Chinese internal martial arts: Tai Chi, Xingyi, and Bagua. The word “chi” does not carve reality at the joints: There is no literal bodily fluid system parallel to blood and lymph. But I can make training partners lightheaded with a quick succession of strikes to Ren Ying (ST9) then Chi Ze (LU5); I can send someone stumbling backward with some fairly light pushes; after 30-60 seconds of sparring to develop a rapport I can take an unwary opponent’s balance without physical contact.
Each of these skills fit more naturally under different categories, but if you want to learn them all the most efficient way is to study a Chinese internal martial art or something similar.
I can take an unwary opponent’s balance without physical contact.
This sounds magical at first reading, but is actually not that tricky. It’s just psychology and balance. If you set up a pattern of predictable attacks, then feint in the right direction while your opponent is jumping at you off-balance, you can surprise him enough to make him fall as he attempts to ward off your feint.
I used to go to a Tai Chi class (I stopped only because I decided I’d taken it as far as I was going to), and the instructor, who never talked about “chi” as anything more than a metaphor or a useful visualisation, said this about the internal arts:
In the old days (that would be pre-revolutionary China) you wouldn’t practice just Tai Chi, or begin with Tai Chi. Tai Chi was the equivalent of postgraduate study in the martial arts. You would start out by learning two or three “hard”, “external” styles. Then, having reached black belt in those, and having developed your power, speed, strength, and fighting spirit, you would study the internal arts, which would teach you the proper alignments and structures, the meaning of the various movements and forms. In the class there were two students who did Gojuryu karate, a 3rd dan and a 5th dan, and they both said that their karate had improved no end since taking up Tai Chi.
Which is not to say that Tai Chi isn’t useful on its own, it is, but there is that wider context for getting the maximum use out of it.
That meshes well with what I have learned—Bagua is also an advanced art, and my teacher doesn’t teach it to beginners. The one of the three primary internal arts designed for new martial artists is Xingyi.
It’s too bad I’m too pecuniarily challenged to attend the singularity summit, or we could do rationalist pushing hands.
There may be a correlation between studying martial arts and vulnerability to techniques which can be modeled well by “chi.” But I have tried the striking sequences successfully on capoeristas and catch wrestlers, and the light but effective pushes on my non-martially-trained brother after showing him Wu-style pushing hands for a minute or two.
That suggests an experiment. Anyone see any flaws in the following?
Write up instructions for two techniques—one which would work and one which not work, according to your theory—in sufficient detail for someone physically adept but not instructed in Chinese internal martial arts (e.g. a dancer) to learn. Label each with a random letter (e.g. I for the correct one and K for the incorrect one).
Have one group learn each technique—have them videotape their actions and send them corrections by text, so that they don’t get cues about whether you expect the methods to work.
Have another party ignorant of the technique perform tests to see how well each group does.
I like the idea of scientifically testing internal arts; and your idea is certainly more rigorous than TV series attempting to approach martial arts “scientifically” like Mind, Body, and Kickass Moves. Unfortunately, the only one of those I can think of which is both (1) explainable in words and pictures to a precise enough degree that “chi”-type theories could constrain expectations, and (2) has an unambiguous result when done correctly which varies qualitatively from an incorrect attempt is the knockout series of hits, which raises both ethical and practical concerns.
I would classify the other two as tacit knowledge—they require a little bit of instruction on the counterintuitive parts; then a lot of practice which I can’t think of a good way to fake.
Note that I would be completely astonished if there weren’t a perfectly normal explanation for any of these feats; but deriving methods for them from first principles of biomechanics and cognitive science would take a lot longer than studying with a good teacher who works with the “chi” model.
The problem is that a positive result would only show that a specific sequence of attacks worked well. It wouldn’t show that “chi” or other unusual models were required to explain it; there could be perfectly normal explanations for why a series of attacks was effective.
That’s why I suggested writing down both techniques which should work according to the model and techniques which should not work according to the model.
I used to go to a Tai Chi class (I stopped only because I decided I’d taken it as far as I was going to), and the instructor, who never touted “chi” as anything more than a metaphor or a useful visualisation, said this about the internal arts:
In the old days (that would be pre-revolutionary China) you wouldn’t practice just Tai Chi, or begin with Tai Chi. Tai Chi was the equivalent of postgraduate study in the martial arts. You would start out by learning two or three “hard”, “external” styles. Then, having reached black belt in those, and having developed your power, speed, strength, and fighting spirit, you would study the internal arts, which would teach you the proper alignments and structures, the meaning of the various movements and forms. In the class there were two students who did Gojuryu karate, a 3rd dan and a 5th dan, and they both said that their karate had improved no end since taking up Tai Chi.
Which is not to say that Tai Chi isn’t useful on its own, it is, but there is that wider context for getting the maximum use out of it.
Chinese internal martial arts: Tai Chi, Xingyi, and Bagua. The word “chi” does not carve reality at the joints: There is no literal bodily fluid system parallel to blood and lymph. But I can make training partners lightheaded with a quick succession of strikes to Ren Ying (ST9) then Chi Ze (LU5); I can send someone stumbling backward with some fairly light pushes; after 30-60 seconds of sparring to develop a rapport I can take an unwary opponent’s balance without physical contact.
Each of these skills fit more naturally under different categories, but if you want to learn them all the most efficient way is to study a Chinese internal martial art or something similar.
This sounds magical at first reading, but is actually not that tricky. It’s just psychology and balance. If you set up a pattern of predictable attacks, then feint in the right direction while your opponent is jumping at you off-balance, you can surprise him enough to make him fall as he attempts to ward off your feint.
I used to go to a Tai Chi class (I stopped only because I decided I’d taken it as far as I was going to), and the instructor, who never talked about “chi” as anything more than a metaphor or a useful visualisation, said this about the internal arts:
In the old days (that would be pre-revolutionary China) you wouldn’t practice just Tai Chi, or begin with Tai Chi. Tai Chi was the equivalent of postgraduate study in the martial arts. You would start out by learning two or three “hard”, “external” styles. Then, having reached black belt in those, and having developed your power, speed, strength, and fighting spirit, you would study the internal arts, which would teach you the proper alignments and structures, the meaning of the various movements and forms. In the class there were two students who did Gojuryu karate, a 3rd dan and a 5th dan, and they both said that their karate had improved no end since taking up Tai Chi.
Which is not to say that Tai Chi isn’t useful on its own, it is, but there is that wider context for getting the maximum use out of it.
That meshes well with what I have learned—Bagua is also an advanced art, and my teacher doesn’t teach it to beginners. The one of the three primary internal arts designed for new martial artists is Xingyi. It’s too bad I’m too pecuniarily challenged to attend the singularity summit, or we could do rationalist pushing hands.
Interesting. It seems that learning this art (1) gives you a power and (2) makes you vulnerable to it.
There may be a correlation between studying martial arts and vulnerability to techniques which can be modeled well by “chi.” But I have tried the striking sequences successfully on capoeristas and catch wrestlers, and the light but effective pushes on my non-martially-trained brother after showing him Wu-style pushing hands for a minute or two.
That suggests an experiment. Anyone see any flaws in the following?
Write up instructions for two techniques—one which would work and one which not work, according to your theory—in sufficient detail for someone physically adept but not instructed in Chinese internal martial arts (e.g. a dancer) to learn. Label each with a random letter (e.g. I for the correct one and K for the incorrect one).
Have one group learn each technique—have them videotape their actions and send them corrections by text, so that they don’t get cues about whether you expect the methods to work.
Have another party ignorant of the technique perform tests to see how well each group does.
I like the idea of scientifically testing internal arts; and your idea is certainly more rigorous than TV series attempting to approach martial arts “scientifically” like Mind, Body, and Kickass Moves. Unfortunately, the only one of those I can think of which is both (1) explainable in words and pictures to a precise enough degree that “chi”-type theories could constrain expectations, and (2) has an unambiguous result when done correctly which varies qualitatively from an incorrect attempt is the knockout series of hits, which raises both ethical and practical concerns.
I would classify the other two as tacit knowledge—they require a little bit of instruction on the counterintuitive parts; then a lot of practice which I can’t think of a good way to fake.
Note that I would be completely astonished if there weren’t a perfectly normal explanation for any of these feats; but deriving methods for them from first principles of biomechanics and cognitive science would take a lot longer than studying with a good teacher who works with the “chi” model.
The problem is that a positive result would only show that a specific sequence of attacks worked well. It wouldn’t show that “chi” or other unusual models were required to explain it; there could be perfectly normal explanations for why a series of attacks was effective.
That’s why I suggested writing down both techniques which should work according to the model and techniques which should not work according to the model.
It’s conceivable that imagining chi is the best (or at least a very good) way of being able to do subtle attacks.
I used to go to a Tai Chi class (I stopped only because I decided I’d taken it as far as I was going to), and the instructor, who never touted “chi” as anything more than a metaphor or a useful visualisation, said this about the internal arts:
In the old days (that would be pre-revolutionary China) you wouldn’t practice just Tai Chi, or begin with Tai Chi. Tai Chi was the equivalent of postgraduate study in the martial arts. You would start out by learning two or three “hard”, “external” styles. Then, having reached black belt in those, and having developed your power, speed, strength, and fighting spirit, you would study the internal arts, which would teach you the proper alignments and structures, the meaning of the various movements and forms. In the class there were two students who did Gojuryu karate, a 3rd dan and a 5th dan, and they both said that their karate had improved no end since taking up Tai Chi.
Which is not to say that Tai Chi isn’t useful on its own, it is, but there is that wider context for getting the maximum use out of it.