Screen queen
Here are a few things I learnt about Miquela Sousa – the 19-yearold Instagram influencer, model and musician – when I chatted with her: music is her first passion and the recording studio is where she spends most of her days; style wise, she is a tomboy with a bit of high-school flair, loves anything Raf Simons and thinks Virgil Abloh’s debut Louis Vuitton show was beautiful; she’s considering doing makeup tutorials because it’s a great way to learn and educate; and, unsurprisingly, she’s a fan of Drake.
So far, Miquela, or Lil Miquela, as she’s known to her 1.5 million Instagram followers, seems the typical example of upto-the-moment Generation Z zeitgeist, the kind of person who peppers her social media with, as she tells me, “some selfies and some activism”, and doesn’t see any particular need to make a hierarchical distinction between the two. Of SpanishBrazilian-american descent, she is pretty and slim with pouty lips, lightly freckled skin that’s never layered with too much foundation and blunt-fringed straight hair, often arranged in quirky Princess Leia-esque buns. She is distinct enough to be memorable but not so distinct as to be threatening – a perfect, sufficient edgy peg for youth-friendly brands and causes.
The on-the-nose-quality of Lil Miquela begins to make more sense, though, when one realises that she is, in fact, not a real person, but a computer-generated creation. She is Frankenstein’s monster if he’d achieved a bikini body on a juice cleanse and wore Vetements – in other words, the artificial brainchild of others, who in her case are said to be Trevor Mcfedries and Sara Decou (whose CGI roster also includes a face-tattooed guy named Blawko, who is still climbing the ranks with 136k Instagram followers).
Since the debut of the Lil Miquela Instagram (@lilmiquela) in April 2016, the project has been carried out with an impressive meticulousness that hits all the latest taste and culture notes. The account has also aroused the anger of purists set on critiquing our social media-obsessed, face-filtered world, and simultaneously attracted high-fashion brands, such as Prada (Lil Miquela ‘attended’ the autumn/winter ’18 show) and the activewear line Outdoor Voices, for which she served as a campaign star, all eager to embrace a figure claiming to disrupt the once-homogeneous fashion and beauty spaces with a seemingly post-racial, post-sample size persona.
Images of Lil Miquela’s symmetrical features, etched with geometric black eyeliner or a slash of yellow eyeshadow, easily slip on her feed between Young Thug memes, screenshots of Tweets and links to crowdfunding pages that support progressive organisations. To encounter the Lil Miquela phenomenon is to confront the uncanny valley of a liberal, upper-middle-class lifestyle – shadowed by encroaching political strife but never truly affected by it. She feels good and looks even better, which was not lost on makeup artist Pat Mcgrath, who selected her earlier this year as a #Mcgrathmuse for her self-titled makeup line, saying she was “so shook” to be working with the young influencer. And this is likely why a Youtube channel of beauty tutorials taught by Lil Miquela isn’t such an inconceivable idea – one that could catapult her straight into the product-development lab and to the status of other recent moguls of the sphere, like say, Kylie Jenner, who appeared on the cover of Forbes, poised to become “the youngestever self-made billionaire” thanks, in part, to her cosmetics empire.
As I typed out another interview question from the comfort of my quite-real apartment, I found myself fascinated with the idea of a CGI character, no matter how attractive, creating a beauty line. At times I actually forgot I was communicating with a person who doesn’t actually exist in real life. It would likely be fun to hit up the young influencer the next time I travelled to Los Angeles, US, as she suggested. But every so often I would suddenly imagine a group of well-dressed, streetwear – and ’90s nostalgia – obsessed creatives huddling around a Mac consulting one another about how to respond. What is Miquela’s beauty routine? Does she really have thoughts about starting an eco-friendly makeup line? What music does she like to listen to? Who is she dating? Perhaps, to paraphrase Sigmund Freud, this is the great question that has yet to be answered: what does Miquela want?
As recent graduates, my boyfriend and I have battled gruelling work schedules this year. He’s a financial analyst with a timetable that’s restrictive on his social life, and while there’s nothing socially restrictive about my work as a journalist (I live on free cocktails and canapés), pretending to be a high-flying couple has put a strain on our relationship. So, a week at the Anantara Kihava Villas in the Maldives – with no deadlines, no events, no meetings and quite literally nothing to do – sounded ideal to rekindle our romance.
Waking up on day one, having politely turned down the o er of a Wi-fi code, was a revelation. We lazed around for half an hour discussing the state of international politics and debunking the breakfast bu et vs room service debate. Eventually, we biked over to a restaurant, which turned out to be a good decision; it served everything from green juices with chia and kale to rice and curry. There were also flu y waes with real honey scooped from a honeycomb. My boyfriend, who wasn’t quite in the swing of things yet, chose a full English breakfast and asked for the Financial Times.
By this point, we hadn’t touched our phones since landing, which was ironic, as Anantara has been named the world’s most Instagrammable hotel. It’s ridiculously beautiful – all the selfie backdrops and smug beach shots you could want – but we loved the feeling of just being there, unmediated by screens. Here’s what makes Anantara stand out: everything it o ers in terms of activities and distractions is designed for couples to do together, something we hadn’t done in months. The aquarium-style restaurant is dotted with tables for two and the outdoor cinema beanbags are perfect for cuddling.
By the end of the week my boyfriend and I were grateful for the much-needed reminder that there’s more to life than snapping photos and stressing about deadlines, and we realised we need more space for ‘us’ back home. Now, on Sundays, our flat is a screen-free zone.
As a teenager I swam competitively, but as an adult living in the city, pools are scarce and my already highmaintenance hair means a regular swim just isn’t an option. I’m in a rut and it’s showing: turning 32 this year meant my metabolism shrank and my body did the opposite. A bit squidgy and very sluggish, I needed to kick myself up the butt.
So, I headed to the Saint Lucian resort, Body Holiday, where being active is unavoidable. There were fitness classes on the beach, contests in the sea, races on the roads. And those people hanging o the edge of a cli ? Yes, that’s fitness, too. The property had a refurbishment last year, with newlydesigned rooms, plus a sushi counter has popped up to replace the sandwichfilled deli. The resort looked pretty fit, and it’s about time I felt the same.
I ‘eased’ into my week of musclebuilding mayhem with the island quadrathlon: a 13km bike ride, 4km run, 30m abseil and 2.5km ocean kayak. I was almost sick, stupidly choosing to look down during the terrifying abseil. But by the end, I felt fantastic. Next thing I knew, I signed up to fill every waking hour I could with exercise. There are over 30 options per day: hiking, spinning, yoga, sailing and beach boot camp. I was toning up before my very eyes, but I was extremely tired. Thankfully, their wellness centre provides a complimentary treatment included in your stay each day.
Seven days, seven treatments and countless classes later, I left healthier and happier. I had also surely tried every sporting activity under the sun.
Unsurprisingly, I won’t be hopping back on a sailing boat any time soon, but a five-hour hike up the Pitons (Saint Lucia’s famous mountain) left me with a serious taste for trekking. So much so, that in the months since my visit I’ve ramped up my weekly walking, and I’ve even scaled the Atlas Mountains in northwestern Africa. With this surprising new addiction, I now make sure every holiday benefits my body: fresh air, muscle-making mountains and heart-pumping heights. Returning to work full-time after having a third child was a huge shock. I’d worked after my first two children, but my new job wasn’t one that oered a slow pace or any time to switch o. I was in the oce from 9am-6pm, racing home to put my children to bed, and then hopping back onto my phone to tread through our daily content, often until 11pm. I felt permanently anxious and couldn’t fall asleep. I could feel myself burning out. I needed a break away from it all, where I could experience some much-needed silence and TLC. I’d visited the Palace Hotel Merano 10 years earlier when undergoing gruelling IVF. Its in-house wellness retreat helped my stress levels then, and I pined after it now.
This is detox, Italian style. Forget sparse food or clinical surroundings; think opulent textiles with glamorous chandeliers, sweeping floor-to-ceiling mirrors, Italian footballers at the next table and healthy food made to look and taste like a Michelin-starred meal. The sta and doctors are warm and charming, guiding you through the multiple beauty and health treatments like you’re royalty. Every morning I was given a 30-minute hydrotherapy bath with Epsom salts, followed by a mud wrap where you’re cocooned like a baby to soothing music. At their medical centre, I had a bone-density scan and blood test to check my vitamin and mineral levels. They prescribed magnesium granules to put under my tongue every night to help me sleep.
Slowly, I felt my concentration improving. I’d leave my phone in my room – checking it only in the evenings. It took me four nights but, finally, I slept for 10 hours uninterrupted. I was so relaxed and so devoid of any vices (no alcohol, no refined sugar) that I broke my own 10-year hiatus and smoked a cigarette.
After seven days, I left feeling 100% rested. Back home I set myself some rules: now I turn my phone o two hours before I got to bed, and I religiously take the haul of vitamins and supplements I invested in at the spa. Six months on from my visit and I still consistently get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. It has been a life-changer.