There is a kind of mythic reverence that surrounds Sade Adu. The Nigerian-British singer has achieved what few in modern celebrity culture ever do: to remain both relevant and adored while being largely absent. Her retreat from public life, with decade-long silences between albums, minimal media appearances, and almost no social media presence, has not only been accepted—it has been romanticized. She emerges only when she wishes, always on her own terms, and is received like a rare orchid in bloom: hushed awe, reverence, indulgence. And yet, it begs the uncomfortable question—would the world be so forgiving of her absence if she did not possess the kind of beauty that feels almost supernatural?
There’s no denying that Sade’s voice, smoky and introspective, is singular. Her music—lush, minimalist, and deeply emotive—has held its own for four decades. She does not shout to be heard; her music whispers, and listeners lean in. But Sade’s silence is more than just a musical or artistic choice. It is a lifestyle, a brand, a public persona built around mystery, stillness, and detachment. In an age that demands relentless visibility, her refusal to participate in the churn of fame reads as defiant and rarefied. But is it truly the act itself that we respect, or do we excuse it because it comes wrapped in the physical package of someone who looks like Sade?
It’s uncomfortable territory, but not unworthy of examination. Our culture is deeply conditioned to equate physical beauty with moral value, mystique, or depth. A beautiful woman who is quiet is not ignored—she is mysterious. A beautiful woman who withdraws from public life is not dismissed—she is elevated. She becomes an enigma worth chasing. We project substance where there may be none. We forgive behaviors we might otherwise criticize.
This is not to say Sade is not an artist of real depth—she clearly is—but rather to ask whether her mode of withdrawal would be equally tolerated—or even possible—if her appearance didn’t conform to the dominant ideals of beauty. If a less conventionally attractive woman were to make music and then vanish for ten years at a time, would her silence be romanticized or merely read as irrelevance?
There’s a long history of beauty functioning as a kind of passport to indulgence. Consider Greta Garbo, whose famous quote—”I want to be alone”—didn’t damage her legacy but enshrined it. Her withdrawal from Hollywood only amplified her legend. But what made it palatable was the myth of her beauty. Her silence was aestheticized. She wasn’t escaping fame so much as curating it.
Sade operates in a similar realm. Her minimalism—of speech, of dress, of public performance—is not read as evasive or inaccessible, but as refined, sophisticated. She doesn’t owe the public anything, and in many ways, that’s true. But the elevation of her choice not to speak, not to perform, not to explain herself, is deeply linked to how she is perceived visually. Her timeless bone structure, her iconic red lips, her statuesque elegance—they become symbols of control and grace. But what if she didn’t look like that? What if she aged visibly in the public eye? What if she didn’t fit into the narrow corridors of Eurocentric beauty ideals? Would we still call her private, or would we call her cold? Would we still find it mysterious, or would we label it aloofness, or worse, irrelevance?
In today’s fame economy, visibility is currency. Musicians livestream their recording sessions, vlog their personal lives, comment on politics, dance on TikTok, and engage in performative vulnerability on Instagram. Fans expect to be fed—constantly. To step away is to risk being forgotten. Sade’s refusal to engage is not only unusual; it is an act of resistance. But it is also a privilege. Most artists cannot afford silence. Most are punished for it.
We must then ask, what has shielded Sade from this punishment? Her legacy, her talent, and the sheer quality of her work are obvious parts of the answer. But there’s another, less discussed part: her aesthetic appeal. It has allowed people to project meaning onto her quietness. Silence from a beautiful woman is never just silence—it becomes a canvas.
To acknowledge this doesn’t diminish her artistry. It’s not a call to disparage her talent or integrity. Rather, it’s an invitation to interrogate the structures that elevate some and not others. Why do we believe silence is power only when it is paired with beauty? Why does mystique only seem to function when the person holding it looks like a statue?
Consider how the media treats other female artists who step away. Lauryn Hill, for instance, has also retreated from the limelight for long stretches, often emerging unpredictably. But her silences are not treated with the same reverence. She is frequently portrayed as unstable, unreliable, even difficult. Her eccentricities are pathologized, not glorified. She is rarely granted the same mythic status that Sade enjoys, despite having created one of the most influential albums of the last century.
Even in recent years, other talented, less conventionally attractive women have been punished for silence. They’re accused of being ungrateful, of lacking work ethic, of being irrelevant. Silence is a luxury, and not everyone can afford it. Sade can, and has, for decades. But part of her ability to do so lies not just in talent or discipline, but in how the world chooses to see her.
This dynamic isn’t limited to women, of course, but it manifests differently across gender lines. Male artists who retreat are often seen as tortured geniuses, or reclusive auteurs. But for women, the line between mystery and marginalization is razor-thin—and beauty often determines on which side they fall.
There’s also the question of aging. Sade has remained largely untouched by time, or at least by its public presentation. The few glimpses we get of her suggest a woman who has aged gracefully, slowly, or perhaps selectively. But what happens when the physical beauty that insulates her mystique begins to fade in the public eye? Will the same indulgence be extended? Or will the silence suddenly feel less romantic, more empty? That’s not a question about Sade personally, but about the fickle nature of how society treats women—especially beautiful ones—when they age. Beauty grants a kind of soft power, but it’s conditional, often evaporating with time.
We should also ask ourselves whether the pedestal on which we’ve placed Sade has made it harder to critique her work. When she releases an album after a long absence, it is rarely reviewed with the same critical scrutiny as other artists. There’s a reverence that can become a kind of cage—where neither criticism nor questioning feels allowed. Everything is treated like a sacred gift. Perhaps that is deserved. But perhaps, too, it reflects our collective unwillingness to separate the art from the aura of the artist. And that aura is undeniably shaped by appearance.
It would be easier to celebrate Sade’s silence without caveats if the music industry offered similar latitude to a wider variety of artists. If mystery, restraint, and privacy were accessible to all. But they’re not. The rules are not the same for everyone. Silence is not just an artistic choice—it is a luxury, afforded to few and understood differently depending on who is choosing it.
Ultimately, the world needs artists like Sade—those who operate outside the machinery of constant production and who hold fast to their own rhythms. But we also need to examine why we extend certain privileges to some and not to others. Is our love for Sade’s silence a testament to her unique artistry? Yes. But it is also, in part, a testament to our collective biases—toward beauty, toward myth, toward the illusion of effortlessness.
The real challenge is to make space for all kinds of silences. For artists who do not look like icons, for women who do not benefit from societal indulgences, for people who choose to speak only when they have something to say, regardless of how they’re packaged. Silence should be allowed to mean many things—not just mystery, but also rest, refusal, protection, boundary. And we must be careful not to confuse beauty with meaning, or silence with depth.
Sade’s silence has always felt like a gift, a gentle pause in a noisy world. But maybe it’s time to ask why we’re so comfortable receiving it, and who else might be offering something just as valuable—only to be met with indifference. The luxury of silence should not belong only to the beautiful.
