Before I became an actor, my first pursuit in life was the study of Japanese swordsmanship. When I was 13-years old, I began training with a well-respected kendo (modern Japanese fencing) instructor in New York, and some twenty-years later, continue to train in kendo and iaijutsu (classical Japanese swordsmanship). In the time between, I have traveled to Japan, been an observer of Japanese culture, and had the privilege to study under some of, who I consider to be, the greatest sensei and practitioners in modern budo (martial arts) history.
When Greg Cioffi invited me to write an article for his ongoing collection of artists’ perspectives, I took some time to consider what I could offer that might be of insight. Rather than write exclusively about my own journey, I thought it might be more useful to share some of the philosophy and aesthetics that have shaped my understanding as a martial artist, an actor, and a member of society. I take this stance because, as my sensei once said to me, “If I asked you to tell me how many of the grandmasters of our tradition you could name, you most likely could only say a handful; but if I asked you how many techniques and principles you know, I guarantee you could easily list scores.”
The teaching here is that the men and women of martial arts are soon forgotten; but the traditions, the core values, and the techniques of the art – these are what endure the crucible of time.
The budoka (martial practitioners) who have preserved and disseminated their art in its purest form knew this, and selflessly dedicated their lives to their path, recognizing they were contributing to something far greater and lasting.
These are concepts of which I am by no means a master. They are viewpoints that fuel me and challenge me. I grapple with them often; and most often am humbled by them.
If twenty years of training is twenty drops in a bucket…well, if only I had a thousand-years left to train, as there are still a thousand drops to go.
It is my hope that, the concepts below inspire you in some form or another, as an artist, practitioner of your own budo, or as a human being. To the best of my ability, I will attempt to draw parallels, where appropriate, between swordsmanship and acting. May there be something there for you to glean.
Thank you for taking the time to read, and with regards to your journey and aspirations: “Gambatte kurasai! Fight hard!”
In gassho (palms together),
Morgan Hooper
Shisei
The philosophy of the Japanese warrior has a sea of extolled virtues. In the tradition of iaijutsu that I study, Miura Takeyuki Hidefusa, the 20th grandmaster, most valued shisei. On a surface level, shisei simply means “posture.” Often when training begins or concludes in the dojo, and the teacher and students bow to one another, the command “Shisei wo tadashite” is called out – literally, “Straighten your backs.”
Such a phrase might evoke images of the military or boot camp, and there is an aspect of this; but on a deeper level shisei implies “inner posture”, or sincerity. In this sense, shisei is a virtue with connotations of earnestness, humility, beginner’s spirit, magnanimity, and courage. Shisei compels one to offer their best to the present moment, especially in the less than ideal. It was Miura Sensei’s belief that it is only through shisei that growth, knowledge, and success is possible.
When I consider how shisei is applicable to acting, the first comparison that comes to mind is the example Sir John Gielgud used to illustrate his perspective. If you have not heard it, the story goes that there were times in Gielgud’s career when he would observe his fellow actors peeking through the curtains before a play would begin, musing and whispering to one another, “I wonder what kind of audience they are going to be tonight?” Rightly calling out his peers, Gielgud quips, “What they’re really asking is: what kind of performance are we going to give them tonight?”
If you have ever been in a long run of a theatre production, I suspect Sir John’s remark will resonate. The energy an actor feels coming from the audience on opening night and the Sunday matinee can be a brutal contrast.
On those matinees though, it is perhaps worth asking, “Who is serving whom? Who paid for the tickets? How can I make the most and offer my best in this situation?”
When I was in Kyoto five-years ago, this was my observation of every Japanese woman, man, and child I came across. Whether it was a train conductor collecting my ticket, a restaurant server wiping down a table, or an inquisitive schoolboy asking me why I love ramen, I discovered that the Japanese spirit is dedicated to excellence, service, and a sincere effort, no matter how mundane the task. This expression of shisei humbles me, particularly when I find myself in a lazy spell, and revitalizes me to begin again with a committed effort.
Masa/Masu
Of all the corrections on my technique I have received over the years from various sensei, the one I have heard most repeatedly is masa or masu, meaning “straight, straighter.” This correction has numerous aspects, the first of which is straightness of form. Correct footwork, forward upright posture (shisei), and proper cutting and thrusting angles fall into this category. On a deeper level masa is an observation of the straightness, or more accurately, the directness of the attack. As two budoka cross swords, the initial contest is for the invisible centerline where the weapons meet. The swordsman that can maintain control of this line, or arrests it from the opponent in their attack, throwing them off-balance, will almost assuredly be the victor.
How one makes this attack though, there’s the rub. In bujutsu (traditional Japanese arts of war) any method to secure victory was acceptable. However, as martial arts evolved in the later centuries, a moral component was introduced to the older systems. The emphasis shifted somewhat from the practicalities of war, to the cultivation of the human spirit. This is how bujutsu became budo (the way or path of the warrior).
After a sparring match between a teacher or peer and myself, I often reflect back, “How straight was my technique? Did I attack with courage and honesty, or was I surreptitious in my advance? Did I act decisively whether I won or lost; or was I hesitant, defensive and attached or fearful of an outcome?” For myself, I have found that when I feel outmatched by another fencer’s technique or dominance of spirit, the latter qualities are the case. Masa, on its deepest level, then implies straightness of heart. Fortunately, the bloody days of dueling are long past; but trials and uncertainties are a natural part of life. When encountering these obstacles, does one confront them boldly, or slyly duck and evade?
In the last decade, I have applied the concept of masa more and more to the creation of the characters I portray. At times in my career I have found myself making “intelligent, crafty, or unexpected” choices for my roles, all for the sake of being clever. Sometimes this impulse has served me, but in later years, I have questioned how much I honored the playwright’s intention for the character and how much was a distortion. These days, I strive to err more on the side of simplicity.
Sensei and Deshi
I would be remiss if I had not dedicated a portion of this article to the sensei-deshi (teacher-student) relationship. In essence, it is this bond that promulgates budo for generations to come. Without this connection, art forms eventually are forgotten. Thanks largely to martial art’s cinema, it is not a novel idea to posit that a budoka is only as great as the lessons received from their sensei. However, what is sometimes missed in these works, or only subtly hinted at, is that the teacher, likewise, only thrives because of the willingness of the student. Without the teacher’s knowledge, the student can never actualize their potential. Similarly, without the steadfast dedication of the student, the teacher has no inheritor to the legacy of which they are the steward. In the traditions I study, this is why the sensei bows first to the student, acknowledging the pupil’s commitment to carry on a path that sometimes goes back hundreds of years; and it is why the student reciprocates a bow, demonstrating gratitude for the knowledge that is received, and to honor the commitment that they may one day become the next teacher that must bear the torch for the future.
This relationship between sensei and deshi is honed in the fire of training over the span of many years. My teacher once shared with me that only after a practitioner has been training under him for ten years, does he consider them to be a student. That first decade is spent understanding the kihon, the fundamentals and basics of the art. Only after that period, does the student’s spirit and individuality begin to emerge, and the subtler aesthetics of the tradition begin to reveal themselves. Additionally, and perhaps more importantly, the teacher and student have a keener sense of who the other person is. They are aware, as an instructor of mine once put it, “of the other guy’s warts.” In the two decades I have been studying Japanese sword, I have yet to encounter a perfect human being on the dojo floor. None of us are devoid of flaws. This, in my opinion, is the more significant effect martial arts can have in one’s life. Learning the techniques is all well and good, but becoming a better version of one’s self – this is why martial arts continue to inspire and draw aspirants. A humble student realizes they have potential within themselves that they cannot quite harness on their own; and a humble teacher strives to guide the student to forge this potential into its actualization.
Drawing a comparison of the sensei-deshi relationship with the acting world is not as intuitive as it might seem. The dynamic that comes closest is the acting instructor and student, and to some extent the director-actor relationship. However, with these dynamics the crucial difference is the element of time. As mentioned above, students train with their martial art’s teachers for years, sometimes a lifetime. Generally, a student of acting receives techniques from their teacher in a much more compressed period, often a year or two. Of course, the period of work with a director is almost always (at least in the States) just a few weeks, so it is compressed even further.
An observation of myself and others, both as a student of martial arts and acting is this: the novice of any art is almost without exception quite awkward in their grappling with a technique. This awkwardness manifests either as a lack of confidence, or a tendency to muddy the technique through embellishments, affectations, or haphazard movements. The work of the teacher is to brush away this awkwardness and, with the technique as the means, guide the student to realize their own essence in its simplicity. The conundrum for the student is that as they let go more and more of the unnecessary motions they are holding onto or hiding behind, the more they feel as though they are losing their individuality; and this is the critical juncture, especially for Westerners, where the student buckles and resists. If they can press forward though, and continue to release this awkwardness, a beautiful paradox takes place. All that remains is the technique, and because the technique has become so polished, transparent in fact, that is when the practitioner’s true identity emerges.
With regards to the director-actor relationship what I will offer is this: in the dojo, there is merit in the fact that a student’s speech is generally limited to bowing and acknowledging instruction or correction with a simple “Hai!” (“Yes!”). Western artists, especially in today’s industry, where the landscape of power is fluid and increasingly non-hierarchal, love to question, challenge, debate, bicker, and downright refuse. In my estimation, there is value in this dynamic of collaboration, and something potentially detrimental. For me, there is a threshold in which there is suddenly too much talking in the room, too much intellectualizing of the work, too much rebuttal for the ego’s sake. There is something profound about trusting the creative process to unfold as it must, even if the mind cannot quite grasp what is happening.
All this to say, when I am in the rehearsal room or on set, I am careful to discern when it is time to have a discussion, and when it is appropriate to simply nod and take the direction, even though it might not make sense. A good director, like a good teacher, has a broader scope of the trajectory that must take place, and I believe that sometimes the best thing and actor can do is to trust the direction they are being steered.
A caveat to this: a budoka or actor must never compromise their integrity. The martial arts and performance worlds are riddled with charlatans. One must always trust their intuition in these cases. Be steadfast in this and do not hesitate.
Yoyuu and the Selfish Strike
A few years ago, I became acquainted with the concept of yoyuu. To my understanding, yoyuu is the capacity to adapt to the ever-changing moment. This quality is critical during combat. In a duel, the opponents may have observed one another for a length of time, become familiar with the other’s technique, etc. and have a sense of how victory may be secured; but then, one swordsman maneuvers in an unexpected way and the other is slain. The night before a large-scale battle, the generals meet to assess their plan of attack. They have a contingency for every variation of a counterattack they believe the opposing forces will attempt, and they are certain they will prevail. The next morning, torrential rain turns the field of encounter into a mud pit. Their cavalry have no means of adjusting to this unpredictability and, as a result, many thousands of young soldiers are slaughtered and the generals’ honor is forever stained.
The way my teacher first introduced yoyuu to me was by using the illustration of a tiger that hung on one of the dojo walls. “The tiger,” Sensei said, “is unpredictable and wild in its nature. It is impossible for me to know precisely how or when it will pounce. It may lunge or dash, stalk or veer, wait or run away. Planning how I will cut it down very likely will cost my life. However, there is a moment, when the tiger will commit to its attack – the tiger will show me its vulnerable opening – and like the painter’s brush coloring in a blank space on a canvas, that is where my sword will go.”
To frame it another way, at one point in time, my kendo instructor told me I was being selfish in my strikes. I asked him what he meant by this and he explained that in kendo there are only a few accepted targets: cuts to the head, the wrist, the waist, and a thrust to the throat or chest. Often, kendoka tend to fixate on one target, either because they are good at attacking it, or it has become a kind of signature strike. The problem is that sometimes that target is not available for opening, mainly because the opponent knows how to guard it. Persistently chasing after or forcing an opening that is not there is ruinous. In reflection of my instructor’s correction, I realize there have certainly been times, whether as a budoka, an artist, or in my personal life, when I have been guilty of tunnel vision, obsessing on one possible outcome or desire, essentially ignoring all the other possibilities and open doors that were right there in front of me. This is what he meant by a selfish strike.
A few weeks ago, I began thinking about yoyuu again after presenting a scene from The Seagull with another actor. In the last rehearsal before the showing, a director colleague observed that I was not fully taking in my scene partner’s offers. I was hearing her speak, listening on a shallow level, but I was not really letting her affect me; I was dismissing her. I took note of this, and during the presentation found that this tendency had become a bad habit. Early in the scene, she gestured for me to take a seat in the chair beside her. Rather than accept her invitation, I chose to ignore this and instead sit on the floor at her feet. I could argue that this was my character’s way of asserting his will over her’s, but I knew in that moment I was being selfish.
For just a brief moment, I realized I had thrown my scene partner off, and she was now forced to accommodate me.
In the actor training I am currently exploring, my instructor often says, “Don’t decide. Be decided upon.” This for me is another way of saying let the tiger show you how it must be struck. Much can be praised for artists that come into a creative process with generous, bold offers and propositions. In recent years, I am learning that perhaps another kind of generosity is also needed – the generosity to let others shine; the generosity to flow with the breath and pulse of the creation itself, to allow the creation to dictate how it wishes to evolve and be experienced.
Once I asked a wood sculptor about an exhibit he was working on. At the time, New York had been recovering from a series of hurricanes and tropical storms, and his backyard was littered with fallen twigs and branches. He decided to use this debris to create a series of sculptures, and as I examined them, I was moved by each piece’s fragility. The slender strips of winding, gnarled wood delicately rested upon one another, and it would take only a gust to scatter all his work. What was sublime though was, rather than invasively forcing dynamics or manipulating the wood to his will, I noticed how the artist seemed to patiently and gently find the most natural groove or notch that would balance one element atop the next. When I asked him about this, he said, as sculptor’s often do, “My job isn’t to impose my idea on the object. My job is to listen to what it is telling me it wants to become.”
Shu-ha-ri
The concept of shu-ha-ri is easiest to understand by imagining three concentric circles, one resting within or expanding out from the other. The first and smallest circle, shu, is considered the formative period of training. This is the time frame, often a decade or so, when the sensei emphasizes the importance of kihon, the fundamentals and basics of a craft. The student spends their hours on the dojo floor, comprehending the “footwork”, a theme that extends to other arts as well, which shortly below I will expound upon. For most Westerners of the present day, spending ten-years learning the foundations of an art is as alien as it is preposterous. We simply do not have the time for that investment. We fixate on immediate results and success. When encountering an Eastern tradition of any form, we expect the secret or ultimate expression on the first day. The Eastern arts I have practiced and observed simply operate with a more patient and committed mindset. In my experience, it really does take a decade to begin to understand the art. Perhaps a question worth exploring: if one is truly passionate and wants to excel in a path, why not invest one’s life in its study?
Ha, the second larger circle, begins around year eleven, and it is a time of questioning and experimentation. The sensei and deshi frustrate one another, much like a parent and their defiant teenager. The frustrated budoka is aware that they have acquired a certain level of comprehension and skill; and at the same time, they have more doubts and confusion then when they began their training. In a sense, they are wrestling with an irony: the more they learn, the more questions arise. This prompts the practitioner to test the knowledge they have received from their first sensei, and begin to study with other teachers. They travel to dojo in remote countries, and compete in tournaments, etc. It is an exciting time, as they learn new techniques and forge friendships that can last all one’s life. It can also be a time mired with pitfalls. Not all sensei are of equal calibre, and even a teacher exuding technical prowess, may not be the best model to emulate if their values are in some way corrupt.
Another ten, perhaps twenty years of steadfast training go by, and practitioners find themselves in ri, the most expansive outer circle – a ring of maturation. The teacher and student have a deeper appreciation for their relationship, similar to a child becoming a parent for the first time and the parent stepping into the role of grandparent. The cycle of experience has wound its way back to its origin and begins again anew. Shu, the heart, the basics, becomes ha, the exploration and experimentation, becomes Rri, the culmination of knowledge, becomes shu once more. The budoka, established in their years of training, often opens their own hall of training, and begins to teach a new student the kihon.
There have been times, I must admit, when all this repetition of the basics has driven me mad with indignation. “How many thousands of times must I practice this form before I can move on already!? Haven’t I figured out the footwork by now!?” Years ago in my actor training, I encountered bunraku, Japanese puppetry for the first time, and ever since have been enamored with this exquisite art. I understood then that all this time emphasis on the ashi, the footwork, is not singular to budo; it extends to most, if not all, Japanese arts.
In bunraku, the puppet is manipulated by three puppeteers. The novice coordinates the feet, the experienced or older student controls the left, less dominant hand, and the master articulates the head and right hand, the most expressive aspects. Traditionally, like many of the older arts, bunraku was passed on from father to son, so that the forms and secrets of the family were preserved and a natural hierarchy evolved. There is nothing surprising in this, but when I learned that the novice puppeteer dedicates ten years of their life controlling only the puppets feet, I was astonished. Consider for a moment how artists love the limelight, how they assert their right to be the petals of the rose, “the puppeteer who controls the head and expressive hand” as it were; and then consider the possibility of spending ten-years learning the element of an art, essential in supporting the overall structure of performance, but is by far the least exciting to watch (oh, and by the way, you are wearing a black mask obscuring your face – almost as though you are not even there; in fact, invisibility, is in some ways the mark of a great puppeteer). Consider still further, having committed to this art, spending a decade mastering the feet, you will spend another ten years utilizing only the puppets less expressive hand. After twenty, twenty-five years time, the puppet’s head and right hand are in your power. Shu-ha-ri.
Years ago, when I first discovered my love for Shakespeare, I was inspired by several of The Old Vic actors from the 1960’s like Richard Burton. In an interview I once read, I recall Burton admitting that he was driven to be the greatest actor in the world, and if he could not do that, then what was the point? The road to greatness is laden with delusion, but in this instance, I believe Burton meant that he wanted to reach the pinnacle of his art, a compulsion that leads many artists to glory, madness, or both at the same time. There are numerous stories of budoka spending their lives in a similar way. It is a path of a sacrifice, seldom glorious, but inspiring nonetheless. In kendo, there is a common pursuit, that after all the thousands of repetitions of drills and forms, aside from all the trophies, titles and trappings of success, the true victory is to strike perfectly – just once.
Fushime
Fushime, or the “turning point” is easiest explained by considering the nodes, or horizontal delineations in a bamboo stalk. Each demarcation from the ground up signifies a new phase in the bamboo’s growth and its overall trajectory. Some stalks shoot straight for the heavens, while others wind about their environment in serpentine coils. In a metaphorical sense, these nodes are representative of the chapters, often ten years again or so, of one’s progress on the path of budo. This period of transition encompasses more than technical refinements and a deeper philosophical understanding. Fushime suggests a shedding of what no longer serves so that growth can continue – whether that be a relinquishing of old tendencies, or saying goodbye to relationships. Often, a student trains with one teacher for an extended time, and then one or both realize, that the bond has come to conclusion, and so part ways. Sometimes too, the techniques or mindsets which aided one to victory, no longer bear fruit the way they once did, and so a new approach must be discovered. Fushime is the natural process of letting go so that the budoka can become a new and greater version of themselves.
There have been many times in my life, artistically and personally, when I have held on for too long, or worse yet, looked backwards at a memory. To move forward on one’s journey though, saying goodbye, releasing, and surrendering is vital. If one door closes, search for entry into the next. Do not be a dog in the rain hoping to be let back into the master’s good graces. Forgive the other – harder still, forgive yourself – if that is what is called for; remember gratitude; learn from the mistakes you made for they will make you wiser; never blame others but hold yourself accountable always; consider deeply what more could have been done, and then move on.
Growth is painful. Growth rarely has a plan. Growth is both a harbinger of triumph and disaster, and is both celebrated and desperately avoided. Fushime, the turning points of one’s life, regardless of whether or not they are invited, will inevitably arrive. All one can do is to decide how best to respond.
Satori
Satori is one term for “understanding, or comprehension”; it is also the name in some Buddhist sects for enlightenment. The way my sensei explained satori to me was this:
Imagine that you are standing in front of a high, expansive wall. On this wall are many sealed hatches and windows. During your training, one of these windows suddenly opens. You peer in and what you see on the other side is the fragment of a painting. It is beautiful and evocative, but it is incomplete. It is only one of countless other fragments. The hatch closes and you resume gazing at the wall. Time passes and another hatch opens. You look in again. You take account of what you see. The two fragments you have born witness to, you realize, are in relationship to one another, but you do not understand how. More time passes, your training continues, and periodically, spontaneously, without any effort, the hatches open by themselves. Satori is like this. The trick is that rarely, if ever, do we see the painting in its totality. We only see the fragments.
When I look back on my years in budo and as a performer, I can take stock of the fragments that have guided me along the path. Sometimes they at first appeared inconsequential. For instance, for a long time I struggled to speak and act in my authentic voice, without any affectation. I had developed a number of tensions, mental and physical, that were preventing this. After an extensive period of work with my voice teacher, one summer afternoon while I was watching a softball game – not thinking about my voice or acting at all – all the muscles in my lower back suddenly released. It felt like a wave of weight that I had unknowingly been holding onto for many years decided of its own accord to simply let go. At the time, it was a surprising sensation, but I did not grasp then how releasing my lower back in that way would open up the channel of my breath, and as a consequence, support my vocal technique in my fifteen year’s worth of work since.
Satori is a little bit like falling in love. Whenever a friend tells me how they found their partner, they say, “I wasn’t looking at all. Love was the last thing on my mind.” While persistence and effort have their own value, there is a trap in waiting, expecting, or prying a window open that just is not ready to unlatch. But taking a step back and looking at the larger picture, perhaps another one is. This, in some ways, goes back to yoyuu.
Many years ago, another teacher of mine once told my class about a coffee meeting he had had with a well-known actor. The two were sipping on their drinks, chatting about this and that, when suddenly the actor exclaimed to my teacher, “Ah! That’s what I should have done with Hamlet!” My teacher then explained that this actor had been frustrated with his performance as the prince. On the one-hand, one might argue that the actor had not let go of his shortcomings, but thinking about this story years later, I like to think this actor in his own way had a spark of inspiration, a hatch had opened for him. Having played Hamlet once myself, I suspect there must be something ultimately dissatisfying about the part for any actor that takes it on. There are moments of artistic triumph, but in the end the Everest of Shakespeare’s characters humbles all of us. It’s almost eight years now since I said the words, and occasionally I too have an aha! moment. Maybe there is still time to give it another climb.
Morgan Hooper began studying Japanese martial arts in 1999. He is the founding instructor of Enshinkan Dojo, School of Traditional Japanese Sword Arts, currently located in Long Island City. He holds the ranks of Go-dan (5thDegree Blackbelt) in Kendo and Sho-dan (1st Degree Blackbelt) in Iaijutsu. As an actor, he has performed Off-Broadway with The Pearl Theatre Company, and regionally with The Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey and The Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival. Recently, he completed a Master’s of Fine Arts in Acting from the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland in which he wrote and produced his first play Leona’s Song
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