At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, a stage kiss completely changed my life.
Not in a met-the-love-of-my-life-in-the-theater kind of way—this isn’t that kind of story. When it comes to my professional and, ultimately, personal life, however? 100%.
In 2019, I was in a repertory theatre company and, as was my typecast at the time, booked multiple romantic roles that season. This frequently involved the performance of intimacy— something I thought I felt comfortable with at that point in my career because, well, I really didn’t have the option of feeling otherwise. A director telling me to “go over there and make out” with a scene partner was typical, even as it could be uncomfortable or was occasionally a situation where a scene partner would do something that went over the line of what the performance called for. There was no other option but to just go for it; after all, it had always been the protocol, right?
This time, though, there was a new factor that completely changed the game. One of the directors hired a colleague who had trained in a then-new field called intimacy direction, which can basically be defined as the idea that moments of intimacy on stage (nudity, sex and, often, kissing) should be choreographed like slaps, punches or armed combat would be by a fight director. While I had plenty of experience performing choreographed combat, I hadn’t ever worked with an intimacy director, and even as I found the idea interesting, I couldn’t help but think I was already able to choreograph that kind of thing for myself. I probably didn’t really need some outside professional telling me what to do. I was so wrong.
Shelby Criswell
The kiss—the one that changed my life—was the first one on which the intimacy director worked. Until that point, the 20-second sequence had been totally improvised and would change with each rehearsal. I spent a lot of time wondering if what I was doing made sense, if my scene partner was OK with it, or if he’d even tell me if he weren't. The intimacy director changed all of that. He helped us establish boundaries around touch, asked what story we wanted to tell and used our input to develop the staging we performed. When we put it all together, it blew my mind how different the experience could be. By not having to plan new movements each time, I was able to perform the character so much more easily. The new coordination became powerful proof that there were safer, healthier, better ways of telling romantic and intimate stories on stage. By giving agency to the actors, it also showed that traditional, and often toxic, power dynamics in theatre were (and are) changeable.
That experience led to my own training in intimacy direction, booking work on productions of the musicals Spring Awakening and Sunday in the Park with George and films including Night of the Starlings and The Storm and becoming an intimacy direction educator. Interestingly, while teaching through the SAG-AFTRA accredited training company Intimacy Directors and Coordinators, a second major impact emerged when one the central tenets of intimacy design—consent—became a deeply intentional focus beyond my work and a crucial element of how I move through the world.
I began to interrogate what consent actually looks like beyond catchphrases like “no means no,” as well as the assumptions we make around communicating consent and how power dynamics factor into everything. I began giving students more agency by not making assumptions about what they might be OK with performing—or when—and I was able to create more opportunities for their input. The work these young adults presented in my classroom only grew in quality when they discovered it was a space where they genuinely had a say. “Safer inspires braver” is a common adage in intimacy coordination, and I saw that was true, both with students and professional actors.
Outside of my intimacy work and teaching, focusing on consent and not making assumptions in interpersonal relationships began to shift how my personal dynamics worked as well. I began to notice, for example, that when it comes to dating, the people who often had the most red flags would drop a big one fairly early: An eye roll and a frustrated don’t-do that-vibe when I would seek consent. Conversely, my dynamics with partners who understood and would also seek active and enthusiastic consent became healthier and more fulfilling than I ever imagined. I also found that I became a safer person for those around me in general, which is incredibly important, particularly right now.
I’ve often told my drama students that the theater is inherently political. Regardless of whether political themes are overt, each piece is a reaction to what came before and the context in which it was written. In the reality of our political climate and internet idiocy such as that “your body, my choice” guy from last year, pushing back and centering consent in my day-to-day, romantic and professional lives feels more and more urgent and is itself a borderline political act. In a world where agency and rights are being stripped away, intentionality around treating other human beings as inherently worthy of agency and dignity while teaching others to do the same—and considering how consent shows up in all relationships, not just romantic or sexual—our own spheres of influence can affect much-needed actions in uplifting autonomy where it is under threat of being taken away. Though more action is always needed, in times such as these where it can be difficult to know what to do to make a difference, something as small as creating space for another person to feel safe while voicing their needs is a step we can all easily take.
Zoe Burke (she/they) is a Santa Fe-based theater educator and intimacy and stage director. When she isn’t in the rehearsal room or on set (rare), she can be found running or hiking the amazing trails in the Santa Fe area.
