Skill is to conceal skill
There is a famous Latin phrase: Ars est celare artem, it is art to conceal art. This often refers to arts such as painting, acting on the stage, or music. The meaning is supposed to be, `True art conceals the means by which it is achieved; in other words, in the best works of art the audience is not distracted by the artist’s technique, but responds instead to the power of the work, as the artist intended. The idea is, that true art should appear artless. Ars est celare artem as a critical evaluation of a work of art is thus a high compliment.
But it is not used only about works aiming at beauty. The phrase can be used about a politician, for instance, who makes speeches which seems to be quite spontaneous, but which in fact have been carefully constructed, and carefully practised beforehand. The English word `art’ can have the meaning of `skill’, and in the case of the politician, his skill is to conceal the skill with which he prepared the speech.
`Art’ can even have the meaning of `cunning’ or `craftiness’, ‘an artful man’ means in English a clever man, who is probably dishonest. As a matter of fact, the Latin phrase was invented by the classical Roman poet Ovid to describe the art of making love.
All these uses of the phrase, however, from highest to lowest, refer to conscious policy. But there is something much higher, which I saw clearly only in Japan, and even there only rarely. I met it first in Judo.
One of the best Judo men I ever met was Kazumi Shimaya, then captain of Nihon University team. But when I first saw him, at the Kodokan, I was not very impressed. He won, certainly, but it his wins were not brilliant. He never forced a throw, and his throws were not like irresistible thunderbolts, or flashes of lightning. Caught in one of Shimaya’s Osoto-gari, for instance, sometimes the opponent would be almost hanging in the air, his weight all on one heel, struggling to get back his balance. He would just fail, and then he would go over. To a watcher, it looked like a very near thing, and the thrower had perhaps been a bit lucky. Again, when he was attacked by some very strong throw, it often seemed that he would be thrown, but somehow the thrower was not able to put in that last little effort that would complete throw, and Shimaya would survive. Lucky again; – the thrower was not timing very well that day.
When I first practised with him myself, I found that I had the same experience. I had one or two quite strong Tokui-waza. I came in strongly with one of them, and I almost threw him. Somehow it did not quite come off, but I was not at all discouraged. I thought: `I mistimed that a bit, but I nearly got him. Next time I’ll make it a certainty.’ Then I tried again, and missed again, but (I felt) only just. On his side, he tried one or two attacks but did not try to force them through. I was beginning to think: `Why, he has nothing much – how did he get to be captain of Nichi-Dai?’ Then he made another attack which did not seem very threatening, but somehow I got caught off balance, and was thrown.
I was still quite confident. I just thought that I had been getting too careless. But later on, it happened again. I did have a few successes in this randori practice, but he had considerably the better of it. Even then, as we bowed at the end, I was simply thinking that I was having an off-day. I had been told that he was very good, but I was not particularly impressed. However, I watched his randori with other strong Fifty Dan Judo students, thinking that perhaps I should see something of the expected brilliance. But to my surprise it seemed to be rather the same thing; he would nearly be thrown, but the opponent just could not manage the last decisive push, and Shimaya, though he did score throws, only just managed to get the man over (though the throw was quite decisive as it ended). My impression was the same as when I practised with him myself; he seemed to be lucky, because the opponent was a little bit off form Next day, one thought, it would be different.
It took me a little time to realize that this supposed `next day’ would never come. Against him, opponents were always off form. I checked my own results: on a day when I felt well. really on form, I would get fairly satisfactory results against most of the 4th and 5th Dan opponents. But not against him. And I noticed this with some of the others too; they might be doing well, but they rarely did well against him. He was not a big man at all, but that seemed to make no difference. I believe he would have won the main national contest that year (there was no National Championship then, and no weight categories), but his knee was badly injured in one contest when during a contest the two fell off the raised podium together.
I came in the end to understand that this was not `art which conceals art’, but it was the true principle of Judo, the principle of Efficient Use of Energy, as Dr. Kano explained it. Just as much energy as necessary, and no more.
I knew this – in fact I had listened to Dr. Kano himself explaining it – but I had not really taken it in. In fact, my ideal of a Judo throw was, to throw the opponent high in the air with something like a Harai-goshi, and then probably fall on him to make the point doubly secure. I knew of course the little sharp throws like Ko-uchi-gari, but somehow I did not admire them so much. When I look back now, I see that I confused Dr. Kano’s Principle of Maximum Efficiency with my own idea (shared by many other Judo men, it must be said) with a vulgar Principle of Maximum Showing-Off. I wanted flashy, brilliant technique. But it is not necessary in Judo to throw the opponent very high with a major technique; the aim is to get him over for a point. True efficiency is something quiet and unpretentious; it does not want to be accompanied with waving flags and loud beating of drums.
Shimaya’s art, his skill, was not concealed by any conscious action; yet it was concealed. In fact, it disguised itself and appeared as luck.
After this I began to understand Taoist phrases such as: The greatest skill appears like clumsiness, and Economy is a treasure. I also began to see a similar idea in some aspects of the English tradition: there is the word reserve, which when applied to behaviour means that he avoids displaying merit or skill, though it is there. But it is one thing to read or hear about these things, and nod the head approvingly, and quite another thing to experience them in action.
In Japanese calligraphy and painting there is a distinction between technique and the spirit. It is hard to grasp, but I got a hint for my own appreciation of Japanese art from something told me by an Indian philosopher and poet who had visited Japan in the Taisho period told me of an experience in connection with Suiboku art. He was taken to an exhibition by Dr. Takakusu, then one of the greatest Buddhist scholars. But the Indian professor could get very little from it. He told this frankly to Dr. Takakusu, who introduced him to an English-speaking suiboku artist who told him how to look at the pictures. (I should say here that Indians of that generation had highly trained memories; I knew that Indian scholar for eighteen years and heard him tell this story two or three times. When I first heard what the artist had said, I scribbled it down in shorthand immediately afterwards, and memorized it for myself. His two later accounts of what the artist had said was word-for-word the same each time.)
`Stand in front of a picture. Look at it carefully for a few minutes. Then forget the lines, forget the paper, forget the artist, forget the exhibition hall, and forget yourself. What remains is the spirit of the picture.’
© Trevor Leggett