Checkers or the Ride?

I recently came across footage from the 42nd Japanese Kobudo Demonstration (2019), where leading representatives of Japan’s traditional martial arts delivered a vivid and visually compelling performance. In the context of ongoing discussions about the subtle methodological and conceptual links between samurai budō (bugei) traditions and Okinawan systems of unarmed combat, the most striking segments are the demonstrations by exponents of classical kenjutsu schools — most notably Yagyū Shinkage-ryū and Katori Shintō-ryū.

Alongside these recordings, YouTube’s ever-scheming algorithms served up another intriguing piece of material, in which enthusiasts present their own interpretation of kenjutsu based on Yagyū Shinkage-ryū (https://youtu.be/uDF38_OWnyw?si=WJroNLybk0sJpPCk). In my view, this latter video is actually more engaging and offers a fuller expression of the foundational elements of samurai swordsmanship. Chief among these are a distinct mental disposition, total commitment, austere and economical strategy, explosive speed, rhythm, and a refined sense of distance and angle of entry.

These are precisely the core elements that unify the various schools of the sword art practiced by the legendary bushi, notwithstanding the inevitable variations in tactics, technical solutions, and training methodologies from one lineage to another. As the noted researcher of Okinawan tōde, Patrick McCarthy, often remarks: what matters is not so much what divides, but what unites. For the author, this is the proverbial “forest” one must learn to see beyond the “trees.”

It would be unfair to say that the “authentic” representatives of the aforementioned schools performed poorly at the Nihon Kobudō Kyōkai demonstration — at least judging from the available footage (though one particularly telling comment read something along the lines of, “I have no idea what they’re doing, but the outfits look fantastic”). Yet it is equally fair to argue that the enthusiasts from Natori-ryū did no worse — and, in the author’s opinion, in several key respects did considerably better. Nevertheless, the self-appointed “experts” in the comments section were quick to pass judgment: apparently, everything was wrong.

“This is not real Yagyū Shinkage-ryū” — such was the dominant refrain. The video’s creators were criticized for incorrect grip, improper movement vocabulary, and questionable interpretations of the “marvelously effective original” techniques.

At this point, an old anecdote comes to mind. But before recounting it, some context is necessary.

My childhood and youth coincided with the collapse of the so-called “Evil Empire.” It was a bleak period for its inhabitants, particularly in material terms. As a university student, I was fortunate enough to find work and, for a considerable time, supported my parents — members of the so-called highly educated intelligentsia — who, despite being employed, were paid sporadically, in fragments, or in goods nobody needed. Such was the price of “greatness.” And, regrettably, it seems that the successor state continues, with a certain irrational persistence, to replay this pattern — now to the detriment of other, entirely uninvolved countries as well.

I dwell on this atmosphere of hardship only to frame the anecdote: people survived as best they could; there was little room for propriety or formal adherence to rules. Many car owners took up informal taxi work. Yet even then, there was no shortage of pedants:

«A man stands by the roadside, trying to catch a ride — he’s late for the train. No taxis in sight, but suddenly a private car pulls over. He needs to go, but since this isn’t an official taxi, he decides to haggle. Putting on a sour expression, he starts nitpicking: the car isn’t the right class, where’s the license, and — most importantly — where are the checkered taxi markings on the doors and the green light indicating availability?

After listening for a while, the driver replies: “Listen, do you want the «checkers» — or do you want the ride?..”

One is tempted to pose the same question to those for whom a correctly tied belt matters more than the substance of the art itself: what is more important — perfectly replicating the movements of some long-deceased master, or becoming a master in one’s own right? The two do not automatically coincide, however intuitive that assumption may seem.

Historically, founders and great masters were rarely those content with blind imitation of their teachers, or with constructing elaborate justifications for why a particular movement guarantees victory. Rather, they sought to comprehend both inherited and personal experience, searching for the most effective ways to embody underlying principles. (It is worth recalling that, according to legend, some founders were taught by winged creatures with long beaks; others learned proper cutting from bushes at night; and at least one famously trained with an old oar instead of a sword, paying little heed to authoritative opinions about how a “true” samurai ought to behave.)

As for the samurai art of the sword, there is another feature worth emphasizing — one so obvious it is often overlooked. Technically, it is remarkably simple. In essence, kenjutsu reduces to two fundamental actions: the thrust with the tip and the cut with the blade. All further variations on these themes depend on the conditioning of the body and, more importantly, the cultivation of the mind. It is precisely this domain that thoughtful practitioners should engage with — rather than the mechanical reproduction of supposedly “authentic and highly effective techniques,” whose repetition alone, even if extensive, ultimately yields very little.