By Tristan Grajales

Before she knew intimacy coordinators existed, Avery Jean Rose was already taking on the responsibility of one as a performance: acting student at Toronto Metropolitan University (TMU). With a career spanning independent short films to live theatre, Rose is now committed to protecting artists, even if it means slowing down a high-budget production.

“‘Time is money’ is drilled into us as actors, and it’s terrifying,” Rose said. “I don’t care what set I’m on. I don’t care what money we’re losing. I’ll stop everything.”

According to ACTRA Toronto, the role of an intimacy coordinator is to create a safe and respectful work environment for scenes involving nudity and simulated sex. For Rose, having an intimacy coordinator on set is invaluable.

Rose credits former TMU acting professor Jennifer Wigmore with introducing her to intimacy coordination. She says Wigmore and Siobhan Richardson—a pioneering voice in the field across Canada—mentored her in the practice. Through Richardson’s guidance, Rose discovered that intimacy coordination has similarities with fight choreography. “You wouldn’t just get two actors to punch each other, right?” she explained.

Despite this straightforward analogy, intimacy coordination remains widely misunderstood in media and across film, television and theatre. Third-year TMU performance: acting student Miguel Gallego says misconceptions are common. 

“You don’t think that there’s technique initially,” he said. “You’re like, ‘Okay, if I can do this in real life, I can do it in a fake setting,’ but there are certain things that read better.”

Gallego has performed vulnerable scenes in student and feature films, with and without intimacy coordinators, and he says the difference is noticeable. “Whenever there’s no intimacy coordinator, there’s the assumption of throwing actors in the water,” he observes. “You guys figure it out, you guys learn how to swim.”

The hierarchy of power on film sets can make it difficult for actors to speak up about concerns, particularly those in smaller roles.

“There’s no opening,” Gallego said. “If you do start that conversation, a lot of the time, it’ll be in front of a lot more people, which…can be an even bigger stressor.”

Beyond on-screen talent, intimacy coordinators are looking out for the well-being of everyone behind the scenes. While working on one production, Rose became aware of how emotionally triggering an intense sequence could be for crew members, from costume and makeup to lighting and sound. She made a point of checking in with each person individually. 

“It made such a difference,” she recalls. One crew member asked to step out during the scene and Rose ensured they were brought back once filming moved on. She also advocated for an actor who was required to cry on camera, making sure the scene was not repeated unnecessarily, knowing the actor might not feel comfortable voicing those limits to the director in a fast-paced environment.

A common concern performers have is navigating intimate scenes while in a monogamous relationship outside of work. Part of an intimacy coordinator’s role is reassuring actors that the work is choreographed and not romantic. “I always say, ‘If your girlfriend or your boyfriend is freaking out, I’ll talk to them,’” Rose explained. “They can come in and they can see the process to eliminate any worry.”

Throughout rehearsal, intimacy coordinators introduce a range of exercises designed to help performers get comfortable with one another before the camera rolls. These strategies include everything from text analysis and open conversation to prolonged eye contact and secret handshakes.

Even if an intimacy coordinator is not actively choreographing a scene, Gallego finds their presence on set essential during explicit moments, allowing him to stay in character without distraction.

“Depending on the amount of clothing you have, you want to make sure that everything is tucked away…You want to present well,” he explained. “Having someone that you know is taking care of that takes off that pressure of you having to be the one in charge of it.”

As a Queer artist herself, Rose is passionate about bringing her intimacy coordination expertise to Queer stories. Drawing on her own experience, she notices details a straight director might overlook, something that she knows a lesbian in the audience will catch. One example that sticks out to her is a short film she watched featuring lesbians with their hands covered in rings as they move into an intimate scene. 

“They woke up the next morning and their makeup was still almost perfect, and they still had all their jewelry on,” she recalls. “In my brain, I was like, ‘That would never happen. No way you kept your rings on.” One of the biggest things that drew Rose to the line of work is the creativity she can bring to make the most subtle moments more authentic and impactful.

Moving forward, Rose hopes that intimacy coordination becomes more recognized and accessible. “The training is expensive, and it’s often very time consuming. It’s basically like going back to university.” For Rose, wider access to this knowledge means safer, more accountable sets where artists can do their best work and, above all else, protect themselves.