ON BREATH:
Interview of Laura Quigley by Channelle Holiday
INTERVIEW of Laura Quigley, by Channelle Holiday
CH: How does breath translate in the arts?
LQ: Breath is the bridge between body and expression. It’s the first impulse of creation. It's the unseen current that animates imagination, sound, and movement. In my work as a voice and theatre artist, breath is both literal and metaphorical. It’s the movement of air through the body, yes, but it’s also a movement of thought, emotion, and energy. It translates in the arts as presence.
On an inhale, I explore gravity. I let go. I trust that the air will come in, without me needing to manage it. I explore sensations of rippling. Belly releasing on the inhale, ribcage expanding, front and back, jaw and tongue letting go - rippling open. I re-discover gravity. Like a partner. Like a lover. Gravity isn’t needy, rather she insists I let go and give up for as long as I need, that she can support me, that I don’t have to hold myself up, hold myself in, pull myself away. With every single inhale time slows down completely. Each inhale a whole relationship. Years long. A lifetime.
And the exhale, the sound, the song - a surprise. Something new. Something powerful. Right from the center of me, which is the centre of my world, really. An undeniable connection to my need, my desire, my want to communicate. A primal need. Eternal. I release all of my sound intelligent and not, beautiful and not, wild and chaotic and true. Soft. A secret. Full of rage. A passionate cry. All utterances are a way to shift or add or harmonize with or expand my reality. Like how a rainstorm can create extraordinary beauty, can abet spring, and also flood a depended-upon crop of wheat, devastating everything left to deal with its aftermath.
When I breathe, I am participating in the living rhythm of the world. Breath becomes a collaborator in the creative process: it shapes phrasing in speech, rhythm in music, and dynamics in movement. In my teaching, I guide students to follow their breath as impulse, rather than to try to do something clever, or get it 'right'. Breath teaches us to listen to the body first, not the brain, and to create from sensation, not expectation. Whether we are devising theatre, writing poetry, or moving through choreography, breath is what carries our inner experience outward into shared space.
CH: Why is breath important?
LQ: Breath is the foundation of self-knowing and expression. It’s our most honest expression, before form, before words. When we trust breath, we connect with gravity, with the earth beneath us, with our own need and desire to communicate. Breath reminds us that we are alive, relational, porous beings.
In the studio, breath becomes a teacher of patience and surrender. It asks us to release control and to let the body lead. For me, the importance of breath lies in that invitation to trust, not just air moving in and out of the lungs, but a deeper kind of trust that allows creative and emotional truth to surface. Through breath we discover freedom, presence, and the capacity to listen to ourselves, to others, and to the space we inhabit.
CH: What does a good supported breath sound like?
LQ: A supported breath sounds alive. It’s not necessarily pretty or performative—it might be quiet or fierce, trembling or resonant—but it has depth. You can hear gravity in it, hear the body’s weight and trust. A supported breath sounds like connection rather than control.
When my students find it, their voices surprise them. There’s a fullness that arrives when the breath isn’t managed or forced—when the ribs ripple open, the belly releases, and the jaw and tongue let go. It’s the sound of truth moving through a body that’s willing to be seen and felt.
CH: How can you identify good supported breath from it not being supported?
LQ: You can hear it and see it. When breath is supported, the whole body participates: there’s a groundedness and a sense of expansion. The sound is resonant. When it’s not supported, the breath is shallow or tight, as though the performer is trying to make the sound happen rather than allowing it.
Supported breath feels relational, it’s a conversation between gravity and air. Unsupported breath often comes from tension or fear, habits, or from trying to perform rather than express. The nervous system plays a big role, meaning we can have unsupported sound and shallow breath unintentionally.
I remind my students that support doesn’t mean effort; it means trust. The body already knows how to breathe, and our work is to remember that knowing and build resilience with the nervous system.
CH: What is the foundation of breath?
LQ: The first foundation of breath is gravity. Breath begins with letting go, with releasing into the earth so that air can return. We don’t pull the breath in; we make space for it. That space is created by yielding to gravity, by softening the holding patterns that keep us from feeling supported.
The next foundation is structure. The paradox is that humans, in our most animal form (somewhere between conception and the age of three) understand and model this structure perfectly. But over time, through socialization, trauma (both big and small), habitual patterns, and even philosophical choices, that natural alignment is often disrupted. We begin to clench certain muscles, like the jaw, the shoulders, and the glutes, or we hold in the belly, resist gravity, and lock ourselves in ways that limit free breath and sound-making.
If you watch a toddler laughing or a lion roaring, you can see what we were born to do: the belly releases on the inhale, the ribcage expands, and on the exhale the transverse abdominis gently engages to support the sound as the ribs draw back in. This is the effortless intelligence of the body and support that is both strong and free.
The last foundation is philosophical and practice-based. The practice includes repetition and trust-builing. When I inhale, I let go immediately and rediscover gravity as a partner, reminding me that I don’t need to hold myself up, that the ground can hold me. From that place of trust, the inhale can be full, and the exhale can support sound, movement, and emotion with freedom, easr and power. When I exhale and make sound, I engage my imagination as well as my structural support, I have a need to speak, and my body supports this need whether the sound is small and intimate or needs to reach the back wall of an opera house. Actors need to learn and practice this action of letting go and finding structure over and over again, to rediscover what they already know, and train their bodies and voices for healthy sound-making.
Breath, at its foundation, is the meeting place of body, earth, and imagination. It’s where art begins.
Curating Hope: The Swedish Play (excerpt of article on Contemporary Creative and Curatorial Practices, publication forthcoming)
Curating Hope: The Swedish Play
They move in-synch, weaving through the half-empty parking lot toward
giant glass doors. Hand in hand, they’re headed for the one thing they’re sure
will make them whole again: the perfect pillow. They’ve been talking about it all
week, this purchase, this hoped-for item. They need a dash of colour, they hiss. A
touch of style.
As the doors glide open a sweet stench of roasting, half-cooked hotdogs
and re-warmed pizzas crowd their olfactory bulbs, the recall so strong they can
almost taste the rubbery texture, the too-hard cheese-trio . They glance at one
another, an almost imperceptible nod confirming that they will hit the snack-bar
later: the vanilla cone will be an earned reward to signal the success of their
important, possibly life-changing quest.
They charge ahead, toward the grand staircase. It’s a Tuesday afternoon
making the 500,000 square foot store a dream to inhabit. Fewer shoppers mean
they can linger in their favorite rooms, sink into overstuffed furniture, run fingers
over multicoloured textiles in floral, polka dot, stripe and sateen-medallion. As
they walk through the children’s display they give one another a little squeeze of
their jointed fingers, one partner hoping the other feels a pang of want, the
other partner flooding with relief at the thought that the other must understand
this will never be their favourite exhibit.
They carry-on, the path marked clearly by glowing arrows optimistically
pointing this way and that, directing them past living rooms, dining displays,
dream-offices.
Turning a corner, the doll-house kitchens gleam in metal and white, gold
and black. Here is an embarrassment of storage solutions and high-end knock-
off sinks. They imagine themselves finally clean in a custom SINARP.
But they don’t linger. They only have this one day. What at first felt like a
wide-open window of time is feeling more like a claustrophobic crack. They
must keep going. They haven’t got all day. Soon more shoppers will come and
there will be longer lines at the checkout. They will lose all traces of the guilty-
glee they feel. They’ve both taken a mental-health day from their respective
jobs, telling bosses and nosy co-workers that it’s just been… alot lately. They
need time to recoup, they say. Maybe they will book a last-minute check-in with
their therapist, they say. A massage, perhaps. A good cry. A much-needed nap.
They almost squeal as they veer toward the marketplace where pillows
and more pillows and more pillows await. But as they approach the HEMNES
display something…unknowable happens. An all-white room comes into view:
white dresser, white side tables with white lamps, white shades, white bed, white
bedding. Neither shopper can quite grasp what they’re seeing. It’s like a
dream. A vision. A poem. Three…women? They occupy one bed. A queen bed.
Tight quarters for three grown women. And these…women? They’re
completely…are they naked? And why are they moving like that? So…slowly.
The rise and fall of their breath like a time-lapse to another world.
Once fused-together by a common retail wish, each partner feels cool air
caress the hand that gripped onto their partner’s. They’ve let go and can feel
the sweat and heat that seemed to fuse them together just float away. All at
once they feel the naked truth of their separateness. Inhale. Exhale. They
experience the sensation of their own feet on the ground, feel their own toes
crowding in too-tight ‘practical’ shopping shoes.
They don’t immediately perceive the shift in their breathing. Or notice
their own, what could it be?...disappearance? It takes time to feel into
themselves. To let go of themselves. To become. To unbecome.
But as they remain, transfixed, one begins to notice that their jaw,
previously clenched in want and worry, their jaw is hanging open, released,
tongue laying comfortably on bottom teeth, breath falling into open mouth,
belly softly puddling on every inhale, a little whimper escaping with each
warming exhale. The other notices their once-knotted tummy is swimming with
curious fluttering, and their once-braced shoulders are falling easily down their
back. They both stand transformed, watching, breathing, letting go. Inhale.
Exhale. Their muscles fall into gravity, their bone-structure floats like a helium
balloon. They are both gravity and lightness, both at the same time.
They feel a sense that they are not quite themselves, rather, they are more
of themselves. But also, they are more of more. They are the women in the bed,
they are the breath that moves between them, they are the bed that houses
them, the light that reflects them, the air. They are air. They are, and they are
not. And the women in the bed are the shoppers that are no longer shoppers.
Everyone stretching into one another. Bending time. Breathing one another’s
exhales, rooted by one another’s’ roots.
And then a sound, like a tree branch crack-snap! in the forest, their bodies
become suddenly alert. A tap on the shoulder. Was it their shoulder? Their
partners? A salesperson? Or a nurse? The whole room shifts all at once as a
figure in white clothing approaches. An offer is made. The nurse’s outstretched
hands offer two pairs of headphones. Large ones. Pillowy edges around the ear-
part. Heavy-looking. Black.
The shoppers had forgotten themselves, but suddenly transported, here
they are. A mega-store. Surrounded by perfectly curated rooms and
objects…but…why is a nurse here? Wearing their scrubs. Is it scrubs? Or? A
nurse? Why are they standing so close? A doctor, maybe? A scientist? Is it a
3straitjacket? Without hesitation they smile gratefully and place the soft foam
over their ears.
Eyes close as the sound muffles and then transports. A forest. Frogs,
insects, the chirps and caws of birds. Inhale. Exhale. They can smell thick pine
and musty fungi. “One. Two. Three." a voice punctures the forest-scape, and at
once they open their eyes. Scan their surroundings. In a corner, by the BILLY
bookcase, a monkey perches high on a shelf. And then another monkey. And
another. Six monkeys, seven. So many monkeys stuffed into shelves, packed into
drawers, falling from every inch of the office storage display. So many monkeys,
all the exact colour, size, all twins, multiplied. Monkeys thrown, monkeys placed,
stuffed and crowded into nooks and handy filing solutions. In the chaos one
scientist has become two, then three, then four. So many straightjackets.
Straightjackets? So many monkeys.
IKEA as Exhibition Site
Co-created by interdisciplinary artists Andreas Kahre and the Radix
Collective, The Swedish Play was presented at an IKEA store in Richmond, British
Columbia in May 2002. I was 26 years old at the time, living in Vancouver,
working as an actor, playwright and Artistic Director of a little-known but
trepidatious indie theatre company. At that time, Vancouver was home to
countless experimental theatre makers: folks who sought unconventional
performance spaces over well-lit prosceniums at a time when site-specific
wasn’t a cute new phrase artists used to show funding bodies how innovate
they were in order to win coveted grants money. We preferred intimate and
unconventional performance spaces not only because our budgets didn’t allow
for bigger and brighter, but rather because we were curious about how we
could experiment with the relationship between performer and audience to
expand notions of what might be possible in theatre. We were hungry and
untethered. Orphan-like, coming from a wide-range of ethnic and cultural
backgrounds. We were queer and furious, compelled by hard-work and the
belief that art could change (us, the world).
The Swedish Play was an experiment in individual and collective poetry
making. The project resembled a radio-play meets guided tour meets scientific
experiment with a splash of Greek tragedy. The artists involved sought to explore
individual and collective desire, dreams, and imagination by inserting the
fantastical into common everyday realities.
Set in the world’s largest furniture retailer, The Swedish Play offered poetic
interpretation and experiences that could transport unsuspecting shoppers from
the frantic pursuit of the perfect dinner napkin to a layered otherworldly fantasy.
Under our occupation, IKEA became a place where time was without measure,
objects multiplied and disappeared, and sounds of nature and electronic
squeaks interrupted the din of hushed voices and elevator music that typically
crowded the vacuous store.
By using IKEA as a performance / exhibition site, the store itself became a
gallery, its modular rooms and staged displays forming a living museum of
domestic fantasy and otherworldly experiences. Under Radix’s curation, IKEA’s
consumer environment was subverted. Accustomed to following arrows through
a narrative of better-living, customers found the predictable store-like
environment ruptured. Their experience of a place that was once familiar
became one of timelessness, intimacy, relationship, and embodiment.
The work’s curatorial strategy lies in what Radix called ‘invisible theatre’.
By staging within a functioning store, the lines between art and commerce, and
5between performer and passerby were blurred. Once a site of middle-class
aspiration, the occupation of IKEA by The Swedish Play became an experiment
in possible world-making. It situated performance not as rebellion from within the
system, but as a kind-of infiltration of a system....