🇬🇧 Calm and Refined Gestes did not begin as a project.
It began as a habit — and as an inheritance…and heritage itself.
As a child, my afternoons were often spent in plastic arts and craft workshops — spaces where time slowed down, hands learned before words, and patience was part of the learning.
Clay, paper, fabric, scissors, pigments: materials were not rushed, but explored. Gestures were repeated, refined, observed.
Alongside these early experiences ran a quieter, familial transmission. My surname itself carries a history of craftsmanship.
After the disruptions brought by the World Wars, this knowledge was resumed by my grandfather and carried forward — no longer as a profession, but as a devoted practice of free time, but in his gestures lived more than a single lifetime: techniques, attentions, and rhythms shaped by generations.
Another lineage came from my grandmother and her French side, where care for flowers, gardens, interiors, sewing, and the domestic arts formed a daily language. The kitchen was a central place of learning. I learned mostly by watching, then helping, little by little — especially through the transformation of the garden products, where gestures are measured, repeated, and guided by time rather than urgency.
These inheritances did not impose a path; they offered a way of being with materials, with time, and with care.
But also a safe place where to be back, as a child when the life was too heavy on me, and as an adult – when I need to find again in daily unconventional rhythms the comfort of my childhood at my grandparents home.
Over the years, this sensibility accompanied me through studies, research, writing, and life transitions. Even when creation took other forms — intellectual, editorial, analytical — the need for tactile grounding, ritual, and slowness remained.
Calm and Refined Gestes (CRG) emerges from this convergence.
It is an atelier conceived as a space of return: to the hands, to deliberate gestures, to doing things properly — not in the sense of perfection, but of care. A place where making becomes a form of presence, and where small, thoughtful actions are valued for what they offer: calm, clarity, and quiet meaning.
This project will unfold through objects, workshops, reflections, and shared moments.
It is an invitation to slow down, to take time, and to rediscover the beauty of well-considered gestures.
🇬🇧 When Inspiration Crosses the Line: Reflections on Intellectual Respect
There is something I want to clarify before anything else: this post is not intended to be judgmental but, I hope it can help to reflect on major unseen wounds the powerful ones can inflict on the less influential and known authors.. and possibly help to develop more intellectual (and human) honesty.
I know that influence often flows without intention. We absorb what we read, what we hear, what resonates with us. It’s normal.
But sometimes that “inspiration” travels too far — to the point where someone’s work is lifted almost intact, placed into another context, and released as if it had no origin.
It’s very easy to do, especially when that source is a smaller voice, or when the idea comes from someone who isn’t a well-known author, unlike certain writers who — after a long writing life — sometimes seem to run out of novelty, and yet, still feel entitled to absorb from those less visible.
What strikes me in this era is the growing hunger for recognition, for fame especially on the web and mass media addictions that we couldn’t even imagine 10 years ago, as if visibility were the only shield that could protect one’s ideas from being quietly taken…
Perhaps that is why so many feel compelled to cling to the spotlight: because anything created outside of it becomes too easy to appropriate.
And truly, it would be enough to acknowledge the source.
In the last few months, I’ve noticed something curious — and unsettling.
Some of the reflections I’ve shared here, crafted with care and rooted in years of study, suddenly reappeared in articles, newsletters, and social commentaries written by people who have never exchanged a word with me although we have those famous 6 degrees of separation (my Italian teacher in high school was the daughter of the major Italian news director…and some who studied at my same school are now working in major tv shows and programmes…so…it’s not so difficult…). My phrases, my angles, my theories — repackaged as if they had always belonged to someone else.
It’s not dramatic. But it is revealing.
And it raises a bigger question: what does it mean to write, to create, when the lines between inspiration, borrowing, and exploitation have grown dangerously thin?
The Anthropologist’s Lens: Gifts, Theft, and the Circulation of Ideas
Anthropology has long studied how ideas move. Marcel Mauss described the “spirit of the gift”: even an object carries the imprint of the giver.
What we post online works the same way.
Even when words float freely, they carry a signature — an emotional, intellectual fingerprint.
The problem today is not that ideas circulate. It’s that platforms encourage strip-mining of thought without context, or acknowledgment.
Borrowing becomes extraction.
Inspiration becomes silent appropriation.
What once was dialogue now feels like content harvesting.
It is important to see what that inspiration has produced too: if someone less visible, a student for example, takes note during a lesson and develops reasonings based on what listens, it’s something (also because the professors are supposed to be trained, prepared to share only what they intend and useful for the lesson) – if a professor, a teacher, an established researcher uses what a student is beginning to develop…well, in my humble opinion, is something else…especially because that student is not prepared, not trained yet to protect themselves and their work from others’ greed.
This is something I’ve never been taught at University, and I have truly missed and felt I needed as a student coming from a family with no experience in university life: how to protect myself and my work from jackals.
Same with writers, or politicians: if a writer or politician doesn’t bother to pay a ghost writer as the good politicians of a generation ago used to do, it says already a lot of what you can expect from them…and I don’t like it…because there’s a echo of dishonesty and greed in such acts, that a civic society shouldn’t let happen.
Why it has to be so difficult to admit someone with less experience comes with a good idea? Why, instead of levelling down such brilliant minds, institutions and supervisors don’t acknowledge and guide in respectful ways said researcher?
Too many times I’ve seen and experienced how some feel entitled to appropriate others’ less famous or published authors-researchers, and kneecap them…because, yes, probably some of you don’t know how it feels, but I assure you when someone that is part (hence represents) an institution — being an university, a publishing company, or whatever— acts like that, they drain little by little that trust a young researcher has towards them, and society at large at times, and really you feel like they are shooting in your legs.
There is also Emotional Labour Behind —
Although people often underestimate the invisible labour behind writing.
Even a single post of a blog might be shaped by years of reading, fieldwork, lived experience, healing, or spiritual reflection. When someone takes the surface — a sentence, a point of view, an argument — they erase not just the source, but the process…and the person behind it.
Not mentioning physical pain when, as it’s happening recently to me, you start to experience chronic arthritis.
For many of us, especially those who write across culture, ethics, spirituality, and memory, the cost is double:
our voice is copied, but our vulnerability remains ours alone.
It’s not “just content”.
It’s intellectual labour — often unpaid and uncredited.
The Unpublished Work Problem
What unsettles me most is that this dynamic isn’t new.
It happened even when I was still studying, sharing early drafts, research ideas, or theoretical links during seminars, workshops, or private conversations.
That kind of intellectual production is almost impossible to protect: it isn’t published, it carries no official timestamp, and the fragility of student work makes it easy for others to absorb your insights and present them later as their own.
Those ideas existed — but only in spoken form, private notes, and early manuscripts that never received the “protection” of a publication date.
And so, when I see echoes of my academic reflections in later articles or research by others, I’m left with a familiar feeling: knowing something came from my mind, and in-field work, yet having no formal way to claim it back.
Sexism and Power Dynamics
This dynamic, unfortunately, often unfolds in profoundly gendered ways.
Women’s ideas, labour, and intellectual contributions are still too frequently absorbed, reframed, or claimed by more influential men who benefit from institutional positions, visibility, or authority – especially in patriarchal societies where this is just normalised as sexual harassment.
It is not always loud or explicit; often it is subtle, disguised as “mentorship,” “guidance,” or mere coincidence.
But beneath these narratives lies an old pattern: when power is unevenly distributed, the work of women becomes easier to appropriate, easier to silence, and harder to defend.
This is not only an issue of individual ethics — it reflects structural inequalities that allow certain voices to be amplified simply because they belong to men, while women must fight twice as hard to protect what they create.
Naming this imbalance is crucial, because respecting intellectual labour also means dismantling the gendered hierarchies that continue to shape who gets credit, who is paid (more), who is listened to, and who is quietly erased.
Some examples of how this habit is well rooted -throughout international contexts…
đź“š Literature & Philosophy:
1. Zelda Fitzgerald (writer) — overshadowed by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Much of Zelda’s writing — diary passages, letters, even scenes she drafted — ended up incorporated into F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novels, most famously The Great Gatsby and Tender Is the Night. He often discouraged her from publishing independently, claiming it threatened his reputation.
2. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (writer) — initially credited to Percy Shelley
Early readers and critics believed Frankenstein had been written by Percy Shelley, not Mary. Percy edited the manuscript heavily and attached a preface in his own name, leading to decades of misattribution despite Mary being the true author.
3. Colette (novelist) — early novels published under her husband Willy’s name
Colette’s husband, Henry Gauthier-Villars (“Willy”), forced her to write the Claudine series while he published them under his own name. Only years later was she able to reclaim her authorship.
4. Simone de Beauvoir — overshadowed by Sartre’s fame
Although not “stolen,” her work was consistently diminished and subsumed under Sartre’s influence. Many of her philosophical contributions were attributed to him, despite her independent innovations.
🎼 Music & Composition:
5. Clara Schumann (composer & pianist) — overshadowed by Robert Schumann
Clara was a celebrated virtuoso and respected composer in her own right, but her works were often attributed to her husband or dismissed as secondary. Some of her compositions are now believed to have been published under Robert’s name.
6. Fanny Mendelssohn (composer) — published under Felix Mendelssohn’s name
Fanny wrote over 400 pieces, but her family discouraged her from publishing because she was a woman. Several of her songs were published under Felix’s name, with Felix later admitting she had superior musical talent.
7. Alma Mahler (composer) — silenced by Gustav Mahler
Gustav Mahler forbade Alma from composing after marriage, insisting there could not be “two composers in one family.” She wrote exceptional music early in life, much of it unpublished or suppressed.
🎨 Art & Academia:
8. Camille Claudel (sculptor) — overshadowed by Auguste Rodin
Claudel was Rodin’s collaborator and contributed heavily to some of his celebrated works. Her own artistic identity was overshadowed, and her contributions were often absorbed into Rodin’s legacy.
9. Lise Meitner (physicist) — discovery of nuclear fission credited to Otto Hahn
Although not a writer/composer, this is one of the clearest cases of intellectual appropriation: Meitner’s theoretical explanation of nuclear fission was essential, yet the Nobel Prize was given only to Hahn.
đź–‹ Publishing & Academia:
10. Rosalind Franklin (scientist) — DNA structure credited to Watson & Crick
Watson and Crick used Franklin’s photographs and data without permission or acknowledgment, building their model of DNA on her research. Her contribution was minimized for decades.
The Line Between Influence and Exploitation
Influence is natural. We all absorb and remix ideas.
Exploitation, however, has a different flavour. It often looks like:
No credit, even when the concept is nearly identical.
Rapid extraction: someone publishes your ideas days after you share them (and before you are allowed to expand said work).
Flattened context: your nuanced reflections appear in a superficial retelling.
Asymmetry of power: larger platforms take from smaller, careful voices, levelling down the main reasoning behind (because the priority is to publish sooner, faster and possibly more – to convince themselves -at least- of their superiority) .
This dynamic mirrors older patterns of cultural appropriation — the strong taking from the small, the loud taking from the reflective, the fast taking from the slow.
Five Small Things That (CAN) Make a Huge Difference
In reality, protecting intellectual work does not require monumental reforms.
It requires simply for small, although essential and civic gestures, that reflect honesty, integrity, and a basic respect for the labour of others.
Whether one is a supervisor, editor, publisher, or simply a reader, these actions matter:
Acknowledge your sources, even when they come from students, independent authors, or lesser-known voices. Prestige does not equal origin.
Cite ideas precisely, not vaguely; a clear reference is a form of intellectual fairness and prevents unintentional appropriation.
Maintain ethical boundaries in supervision and mentorship: support students’ growth without absorbing their insights into your own work.
Ask for permission when drawing on someone’s unpublished material — drafts, conversations, or seminar contributions are not “free”.
These may look like minor habits, but together they create a culture where thought is valued, not extracted.
Conclusion — On Trust, Institutions, and the Real Cost of Unacknowledged Work
Seeing others use your ideas without recognition is more than disappointing; it can erode motivation, confidence, and — perhaps most seriously — trust toward entire institutions.
When original contributions are overlooked or quietly absorbed into someone else’s research, students and independent authors learn a painful lesson: that VERY OFTEN visibility, not merit, determines whose ideas survive.
And this is dangerous.
It is essential that academic environments, publishers, and cultural institutions create clear methods for protecting student work and the creations of lesser-known authors. Because stealing from others does not make anyone grow. You might get away with it once, perhaps even twice — but the absence of the original mind behind those ideas eventually reveals itself. The reasoning, the method, the depth that were never yours cannot sustain you, and they cannot save an institution built on borrowed insight when they will need them original mind.
This is precisely where problems begin.
Respecting intellectual origins is not a courtesy; it is a safeguard.
It protects not only the author, but also the integrity of whoever engages with their ideas. When we acknowledge where thought comes from, we strengthen the entire structure of knowledge, and of a society itself.
Side Notes: Finding Strength to Write Again
I started to write again after a long period of silence and creative block, caused by seeing my work and ideas being silenced and later used by others. The turning point came thanks to a project I was awarded by two major Japanese institutions in an international selection. This recognition reminded me of my worth and confirmed that the work I had done was more than good enough.
As unfortunately that was a short-term project, I had to find within myself the strength and courage to continue, despite having no publishers or mentors actively supporting my writing at the time. Since then, I have managed to publish three articles — plus one more with an European University, though the journal is currently facing budget constraints due to global conflicts — simply because their value, both intellectual and human, was undeniable. I feel extremely proud and thankful, even if these should be the only works I ever see published in my life.
I continue to write and strive for visibility not for personal recognition, but for the work itself. I see too much mainstream discourse being treated as the “Holy Grail,” often with little to no reflection from researchers on the real impact of their own work on societies involved-considered. This is why I persist: to support ideas that are informed by welfare, women’s and children’s rights, and to ensure these principles remain central in every project.
The future is in today’s work : is shaped by what we choose to support, and grow now, for tomorrow.
This is why I cannot accept works that are based on losing progress and sight of human fundamental rights – regardless of their origins or beliefs.
I cannot ignore gender-based violence. I cannot, and will not, produce a major work that feels folkloristic or aestheticized if it entirely misses the lived realities of women and children — their basic needs, dignity, and rights.
My writing must always speak to these truths, grounding research, reflection, and publication in ethical responsibility.
If this means I will continue to have little support for my work, I will acknowledge it whilst continuing to feel proud and honest with others and respectful of humanity as of my own values.
Pourquoi, au lieu de rabaisser ces esprits brillants, les institutions et les superviseurs n’admettent-ils pas, n’accompagnent-ils pas, ne guident-ils pas avec respect ces chercheurs ?
Quand quelqu’un prend la surface — une phrase, un point de vue, un argument — il efface non seulement la source, mais aussi le processus… et la personne derrière.
🇬🇧 Breaking the Silence: From Toxic Cultures and Normalised Suffering to Support and Hope
Coming back to school, in my memory, brings flashes of joy. I have always been drawn to learning: as a child I devoured books, starting with fairytales I read on my own, and spent hours watching documentaries. For Christmas I asked for a microscope instead of dolls, and even in kindergarten my favourite activities were puzzles and experiments. School felt like a dreamland — a place where curiosity was rewarded and my creativity praised. Yet the fairyland of a bright, curious child can be shattered by toxic behaviours that sometimes come not from classmates but from those in positions of trust. My first nightmare began when teachers tried to force me to abandon my left-handedness, and later when mathematics classes turned into a theatre of humiliation. Though I was later recognised as having strong mathematical thinking, the trauma was so deep that I avoided the subject entirely. In high school, when languages became my strength, I began receiving intimidating messages from classmates: “If you came here to show off, better leave — we’ll be waiting for you outside.” The threat silenced my enthusiasm, and I learned to dim my light to avoid punishment. Bullying has always existed, and in the past it was even more normalized than today. But things are changing. With this post, I want to reflect on how awareness and public health systems have evolved over the decades, and what can be done to protect gentle people targeted by violence and ignorance.
– Bullying at school in the last decades
(news & reports)
Bullying in schools has shifted shape over the decades. In the past, it was often dismissed as “kids being kids,” leaving victims to normalize their suffering in silence. Today, studies show just how harmful bullying is: the WHO has reported that one in three adolescents worldwide experiences bullying, with long-term consequences ranging from depression to increased risk of self-harm. In the UK, recent surveys highlight that more than 30% of students report being bullied, with cyberbullying growing fast as aggressors follow their victims online. In France, the Ministry of Education launched campaigns against harcèlement scolaire after tragic cases made headlines, stressing that psychological bullying — mockery, threats, exclusion — can be as damaging as physical violence. Italy has also begun to acknowledge the issue, though support often depends on local initiatives and the willingness of schools to intervene.
At the same time, forensic psychologist Roberta Bruzzone has repeatedly underlined how the roots of adolescent violence are not born in isolation, but within a cultural climate that normalizes aggression and emotional detachment. From her analyses we can see how young aggressors often mirror the models of dominance and verbal cruelty they witness at home, in media, or even from educators who confuse authority with control. The is a warning that can be identified through the work of Roberta Bruzzone: behind both the bully and the victim lies a common social failure — the inability to teach emotional regulation, empathy, and respect for boundaries. In her words, we are facing a generation educated to desensitization, where violence becomes entertainment, and humiliation becomes social currency.
The attention must be directed to the complicity of silence within institutions though. Teachers and school staff, often untrained to recognize psychological manipulation, may dismiss or even unintentionally reinforce the imbalance of power — through sarcasm, indifference, or the selective protection of “stronger” students. As many psychologists warn, when authority figures fail to act, they become part of the abuse ecosystem, legitimizing cruelty as a form of social adaptation.
The effect is cumulative: victims internalize shame, aggressors strengthen their identity through domination, and the collective environment learns to tolerate emotional violence as a norm.
The difference today is that these patterns are finally being named and challenged — through public campaigns, new laws, and greater recognition of the psychological scars that persist when bullying goes unchecked. But as many experts insist, prevention cannot rely only on punishment: it must involve a cultural re-education toward empathy and responsibility.
This means equipping teachers, parents, and students with the tools to decode emotional signals before they escalate into violence, and to rebuild relationships based on trust rather than fear.
– The culture of bullying
Bullying does not grow in isolation; it thrives in cultures where aggression is tolerated, silence is rewarded, and difference is treated as a threat. School environments can easily slip into this culture when competitiveness is mistaken for strength, when teachers look away, or when peers join in laughter at someone’s expense. A bullying culture teaches children that cruelty is power, that conformity is safety, and that empathy is weakness.
Today, the boundaries between the street and the classroom are increasingly porous. Aggressive behaviors, hierarchical rules, and codes of dominance that once operated only in marginalized neighborhoods or “ghettos” now often migrate into schools, carried by peer networks and the daily mobility of students between different social environments. Areas once considered elite or protected are no longer immune; the traditional insulation of wealth and privilege is weakening, and new forms of violence, intimidation, and subtle domination seep in, often under the radar. Students bring with them street-learned tactics of control—territoriality, public shaming, and the subtle enforcement of fear—which then interact with existing school hierarchies. Digital spaces, while not inherently harmful, act as additional arenas where these same dynamics play out, extending the reach of intimidation, reputation-based hierarchies, and peer-enforced rules beyond the physical classroom, reinforcing patterns of dominance without creating them. The result is a cross-pollination of aggression: school bullying becomes both a reflection of and a response to wider social inequalities and pressures.
Left unchecked, this merging of street, school, and digital cultures normalizes toxic behavior not just in childhood but across the lifespan, feeding abusive relationships, exploitative workplaces, and broader social inequities. Dismantling bullying therefore requires more than responding to isolated incidents; it demands confronting the deeper currents that sustain it: the unchallenged dominance, the valorization of aggression, and the silencing of vulnerability.
Changing this culture means reshaping the values of schools — rewarding kindness as much as performance, teaching what healthy relationships look like, and insisting that dignity is non-negotiable. It also means acknowledging and addressing the social realities that students bring with them: creating spaces where differences are respected, street-learned codes of domination are challenged, and the school becomes a laboratory for empathy, justice, and mutual care rather than a stage for reproducing the inequalities of the wider world.
– Breaking the circle: what we can do (systems + witness responsibility)
Breaking the toxic circle of bullying requires both systemic structures and the courage of individuals to act. The UK has developed one of the most structured approaches, with safeguarding teams in schools, NHS Sexual Assault Referral Centres, and multi-agency safeguarding hubs (MASH) that bring together health, police, and education professionals. This means that a victim is less likely to fall through the cracks, and witnesses who report abuse know that there is a coordinated response waiting.
Italy, on the other hand, has historically struggled with institutional denial of psychological bullying. However, programmes like the P.E.A.C.E. Pack — which builds resilience in victims while training classmates to intervene — and national measures such as the 1522 hotline are helping to shift the landscape. Still, victims often report difficulties in being believed, showing that cultural change lags behind policy.
What unites all three countries is the recognition that witnesses matter. In the UK, bystander intervention models are taught under the principle of the “five Ds”: Distract, Delegate, Document, Delay, Direct. In France, campaigns stress that “le silence tue” — silence kills — urging classmates to speak up rather than look away. In Italy, NGOs and youth-led associations encourage students to see themselves as part of the solution, not passive observers. Whether through formal programmes or grassroots support, the message is the same: witnesses carry responsibility. A friend who sits with someone excluded, a teacher who takes a complaint seriously, a peer who intervenes when threats are made — these are not small acts, but decisive steps in breaking the circle of abuse.
By refusing to normalize suffering and by demanding that systems of care respond adequately, outsiders can provide the lifeline that victims need to rediscover safety, dignity, and hope.
Closing reflection: silence, control, and the danger of regression
Breaking the silence is not only about confronting individual acts of bullying — it is about questioning the systems that perpetuate silence. In recent years, some governments have adopted new regulations that, often under the influence of older generations’ anti-technology philosophies, restrict the use of digital devices in schools. While these policies are presented as ways to protect students’ attention, privacy, or “authentic learning,” they also have a darker side: they can isolate victims and erase their only means of documenting harassment, humiliation, or abuse that occurs inside classrooms. In a world where image and audio evidence often determine whether a victim is believed, banning all technology in educational settings risks returning us to a culture of denial — where authority is absolute and truth can be easily dismissed.
In contrast, countries that have already faced similar social reckonings have chosen a very different path — one of transparency and architectural change. In parts of Northern Europe, Japan, and Canada, schools have introduced glass doors and open-view classrooms, allowing natural light and visibility to replace opacity and control. These spaces are designed not as surveillance zones, but as environments of mutual accountability: where teachers, students, and staff all share the same visible, open environment. Such structural reforms have drastically reduced reported cases of physical and psychological abuse in some schools, because they dissolve the conditions that make secrecy and intimidation possible. Transparency — both architectural and institutional — becomes a quiet but powerful form of protection.
By contrast, societies that cling to anti-technology ideals or preserve the sanctity of “closed classrooms” risk fostering regression rather than renewal. True safety comes not from hiding, but from trust, openness, and dialogue. The challenge, then, is to balance the right to privacy with the right to protection — to ensure that our moral fears about technology do not translate into renewed vulnerability for children and students.
As a researcher, I see this as an ethical crossroads: will our institutions evolve toward visibility, care, and accountability, or retreat into control, denial, and silence? The fight against bullying and abuse is not merely cultural — it is architectural, technological, and moral. When we let light enter the classroom — literally and metaphorically — we remind every child that they are seen, protected, and worthy of safety.
Only then can support replace suffering, and only then can hope grow where silence once ruled.
UK Police/NHS Safeguarding guidance – Bystander intervention and victim support: Met Police safeguarding
Ministère de l’Éducation nationale (France) – Programme pHARe: Non au harcèlement
Italy – National anti-violence and anti-bullying hotline: 1522 (official page)
Menesini, E. & Salmivalli, C. – Bullying in schools: the state of knowledge and effective interventions (2017). Psychology, Health & Medicine.
University of Hertfordshire – PEACE Pack evaluation in Italian schools (2019).
Meta-analysis of 31 studies with 133,688 adolescents found being bullied increases depression risk nearly 2.8 times. (BMC Psychiatry, 2023)
WHO Europe, 2024: one in six school-aged children experiences cyberbullying.
Roberta Bruzzone, “Io non ci sto più. Consigli pratici per riconoscere un manipolatore affettivo e liberarsene” (2018), “Chi è l’assassino. Diario di una criminologa” (2012), “Patriarcato criminale” (2025)
Pretty Hurts: On Society, Obsession, and Being Seen — What Many Don’t Get About Beauty
When I was waiting at the Apple assistance centre the other day, I had one of those small, random encounters that stay with you. A woman was in the queue with her son; I asked politely if they were already being helped, she said yes, and smiled. Then, almost out of nowhere, she leaned toward me and asked:
“My son is so handsome, isn’t he? He looks like Leonardo DiCaprio, don’t you think?”
I smiled back, not really knowing what to say. Complimenting children’s looks is not something I do naturally, so I just replied with a vague “Well, there’s something for sure.” She went on: “In life it helps a lot to look good, isn’t it?”
At that point, I escaped with a hesitant “…probably,” relieved when the technician arrived. But her words stayed with me. Is it true? Does looking good really help in life?
If I’m honest, yes — sometimes it opens doors. But it can also close them. In my own life, I’ve been underestimated, treated as superficial, or not taken seriously simply because of appearance. Being told, implicitly, that you can’t deal with serious matters “because you look nice.” So beauty is never just an advantage. It’s also a weight, a filter that distorts how others see you.
And then there’s society’s obsession with beauty itself — an obsession that has taken increasingly dangerous, even fatal forms.
Although official numbers are difficult to access — due to underreporting, consolidated habits in many countries, and the scarcity of publicly available data — what emerges from news reports is alarming. In Italy especially, fatal cases both from unauthorised cosmetic surgeries and from eating disorders appear to be scaling up, even outnumbering the European average. The media has reported multiple cases of young women dying after low-cost, clandestine procedures on their lips, nose, or cheeks, while eating disorders remain one of the leading causes of death among psychiatric conditions in Italy, France, the UK, and the USA. These stories are only the visible tip of a much larger iceberg — yet they already help sketch the picture of a society where “beauty” is pursued at the cost of health, dignity, and even life itself.
And if we zoom in on the trends themselves, the picture becomes even more surreal:
1. The anorexia myth / tyranny of thinness
When I was a teenager, thinness wasn’t just valued — it was the condition for existing socially. To be thin was the entry ticket to being seen, to being acknowledged as someone who “counted.” If you didn’t wear the smallest sizes, if you couldn’t slip into the high-street stores that at the time were temples of anorexia, you weren’t just unfashionable — you were invisible. Ridiculed, dismissed, treated as less than a person. Today, at least, anti–body-shaming movements have begun to open space for more inclusive sizes and a different idea of beauty. But eating disorders are still deadly: in Italy, cases like that of S.B., a young woman whose anorexia-related death made national headlines, remind us how high the stakes remain.
2. The fake nails obsession
I admit, I like a splash of nail polish now and then. But the idea of spending money every two weeks to change colours, to build layers upon layers of acrylic or gel until your fingers resemble dinosaur claws? That feels ridiculous. It’s a trend that turns something playful into an expensive maintenance ritual, where women (especially) are expected to keep up a glossy, manicured façade at all times.
3. The “perfect face” surgeries
In Italy, this has reached tragic extremes. Young women in their twenties and thirties have lost their lives undergoing bargain procedures in clandestine studios. Just recently, the death of A.P. after a low-cost liposuction made headlines; another case, M.R., died following a botched filler injection. These weren’t isolated accidents. Similar tragedies have been reported in France, the UK, and the US, where the chase for the “advert face” — smooth, symmetrical, endlessly photogenic — has led people to risk everything. And yet, the price is often invisibly higher than anyone bargained for.
4. The tanning mania
This is more American or British than Italian, but the obsession is global: the idea that you must look like you’ve just stepped off the beach all year round. Spray tans, tanning beds, endless creams — all to cover up the supposed “shame” of being pale. Personally, I’ve always been very fair-skinned, and even at university people tried to body-shame me for it. But really, why should pale skin be seen as a flaw? Why is one complexion endlessly praised while another is ridiculed?
5. The “Brazilian butt” and XXL curves myth
I still remember the first time I heard someone mention cosmetic surgery for augmentation — it was when I was in high school. At the time it seemed something distant, almost confined to celebrities. Only much later I met people who had undergone these procedures in search of what became globally marketed as the Brazilian butt, often combined with XXL breasts. The proportions are often exaggerated to the point of damaging health — back pain, spine strain, and lasting discomfort. Still, this ideal is promoted as the ultimate marker of sex appeal. Around 2014–2015, buttock augmentations saw an international boom, with U.S. numbers rising by about 30% in just one year. By 2021, more than 60,000 Brazilian Butt Lifts were recorded in the U.S. alone, while Brazil, Colombia, and Mexico remain major centers of this surgery. What troubles me most is that this trend seeps even into the workplace: I have heard of secretary roles where appearance is casually discussed as if it were a qualification, reducing women to physical standards rather than skills.
6. The liposuction obsession
If augmentations represent the push toward excess, liposuction represents the opposite: the obsession with removing what doesn’t fit the standard mold. Liposuction first became widely available in the 1980s, but in the 1990s and 2000s it quickly became one of the most demanded cosmetic procedures worldwide. Today, it consistently ranks among the top five plastic surgeries in the U.S., Italy, France, and the UK. For many, it is marketed as a “quick fix” to reshape the body — flatten a stomach, slim thighs, or redefine arms — often presented in magazines and clinics as casually as getting a haircut.
Yet the risks are real: liposuction has one of the highest fatality rates among cosmetic surgeries (estimates suggest around 1 in 5,000 procedures can end in death, mostly due to embolism or anesthesia complications). And socially, its message is devastating: that even if your body is perfectly healthy, it is still “too much” and needs correction. I find it striking that conversations about liposuction have moved from being taboo to something that can be brought up in everyday settings — even as a “normal” step in keeping up with appearance.
7. The excessive makeup mask
Even when I wore just a hint of eyeliner at university, it became more of a topic of discussion than my actual work. That says a lot. Heavy, layered makeup trends today can resemble a literal mask, a full transformation into an avatar that hides the human being beneath. Teachers, public figures, even students often seem to present not themselves but a curated, plastic version designed to meet society’s demands. Extensions, contouring, exaggerated lashes — it’s a desperate attempt to conform to an unreal image. But it leaves me asking: where is the person? Where is the human behind the mannequin?
• Conclusion:
“Be yourself; everybody else is already taken.”
— Oscar Wilde
The rise of anti–body shaming movements has brought important progress. We finally see singers and public figures in XL sizes who encourage people not to feel ashamed of one extra size. This is a positive step, breaking the anorexic myth of the past and broadening representation. Yet from my perspective, obesity remains a serious problem, and there is always the risk that fragile people are pushed toward the opposite extreme. Once again, the danger lies in the normalization of extremes.
Every time I return to Italy, I notice how quickly new, often insane, trends take over. I understand the need to adjust small things and care for one’s appearance. I myself like to wear makeup occasionally or enjoy a relaxing Korean skincare routine. But I try to stay focused on supporting my body with certain products rather than erasing and rewriting myself from zero.
I don’t believe there is a universal standard of beauty to be achieved. I have my own shapes, and I have my preferences — I don’t want to comply with imposed ideas or prototypes. Perfection, for me, is not the perfect goal. What I value instead is an approach I have observed in Japan and Korea, and also in France: the use of creams and lotions not to transform but to nourish, to hydrate, to cultivate your body from the inside as much as from the outside. A little enhancement, yes. But the real danger comes when you begin to think you must follow idols or replicate models through your own body.
Because then you fall into two extremely destructive traps: first, trying to fake someone else at the expense of your true self — which, as Oscar Wilde wisely put it, is pointless, since “everybody else is already taken.” Second, you deny your own precious uniqueness — something that belongs only to you, something that should be cherished rather than erased. And, at the same time, you elevate others’ beauty — often just an obsession with marketing standards — as the only true beauty. In doing so, you risk harming not only yourself but also them, on both an ego and psychological level.
The silver lining is that society is slowly waking up. Anti-body-shaming movements, inclusive sizing, and voices of singers or influencers proudly embracing XL bodies are sending a powerful message: you don’t need to be “perfect” to be valued. That said, we shouldn’t overlook the other side of the coin. Obesity remains a serious health issue, and in some cases, messages encouraging unconditional acceptance may unintentionally push fragile individuals to extremes in the opposite direction. Balance and awareness are essential. Beauty is never just skin-deep — it carries real social, psychological, and sometimes fatal consequences. Recognizing that, perhaps, is the first step toward seeing people for who they truly are.
🌿 Living for the Friday Night — or Learning to Live Every Day?
When a few days ago I asked a colleague, half-joking, if she was “living for the Friday night,” she looked genuinely puzzled. I had to explain: it’s an expression I first heard while working in England — a shorthand for the way many people count down the week until Friday evening. As in Jamie Cullum’s Twentysomething:
“Don’t make me live for my Friday nights,
drinking eight pints and getting in fights.
I don’t want to get up, just let me lie in…
leave me alone, I’m a twentysomething.”
The song captures what I had seen around me: after a long week of work, many people seemed to survive only for the release of Friday night. Drinking, collapsing, numbing. It wasn’t just personal choice — it was cultural.
🍶 Work, Alcohol, and the Social Web
The “Friday night” ritual is not just an English phenomenon, though it takes a particularly visible form in the UK, where binge drinking has long been socially normalised as a release from the grind of the week. The culture of working to the point of exhaustion, then numbing or escaping through alcohol is deeply tied to structural realities: insecure jobs, long hours, and work done more out of necessity than passion. Jamie Cullum’s lyrics present this with a biting irony: after years of study, all that remains for the young graduate is a life of low-paid jobs, debt, and the hollow comfort of “eight pints and getting in fights.” It is a portrait of frustration, of dignity undermined by a system that drains human potential.
But alcohol-dynamics play out in other countries, though with distinct cultural flavours. In Japan, the culture of nomikai — after-work drinking parties — is seen as almost obligatory, a way of reinforcing loyalty and unity within the company. Colleagues are expected to bond over rounds of sake or beer, often stretching late into the night, only to return to work early the next morning. Here, drinking is not just release but a continuation of work itself, performed socially rather than behind the desk.
In South Korea, the phenomenon is even more intense. Long working hours, extreme competition, and rigid hierarchies create a pressure-cooker environment. Drinking culture, especially with soju, has become both a social lubricant and a sanctioned escape. Business deals are struck at tables where bosses pour drinks for subordinates; refusal can even be seen as disrespect. The link between overwork, stress, and heavy drinking is direct, and health consequences are widely acknowledged but hard to break free from, as the social structures themselves perpetuate it.
What unites these patterns is the way drinking habits have been shaped less by individual choice and more by the rhythms and demands of work. Alcohol becomes a tool to survive environments where autonomy, joy, and dignity are otherwise compromised. The Friday night in England, the nomikai in Japan, the soju tables of Seoul: all reflect societies that have normalised exhaustion, disillusionment, and escape as the price of participation in the workforce.
My first experience of the “pub night” arrived with half a pint as a teenager, and a walk back to my friend home around 10pm, where the evening ended not in noise but in her kitchen for a tea, with her mother’s voice in the background, warm South American Spanish carrying stories of daily life. Later, when I lived in England, Scotland, and Ireland, I discovered a different rhythm. The half-pint, for me, remained enough. But for many around me, the night was measured in three, four, or more pints, carrying into crowded streets or endless clubs. I watched as these evenings moved from laughter to blackout, from connection to silence or even fights. And I began to see how alcohol carried a double meaning.
On one side, it was obliteration: a way to escape demands, to silence work stress, to numb frustrations that had no other outlet. On the other, it was construction: the drink in hand became a ticket into belonging, a way to build relations, even if those relations were themselves under pressure, formed inside social obligations and workplace hierarchies. Drinking could mean survival — both through forgetting and through performing membership.
This double meaning is not confined to one place. As for what we have considered in Japan, the same nomikai (drinking gatherings) and the very word nomination (drinking + communication) reveal how alcohol mediates what the office does not allow to be spoken, and in South Korea, the hoesik and the ritual of poktanju — the so-called “bomb drink” — carry the same weight: stress must be detonated, even at the cost of personal well-being. To refuse is to risk exclusion, while to join is to surrender to the same cycle. The drink is no longer only liquid; it becomes both shield and cage. The UK “Friday night” is a weekly ritual: For many, it is a release from the repetition of the nine-to-five, a way to endure jobs chosen not out of passion but necessity. Yet it can also descend into violence or blackout drinking, leaving the underlying exhaustion unaddressed.
Across countries, alcohol has often become woven into workplace culture. Not as celebration, but as survival. What emerges is a pattern: alcohol functions as an escape room. It gives temporary release, but also weaves a web of obligation. To participate means inclusion. To abstain can mean exclusion. Even a single drink becomes political, defining who belongs and who resists.
🗝️ Words That Reveal a Society — 🎶 The Soundtrack of Disillusionment
Language is a mirror of society. Certain expressions carry layers of cultural experience, shaped by history, labor, and collective struggles. There are some terms that highlight how language, humour, and identity wrap around alcohol, creating codes that are immediately understood within a culture but opaque to outsiders: drinking is often less about the drink itself and more about belonging, pressure, and the need for release. Some of these terms are interesting shared through British English as Gaelic influenced slang:
Commonly used to describe being very drunk. The image is almost physical—like a kettle boiling over—reflecting how intoxication is visible and overflowing.
“Blootered” (Scotland)
Extremely drunk, beyond control. The word carries a sense of being battered or flattened—showing again how violence seeps into the vocabulary of excess.
“Ossified” (Ireland)
Very drunk. Originally linked to the idea of being “turned to bone” or stiff, but in everyday use it simply means incapacitated by drink.
“Polluted” (Ireland)
Comically negative—suggests being “soaked” or “contaminated” with alcohol. The word makes drunkenness sound like environmental damage: the body as a river ruined by toxins.
“Buckfast” / “a bottle of Buckie” (Scotland)
Refers to Buckfast Tonic Wine, notorious for its association with binge drinking, especially in working-class or deprived areas. It has become part of the cultural landscape in parts of Scotland, embodying how specific drinks can symbolize social issues.
“Lock-in” (Ireland & UK)
When pubs officially close but keep regulars inside drinking after hours, often with doors locked. Beyond alcohol, this term shows how community and secrecy shape pub culture.
“Jar” (Ireland & Scotland)
Having “a few jars” means having a few pints. The ordinariness of the phrase shows how normalized drinking is as part of daily speech.
“Scoops” (Ireland, Dublin slang)
Refers to drinks, usually pints. “Going for a few scoops” means going for a few beers. Friendly and casual, it emphasizes camaraderie.
“Sláinte” (Gaelic, both Irish & Scottish)
Literally “health,” used as “cheers!” when drinking. It shows the paradox: the ritual of wishing health while raising alcohol. Still, it’s a powerful reminder of the community value of toasting together.
“Full as a bingo bus” / “Away with the fairies” (Irish expressions)
Playful ways of saying someone is very drunk. The imagery combines everyday life and folklore, showing how intoxication is often softened with humor.
Or rather more classical ones, like:
“Booze”
The informal, catch-all term for alcohol. Its casualness makes it seem harmless, though it is often used when referring to excess: “booze-up” means a drinking party.
“Lager lout”
A phrase from the 1980s–90s, describing young men who drank heavily on cheap lager, often leading to public disorder and fights. It shows how drinking became linked to class, masculinity, and public fear.
“Pissed” (UK usage)
While in the US it means angry, in British slang “pissed” means drunk. To be “absolutely pissed” is to be heavily intoxicated. Again, the ambiguity shows how language evolves differently around shared human states.
“Going for a sesh” / “session”
A “session” is an extended period of drinking, often planned, where the idea is to drink steadily over hours. It reflects the social aspect of alcohol in the UK: endurance drinking, woven into the fabric of weekends and friendships.
“Getting plastered / smashed / hammered”
All mean extremely drunk. These words convey the cultural expectation that one doesn’t just drink but drinks to the point of collapse. The violence of the imagery (plastered, smashed, hammered) mirrors the destructive undertone of excess.
“On the lash”
A night out dedicated to drinking heavily, often with friends or colleagues. It carries an undertone of celebration but also of abandon, suggesting both release and recklessness.
“Hair of the dog”
Drinking alcohol the morning after a heavy night, in the belief it will ease a hangover. The phrase reveals how normalized excess has been: the solution to over-drinking is often imagined as more drinking.
“Binge drinking”
A term that entered more formal and medical English in the late 20th century, now widely used in media. It describes the act of drinking large amounts in a short time, often associated with youth culture, but in fact a symptom of social stress and work-driven patterns.
“The pub crawl”
Moving from one pub to another in a single night, drinking in each. On the surface playful, but also an emblem of restless consumption: never settling, always moving, as if chasing release from one space to the next
But also “Friday night” in English slang is not just the beginning of the weekend. It often symbolises the one sanctioned time for release: the few hours where exhaustion is numbed, often through alcohol, before the cycle begins again, and “Burnout” that has now become a global word, adopted across languages, whilst it emerged in English during the late 20th century to describe the exhaustion of workers in care professions, later expanding to corporate contexts. The very image of “burning out” shows how workers are consumed — until nothing remains.
These words, and others like them, underline how social environments and work rhythms shape personal habits. Alcohol, in this sense, is never neutral. It becomes a marker of inclusion (“you’re part of the group if you drink with us”), an escape valve, and at times a form of silent protest against alienating systems.
Jamie Cullum’s song Twentysomething captures this feeling with painful clarity. After years of expensive education, the singer finds his knowledge unwanted, his future uncertain. He lists possibilities — travel, gym, love — yet returns to the haunting refrain:
“Don’t make me live for my Friday nights,
drinking eight pints and getting in fights.”
Here, drinking is not pleasure. It is frustration, delusion, and despair. A symbol of wasted potential, of a life compressed into cycles of endurance and excess. And what is most striking is that the song’s voice is not unique — it reflects a generation’s shared disillusionment.
🪷 From Friday Night to Everyday Life
The culture of “living for the Friday night” was born from overwhelm: too much work, too little choice, too much weight on individual shoulders. In such conditions, drinking to excess becomes a way to cope, even if destructive.
But the lesson from intercultural practices is clear. Humans everywhere have sought — and still seek — ways to restore balance. Whether through tea, forest, food, or ritual, the underlying message is universal:
We need moments to stop. To breathe. To reclaim our humanity.
It is not indulgence to say, on a Tuesday afternoon:
“Sorry, I need ten minutes. I need to sit in the park. I need to walk with a friend. I need to hold a warm cup of tea and hear my own thoughts.”
This is dignity.
And when we weave these pauses into our daily routines, we are no longer surviving the week just to drink it away. We are learning to live — not only for the Friday night, but for every moment that makes us whole.
Across the world, other traditions exist — traditions that meet the same need for release and balance, but through nurture rather than numbness. At first glance, they seem deeply rooted in specific cultures. But look closer, and they echo the same universal human longing.
In Japan we have shinrin-yoku (forest bathing), ikebana (flower arranging), and tea ceremonies spreading across boundaries, as demonstrated by the new matcha trend : matcha is indeed undergoing a global revival, especially among younger generations. Unlike coffee, which fuels speed, matcha invites slowness: whisking the powder, watching the froth, breathing before sipping. It provides calm alertness, a ritual of mindfulness.
In Scandinavia, friluftsliv (“open-air life”) means walking, hiking, and being outside in all weathers. Nature itself becomes a medicine, lowering stress and restoring dignity.
In Britain, gardening offers another rhythm: hands in soil, cycles of growth and care, the therapy of patience.
In Mediterranean countries, the sobremesa after meals turns eating into a ritual of conversation, where connection is more important than efficiency.
In Middle Eastern traditions, hospitality stretches time: tea or coffee is not just consumed, it is a ceremony of presence, of being with others.
Though rooted in different landscapes, these practices converge. They affirm that humans need pause, connection, and renewal.
🫧 The Choice We Face
If excess has often been normalised, it is worth noticing what else has quietly endured. Tea and coffee cultures across the world remain a kind of silver line: spaces for pause, rituals of slowness, practices of genuine connection with the human but also the nature is which we so much long to find our own special place.
In Britain, tea arrived in the 17th century as a luxury import, closely linked with wealth, the bourgeoisie, and even the politics of empire. Afternoon tea, as popularised in the Victorian era, was not simply about refreshment: it was about displaying refinement, controlling the body through ritual, and setting boundaries in the day. To have tea was to signal status.
Yet tea also seeped into everyday life, democratised through the working classes. The “builder’s tea”—strong, black, with milk and sugar—became the counter-image to the delicate porcelain cups of high society. By the 20th century, the tea break was enshrined in labour culture: a sanctioned pause from the machinery of factories or offices, a chance for workers to chat, gossip, and process the day. The tea break offered what alcohol often substituted for: informal speech, solidarity, a reminder that one was human in the middle of repetitive labour.
France, historically a land of wine and coffee, absorbed tea differently. In the 18th century, tea became fashionable in aristocratic and bourgeois salons, where it played a role much like that in England: refinement, cosmopolitanism, and a stage for conversation. But while coffeehouses became linked to philosophy and revolution, tea often carried a gentler aura—associated with women’s gatherings, gossip (potins), and the private sphere. Tea in France was at once a bourgeois delicacy and a space for subtle rebellion: women could meet, talk, and share news under the pretext of serving tea.
Unlike Britain, where black tea dominated, France cultivated a parallel tradition: tisanes—herbal infusions made from plants like verbena, chamomile, fennel, or linden. Once considered remedies for digestion, sleep, or nerves, they were the quiet domestic counterpoint to the public clinking of wine glasses. Today, these infusions are enjoying a revival. In wellness culture, they have become tools for detox, balance, and ritual self-care.
And today in Britain as in France, as many other countries, tea, from Bourgeois Ritual has come to coincide with a Slow Life Mood, converging into a shared global mood: tea as a way to reclaim time, to balance community and solitude, and to reconnect with the present. Merging with the tradition of zen practices of Japan, the tea ceremony brings the body and mind into presence, restoring balance through attention.
The Japanese tea ceremony, centred on matcha, is less about consumption than about cultivating a state of mind: attention to movement, appreciation of silence, and reverence for the moment.
Tea does not demand blackout or excess but can bring, and can be link, to cultivating a state of peace of mind and / through exercise —although it can also invite conversation, reflection, and a recognition that being together can mean being present rather than being numb.
This ties into a wider truth. Nature-based practices across cultures show us how humans have always found ways to restore beyond intoxication. In Japan, shinrin-yoku (forest bathing) is centuries old: walking slowly in the woods, letting the senses absorb the atmosphere, lowering stress simply by being in nature. In Scandinavia, friluftsliv celebrates outdoor life in all weather, seeking renewal in wild landscapes. In Britain, gardening connects the hands to soil and the mind to cycles of growth. In the Mediterranean, long meals embody the value of connection over productivity. These traditions may seem deeply rooted in particular cultures, yet they echo the same universal human needs: to pause, to reconnect, to be nourished in body and mind.
Today, younger generations are beginning to resist the Friday-night model of excess. Many turn instead toward health-conscious practices: green tea, tisanes, mocktails, yoga, hiking, or simply digital-free time.
The rise of matcha globally is telling: not just a fashionable drink, but a ritual of mindful preparation, offering calm focus instead of jittery highs. What was once a Japanese practice now becomes a worldwide symbol of balance. Again, cultures speak in different accents, but they echo the same longing.
So what does this all mean for human dignity? It means that routines shaped only by exhaustion and excess reduce us to survival. To flourish, we need spaces to reclaim our humanity in daily life, not just on Friday nights. It means finding the courage to say: “I need ten minutes for myself. I need to pause, to breathe, to have tea in the park or a walk with a friend. Without this, I cannot function, and my dignity as a human being is not respected.”
As already seen, words tell us much about what societies expect of us. Excess shows how humans drown when overwhelmed. Burnout reveals the cost of work rhythms that ignore human limits. Friday night itself has become a shorthand for collective collapse at the end of the week. But there are other words—pause, connection, dignity, presence—that show us another path. Each culture holds a fragment of this truth, whether in a pint or in a cup of tea, in a forest path or in a garden. The point is not whether we live for the Friday night, but whether we learn to live every day, with practices that restore rather than deplete us.
🌿 Vivre pour le vendredi soir — ou apprendre à vivre chaque jour
Full as a bingo bus / Away with the fairies (Irlande) Façons ludiques de dire que quelqu’un est très ivre. L’imagerie combine vie quotidienne et folklore, montrant comment l’intoxication est souvent adoucie par l’humour.
the Inkwell - by CynthiaC. 
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