Inside a Sunset Park kung fu school on Fifth Avenue

Looking up at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 50th Street, a visitor sees the sign for NYC Ving Tsun Kung Fu in Chinese calligraphy. Through second-floor windows, passersby might glimpse an intricate wood-carved divider flanked by lush greenery. The night I visited, a warm, dim glow filtered through the wooden lattice, casting quiet light onto the snow-covered sidewalk.

I’ve passed this corner thousands of times, always wondering how Ving Tsun, a martial art from Southern China, found its place in Sunset Park. Our group buzzed into the nondescript building and climbed the narrow stairs to the school.

My knowledge of Ving Tsun was thin, culled mostly from Wong Kar-wai’s The Grandmaster. The last time I was taught anything remotely relevant was in middle school gym in China, when I was told to hold a horse stance.

China has a rich tapestry of martial arts, encompassing hundreds of styles. The earliest references appear in the “Spring and Autumn Annals” from the fifth century B.C. The exact origin of Ving Tsun is unknown, but one legend says the martial arts master and abbess Ng Mui fled the destruction of the Shaolin Temple by Manchurian forces and passed her knowledge to a 15-year-old girl named Yim Ving Tsun.

Over time, different lineages developed. Ip Man, the sifu (teacher) of Bruce Lee, became one of the most influential grandmasters of his generation. Ving Tsun gained popularity in the United States in the 1970s, fueled by the era’s kung fu cinema. Many of Ip Man’s students immigrated from Hong Kong during that decade to open their own schools.

I entered a space that felt less like a fighting ring and more like a living legacy. Inside, the maroon hue of rosewood suggests a Chinese household from a previous century. An openwork carved wooden frame divides the main room; the larger practice hall faces Fifth Avenue, while a smaller sitting room serves as the lobby. At the far end, an altar table sits before a wooden screen featuring a portrait of a kung fu master.

In the sitting room, sifu Miguel Hernandez brewed tea behind a lacquered wooden drawer desk. It was a quiet night, and class was about to begin. Hernandez greeted us and offered tea. A man in his 60s of middle stature, he has a benign countenance that feels at odds with close-range combat. Like many young men in the ’70s, he was introduced to the art through Bruce Lee. He began training in 1977 and later studied under grandmaster Moy Yat, a student of Ip Man who moved to New York City in 1973.

Moy Yat believed Ving Tsun’s principles applied beyond combat, into everyday life. He considered himself an artist as much as a kung fu master. Beyond Ving Tsun, he painted, carved seals, practiced calligraphy, and authored six books. Hernandez began teaching in Manhattan’s Chinatown before moving to Sunset Park. The discipline took him across the country and around the world, including China, Europe, and the Americas.

In the practice hall stands a familiar sight: a wooden dummy. Known in Chinese as muk yan jong, the training tool has two arms at the top, one in the middle, and a leg at the bottom. It mimics an opponent’s positions and the body’s line of force.

“My wife bought me this in 1979 as a wedding gift from Hong Kong,” Hernandez said. “Can’t get better than that, right?”

Lessons at Ving Tsun Kung Fu don’t follow a set format, but they typically cover the art’s core forms. The first, and most important, is siu nim tau, or “little idea.” It begins with breath work in a horse stance to find internal stillness. In the Moy Yat tradition, the form is meant to reach a meditative state. Inner balance is crucial. Ving Tsun theory holds that movement originates from within. Ip Man was said to take at least an hour to reach this state. During this session, student held the pose for about five minutes.

The second form, chum kiu, or “seeking the bridge,” focuses on coordinated body movement. Students start with the upper body before progressing to full-body choreography. As they moved across the floor, the flow to untrained eyes resembled dance more than combat.

Then comes chi sau, or “sticking hands,” where students develop close-range tactics. From a distance, it looks like two people pressing wrists together, arms moving while maintaining constant contact. Ving Tsun is built on a center line; any deviation leaves one exposed. Chi sau develops sensitivity to energy and helps detect shifts in an opponent’s position. Ip Man once described Ving Tsun as a “soft” school of martial arts, not in the sense of weakness, but as a force that is pliable and resilient, like rattan.

At its heart, kung fu is about self-preservation, not aggression. “If you never have to fight, you already win,” Hernandez said. “When you train, don’t think about fighting. Think about developing your kung fu.”

As a teacher, he guides students through visualization, body mechanics, and timing and distance. He enjoys helping them process the work, translating Ving Tsun’s abstract concepts into something that fits their own physical attributes.

As we watched students working in pairs, Hernandez turned to me. “The dummy is not going to teach you anything,” he said. “The dummy is where you process what you have learned in class.”

These days, Hernandez does less teaching. During class, he often sits on a bench in the corner of the hall to observe.

“It’s very difficult to stay quiet watching them doing stupid things,” he joked.

As for me, I realized I’m not quite ready to step onto the floor. For now, I’ll keep my kung fu within the safety of a screen. For those content to remain spectators, Hernandez recommends two films directed by Sammo Hung: Warriors Two (1978) and The Prodigal Son (1981).