Harumi Hirata: Whose Stories do we Tell?
Japanese costume designer and cultural advocate whose research-driven practice interrogates representation, identity,
Japanese costume designer and cultural advocate whose research-driven practice interrogates representation, identity,
German scenic designer whose kinetic scenography builds sets that move with the
Mexican cultural worker, director, and playwright whose practice is rooted in collective
Classic plays for community theatre: Shakespeare, Greek tragedies, Chekhov—masterpieces with zero royalties.
The Canada PQ 2027 team on The Seventh Fire, matriarchal curation, and
Nicole Stewart Reyes will tell you her spark was a mix of ego and survival. She was making things up for her sister before bed, staging elaborate productions in the living room with no budget and total conviction, certain she was doing something important. In a way, she was. Storytelling gave her control over a childhood that did not always offer it, a way to reorganize the hard things into something that made sense.
That origin has not disappeared. It has just gotten more honest, which she will also tell you is less comfortable and considerably more interesting. She is drawn now to stories that feel almost embarrassingly personal, to the specificity that is generous enough to land in someone else’s chest.
Her work as an actor and playwright moves between performance as craft and performance as confrontation. Playing Nan in Exit, Pursued by a Bear taught her what it means to lead a room and not just act in one. Leaving Mexico for an MFA in New York rebuilt her from the ground up. And somewhere inside all of it, her family, the most resilient people she knows, keeps showing up in the rhythm of everything she makes.
Nicole Stewart Reyes is an actor and playwright who has never been interested in sanding down the edges, in this edition of PROFILES.
I think my spark was a mix of ego and survival, which feels like a strong origin story. I realized pretty early on that I was good at telling stories, and I really liked the reaction. I would make things up for my sister before bed, put on very serious “productions” in the living room, with absolutely no budget and a lot of confidence. I genuinely thought I was doing something important. In a way, I was. We had a rough childhood, and storytelling became a way to soften things, or at least reorganize them into something that made sense. It gave me a strange sense of control.
Over time, it’s gotten less about applause and more about honesty, which is slightly less comfortable and a lot more interesting. I’m drawn to stories that feel almost embarrassingly personal, because those are usually the ones that hit. Specificity is generous like that.
So the spark is still there, just a little less wholesome and a bit more intentional. I still want to entertain, but I also want to provoke, unsettle, and occasionally make people laugh at the wrong moment.
One of the most meaningful works for me was playing Nan in Exit, Pursued by a Bear (by Lauren Gunderson). She’s a woman trying to leave an abusive marriage, and she starts staging these small, almost absurd scenes for her husband, using performance as a way to hold a mirror up to him. I was drawn to her immediately. It felt uncomfortably familiar in a way I didn’t always have language for, growing up around alcoholism and its ripple effects. There was definitely a moment of “oh… I know this room.”
At the same time, it was the first time I really understood what it means to lead a room, not just act in it. I remember hearing actor Shaan Sharma say that if you want to be a lead, you need to know how to be a leader. That really stuck with me. Being in that role meant holding the tone, the trust, and occasionally the chaos of an ensemble, and actually showing up for people while still doing the job.
So it became two things at once: deeply personal, and slightly exposing in a way I didn’t entirely sign up for but grew from anyway. It taught me that performance can be survival, structure, and occasionally a very well-lit form of confrontation.
It’s a mix of instinct and discipline, which feels about right for theatre. When inspiration strikes, I’ve learned not to negotiate with it. I just stop and listen. It doesn’t always behave, so when it shows up, you catch it.
That said, I also swear by what my friend and mentor Chris Chalk and his brilliant wife KD introduced me to: the 10-minute method. Set a timer for ten minutes and just start. No drama, no waiting for divine intervention. Inevitably, I end up working way past the ten minutes. It turns out momentum is very persuasive.
As an actor, your body is your instrument, so there’s also the daily maintenance of it all. Voice work, moving, staying physically awake in your body, even watching great performances and just going, oooh how did Emma Stone do that with just her face?
So it’s impulse and practice. Routine and interruption. And ideally, enough openness that when something good shows up, I’m already in motion.
My biggest challenge as an artist has been leaving my country of origin to pursue an MFA in New York City. It sounds simple when you say it quickly, but it meant rebuilding everything at once: language, community, artistic identity, and my sense of confidence in a room.
The truth is, the MFA wasn’t about pressure or expectations so much as it was about opening things up. It became a tool for figuring myself out, what I actually think, what I avoid, what I lean toward instinctively when no one is telling me what to do. The good, the bad, and the slightly embarrassing.
That process was the challenge. Not proving myself outwardly, but sitting with myself honestly enough to see what was really there, even when it wasn’t flattering.
Over time, I’ve found ways to stay rooted in myself and my culture through my work. Not every role needs to be a “badass Mexican woman” for that to be present. It shows up in rhythm, instinct, humor, and a certain spice that makes me, me.
My family inspires me the most. They’re the most resilient people I’ve ever encountered, dreamers, lovers, and hard workers in the most real sense of those words. They’ve built, rebuilt, and kept going through things that don’t always make it into language, but definitely make it into character.
That shows up in my work in a quiet way. I’m drawn to people who endure, who find humor in hard places, who keep moving even when things are complicated. I don’t think I consciously “add” my family into the work, but they’re in the rhythm of how I understand persistence and tenderness. Even in heavier material, I’m always looking for that flicker of life inside it.
I don’t really have a glossy industry answer for this, but I do think theatre feels more alive when it stops trying to behave. I’m excited by work that’s a little unfiltered, a little risky, and not too concerned with being “correct.” It feels like people are remembering they’re allowed to make a mess again.
I’m also really interested in how writers are expanding what kinds of characters get to exist on stage. There’s more space now for people to be more than one thing at once, and for roles that didn’t really exist before to actually be written. That shift means more people are being seen more fully, instead of being squeezed into a box that was never theirs to begin with.
Be unapologetically yourself. And I mean actually do it, not the watered-down version where you’re still trying to be likable. Early on, it’s very tempting to perform what you think an “artist” looks like. The real work is letting that go and trusting that what you actually are is already enough.
I hope my work meets people in a very human place. I try to be honest in it, sometimes uncomfortably so, because I think vulnerability is what actually creates connection, not perfection.
There’s a kind of bravery in that, but I don’t mean it in a grand way. I mean the everyday version of it: choosing not to hide, not to dilute what’s personal, and not to sand down the edges just to make things easier to watch. I try to put my full self into the work, even when it feels exposed.
If it leaves an impact, I hope it’s that people feel a little more seen. Or a little less alone. Or maybe even surprised by what they recognize in themselves.
And if I’m lucky, they also leave thinking, “wow… she really went there.”
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4 Responses
Nicole Stewart, the child I knew, is providing profound responses not only to acting, but also to life. I enjoyed reading this Interview, which allowed me to know the insight of actors, particularly, Nicole’s approach combining hard work, inspiration, technique and honesty
She’s brilliant, deeply human and great actress!
Qué artículo tan merecido. Admiro profundamente a Nicole; su excelencia artística es innegable, pero lo que realmente la hace gigante es su enorme calidad humana. Es súper inspirador ver cómo lucha y alcanza sus sueños. Nicole es la prueba de que, cuando combinas talento y disciplina artística con un corazón gigante, no hay meta inalcanzable. No me queda duda de que seguirá logrando cosas increíbles.
An inspiring interview. Nicole clearly reflects what it means to build an artistic voice through honesty, discipline and resilience. Her ability to inhabit each emotion with precision and transform it into stage language demonstrates an uncommon mastery. In her work a refined sensitivity, interpretive intelligence and humor provokes a connection with the audience on the most intimate level . I know she will continue to shine in contemporary theatre.