The Lao Liu Lu of the Wang Yongquan lineage is not immediately distinguishable, to the naked eye, from a classic long form of the Yang style. To an observer unfamiliar with the specific practice of this school, the names of the movements, their general sequence and the slow pace of execution appear very similar to what is found elsewhere in Yang-style Taijiquan. It is precisely here that the central idea of this tradition lies: the visible form is merely a framework, whilst the essence of the practice lies in the way one inhabits it internally. A sequence could thus be correctly reproduced in its outward appearance whilst still lacking the internal work which, according to this school, gives it its true function. This principle is not unique to the internal arts, but Wang Yongquan’s lineage is distinguished by the degree of precision with which it attempts to describe what is happening within the movement. It develops a highly structured vocabulary centred on various states of relaxation, internal volumes organised around the body, a distinction between the centre and the centre of gravity, a specific geometry of contact, and a progression from visible physical work towards an increasingly internal mode of operation. This approach is not intended as a form of stationary meditation. It retains an explicit martial orientation, whilst very clearly distinguishing between practice aimed at promoting health and that geared towards combat.
For me, this form represents a personal exploration, undertaken outside the formal teaching of our Da Xuan school. I have been exploring it as an extension of my work on Yang-style Taijiquan for the past 27 years, and, over time, the results achieved in my practice have proved sufficiently profound and interesting for me to decide to pass it on in turn. I therefore do not present it as a traditional Da Xuan method, but as a complementary practice that naturally extends our practice of the Yang style as transmitted by Li Jinglin. It enables us to explore with great precision certain internal qualities—relaxation, intention, continuity, perception and bodily organisation—which resonate directly with our own practice. It is in this spirit that I wish to teach it: not as a replacement for or modification of our tradition, but as a continuation and a possible deepening of our practice of Yang-style Taijiquan.
The genealogy claimed by this lineage is relatively short. It links Yang Luchan to Yang Jianhou, then to Wang Yongquan and finally to his disciples. Wang Yongquan, born in 1904 and died in 1987, is said to have begun practising at a very young age under the influence of his father, Wang Chonglu, who was himself close to Yang Jianhou. Following Yang Jianhou’s death, Yang Chengfu is said to have continued his training until he left for southern China. Wang began teaching in the 1920s, also worked at a major hospital in Beijing and held positions of responsibility within the capital’s martial arts community. The most significant period for the transmission of the art in question, however, occurred much later, between the late 1970s and his death in 1987. During those years, he taught regularly at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences to an audience comprising, in particular, academics, which partly explains why this oral teaching was subsequently extensively recorded and organised in written form.
The lineage maintains that Yang Jianhou distinguished between two ways of practising Taijiquan: one intended to nurture life and widely disseminated, the other more combat-oriented and passed on to a much smaller circle. This distinction helps to explain why two practitioners might perform an almost identical form externally whilst working in very different ways internally. It also explains the supposedly reserved nature of certain methods without reducing secrecy to a mere desire for concealment. Rather, it is said to be a pedagogical difference between two aims of practice. This version of the story, however, remains a claim specific to the lineage and lacks independent evidence to establish it definitively.
Following Wang Yongquan, several groups of disciples were involved in the transmission. Some were trained as early as the 1950s, whilst another generation emerged during the period when Wang was teaching at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. Among them, Wei Shuren and Liu Jinyin are particularly significant because they helped to put the teachings they received into writing. It was through these masters that I received this teaching. Their presentations, however, are not entirely identical. The texts associated with Liu Jinyin are generally more concise and closer to the pedagogical structure attributed to Wang, whilst those by Wei Shuren are more systematic and elaborate on certain theoretical aspects to a greater extent. For a practitioner wishing to study this school seriously, this difference is significant, as certain concepts that have become emblematic of the lineage appear to have been developed further by Wei rather than formulated directly by Wang.
The history of this transmission has also been the subject of criticism. Some researchers and practitioners have pointed out that, prior to Yang Jianhou’s death, there is no clear evidence to support the existence of two distinct forms of Yang Taijiquan—one public and the other secret. According to this interpretation, the Lao Liu Lu may simply retain certain characteristics of an earlier form of the Yang style, predating the transformations and standardisation carried out by Yang Chengfu. Other critics note that the movements of the Lao Liu Lu are extremely similar to those of known ancient Yang forms, and that the main differences relate more to the way they are practised than to their appearance. Another argument often put forward concerns the absence of Wang Yongquan from certain documents and photographs of Yang Chengfu’s disciples. Whilst this is not sufficient to invalidate the entire lineage, it does make its genealogy more difficult to substantiate historically.
The most reasonable approach is therefore to distinguish between two separate issues. The precise historical authenticity of the lineage and the practical value of the method are not necessarily linked. A method may contain extremely valuable tools even if its historical account remains partly uncertain. It is therefore more useful for the practitioner to examine what this tradition actually offers and how it transforms the body, rather than basing its entire value on a lineage that cannot be fully proven.
The complete form comprises eighty-nine movements, including the preparatory stance. It is traditionally divided into six sections corresponding to points of closure or resumption that occur naturally within the sequence. This division is therefore not entirely arbitrary, even though no readily accessible source explains why the number six might have any particular significance.
When repetitions are removed, there are approximately thirty-seven distinct techniques. This corresponds to what is observed in many other long forms of the Yang style: significant differences in the total number of movements stem mainly from repetitions and the way the form is structured. A shorter version comprising twenty-two movements has also been developed for specific teaching purposes. It retains a significant part of the form’s repertoire, but the reduction in repetitions necessarily alters the nature of the practice. According to this school’s philosophy, repeating certain movements at length is not pointless: it is precisely this repetition that allows the internal work to gradually become ingrained in the body. A short form can therefore convey the repertoire, but it does not necessarily bring about the same transformation.
The lineage generally places its practice within what it calls a ‘middle framework’, between more compact forms and broader forms. It emphasises a posture that leans neither excessively forwards nor backwards, and a constant seeking of the centre. Certain postural instructions differ from those that have become standard in Yang Chengfu’s transmission. In particular, there is greater emphasis on opening the chest, broadening the back, and relaxing the shoulders whilst allowing the elbows to open out, whereas other branches of the Yang style tend to favour instructions that call for drawing the chest in and letting the elbows drop. However, the sources are not entirely consistent with one another on this point, which suggests that these differences in vocabulary should not be interpreted as absolute opposites.
The flow of the form is based on four qualities that must work together: relaxation, stability, slowness and regularity. Relaxation applies to the whole body, right down to the facial expression, and seeks to eliminate unnecessary tension. Stability refers not only to physical balance, but also to a mental and emotional stability that must accompany every movement. Slowness is not regarded as an end in itself. It gives the practitioner time to perceive, organise and transform their internal functioning. Finally, regularity means that the movement must not accelerate or slow down arbitrarily, but unfold with consistent continuity. Unlike certain modern methods of Taijiquan, this school does not impose systematic coordination between breathing and movement. It does not require one to inhale on an opening movement and exhale on a closing one. Intention is considered far more important than voluntary control of the breath.
The core of the practice rests on four states which can be understood as relaxing, dispersing, passing through and emptying. They are not simply four successive stages to be abandoned one after the other. They accumulate and gradually transform the practitioner’s relationship with their own body. The first task is to relax. But this relaxation is not a vague loosening or a general slackness. It follows precise directions. One begins by relaxing downwards, then upwards, then in all directions around the body. The order of the work is also specific: one first seeks to relax the extremities, particularly the wrists and ankles, then the knees and elbows, before working more deeply on the shoulders and hips. The extremities must maintain this state of relaxation at all times. In partner work, this relaxation must allow the force originating from the waist to pass through the point of contact without being blocked by localised tension.
Calmness is a prerequisite for relaxation. In this approach, one cannot truly develop relaxation if the mind remains agitated and the body constantly reacts with contraction.
The rule is therefore to first cultivate a certain tranquillity, then to build relaxation from this stability. The school formulates this principle in very demanding terms: whoever is the most relaxed has the advantage, and any area of stiffness or blockage immediately becomes a weakness. Relaxation is therefore not merely a pleasant sensation; it becomes a measurable technical criterion in contact.
The second state can be described as a sense of expansion or blossoming. It does not involve physically inflating the ribcage, pushing the bones outwards or contracting the muscles to make oneself appear larger. Rather, it is a matter of allowing intention and internal sensation to unfold laterally. Relaxation primarily establishes a longitudinal axis, whilst expansion opens up this axis in terms of volume. This expansion begins in the waist region and spreads to the four limbs, right down to the palms and the soles of the feet. Ultimately, the practitioner seeks to experience the body no longer as a succession of separate segments, but as a continuous, almost spherical volume.
It is on the basis of this dispersion that the three main volumes associated with the hips, the waist and the shoulders are described. These should not be understood as three objects that one mentally adds around the body. Rather, they represent three levels of organisation that emerge when the internal sensation ceases to be confined within the usual anatomical boundaries. The level of the shoulders primarily governs the arms and hands; that of the hips organises the legs and feet; whilst the waist establishes the relationship between the upper and lower body. In some presentations of the method, the waist is regarded as the primary guiding level. In others, notably in Wei Shuren’s approach, the hips play an even more fundamental role. These differences demonstrate that there are several internal interpretations within the transmission itself.
These volumes are also linked to the rhythm of movement and the perception of contact. They are intended to enable the practitioner to no longer react solely with the part of the body that is touched, but to receive information through a much more holistic organisation. Instead of waiting for an external force to penetrate deep into the structure before perceiving it, the whole body gradually becomes more sensitive to its direction and quality. The image used is that of a large, supple sphere which changes shape as soon as a force touches it, so that the attack does not encounter a rigid surface but an organisation capable of adapting immediately.
The third state, that of ‘passing through’, has two interpretations. In a health-oriented practice, it simply corresponds to improved circulation, a clearer sensation in the hands and the impression that the body is functioning with fewer obstacles. In martial arts practice, the idea becomes more ambitious: intention and internal functioning no longer stop at the surface of the skin but are projected beyond the point of contact. However, this projection must never be understood as a permanent outward expansion. The method emphasises the need to immediately retrieve what has been projected, so that the body does not remain tense or oriented towards an external point after the action.
The fourth state is that of emptiness. It represents the culmination of the progression as presented by Wei Shuren. This is not a purely philosophical or contemplative emptiness. The practitioner gradually seeks to lose the sensation of rigid bodily boundaries and to no longer feel that any part of the body is receiving or retaining force.
At an advanced level, the body must no longer offer a fixed point to which the opponent can latch on. During the emission, the mechanism consists precisely of relaxing the moment the force is released, then immediately separating from the other. A push maintains the pressure; a true emission, in this logic, disappears as soon as it has produced its effect. The void therefore represents as much a quality of perception as it does a martial mechanism.
Internal work is also described through the relationship between the mind, intention and energy. These three dimensions must not simply be concentrated simultaneously. Rather, the lineage emphasises their gradual fusion into a single function. Intention arises first and provides the direction. Energy follows this intention and sets the movement in motion, whilst the visible body becomes the consequence of this internal process. The external form must therefore not drag the internal functioning along in its wake. The essential idea is that the inside gives rise to the outside, and not the other way round. This does not mean that the external form becomes unimportant, but that it gradually ceases to be the primary driving force behind the movement.
From this perspective, the internal and the external are not regarded as two elements situated exactly on the same level. At the start of the practice, the physical form naturally takes centre stage. The practitioner must learn the postures, the directions and the overall coordination. Over time, an increasing proportion of the movement must be governed by intention and by internal work. Progression does not, however, involve setting aside the body in favour of something immaterial. The aim remains to strike a balance between the yin and yang dimensions of the practice, rather than replacing one with the other.
The lineage also distinguishes between visible technique and the internal method that gives it its effectiveness. An external technique provides a gateway, a direction and a framework for action. Internal work is what animates this technique and ensures it does not remain a mere choreography. The two dimensions must therefore not be viewed as opposites. Technique paves the way for internal work, whilst internal work gives depth to the technique. At an advanced level, the two become inseparable.
This school also has a very particular way of describing the body through geometric structures. In particular, it distinguishes between the centre and the centre of gravity. The centre of gravity is mechanical, relatively localisable and directly linked to physical balance. It also represents an area where the opponent’s force can concentrate and become solid. The centre used in the method is conceived differently. It is mobile, must not offer fixed resistance and does not necessarily correspond to a permanent anatomical point. In partner work, therefore, it is not simply a matter of pushing the other person’s centre of gravity. One must find a way to reach their central organisation without coming into direct contact with their force.
This idea leads to an important rule: never confront a solid point head-on. Instead, the practitioner seeks to circumvent the zone of resistance, much as one would follow the curve of a bow rather than its string. The centre can be perceived through the point of contact, but it must not be attacked head-on. Instead, one seeks the edge of the force—the direction in which it is not supported—and then the void that surrounds it. This geometry helps to explain why the method places such emphasis on oblique reception and on reducing the contact surface.
Verticality is also fundamental. It refers not only to the anatomical alignment of the spine, but to a genuine line of consciousness connecting the crown of the head to the perineum. This vertical line must remain present without rigidity, so that the body can be at once relaxed, heavy, upright and alive. It prevents two opposing errors: becoming rigid whilst trying to stand upright, or slumping under the pretence of relaxing.
Added to this vertical axis is a three-dimensional cross-like structure. One axis organises the relationship between the centre and the direction from which the force originates, whilst another connects the two shoulders. Their intersection becomes a central reference point from which opening, closing, movement and stillness can be organised. Moreover, opening and closing should not be understood merely as visible movements of the arms or chest. More profoundly, they describe the emergence and disappearance of internal work. To generate a thrust, the method emphasises a sequence in which closing precedes opening.
Work on the back also occupies a special place, centred on three zones corresponding to the coccyx region, the middle of the back between the shoulder blades, and the occiput. The intention can organise these in various ways. They may be slightly straightened, extended forwards and upwards, drawn backwards, or lifted like a continuous ribbon. These images do not seek to produce large, visible movements of the spine. Rather, they serve to alter the internal quality of the axis and to facilitate movement. In partner work, the movement of the spine is conceived as a continuous lengthening that successively passes through these three areas. The more advanced the practice becomes, the less the practitioner should focus on their precise anatomical location, as the aim is precisely for the body to be perceived as a unified whole rather than as a collection of isolated points.
The gaze follows the same logic. It must not fix rigidly on an object or on the hands. The practitioner develops a peripheral gaze, open to the sides and slightly forward. This defocused vision constitutes, in a sense, the visual equivalent of bodily dispersion. The gaze no longer contracts onto a single point but remains capable of perceiving a much wider field. Some later formulations of the method also describe fixed or fleeting points of focus in space. These developments seem to belong primarily to the systematisation carried out by Wei Shuren and are not as clearly present in the formulations attributed directly to Wang Yongquan.
Partner work is referred to as ‘Rouzhou’ rather than simply ‘pushing hands’. This change in terminology does not necessarily denote an entirely different method, but reflects an intention. ‘Pushing’ evokes a linear action aimed at displacing the other person. ‘Kneading’ evokes something more continuous, enveloping and uninterrupted. The primary aim of partner work is not to defeat one’s partner. It serves to test one’s understanding of the form and to reveal errors that one cannot always sense when practising alone. The partner thus becomes a diagnostic tool. As soon as the interaction turns into a clash of force against force, the exercise ceases to fulfil its purpose and risks reinforcing precisely the habits that the form sought to eliminate.
The fundamental principle of contact is to receive a point rather than a surface. The larger the contact area, the more support and information both partners have to resist. Reducing the contact area, on the other hand, allows one to remain mobile and limits the possibilities for direct opposition. Nor does the practitioner receive the opponent’s point of strength head-on. They seek to touch the opponent’s side, periphery or the area where their force is not fully supported. They do not then push against this force but attempt to penetrate through the point of contact to the source of the movement.
Listening to ‘jin’ then becomes much more precise. It is not enough simply to feel the pressure exerted on the arm. One seeks to distinguish the visible end of the force from its actual source within the other person’s body.
The point of contact becomes a pathway leading back to this source. Once the direction is perceived, the opponent’s force is channelled into a void rather than blocked. When their structure begins to break down, the action is applied to the side of their point of strength. Timing is crucial: acting too soon means encountering their full force once again; acting too late gives them time to reorganise.
The concept of emptiness therefore recurs constantly. One does not seek to strike or push where the opponent is already strong, but towards the place where their organisation cannot produce immediate resistance. The desired result is not merely their physical displacement but a momentary loss of their ability to organise themselves. The force itself must then disappear immediately. As soon as it has passed through, the source empties. It is this instantaneous withdrawal that, in this school, distinguishes a true application of force from a continuous thrust.
The form prepares this organisation of contact long before two people touch. The hand acts as the waist’s scout: it receives information rather than seeking to generate force on its own. The leg supports the hand’s action and allows it to remain light. The wrist and elbow protect the central organisation and close off the pathways through which the opponent might penetrate. If this hierarchy is not established during the form, the practitioner will naturally fall back on using their arms as soon as the pressure increases.
One of the most interesting features of this tradition is its very clear distinction between practice intended to nurture life and that intended for combat. Both use the same form but are not based on exactly the same intention. In health work, the mind, intention and energy remain contained within the body. ‘Containing’ does not mean contracting or concentrating. It simply means not deliberately directing the work beyond oneself. The practitioner must not harbour any intention of confrontation, even in a subtle way. In martial practice, on the contrary, this energy flow passes through the point of contact and extends beyond the body. This difference becomes the technical criterion for determining which mode of practice one is currently employing.
The two forms of practice remain interchangeable. The same structure can be practised with a nurturing focus or a martial focus. It is not a matter of declaring one superior to the other, but of being clear about what one is actually doing. This clarity prevents someone seeking health from unconsciously maintaining a confrontational attitude, or a martial arts practitioner from imagining they are training for combat when they are merely doing a relaxation exercise. One of the school’s simplest formulations sums up this logic well: intention nourishes, whilst the crude use of force causes harm.
The practical value of this style lies in the precision of its training tools. The progressive development of relaxation provides a much more concrete method than simply being told to relax. The distinction between the centre and the centre of gravity, the reduction of the contact area, the oblique reception and the search for the source of jin offer particularly interesting tools for analysing partner work. Tui Shou, understood as a means of diagnosing one’s own form rather than as a competition, also profoundly transforms the relationship with one’s partner.
Finally, the distinction between health-oriented practice and martial practice requires the practitioner to be clear about the intention they are cultivating during a session.
However, this richness has its downside. A method which asserts that what is essential is invisible can easily become impossible to verify if it is not tested through actual contact. The practitioner may then convince themselves that they possess an internal quality simply because they know the vocabulary used to describe it. Complacent demonstrations, in which the partner reacts in an exaggerated or anticipated manner, pose another danger. They can create an illusion of competence whilst preventing one from gauging what actually works. Finally, theoretical sophistication itself can become an obstacle if one spends more time talking about the practice than actually practising it. Language has value only if it enables a verifiable physical transformation to be achieved.
This is probably the most fruitful way to approach Lao Liu Lu. It need not necessarily be regarded as a form entirely distinct from Yang-style Taijiquan, but rather as a highly elaborate hypothesis on what it is possible to work on within an already familiar form. Its value does not depend entirely on the ability to prove a secret transmission tracing directly back to the earliest generations of the Yang family. It lies above all in the coherence of its practical vocabulary and in the possibility of putting its principles to the test through the body and in contact. The ultimate criterion remains extremely simple: where stiffness appears, the practice deteriorates.
The practitioner must therefore learn to become increasingly relaxed without becoming limp, increasingly open without becoming physically scattered, increasingly sensitive without tensing up around their sensations, and ultimately less and less predictable. The external form remains present, but it gradually ceases to be what one is seeking. It becomes the vehicle for a transformation, at the end of which movement no longer depends on a succession of visible positions, but on an internal organisation capable of changing without disruption. It is in this sense that the ideal of the formless body takes on its full meaning: not as the disappearance of the body, but as the disappearance of fixed points, tensions and habits through which an opponent might seize, read or control it.
