If, on a European holiday, you get flustered greeting people – should you kiss? how many times? – spare a thought for Dutch theologian Desiderius Erasmus. Visiting England in 1499, he found a nation of enthusiastic kissers. “Wherever you go, you are received on all hands with kisses; when you take leave you are dismissed with kisses,” he wrote in surprise, or possibly, alarm. On the continent, the fashion for greeting with a peck on the lips had long fallen by the wayside (probably because of sexual propriety), but the English held firm. It didn’t matter if the other person was of the opposite sex, everyone puckered up.
Whether you like to snog, smooch, suck face or osculate (the scientific term), kissing seems so natural and instinctive, it’s hard to imagine it having a history at all. But just as kissing is not seen in all cultures, so, historian of emotions Katie Barclay writes, its meanings have changed across time too. From foot-kissing knights to baby-kissing politicians, to the “shut-up kiss” of Hollywood romcoms, this rich and fascinating history reminds us that kissing is, and always has been, a contested public gesture as well as a private pleasure.
Barclay, a professor at Macquarie University, Sydney, begins in medieval Europe, with the osculum pacis, or kiss of peace. A kiss on the lips, usually shared between two powerful men, it marked the conclusion of any legal or diplomatic negotiation (the clincher, if you will). This ritual was based on medical beliefs that held, since the breath carried the spirit, a kiss on the lips caused two souls to mingle and equalise. For this reason, vassals and their lords also kissed lip-to-lip in the ritual of fealty, as did worshippers in church. As the wealthy began to complain about locking lips with their servants though, churches introduced the pax, a ritual object which could be passed around and kissed instead.
Not all symbolic kisses were so egalitarian. The foot kiss, used to venerate, could also humiliate and degrade. In 911, when the marauding Viking leader Rollo finalised a peace treaty with the Frankish king, he was instructed to kneel and kiss the king’s foot in loyalty. The appalled warrior, who would bow to no man, eventually offered a proxy to deliver the crucial kiss instead. The Viking stand-in reputedly grabbed the king’s foot so violently he tipped him backwards.
The day-to-day kisses that Erasmus witnessed in 1499 seem to have disappeared from English social life by the 18th century. By then, men were shaking hands (though many women were still expected to kiss). Close male friends, however, continued to greet with a kiss on the lips, in an era where the style of men’s friendship was highly affectionate.
As Barclay writes, by the end of the 19th century, with kisses of fealty and peace a distant memory, and a growing emphasis on romantic marriage, lip-kissing became almost exclusively associated with the private world of love and especially sex. But this did not mean kisses disappeared entirely from public and political life. In 1908, an outbreak of diphtheria caused the London county council to ban kissing games in schools. A new era of parenting advice in the 1920s prompted further debates – was it right to kiss children, or, as the American behaviourist John Watson argued, did it lead to “coddling” (beware the “dangers lurking in the mother’s kiss” he warned, in 1928). I can scarcely imagine leaning in to kiss a stranger’s baby, but apparently this was such a common occurrence that by 1930, health-conscious mothers were advised to embroider a warning on their infants’ bibs: “do not kiss me”.
Above all, anxieties about sex kept kissing on the agenda. Between the wars, with audiences flocking to picture palaces, censors became alarmed by the frank portrayals of desire on screen. In 1934, the notorious Hays Code banned “excessive and lustful” kisses, as well as interracial and same-sex ones. In the 1970s, defiant gay civil rights activists embraced the “kiss-in”, reclaiming a vision of queer life that was as much about love and tenderness as sex. Later, amid the Aids epidemic and the deluge of misinformation about its transmission, the radical potential of a kiss became even greater.
Today, the public debate centres on consent. In 2023, Luis Rubiales, a former Spanish football federation president, sparked international outrage when he kissed captain Jenni Hermoso on the lips following Spain’s World Cup victory (he was found guilty of sexual assault). Even the most apparently spontaneous of kisses can be shot through with power and politics. As Barclay’s timely book reminds us, it was ever thus.
The Kiss is richly illustrated with fascinating examples. Readers looking for a fast-paced narrative history may find its style a little academic in places, but Barclay’s central point remains persuasive: “when we kiss, we kiss with the weight of history”.
• Tiffany Watt Smith is a cultural historian and author of Bad Friend: On Joyous, Imperfect Love (Faber). The Kiss: A History of Passion and Power by Katie Barclay is published by Reaktion (£20). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
