“Fighting Styles” or “Martial Brands”? An economic approach to understanding “lost lineages” in the Chinese Martial Arts.
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Introduction
Much of our modern writing on the Chinese martial
arts is premised on the examination of difference. Nor is this an
abstract categorization of dry facts. Our discussions always seem to
run along a similar track. Of all of the techniques, styles and teachers
out there, we want to know which one is “the best.” It should come as
no surprise that the “hand combat industry” (and it is an industry,
complete with its own markets, trade organizations, lobbying efforts,
and publications) has no lack of individuals offering to answer this
question for consumers.
Different sources of authority are sometimes
claimed. Occasionally a writer or teacher will have had an extensive
career in the military or law enforcement. A long and illustrious
record on the tournament circuit is usually taken as a sign of
expertise. We also encounter instructors whose credentials are more
esoteric. Specifically, these writers or teachers note that they are
part of an “alternate” or “lost” lineage of some esteemed fighting
system. Often it is claimed that this lineage is somehow older, purer
or just more hardcore than the one you belong to.
These sorts of competitive lineage claims have
become a staple for major publishers. Just take a look at the monthly
covers of the any martial arts magazine (Blackbelt, Combat, Kung Fu Tai Chi
ect…) and you are sure to find at least one story about an “alternate
lineage.” Variety facilitates competition and comparison; together they
make for interesting reading.
In fact, the media surrounding the martial arts are
central to the existence and continual rediscovery of “lost lineages.”
During the early 19th century (before the market reforms of
the Republican era) China had a huge number of local fighting styles.
Most of them were very small village or family affairs. A lot of what
they did actually focused on militia training, opera or banditry. Many
of these styles did not actually have names, though there were some
notable exceptions.
Why did so many of these pedagogical systems lack
names? They were not studied so much as a particular “style” of
fighting (or in the case of opera, acting). They simply were fighting (and acting).
Later in the 19th
century as the demand for martial instruction increased, and the number
of reasons it was pursued diversified, it became necessary to market
these skills on a broader scale than had been undertaken in the past.
Names and shiny new creation myths began to appear as the fighting
techniques of the previous generation were increasingly repackaged as a
“martial commodity.”
The martial arts publishing industry is not new. Already in late 19th century Guangzhou and Hong Kong publishers were churning out cheap chapbooks of martial techniques and elaborate swordsmen novels full of the exploits of fictional schools. During the 1920s and 1930s there was a literal explosion of training manuals
and newspaper stories about the exploits of local heroes and martial
artists. As the marketplace got more crowded, product differentiation
and advertising became more critical to the actual careers and business
success of boxing instructors.
The debates that we see played out on the covers of
our current Kung Fu magazines are not much of a departure from the
past. This sort of competition and bickering has been a part of the
world of the “authentic” Chinese martial arts for over 100 years now.
Yet why the persistent narrative of the “lost lineage?” These stories
tend to be among the most controversial, yet they are seen throughout
the Chinese martial arts. Why not simply develop a new identity and
market the art as your own creation (or your teachers)? Surely this
would be easier than an eternal public debate as to the legitimacy of
your practice?
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