Emerson Valentina: Artists, Not Products.
Skene Staff
Theatre artist and Executive Director of the Broadway Mental Health Foundation on survival, advocacy, and rebuilding the performing arts industry.
Theatre artist and Executive Director of the Broadway Mental Health Foundation on survival, advocacy, and rebuilding the performing arts industry.
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For Mia Qin, stage management is more than leading the room—it’s about how to lead it, breathing in sync with the actors, the audience, and the energy of the space. Originally from China and now based in the U.S., Mia’s journey into theatre began with an intuitive pull toward the emotional resonance of live performance. Over time, that spark deepened into a fascination with storytelling and the humanity behind it. As a stage manager, she finds joy in being the invisible thread between structure and emotion, people and process, art and real life.
Her work blends discipline with deep feeling: the timing of a cue, the rhythm of a hug, the invisible current of connection that runs through a production. She credits her growth not only to technical practice, but to self-inquiry and a constant commitment to understanding her own fears and instincts. Inspired by mentors, guided by ethics, and anchored in concrete details, Mia approaches each show with purpose and presence.
In this edition of PROFILES, Mia reflects on her evolving artistry, the truths that transcend culture, and the idealism that fuels her practice. She reminds us that the real magic of theatre isn’t just in the spotlight—it’s in the quiet pulse that holds everything together.
I think at the beginning, I was just attracted to the unique energy of live performance. I loved the feeling of soaking in the energy of music and dance. Then I realized that the energy felt especially strong when the music and dance served the core of the story, which not only made me feel emotionally satisfied but also touched me deeply in the heart. That was when I found out that I really love stories, and that I’m truly interested in exploring the humanity behind them.
I think my love for theater comes from both this unique form of art and my curiosity about human beings. Stage management is one of the perfect jobs for me because I not only get to explore the art on stage, but also get to interact with real people every day, and witness how art exists in real life.
One time, I was working on a show called The Singularity Play by Jay Stull. There was a scene where two actors were hugging, and I needed to call a sound cue to break their hug. It was really hard for the director to determine how long I should wait before calling the cue—it just needed to “feel right.”
So during the run-through, when the actors hugged on stage, I closed my eyes in the booth and took two deep breaths, as if I were feeling the hug too. Then, when the moment felt right, I called the cue. After the run, the director came up to me and said that the timing felt exactly right.
I think this story shows why I love my job so much. By breathing together with the actors, the audience, and everything that exists in the space, I can feel a shared emotion and humanity—something both within me and greater than me.
I think the answer will always be—myself. This feeling has grown stronger in recent years, as I gradually stepped out of the chaos and insecurity I experienced while still in school, and became more aware and knowledgeable about what’s happening within my mind and body.
I realized that, most of the time, it was my own fear and ego that trapped me. I’ve been working hard to study them—where they came from, why they’re here, what triggers them, etc.—and to overcome them. I believe the better I understand myself, the better I can manage myself. And if I’m brave enough to take action despite the fear, that’s where real growth happens.
A lot of great mentors have inspired me deeply along the way. I wouldn’t be who I am without each and every one of them, and I cannot say enough how deeply, deeply grateful I am for them. Among all of them, my college writing professor, Brett Perkins, was the first person who had a profound influence on me when I first arrived in this new culture.
When I first came to the U.S., I struggled to understand the culture and the people living in it. It was Brett and his class that taught me that, at the end of the day, there’s something about being human that doesn’t change—regardless of time, culture, or location. He taught me that the way you write should reflect the way you think. That in one essay, there should—and can only—be one moral point of view. And most importantly, that truth lives in concrete details.
I don’t quite know how to describe how these ideas show up in my work, but I can say that by now, they’ve become a part of me. While I’m working, I always try to seek out what people have in common. I make sure my focus and purpose stay rooted in an ethical framework, and I hold on to my faith in the power of concrete details.
I’ve always thought that artists are people who can see the unseen—because they believe deeply enough. Don’t give up on being an idealist. It’s the only way we can change the world.
I want there to be a current of energy—between the show and its audience, and between me and those around me. A current that reminds us we’re not isolated islands, but part of something shared and connected.
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