hazing rituals and abuse of power, where the pupose is to establish hierarchy and unthinking obedience rather than to develop individual potential.

This latter aspect became an unfortunate part of Japanese budo in the early of the twentieth century, part and parcel of military recruitment and the rise of nationalism, and has been retained in the regimented nature of these disciplines, which dovetailed naturally with the sempai-kohai (senior-junior) relationship promoted in schools, universities and companies to this day.

Of course, it should be stressed that not all clubs and dojos share these negative characteristics, but it seems that there was a major change in the style of teaching and learning that occurred at much the same time as ‘budo’ (represented by judo, kendo, and somewhat later but similar in spirit, karate-do) was being formed as a set of practices distinct from their forbears.

The transformation to the modern disciplines of budo was not a simple process, but it seems that somewhere within it, the concept of mental strength born of a combination of determination, single-mindedness, and an unwillingness to give up became firmly entrenched as a principle feature of budo. To what degree this was present prior to this transformation is difficult to determine – it certainly didn’t appear from nowhere, and there are enough tales of this kind of spirit to show that it was an attribute that was strongly admired, but admiration for a character trait and placing that trait at the centre of  a style of training are different things.

Training in bugei involves the development of skills that require precision and attention to detail. Repetition for its own sake and far less, mass drilling, are not generally a part of this. It seems that karate, of all the budo, perhaps because it is farthest from what are seen to be (however innaccurately) its samurai forebears, tries the hardest to embody these aspects into its training – slots on the News in early January regularly show members of karate clubs training in snow or thigh-high in freezing water, pumping out repetitious punches during their kangeiko (winter training) – but aikido is also notable for its use of aspects of this kind of training.

In fact, it puts one in mind of the religious austerities practised by some groups, rather than traditional bugei training, which is perhaps not as surprising as it might first sound, as the promoters of such training during the Meiji and Taisho Periods had purposely combined their training with some of the attributes of religion.

Budo as 'religion'

It was during the Meiji Period, when the immediate practical use of the sword was called into question, that several influential swordsmen pursued the study of the sword as a method of self development. It was the legacy of these men, more than anything else, that led to the mistaken belief that the study of the sword was inseperable from the study of Zen.

Interestingly, the dojos of both of these instructors were characterised not only by the severe nature of their regular training, but both of them also instituted periods of particularly severe specialised training.

It was also worth noting that in both these cases, the styles were early adopters of shinai sparring, with the consequent loss of teachings requiring the severity of precision and control associated with older styles. The arguments for and against sparring with shinai and bogu not withstanding, it seems that these severe training sessions were aimed at achieving a breakthrough to a different understanding of both mental and physical aspects of martial training; something that normal training did not provide.

Yamaoka Tesshu (1836-1888)

Yamaoka Tesshu’s seigan training has become quite well-known in the English speaking martial arts world thanks to John Stevens’ book, The Sword of No-Sword.

Tesshu’s “basic” examination required 1,000 days of consecutive practice, completed by 200 consecutive contests in a single day with other students of the Itto Shoden Muto Ryu.

The second level examination consisted of 600 matches over a three-day period. The highest level examination was a seven day ordeal with 1,400 matches.

Several of his students left accounts of their experiences. This is one:

Yanagita Ganjiro completed the two-hundred-match seigan on the final day of his thousand-day training period. He then practiced five hundred more days in a row and undertook the three-day, six-hundred-match seigan. Blows received from the short, thick Muto Ryu bamboo sword (shinai) were extremely painful. Yanagita recalled: "After the first day my head was full of lumps and my body covered with bruises, but I did not feel weak. On the second day I began to suffer. I thought I would have to give up halfway. I managed to continue and near the end of the day I experienced 'selflessness' - I naturally blended with my opponent and moved in unhindered freedom. Although my spirit was strong my body was weak. My urine was dark red and I had no appetite. Nevertheless, I passed the final day's contests with a clear mind; I felt as if I was floating among the clouds."

            (The Sword of No-Sword, J. Stevens)

Tesshu not only viewed swordsmanship as a way of disciplining the mind; he was also a practitioner of Zen and a master of calligraphy. Only his swordsmanship was passed down directly; the ‘spirit’ of his calligraphy was revived, (and is carried on by the Hitsuzendo) but perhaps it is better to say that it was by his example and spirit that he has most influenced modern disciplines.

Yamada Jirokichi (1863-1930)

Yamada Jirokichi did not study Zen formally, as Tesshu did, but he also regarded kendo training as a means of developing the self. ‘By understanding this Way, man can learn the Great Way of the Universe; one’s character can become complete,’ he once wrote.

Probably the foremost student of Sakakibara Kenkichi, headmaster of the Jikishinkage ryu (who never named a formal successor), he was also famous for pushing his students to extremes. Among his students was Omori Sogen (1904-1994), who later became an influential Zen teacher. Sogen not only studied the sword, but also calligraphy in what may be considered Tesshu’s tradition – he was, in fact, something of a Tesshu enthusiast, lived in Tesshu's old house and was founder of the Tesshukai (Tesshu association). He has also left an account of a training experience that appears quite similar the training instituted by Tesshu.

Omori Sogen

            Onishi Hidetaka, who was captain of the Kendo Club of Hitosubashi University, and I, were told by Yamada Sensei, “In our style, after completing the hyappon keiko (one hyndred time practice) one is able to receive the final certificate.” It was decided that at the end of July, we would be confined to a mountain temple in Yamanashi prefecture. After twenty days of preparation we began the hyappon keiko.

            We got up at 4:00 in the morning, went down the mountain, and bathed in a river. Before breakfast we did the Hojo 15 times. After that we rested awhile then practised 30 more times. After lunch we rested and did the Hojo 55 more times until dusk. We did zazen in the evenings.

            By the third day I could shout more loudly and powerfully during practice, but my voice was so hoarse I could not speak at all. At night my body was so hot that I couldn’t sleep. Food would not go down my throat; Ihad only water and raw eggs. My urine was the color of blood. The arms that held the wooden sword could not be raised. We were resigned to death. I couldn’t go before Yamada Sensei and say, “I failed.” Onishi and I got out our notes and letters and burned them all as we prepared to die.

            On the fourth day, a strange thing happened. The same arms that had difficulty in even holding the wooden sword went up smoothly over my head. As my arms went down, I felt a strength that was not physical coming out of both arms. It felt as if this downward cut extended to the other end of the world.

            For seven days, we practiced the Hojo a hundred times daily in this manner. We finally finished at the beginning of September. Later Yamada Sensei praised me saying, “That is the Muso (No-thought) Style.” I was able to cultivate mental strength entirely because of this Hojo.

                          (Omori Sogen: Life of a Zen Master, Hosokawa Dogen)

Omori Sogen is perhaps more responsible than anyone else for the conflation of Zen and swordsmanship; he believed that they were closely linked, and promoted this philosophy in his writing, such as his well-known work Ken to Zen. As a highly experienced practitioner of both Zen and kendo, his experiences cannot be ignored, but at the same time, it should be recognized that the sword art he practiced was quite far removed from that practiced when during the Sengoku and early Tokugawa periods. 

I believe that his combination of the two disciplines, inspired by the example of Tesshu and the leanings of his own master, was a search for something that was missing in the kendo of his time, something that was taught more explicitly in previous generations, but taking Zen as a model could (he believed), only be intuited through hard practice which allowed a practitioner to break through the boundaries established by the normal, conscious control of the body.

A similar approach was adopted by budoka using another discipline, the bell ringing misogi practices taught by, not entirely coincidentally, a student of Yamaoka Tesshu (and, again, Zen) in the Ichikukai, which I shall deal with in my next post. (Spirit Forging II)

2015 Year of the Sheep – no, Goat – no, Sheep – 羊

Zhao Mengfu ca1300 Courtesy of the Freer Sackler Galleries
The inscription out of shot on the left runs:
"I have painted horses before, but have never painted sheep [or goats]. So when Zhongxin requested a painting, I playfully drew these for him from life. Though I cannot get close to the ancient masters, I have managed somewhat to capture their essential spirit."

The New Year rolls around again and here in Japan 2015 is the Year of the Sheep, or perhaps the goat. Neither sheep nor goats have a long history in Japan, so as the same character, [羊] which is used for sheep, was used for goats in the past, there is obviously some confusion. Older sources quite clearly depict goats, but in the present day, sheep are more popular.

As the animals of the zodiac were adopted from China, and with no real chance for first-hand observation, it is not surprising that the goat has no strong associations in Japanese culture. Nor is it easy to find much visual imagery, particularly in association with the culture of the bush. Even among the weird and wonderful kawari kabuto (outré helmets), where horns and animal references abound, I could see no trace of sheep or goats.

Occasionally, they would appear as images in tsuba or other sword furniture, but they are rare. These two examples are from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

Soami School 

Nakahara Yukimitsu - Choshu School

A few painters, such as Maruyama Okyo  depicted them directly (see below), but this was quite rare.

Of course, they do appear in various depiction of the 12 animals (junishi) of the zodiac, and it is in this connection that they appear in both purely animal and anthropomorphic form.

The earliest example of the anthropomorphic goat that I have seen is in the Battle of the Twelve Animals Picture Scroll (Juniruikassen Emaki), the earliest version of which dates from the early Muromachi Period (Prince Fushimi Sadafusa apparently saw it in 1438). Possibly a political allegory, it tells the story of the sneaky tanuki who, after some dispute about who is to be judge for a poetry competition among the twelve animals, gathers his cohort (of bad animals, of course) who attack the noble 12 animals, only to be beaten and chased off to the mountains where he renounces the world and enters a monastery.

The goat acquits himself well in the battle, it would seem, and escapes injury, unlike some of his compatriots.

Some 400 years later, Utagawa Kuniyoshi gives us more pictures of goats going about their everyday life,

as does another artist in this calendar from 1859:

This is not so very far from an image somewhat closer to home, the Wise Old Goat in the Rupert Bear stories…

Anyway, Happy New Year for 2015!

Autumn – change and loneliness

Kyoto, November 2014

Autumn in Japan is characterised by its mild temperature and the brilliant colours of the foliage that tinges the hills with russets and brilliant reds, and the occasional burst or brilliance dotted throughout the cities. However, in literature and art, the season has strong links with feelings of desolation, loss and longing, which in western literature are more often associated with winter. Indeed, the ‘withering wind’ (kogarashi) is so intimately associated with autumn, that its mention alone is sufficient to conjure up the season.

Such phrases used in poetry are known as kigo, and among the educated, they had strong associations. Indeed, it with such a phrase that Yagyu Sekishusai began his collection of 100 verses:

One autumn evening, to while away the hours, I went to visit old friends in Yamato, but found some of those old men had already passed away, while others had gone, I know not where.

In fact, the term yugure (evening) which he uses doesn’t strictly refer to autumn, but since the late Heian period it has had particularly strong associations with the season, being mentioned by Sei Shonagon in her Pillow Book as being the exemplary time of day for that season. Given the generally sparse tone he takes, it would not seem out of place to translate it as autumn evening, rather than simply evening.

 

Autumn grasses in the Moonlight - Shibata Zesshin

Other common symbols of autumn include deer, the full moon, flying geese, the seven grasses of autumn (nanagusa) and, of course, momiji or scarlet maple leaves.

Despite the strong seasonal associations, there is less specific mention of such symbolism in traditional martial arts than might be imagined. This may partly be owing to the strength of these cultural associations – loneliness and loss, though all fine and good in everyday life, are quite far from the kind of feelings that are normally encouraged in the training and practice of bugei.

There are some connections, however. I have discussed Musashi’s use of the autumn monkey (also here)(stretching for the reflection of the full moon) before; likewise his momiji uchi (falling leaves strike) which cuts downwards, knocking an opponent’s sword away. 

Hiza-guruma - a technique of the Kito-ryu

Occasional references also occur in other ryu-ha – both the Mujuushin Kenpo of Harigaya Sekiun and the Kito Ryu school of jujutsu contain what is substantially the same verse extolling the virtues of flexibility:

Autumn wind, deep in the mountains, fiercely sways and shakes the leaves of the oak, while barely moving the pampas grasses

Rarer is the example provided by the Jikishinkage ryu, which includes a foundation kata named Hōjō no kata, based on the energies ascribed to the four seasons in the Chinese theory of the five elements. Autumn, in this case, emphasizes varied tempo and cutting to left and right, illustrating change. This specific linkage to elements seems unusual in Japanese bujutsu - although the basic principles illustrated by the Hōjō no kata are said to have been transmitted by Matsumoto Bizen no Kami, the school's founder, it is possible that they were later reorganized and matched to the four seasons.

Still on the subject of the five elements, there is another set of verses which is worth mentioning, although this is from the Chinese art of Xinyi, and is attributed to the founder Dai Fengzhong:

Red Maples have forgotten the six alignments

Tranquility will reveal the Five Elements



The first verse points to the naturalness and spontaneous nature of advanced technique, while also

suggesting (at least to me) the spirit of forging oneself – the bright leaves can certainly look like hot 

coals or heated metal, and I feel the specific choice of maple leaves must be saying something about the redness.
Kyoto, November 2014




This particular aspect was also used by Hikita Bungoro in momiji no metsuke (gaze of red leaves) in his Hikita Kage Ryu. Yagyu Jubei mentions this in his Tsuki no Sho, describing it as an important concept of the school, a technique of the mind to effect the opponent’s mind and movements from a distance, as if ‘viewing red leaves on yonder mountain.’ Jubei, on describing the technique in his own school describes it as ‘dying the opponent’s movements with the blood red intentions of your own mind.’




This symbolism might also be read into Hojo Ujimasa"s death poem:







The blossoms of spring do not resent the spring wind

For the red leaves of autumn are still to come




In this case, the blossoms would be the Hojo family, defeated by Toyotomi Hideyoshi's spring wind, while the red leaves would, perhaps, be future generations of the Hojo.




Uesugi Kenshin, by Utagawa Yoshitoshi



Although autumn symbolism may not have featured strongly in the bugei as a whole, bushi seemed to use it often enough when they turned their hands to artistic pursuits. One example of this
is a poem by Uesugi Kenshin:

Frost Fills the Camp and the Autumn Air is Still

Lines of Returning Geese Cross the Moon of the Third Hour

Another of his poems runs:

The warrior makes

Of his armor a pillow

For his head alone

The first wild geese cry nearby

…which returns us to the theme of loneliness. 

Personally, however, my own feelings are closer to Keats and his

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Yari - The Long and the Short of It

The spear is a weapon that has been used in some form in virtually every corner of the earth, and must be, after the club and the rock, one of the most basic weapons devised by mankind. Japan is no exception, and has a long tradition of the use of various pole arms, including spears, dating to way back before the 'samurai' era. However, as far as samurai are concerned, the spear was not even the principal pole arm until the 15th or 16th century. For some reason, it was the naginata that assumed that role, while the spear languished until the time of the Namboku-cho (1334-1392) when it gradually gained popularity. This popularity increased during the early Sengoku period, until, by the time of the famous warlords of the mid to late 16th century, it had assumed the position of one of the main weapons on the battlefield. This was partially due to logistical considerations, and indeed, the growing size of armies meant that it provided a cheap and easy to use armament for levies and other
irregular troops.

Though individuals became famous for their use of the spear, on the battlefield, their particular forte was in tactical deployment. Walter Dening, in his The Life of Toyotomi Hideyoshi, tells the story of how Hideyoshi got caught up in an argument to see whether long or short spears were superior. Oda Nobunaga's spear instructor favored short spears (short in this case means up to 8ft long) whereas Hideyoshi favored the longer type.

A trial was arranged: both men would train a group of fifty men in the use of their chosen length of spear,and after three days, the two groups would compete against each other. To cut a long story
short, while the spear instructor taught his men the techniques to oppose the longer weapons, Hideyoshi told his men they had the advantage anyway, so they could attack any way they liked, and wined and dined them. He also divided them into three units so they could make forward and flank attacks. On the day of the contest, Hideyoshi's men made mincemeat of his opponents.

Although this is probably an apocryphal tale, it does indicate the tactical value of the spear on the battlefield. That is not to deny that a shorter spear offers definite advantages to the individual warrior, but in battles employing formations of troops, longer spears offered a decided advantage. In fact, Nobunaga employed longer than average spears in his formations, and even on an individual level,
some warriors made use of the longer spears. Maeda Toshiie, for example, used one that was reportedly 6m in length.

The differences on such weapons also lead to certain specializations in the way they were used. For the ashigaru, who made up the bulk of the armies in the Sengoku period, spear usage was comparatively limited. Among the most common techniques was a downward strike aimed at knocking the opponent's spear downwards. This was particularly useful in tight formations, and contemporary writing suggests that this was seen as preferable to thrusting.

In fact, despite it's efficiency as a thrusting weapon, on the battlefield even the shorter spears were, as often as not, probably used to knock down an opponent and then despatch him. The triangular sectioned blade of the su yari (straight spear) was particularly effective for this, and this may also explain the popularity of the tanged spear head over the socketed type – the tang running deep inside the shaft gives greater durability as well as weighting the head, making it more effective for sweeping and striking movements.

Practice with long weapons quickly brings an appreciation of the difference in their range and speed compared with the sword. Facing someone with a spear (if they are using it well) allows one to realize the advantage it has – it is said that the spear gives its user a 3x advantage. When you see the speed with which a spear can be extended and retracted, how quickly the blade can shoot out at different targets, you appreciate how difficult it would be to face one in earnest.

With the end of the Sengoku Period, the call for spear use declined. Nevertheless, the Bakumatsu period saw some notable use of the spear:



Sakamoto Ryoma's companion, Miyoshi Shinzo, wielded a spear in the famous fight at the Teradaya, as, indeed did their attackers. Ryoma described the events as follows:

  We had come up from the bath and were on the point of going to bed, when we thought we heard something strange; it sounded like the footfalls of someone sneaking around below us (we were on the second floor). Then, in the same way, we heard the clattering of six-foot staves. Just at that time [the woman he would marry], with no thought of her own safety, came running up to us and warned, ‘Look out! The enemy have invaded unexpectedly, and men with spears are coming up the stairs!’ At that, I jumped up, grabbed my hakama and the two swords, along with a six-shooter pistol … and crouched down towards the rear of the room. Miyoshi Shinzo… put on his two swords, and grabbed a spear; and then he too crouched down.
“There were already 20 men lined up with spears; they also had two burglar lanterns, and to top it off there were fellows carrying six-foot staves everywhere…

“By the time this one spear-man was half way up the stairs and coming in my direction. He was on my left. I figured that if there was a spear on my left it could strike me from the side, and so I shifted my position to face to the left. Then I cocked my pistol, and threatened all ten of the spearmen, from right to left. They ran away. Meanwhile, others of the enemy were throwing spears, and also charcoal braziers, and fighting in all sorts of ways. We, for our part, were ducking spears, and you can imagine that it was really a noisy war inside that house. We also hit one man, but I don’t know whether we killed him or not."

As this account suggests, although they were not necessarily wielded with any great skill, spears were still common during this period. Common perhaps, but still unusual enough that expert spearman were far less common than swordsmen. Many schools of martial arts taught the spear along with the sword, but it seems that few had the time or inclination to master this weapon. Among those who did were Yamada Sanosuke of the Shinsengumi, Takahashi Deishu, the shogun's personal spear instructor and brother-in-law of Yamaoka Tesshu, Sagawa Kanbei, one of the leaders of the Aizu forces who fought a brave but losing battle against the Imperial forces under Saigo Takamori, and General Yamagata Aritomo were all noted for their use, or (in the latter case) training, in the spear.

In this period, the spear was no longer a formation weapon, but the weapon of the individual. On the battlefield, the rifle and bayonet had taken its place, but it is clear that the men who wielded it with skill still commanded respect

Noguchi Tetsuya – another look at 'samurai'

Talking Head 2010
All the pictures in this post are of works by
Noguchi, unless otherwise stated.

Sometimes you see an exhibition that strikes such a deep chord that you say to yourself, 'Yes! This is what art is about!' Rare though this may be, it's even rarer with contemporary art, which was why it was especially refreshing to see Noguchi Tetsuya's one-man show at the Asahi Villa in Oyamazaki – just outside Kyoto.

Not only is the museum (a 1930's villa and garden overlooking the battlefield of Oyamazaki, where Toyotomi Hideyoshi beat the rebellious Akechi Mitsuhide, thus stamping his claim as contending heir to Oda Nobunaga's position) worth seeing in itself, but the exhibition has enough to satisfy anyone with a spark of soul (especially if their childhood contained a healthy dose of model building and painting up the kind of miniature figures used in war games and fantasy role playing games).

Work by Tenmouya Hisashi - used as an
advertisement for the 2006 World Cup

Noguchi, a generation younger than artists such as Yamaguchi Akira and Tenmouya Hisashi, who also have a strong link with historical imagery in their work, unrepentantly takes 'samurai' as his theme, with a refreshing outlook that combines humour and sensitivity, inviting the viewer to share and enjoy his passions, presenting snapshots from an alternative historical narrative that is, at times, so convincing that you are almost fooled into believing it's true. He works with highly detailed figures cast in resign, dressed in leather, cloth and metal(?), as well as painting in a reproduction style, throwing in his own anachronisms that make it more than simply an exercise in model making.

The first thing that strikes the visitor is the incredible degree of skill displayed in the works. The craftsmanship shows a loving attention to detail which, in itself, is more than enough to hold the viewer's attention. This is displayed equally in the paintings, facsimile pages from fictional historical reference works, and in fact, in every aspect of  his finished works.

Chanel Samurai 2009

Some of his work drew attention in the glossy magazines a few years ago because of his collaboration with Chanel - I saw the photos of the models wearing armor stamped with the Chanel symbol, and assumed, because of the detail, that they were, in fact, actual people wearing the armor. Even later on, I'm not sure if I had realised that those photographs were of models, but I certainly assumed that the armour was life size – I was wrong, and this was a pleasant surprise. They worked far better as models (up to about 30 inches high, seated, with many smaller than that) than they would have done full size, inviting both closer examination and a kind of respect and fascination that automatically seems to attach itself to the miniature.

Portrait of an Armoured Warrior
Taking the Field by Bicycle 2008

But all this would be mere model making if it was not imbued with a charm and wit that added to the superb craftsmanship: samurai with propellers on their helmets, jetpacks on their backs and giant robots, all rendered as if they came from the 16th century, which manages to keep the charm and makes it almost believable. Other works aimed at different interstices of past and present, involving fashion, technology and identity.

None Shall Speak 2008

Part of the reason this works is because the samurai remains such present figure in modern Japanese culture, reconfigured to match each new generation. This reinvention, the constant stream of dramas, books, manga, magazines, anime and games which feature samurai, means that they retain a relevance which I would be hard put to find an equivalent for in Britain or the USA. Certainly, some people find it passé, I'm sure, but generations of children are brought up with this as part of their contemporary culture, the same way as I had Star Wars and Judge Dredd in my teenage years.

Samurai Stance 2013

This, I think, is the point. The artist has successfully taken the interests he had as a child, and transformed them without losing the intensity of meaning that they have when you are young; in his case, that intensity is continued through the strength and mastery of his craftsmanship, bringing them into the adult sphere in a way that is neither arch nor mocking. He does not denigrate or hero-worship, but treats his subjects with an interest and respect that brings us closer, perhaps, to seeing ourselves.

If
you ever get the chance, this is one artist whose works I thoroughly recommend you see.