This week carried a moment that stuck with the writer and, honestly, with many who heard it. Three colleagues in suits and soft bellies turned a casual moment into a quiet judgment, a comment planted when the office rose to use the restroom. The remark found its echo not in malice or overt sexism, but in a wave of ease, as if an offhand observation could pass as harmless. The scene looked like a small social ritual: one person spoke, two nodded, and the room settled into a normal, almost communal chatter. Yet the effect lingered. It reminded many in the room of Saint Matthew’s timeless warning about the speck in another’s eye while ignoring the log in one’s own. From that moment on, the voices of women—our grandmothers, colleagues, neighbors—have carried a familiar familiarity, a sense that a woman’s appearance is something ripe for commentary, often accompanied by a harsh judgment that never seems to end. The sentiment, it seems, has traveled across generations and borders, shaping a shared experience of scrutiny that feels both personal and collective. And yes, it is painful. Not only for women, but for anyone who has witnessed the same old script playing out in a different room, with the same tired punchlines and the same unnecessary decorations of moral judgment.
At the Goya premiere, Canarian actress Sara Sálamo offered a candid detail: she attended the event without makeup. The mere suggestion sparked a flurry of questions, a small tempest about authenticity and appearance. The critique followed a familiar path. If makeup is heavy, the look is accused; if it’s minimal, another set of judgments appear. There are people who believe that women must navigate a strict code of expression, a relentless pressure to present a precise image at all times. For some, a photograph of Minister Ione Belarra with a revealed mark on her outfit becomes the center of political debate, a pretext to question professional value and to extend personal commentary into the realm of public accountability. The larger question emerges: why do bodies—breasts, lips, lines on the face—become the battleground for broader opinions about ability and worth? Madonna, adored on the dance floor for decades, often faces the kind of relentless scrutiny that invites both admiration and ridicule. Yet the figures who resist such gazes, who reject the need to perform, rarely receive the same sharpened attention as those who are more visible in the public eye. The contrast is stark: the iconic presence of a performer is celebrated, while the same attention can become a tool for demeaning or diminishing reputation. And the chorus of criticism rarely spares anyone involved in the dialogue, from the youngest starlet to the most seasoned veteran, yet the weight of it sometimes lands most heavily on those who are most visible and vocal about their truth.
The troubling pattern then turns toward how rudeness operates—how it links a woman’s body to the supposed excess or deficiency of her life. If a person speaks with conviction, some interpret that stance as a sign of overreach or arrogance. If mood shifts appear, they’re read as evidence of weakness or fragility. The same behavior can be praised in a male counterpart, while judged in a female one. If a woman asserts a strong position, she’s accused of looking down on others; if she steps back, she’s labeled as passive or ineffective. Pressure mounts to perform a narrow script, and when the script diverges, the critique flows with speed. The barrage of misread cues grows tiring: a moment of fatigue is a character flaw; a display of confidence becomes a threat; a candid opinion can become a personal vendetta. The array of contradictions stretches into a never-ending catalog, and the toll is not simply about aesthetics. It is about identity, agency, and the everyday choice to occupy space as one chooses, without surrendering dignity to the loudest voices in the room.
Returning to the tapestry of the Goyas, there is a quiet joy in Antonio Saura’s tribute to his father, a director who honored the women in his life with warmth and respect. The heartfelt acknowledgment feels like a balm among the noise, a reminder that generosity and gratitude can stand against the push and pull of public opinion. The moment shines brighter when contrasted with the way the conversation can drift back to the table, where a woman with lipstick sits under the gaze of a few onlookers who glance with a mix of admiration and surveillance. Yes, it is a beautiful moment in its own right—the best kind, when people look at one another and smile, when the room seems to acknowledge each other with small, sincere affirmations. The scene suggests that the current moment is ripe for simpler, kinder exchanges. Perhaps the most honest takeaway is this: beauty is not a final verdict but a living experience, and the real value lies not in others’ opinions but in the comfort of being oneself in the moment. In that spirit, the final word feels less like a judgment and more like a shared truth: the present is enough, and perhaps, for a breath, we can simply enjoy being seen and seen well.