At the core of every artistic effort lies the essential and essentially indefinable interplay of intention and energy, of Yi and Qi.  No matter the art (knitting, writing, love-making, acting, cooking, archery), the manifestation of its practice (the sweater, novel, pleasure, performance, feast, bulls-eye) is realized through the creative process of integrating will and action.

The vigorous relationship between Yi and Qi is impossible to quantify in empirical terms, but aesthetically evident in all the arts, and especially in those that are physical in nature, that are movement-based.  The aching lyricism of a premier danseur’s soaring tour jetes, a basketball champion’s gravity-mocking hang-time, Bruce Lee’s renowned One-Inch Punch – intuitively we recognize that exceptional art and athleticism cannot be achieved by technique or spirit alone, but only by their union.  No matter what skill, craft, sport or art we practice, when the substance of our practice is to engage in the dynamic interaction of Yi and Qi, it is excellent practice that enriches and enlightens.  It is real kung fu.

So.  The merit of our practice lies in the intention that guides it, not in the style or form we practice, not in its lineage, not in our master’s skill or the abilities of our instructors, not in their methods of instruction, and certainly not in the color of our belt, our rank, or our level of proficiency.

I wanted to get that out there on its own, because one of these days I’ll have something to say about another dynamic balance – yin and yang – and an especially elegant expression of that balance in the Guangping Yang Tai Chi form.  But in order to discuss the particulars, I’ll need to tell the tale of Guangping Yang Tai Chi Ch’uan.  And once we start talking about our particular forms, styles and schools, once we start getting into our traditions' lineages and histories, a certain amount of cross-system comparison is inevitable – and comparisons inevitably lead to conflict.

The prevalence of school, style, form and personal rivalries in martial arts films isn’t a cinematic trope.  It’s a reflection of reality, past and present.  Until the middle of the last century, rivalries were settled by combat.  Arguments over which form, style, skill, master or student was the “best” were resolved by pitting them against each other – and may the mightiest kung fu win.

Let me pause and relish that phrase, “… the mightiest kung fu.”  Something is always lost in translation, and translating from a broadly ideographic, conceptual language (Chinese) to a grammatical, left-brain language (English) only compounds the loss.  At the risk of belaboring a point I’ve made many times before, kung fu is a term widely and erroneously understood to be synonymous with “martial arts.”  I suspect this misconception is as common in China as it is in the States.  Here or there, when people say, “His kung fu is powerful,” they are usually lauding the effectiveness of a fighter’s strikes or the precision of a competitor’s form.  In fact, kung fu is an umbrella-term for the entire martial arts package; an artist’s energy, intention, dedication, concentration and spirit, the arts, styles, forms, movements, skills, weapons and techniques s/he has learned or mastered, their lineages, histories and origins and how well the artist executes them in practice and performance.  Whatever our intended meaning when we say, “the mightiest kung fu,” the actual meaning of the phrase acknowledges that the outcome of a bout has more to do with the integrity of a fighter’s practice than the inherent superiority of his/her fighting style.  The skillful application of intention and energy, of Yi and Qi, is the key to victory.

If a competitive edge is a valid empirical measure of good kung fu – and I believe it is – then the proverbial and ubiquitous rivalries reflect a basic truth about the martial arts; all forms, styles and masters are not created equal.  Equality can be found in our ability to take advantage of or overcome the circumstances of our training, but not in the training itself.  Different practices were developed to achieve different results, for one thing.  For another, arts evolve over time and distance, and martial artists put their individual stamps on the ones they master.  Some environments are more conducive to learning than others, some arts better suited to specific body types or temperaments.  Our progress is swiftest when our master’s teaching style matches our style of learning.  We benefit more by studying the least of the arts from a great teacher than studying the greatest of arts from one less gifted.

When it comes to forms, the modifying influences listed above have enhanced a few and degraded others.  If that statement offends, remember; I am not impugning anyone’s kung fu.  Intention and energy can turn even the emptiest form into a powerful practice.  With proper intention and energy, we could become kung fu masters by practicing the “Hokey-Pokey.”  Still, few would argue that the “Hokey-Pokey” will, in and of itself, awaken the Qi or train the Yi.  That’s not what the movements were designed to accomplish.