by Régis Soavi
‘That is all the master asks, for his teaching to be stolen; for him, it is extremely simple, but for others, it seems mysterious, incomprehensible, implausible.’ 1
Seeing, feeling
Even if we start Aikido with superficial ideas coming from the world around us, it is important that, little by little, they come closer to reality and become a tool for reclaiming the body – our authentic body.
At each session I conduct, after the first part – which each person does alone but in harmony with the others, and which is essentially based on exercises of Ki circulation –, I begin by demonstrating a technique that, a priori, a large number of practitioners already know. The whole point of the demonstration is to convey a message through the executed movement. A dialogue is being initiated, it is not just a technique, nor even a way of doing things, because each practitioner, depending on their level, attention span and ability at the time, should be able to find what they need to deepen their practice. It is more about transmission than anything else.
I insist on an element – precision, distance, or any other particularity – so that something I want to make concrete is clearly visible and becomes a form that is obvious by its simplicity and so that, through the work and training that follow, the body as a whole no longer has to think but acts naturally, rediscovering its spontaneity.
Chiselling an insect, engraving a flower
In China there is a common expression, a proverb, which means “easy work” and whose first two ideograms are the same as Tsuda sensei’s calligraphy in small seal style (sigillary): 雕蟲小技 chiselling insect small technique.
This calligraphy (see photo) can therefore express: “Engraving a flower is very easy, as is carving an insect.”
The proverb means anyone can carve or draw a small flower because it is a simple and easy work to carry out, but that consequently points out only great masters can produce a remarkable work. It all depends on the kokyu. Tsuda sensei comments on the meaning of this word in his second book, The Path of Less. It is rare to have so simple and precise a definition that allows us Westerners – at first sight presumably unprepared – to grasp its content:
Ki, kokyu, respiration, intuition are themes that are pivotal to the arts and crafts of Japan. It constitutes a professional secret, not because people want to keep it like a patent, or a recipe for earning their living, but because it cannot be passed on intellectually. Respiration is the final word, the ultimate secret of learning. Only the best disciples gain access to it, after years of sustained effort.’ 2
The role of the teacher
One of the roles of the teacher – by no means the only one – is to act, among other things, as some kind of conductor. They set the tempo, suggest different ways of interpreting a technique, taking it in a particular direction to bring out its full potential, in the same way that the maestro gives instructions on “how to interpret” a piece of music, by emphasising a note, a series of notes or a particular feature. The teacher, like the conductor, has a very important role to play, and the way they conduct an Aikido session can make it boring or captivating; too fast and without precision, for example, it can miss its objective, even though the intention was good; just as a conductor can derail a very sensitive piece of music if they conduct too harshly. Neither too rigid nor too soft, flexible while convincing, both conductor and teacher give their interpretation of what they have felt, what they have understood of their art, of the music as well as the session being conducted. Another conductor or another teacher will see different things, different accents to bring out, and each will insist on different aspects.
Relationships with musicians and students alike are also decisive. If the conductor is dictatorial, they will not win the support of the people who are supposed to follow them; at best they will obtain a submission that can only render the musical work commonplace or the Aikido class spiritless and joyless. Like the conductor, who should never forget that they are not the composer and that they must respect the work for what it is – or what they think or feel it to be –, the martial arts teacher is not the creator of the art they wish to develop and make known; they are its interpreter, however inspired they may be. Composer Beethoven himself, I believe, used to say that he was simply transcribing the music he heard, which already existed in the universe around him. We are, similarly, only interpreting what O-sensei did, what we know about him, what we were able to perceive from the videos of the time, what various masters were able to pass on to us – and, more specifically, what I personally was able to discover thanks to direct contact with Tsuda sensei over all these years. But O-sensei himself considered his art was given, transmitted to him by something greater than himself, something that he perceived and tried to communicate through his movements, person, words, posture, or quite simply his presence.
The fact remains that each session is a challenge and depends on the atmosphere one has been able to create. The great conductor Sergiu Celibidache believed no matter how many rehearsals, how committed each musician was, how attentive the audience, everything could be put into question at the last moment. The concert, as an ultimate moment of truth, depends on elements that are sometimes unpredictable and which, whether favourable or not, change the course of the event, of the demonstration. The role of the teacher is to enable each student to develop their abilities even beyond what they can conceive or perceive thereof.
Working on the body
It is through sincere work on the body that we can open up our mental structure, alienated by deeply dualistic habits of reasoning and reacting. Demonstrations exist only to show that something is possible and can enable us to change what binds us if we move in a direction with sincerity. The body needs recover its natural base, what it really is deep down, and not be modelled to follow the desires of an era, a fashion, or a self-image pre-printed on a brain that is weakened by its environment. The demonstration of a technique depends on multiple factors that require an ad hoc response and not an unconditional riposte provided for in the nomenclature. It should make it possible for everyone to feel concerned with what is happening in front of them so that they know how to react accordingly, regardless of their environment, but rather by integrating what surrounds them to create a situation that will provide a calm – and, if possible, peaceful – solution to any act that might become unpleasant or even dangerous.
Which partner to use
I have often seen teachers regularly use their best student as their uke. When this choice seems wise for public demonstrations or “open days”, because they are about showing the beauty of the art or its effectiveness – without risk for the partner, who knows how to fall in all circumstances –, it loses its meaning in daily practice where the aim is, I think, quite different. Working with experienced students is often rewarding because of their availability, the quality of their movements or the responsiveness they provide, but the drawback is that they often try to show off their teacher. With a beginner, especially a very beginner for that matter, this is completely different, there is no room for error, you have to be particularly available to this body which is not used to moving, reacting in this situation and which risks hurting itself for nothing. You really need understand, feel the other person, and be able despite it all to pass on the message you want to convey, if you want to enable the learning process and development of the people who come to learn. I have always found it interesting to do my demonstrations with people who are far less advanced, or even complete beginners, for that allows me to show and even demonstrate that adapting to the other person’s body is one of the secrets of the Non-Doing.
The secret of the living
Demonstrations during a session should always be adapted to the type of people present so that they can perceive the circulation of Ki through impregnation, which is way more difficult to achieve when these demonstrations are mediatised. Books containing drawings or photos can only be used as a technical aid or complement that is sometimes essential, but they can be no substitute for in vivo demonstrations. Videos can also be useful to get to know the different schools or the “historical masters”, but also – and perhaps even more so – to give an image of our art and thereby arouse the desire to discover its beauty as well as its effectiveness. Yet, whether in music or in martial arts, the secret lies beyond form or training; in my opinion, it lies rather in the manifestation of the living, which we can only discover through what we have felt in contact with it. An amateur musician can animate a folk ball and enable a whole village to find unity in the pleasure of being together because she or he partakes in the atmosphere. In a dojo, the living – and therefore ki – manifests through what innerly animates the person conducting the session. It is their inner quality that expresses itself in demonstrations, whether fast or slow, powerful or subtle and penetrating. It is the Ki they give off that leads us to start practising Aikido, drives us to continue or sometimes flee the place. Nothing can replace living experience, neither speeches nor smiles nor false pretences. Demonstrations during sessions are for me the ultimate reference, “a moment of truth”.
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Article by Régis Soavi published in Self et Dragon (Spécial Aikido n° 15) in October 2023.
Notes:
- Tsuda Itsuo, The Unstable Triangle, Chap. XVIII, Yume Editions (Paris), 2019, p. 136 (1st ed. in French, 1980, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 132)
- Tsuda Itsuo, The Path of Less, Chap. III, Yume Editions (Paris), 2014, pp. 33–34 (1st ed. in French, 1975, pub. Le Courrier du Livre (Paris), p. 31–32)