Issues

Beauty standards in the digital age are changing how we look at ourselves – and not just aesthetically

Boring online meetings might be one reason why people are increasingly drawn to cosmetic procedures. On these occasions, our gaze often wanders down to our own image in the corner of the screen and we start worrying about how pale, tired or old we look. This will be enough to motivate some people to have their nose straightened, seek Botox treatment or book an eyelid operation.

Ada Borkenhagen, a German psychoanalyst and professor of psychosomatic medicine, has been researching body image, cosmetic procedures and selfoptimisation for decades. Here, she explains why she believes that our digital appearance has become more important to us than how we look off-screen.

When you walk down a street and observe people, what do you notice?
In Berlin, I often see the so-called “Instagram face” among young women up to the age of 38 – full lips, high cheekbones, big eyes and a clear chin line. This look comes from beauty filters on social-media apps, which offer us a beautified version of our face when we film or take pictures of ourselves.

Do you mean that you see these online faces in real life too?
This kind of face has become a model for many beauty surgeries in what is now a global trend. It seems as though there are more women than ever with filled lips. Don’t be fooled: you probably only notice lip treatments in three out of 10 women who have had them.

So we only recognise interventions when they have been poorly implemented?
Yes. Beauty procedures reveal differences between social classes. If you can afford a good practitioner, they will do procedures that suit your face and will be more careful when it comes to fashion trends such as the Instagram face.

Are those inflatable-boat-like lips that you occasionally see the work of bad surgeons?
The heavily exaggerated duck snouts, the beaks, the ski-jump lips – these are part of fashion. Even a mediocre surgeon can do an Instagram face. But making me look how I did 10 years ago is the high art of aesthetic medicine. And you pay for that – but also for the surgeon who says, ‘We’d rather not do anything here.’

A director of a beauty clinic once said that women essentially get these inflatable lips for other women. He doesn’t know any man who finds them beautiful. What do you think?
I didn’t ask men about it but the fact is that behind this trend are beauty-filter algorithms that are based on universal beauty characteristics: the face should be symmetrical, the skin flawless and the proportions balanced. Women should have a heart-shaped face with large eyes and a narrow chin. Men are considered beautiful when they have a striking jawline. Their eyes might be a little deeper, their nose a little bigger and their eyebrows more pronounced.

When everyone is guided by these universal beauty ideals, don’t faces start looking more and more similar?
Yes. The Instagram face has prevailed. You will see women with it in Zürich, Tokyo, Cape Town, New York and beyond. Is there a difference between on-screen and off-screen beauty? Our virtual lives have become much more important. Today it’s crucial how you look in photos, on the internet and on video calls.

Is this something that you have noticed in your research?
Studies show that young people with high levels of social-media consumption have a greater tendency to have procedures done. Sometimes they come to the surgeon with a photo of themselves that has been beautified with a filter and say, ‘This is what I want to look like.’ In analogue [real] life, you might see yourself in the mirror two or three times per day. That’s different to those who are very active on social networks and constantly see each other through the selfie camera. So it’s only logical that a lot of people want to look better in photos and videos.

Selfies offer a wide-angle perspective, which makes you look different from in a mirror, so you adapt your face to a lens.
Yes. But this doesn’t mean that people don’t care about how they look in real life. It’s just that not everyone can afford a beauty style that looks good both on and off the screen. This reveals differences between social classes.

How does a good doctor deal with a patient who wants an Instagram face?
They would, for example, tell a patient who has quite pronounced cheekbones that if they inject too much, they’ll look like a hamster. But a patient of a cheaper doctor might end up with hamster cheeks because some are willing to simply exaggerate their features.

If it’s about wealth and class, why do so many Hollywood stars have operations done that look so obvious? Surely they could afford to hire the best surgeons?
In the US, different ideals of beauty prevail. Interventions are not really hidden there – they are viewed as a sign that you have money.

Actress Jamie Lee Curtis recently caused a stir when she spoke in an interview about ‘the genocide of a generation of women by the cosmeceutical industrial complex’ and how the filter face had robbed them of their natural appearance. What do you think?
I see it that way too. But it must be said that these women voluntarily underwent their beauty procedures. That is why self-knowledge is important. Beauty ideals change. You have to understand that before you go under the knife. In the 1990s, for example, many women shaved their eyebrows and then tattooed on new ones. Today that seems completely old-fashioned.

The pressure to be beautiful has entered the intimate realm: today some men have their penis enlarged and women have their labia made smaller.
That’s right. The vulva, for example, has become far more publicly visible. Pubic hair has become increasingly scarce. If you only wear a little fabric, you don’t want a huge cloud of it.

What role does pornography play?
The first Playboy featuring a fully shaved woman appeared in 2000. A beauty ideal for a more intimate area emerged.

What is that ideal?
Male genitals should appear large and prominent, while female ones should appear as small and hidden as possible. This ideal has developed in parallel with the depilation imperative for the female body. The moment that areas are no longer covered by clothing, a beauty ideal arises for these body parts. When skirts became shorter, leg hair had to be removed; when armpits became visible, armpit hair had to go. And now that people wear swimsuits with very high leg cutouts, pubic hair has to go.

There is also a trend for intimate shaving among men.
Yes. But the reason for that is different. When a man removes his pubic hair, you can see the entire penis shaft so it looks bigger.

It’s interesting that women seemingly have the opposite impulse: the trend is to think that smaller is better, as the rise of labia reductions shows.
It is certainly the case that a very restrictive ideal of beauty has formed in this respect. But I also see the intimate shave as a form of liberation. Suddenly we are talking about the vulva again. When it comes to their appearance and function, you’ll find very little in gynaecological textbooks until the beginning of the 1990s. There’s a lot to catch up on. For example, we still don’t know what the vulvas of people across the globe look like.

What do you mean?
In the EU, people know exactly what the average cucumber looks like – what curvature it has, how big it is. The same applies to the penis: we have known what the average is like since the 18th century. But with women? In Europe, there have been only two major investigations: one involving just 50 women in the UK and another in Austria with 150 women. That’s a joke.

Does the fact that we don’t know what an average vulva looks like fuel an uncertainty that plastic surgery exploits?
Yes, then suddenly norms are established about the ideal female genitals without knowing whether it’s actually reflective of the truth.

All procedures, including those in intimate areas, are presumably based on a desire to comply with a supposed standard. But are people actually happier after having cosmetic surgery?
If the expectations for the procedure are realistic, a qualified plastic surgeon performs it and the healing process goes well, then most patients are satisfied afterwards. But there is also the repeat effect: if you start having beauty procedures, you want more. We have to distinguish between cases. If I decide to inject Botox in my fifties, the effect wears off after a few months and I have to inject it again. I would therefore be considered a repeater. It’s like hair colouring; for a good result, I have to refresh the roots every few weeks.

In which cases should a patient consult a psychologist rather than a surgeon?
When someone wants a completely different body or chases a Barbie-like ideal. These people won’t be satisfied even after numerous operations. Imagine, say, someone who wants to look like Claudia Schiffer because they want to have a life like hers. That’s an illusion. Ultimately we all have to accept that our bodies age. You can make someone look 10 or 15 years younger but the ageing process continues.

Most people who opt for these interventions claim that they only have them done for themselves – rather than to look more beautiful to others. Are beauty surgeries really acts of self-determination?
Think of it this way: our bodies are no longer our destiny. But we must also be aware that physical attractiveness is one of the greatest factors for inequality in Western societies. Attractive people earn more, get milder judgments on crimes and even get better school grades.

So it’s less about self-acceptance than getting a better deal because of your looks?
No, many people are interested in accepting themselves and I won’t deny them that. But I can imagine that women are more likely to undergo such procedures to please other women than to appeal to men because most men won’t even notice the embellishments. After I’ve been to the hairdresser, my partner will see that it looks good but he might not notice that I’ve streaked my hair.

Is it really an act of freedom to change your body surgically?
Optimising ourselves is our time’s promise of salvation. If you commit to this logic, you feel permanent pressure.

Some say that the upswing of the beauty industry also has to do with the higher number of single people today because they have to remain competitive. Is that true?
My investigations from 2015 on women between the ages of 35 and 60 who had hyaluronic acid and Botox injected in Berlin showed that most were in a relationship. Of course, separations often trigger a desire to change something but among the big reasons for the boom in the industry, in my opinion, are the rising importance of appearance and the fact that we are increasingly communicating with selfies.

But aren’t single people also likely to boost the beauty industry?
They are but this also has to do with how many of us have to present ourselves to the partner market several times in our lives. And what matters today in that context? The photo. Our appearance decides our relationship possibilities, so we try to look good for as long as possible.

You once said that beauty procedures allow a 50-year-old woman to participate in society. But that means women who don’t have anything done to them lose their social connection in old age.
The ageing woman has long been invisible in our society. With today’s procedures, a woman can now maintain a youthful appearance for longer. But the ageing woman nevertheless remains invisible. We see women who are ageing but only those who don’t look like they are. Unlike in men, grey hair and wrinkles are not considered sexy in women. They used to be considered old at 35 and no longer desirable. This has changed, with the effect that women no longer simply disappear from society.

In the future, will we have to make excuses for ourselves if we look 50 years old when we actually are 50?
Yes. But men also know this. The pressure also increases for them to have thick hair until old age and not have bags under their eyes. On the other hand, they can simply grow a beard over the hanging turkey neck.

On average, men perceive themselves as slimmer than women. Are they putting less pressure on themselves?
That’s right. And we must not forget that men can still compensate for a lower attractiveness with status, power and money. This isn’t possible for women to the same extent. Society judges them much more harshly on their appearance.

What will it do to a society when surgically beautified bodies become the norm?
Differences between social classes will become even clearer. To maintain the most attractive appearance, you’ll need knowledge and money over a long period of time. The middle classes already educate their children in this way: they teach them to eat healthily, to exercise, to apply sunscreen in the summer.

Aren’t those for health reasons?
Yes, but there is also a beauty factor. Another example is braces. In Germany, you hardly see any young people with crooked teeth because that’s paid for by health insurance and straight teeth have become an ideal of beauty.

Perfectly shaped breasts, a tight belly, no cellulite – what body image do children grow up with when their mothers are not allowed to look like mothers?
All of this increases the pressure on young women to look at least as good as their mothers. Let’s think of Heidi Klum: in her 50s, she has a more beautiful body than many women do at the age of 20. Of course, this triggers uncertainty.

What advice would you give an 18-year-old who comes to you with a desire for surgery?
First, I would explore with her what she expects to gain from it. If it’s really just about fixing a specific flaw – protruding ears, a hooked nose, crooked teeth – you can do something about that. But I would also emphasise that it will not suddenly solve all of her other problems.

Do you think that cosmetic surgery will one day be as normal as wearing braces?
I would say that it already is almost as normal. But there will be counter-movements with regard to these short-term ideals of beauty. Back to a more natural look? In a way, that might be happening already. But in terms of the ageing face, it will be more like a well-preserved vintage designer bag – you can see that it has been worn but it is high quality and well maintained.

The Brazilian telenovela is travelling north for a big break with english-speaking streaming audiences

The Brazilian telenovela – with its melodrama, suspense and hairspray – will keep a new cohort of viewers gripped in 2026, thanks to an unexpected twist: international expansion. In recent years, many have dismissed the format as outdated in the age of streaming. It turns out, however, that there’s a market for the shows’ endless intrigue.

Globo is Latin America’s largest communications and media company and turned over BRLI6.4bn (€2.6bn) in 2024. Now it has set its sights beyond its borders. Though telenovelas have long been exported in their original form to Latin America and Europe, a new idea is being pursued in a bid to tempt the vast US market. Brazil’s telenovelas will be adapted into English with new actors through a partnership with Los Angeles-based studio MFF & Co. The studio has bought the rights to a string of Globo hits, including Todas as Flores and Belíssima.

“Brazilian telenovelas have been watched not only in their home country but in many other parts of the world for years,” Miura Kite, MFF & Co’s president of global content, tells Monocle. “Telenovelas are also written in near real-time, adapting to daily audience feedback, so it’s a unique process.”

Changes will be made for the North American market. While Brazilian telenovelas average at a whopping 150 episodes, they will be broken into seasons for the US audience. “By reimagining these narratives, we’re not only tapping into an extraordinary creative legacy and a proven track record in terms of ratings, but also inviting new audiences to experience the imagination, emotion and diversity that define these stories,” says Kite.

Three classic Brazilian telenovelas to watch

1.
Roque Santeiro, 1985.
Set in the fictional town of Asa Branca, this show mixes humour, social critique and, perhaps less obviously, magical realism.

2.
Vale Tudo, 1988.
Considered the pre-eminent telenovela by many, this show asks the difficult question of whether it’s worth being honest in a corrupt society.

3.
Laços de Família, 2000.
Using plenty of bossa nova and beautiful imagery of Rio, creator Manuel Carlos depicts the Carioca middle classes – sometimes with sympathy, sometimes with scorn – like no one before or since.

Munich-based A Kind of Guise finds inspiration in the Mongolian steppe for its latest campaign

For its autumn-winter 2025 collection, Munich-based label A Kind of Guise (AKOG) cast its gaze eastward to the vast Mongolian steppe. Inspired by the land’s nomadic herders and their intricately patterned and, crucially, extremely warm outerwear, Altai Mirage is one of a number of recent collections that takes its cues from the clothing and patterns worn by traditional communities.

A painting of a horse galloping across a Mongolian plain by artist Jonathan Niclaus captures the essence of this collection; the technical quality and intricate patterning of the rider’s clothing are what AKOG was aiming for. Breathable and moisture-wicking materials have been used for millennia to keep their wearer dry and warm during long rides and gruelling Mongolian winters, when temperatures can drop to minus 40C.

Functionally, these materials are not so different to those used in modern technical wear but are completely natural and fashioned by hand. The AKOG design team spent months researching traditional sewing and embroidery techniques before embarking on design and manufacture. “Our process for Altai Mirage was one of immersive research and homage,” Robert Tscherny AKOG’s marketing director, tells Monocle. “We approached it as a case study, with extensive fieldwork. On one occasion, we encountered a group with Bactrian camels in the sand dunes of Elsen Tasarkhai. Our guide explained the importance of camels in nomadic life. Our designs were led by these experiences.”

They also observed hunting, throat singing and ancient sports such as bökh wrestling, all of which informed the editorial shoot, for which the team flew back to Mongolia. In the photos, shot amid the starkly beautiful steppe, locals sport AKOG garb while herding or riding on horseback. “Every item is meant to carry a spirit and a meaning,” says Tscherny. “Just as it does in Mongolian tradition.”

Images courtesy of A Kind of Guise.

How French comedian Paul Cabannes has taken Brazil by storm

As told to Fernando Augusto Pacheco.

In 2012 I married a Brazilian and we went to her homeland for our honeymoon. I loved it and almost immediately wanted to move there. So we did, relocating from Paris to the city of Maringá, where I began teaching French. After a few years I started a YouTube channel making humorous videos about being a Frenchman in Brazil. Because they were popular, I decided to try my hand at stand-up comedy, which I thought I would do as a hobby in front of about 20 people. Soon I was playing sold out shows across Brazil and now I tour the world performing at venues in cities with large Brazilian diasporas, such as London and Paris.

What I have realised through my time onstage is that, if you want to seduce somebody, you have to talk about them. When you do that to millions of people, you can seduce an entire nation. The second reason why my comedy has proven so popular in Brazil is that I notice small peculiarities about the country’s culture that people who have lived there their whole lives think are unremarkable. For example, when a Brazilian has a piece of food in their hand, they will almost always offer it to you, with the expectation that you will refuse it, which you have to. That way, both of you are being polite. But sometimes they actually want you to accept it and you’re keen to do so. But you have to refuse anyway. After the first refusal, they will try a second time but you must still refuse. Only when they offer it a third time can you accept.

Another thing that I have noticed is how difficult it is to leave a Brazilian party. If you say that you’re thinking of heading home, the host will reply, “It’s too soon,” and keep inventing excuses for you to stay – even if they want to call it a night. It’s considered even more rude to tell people that you want them to leave your party than it is to leave someone else’s, so you have to give off subtle (or not so subtle) signs, such as miming brushing your teeth. Even then, when your guests announce that they’re going, you still must say, “No, please don’t.”

Such habits are particularly funny when you come from a more direct culture, like France’s. The two countries have a lot of words in common, as well as religion. But apart from those things, there are few similarities between the two. In France, we say no quite bluntly. Once, I had the honour of being invited to a dinner hosted by Emmanuel Macron for Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva at the Élysée Palace. At the end of the meal, I asked a guard, “Can we go to the garden to have a look?” He replied, “Non.” This is something you would never hear in Brazil. Brazilian people just don’t say no.

The commute: Step out onto the street with Josefa González-Blanco

Josefa González-Blanco, Mexico’s ambassador to the UK, once ran a wildlife and conservation centre in the southern Mexican state of Chiapas. There, she led the first successful reintroduction to the wild of the scarlet macaw, a species that had been extinct in the region for more than 70 years. On a cold London morning, as we join the ambassador on her daily commute from Belgravia to Mayfair, Latin America seems a long way away. Fortunately, though, the presence of Tiny Dancer, González-Blanco’s schnauzer-poodle-chihuahua mix, brings a little Mexican sunshine to our necessarily brisk walk.

Are you a morning person?
I’m a night owl, which makes me feel more connected to Mexico. As my day is winding down here, my team there is still active. The British afternoon overlaps with the end of the workday in Mexico; it’s a small window of connection between both worlds.

What’s your ideal breakfast?
When it’s just myself, I keep it simple: yoghurt, oats and a strong cup of tea or coffee. I also have a deep affection for traditional English or Scottish breakfasts. At an event at Scotland House, we made quesadillas with blood pudding – they were magnificent. Whenever I host an official breakfast, though, it always begins the Mexican way, with chilaquiles, enchiladas suizas, huevos rancheros… Food, for us, is never just food; it’s conversation, comfort and an important form of diplomacy.

How often do you walk to work?
Three days a week. If we have time, Tiny and I will take a stroll around Hyde Park: she darts around the horses and barks at squirrels that she will never catch.

Headphones in or city sounds?
It depends on my mood. Sometimes the city sounds can feel comfortable. Classical music helps me find a clear mental space. I often listen to Rachmaninoff’s “Piano Concerto No 2”, which reminds me that diplomacy is a constant negotiation that strives for harmony. But sometimes what I need is a bit of joy and that’s when I turn to rancheras, mariachi, guitarra de son or la música regional.

Does Tiny Dancer enjoy London?
At the beginning it was too cold and rainy for a girl from the tropical rainforests of southern Mexico. But now she loves it, especially the Underground – if I get distracted, she will often jump up onto another passenger’s lap.

What do British people get wrong about Mexico?
We are the 13th-largest economy in the world, a leader in clean-energy technology and a pioneer in biodiversity conservation, home to more than 10 per cent of the planet’s species. Our story reflects this natural diversity and abundance. People associate Mexico with our food, tequila and our general sense of celebration. All of which are true. Yet behind that lies a country of philosophers, scientists, architects and innovators.

What do you do when you arrive at the office?
The first thing I do is light a candle. Then I have a coffee. Then I get to work.

Do you have Christmas plans?
I’ll be spending it in London again this year. I’ll be attending His Majesty the King’s Christmas Reception at Windsor Castle with the diplomatic corps, which is always a very special occasion.

A look behind the artistry and challenges of ‘Swan Lake’ at the Royal Danish Ballet

Every theatre has two entrances, each offering visitors a contrasting experience. If you enter through the main foyer of Copenhagen’s Royal Opera House for the latest production of Swan Lake, you will be greeted with Tchaikovsky’s score, fantastical costumes and lighting, and the diaphanous grace of 55 exceptional ballet dancers.

Enter through the stage door, however, and the enormity of the graft and skill, the hard-won know-how, as well as the physical agony of staging such a spectacle, becomes apparent. It takes what amounts to a village of people to launch those tutus twirling across the water. And sometimes things do not go to plan.

Though Swan Lake is being staged at the 600-seat opera house on the harbour front, the Kongelige Teater in the city centre has been the Royal Danish Ballet’s home for more than 250 years. Our backstage tour starts in the tailoring department. “This is my favourite costume from this production,” says pattern maker Bente Kirk, stroking the dark purple fabric with gold brocade used for the queen’s dress. Alongside samples, Kirk has laid out original sketches by designer Mia Stensgaard. Judging by her mood board, it seems that Stensgaard has taken inspiration from birds of prey, Fabergé eggs and Cate Blanchett’s performance as Queen Elizabeth I.

This workshop is one of the only places in Denmark where new milliners are still trained. Kirk shows us a tutu that has come in for repair. It is constructed from 10 layers of tulle and one of organza, supported by a thin metal hoop and fitted to the waist with a bodice. Tutus wilt over time so they require freshening up to maintain a perky silhouette.

Kirk has worked here for 22 years, during which time the tutus have been made by two men in southern England who supply most of the ballet companies in the world (at a cost of about €350 per piece). They are retiring, so Kirk and her colleagues must figure out how to make them in Denmark. But the business is shrouded in secrecy. “I once spoke to them over the phone and suggested that we come to visit them but they said, ‘No, no, no,’” says Kirk.

Ballet costumes are surprisingly heavy. This is partly because they are built to last decades. They also need to be regularly adjusted because the physique of ballet dancers is changing, says Kirk, as she works on letting out a bodice for a forthcoming production. In recent years, male performers have become more muscular and the ballerinas taller and more varied in figure than was previously permitted. And, as a result of their complexity, costumes are rarely cleaned. Excuse me? “Oh, yes, they smell like hell,” says Kirk, laughing. “But the performers are all used to it. And some dancers think of it as a privilege to wear something that was worn by a great soloist – it has a special aura.”

Swan Lake might forever be associated with those tutus but a great ballet performance begins at the feet. Shoe manager Henriette Brøndsholm tells Monocle that this production is the most challenging ballet of all when it comes to footwear. “The swans are en pointe almost the entire time that they are onstage,” she says. “The premier ballerina goes through two pairs every performance and she will end up with at least one black toe.”

The shoes are made to measure by Freed of London. The toe pointe, or block, which is about 2 sq cm, is constructed from layers of card. Every dancer will break in their shoes to achieve their preferred flexibility and some will customise them further, darning the tips to attain a perfect flat surface. They are sold to fans after performances, recouping some of the cost (about €60).

Brøndsholm started at the company’s ballet school when she was nine years old and is still here 47 years later, having retired – as all dancers eventually must – at the age of 40. She too has danced in Swan Lake. As the bell rings for the evening’s performance, she says that she still misses being onstage. “When the audience is there and the music plays, it doesn’t matter how much it costs you in toenails and blisters,” she says. “It’s all worth it.”

Someone who knows the truth of this first-hand is tonight’s lead, Astrid Elbo. “This is my third time around the lake,” she says, referring to the occasions so far on which she has played the dual leads of the White Swan, Odette, and the Black Swan, Odile, which are perhaps two of the toughest roles in the classical repertoire. “The challenge is as much mental as it is physical,” says Elbo. “I need to concentrate and visualise like an athlete – planning the day, thinking about nutrition and getting extra protein.”

The 31-year-old Elbo enrolled at the company’s ballet school when she was six years old. Traditionally, she would have been considered tall for a ballerina, she says, claiming (unconvincingly) to have been like “Bambi on ice” as a young dancer. “Co-ordination was difficult since my centre of gravity is high.”

Tonight, Elbo’s prince is French dancer Mathieu Rouaux. Monocle asks him how he feels about taking second billing – unusual for a male lead in the still-chauvinistic world of classical ballet. “I love it so much – there’s less pressure,” he says. “I use it as a tool not to freak out. What will the audience remember? The swans. And maybe a blurry image of some tall, handsome guy in the background.”

A few minutes before the curtain rises, the atmosphere backstage is energised but calm. Dancers, some still wearing tracksuit tops over their tutus, stretch or stand while chatting. One swan is doing star jumps. The orchestra strikes up (sounding slightly muted from back here) and the stage is soon a blur of dancers, the clatter of their pointe shoes sounding like horses on a cobbled street. Later, recuperating offstage, dancers bend double, breathing heavily but silently through rounded mouths.

As the curtain falls on the first half, it is clear that something is amiss. Ballet director Claire Still has appeared in the wings and is huddled with a dancer swaddled in a red dressing gown. It turns out that one of the four ballerinas who has just performed the “Dance of the Little Swans” (probably the most parodied ballet sequence of all but incredibly demanding) can’t continue for the second half. Emma Larsen, an 18-year-old “aspirant”, or student, from the ballet school is now shrugging off her dressing gown and hurrying to switch costumes to fill in for the injured dancer.

The recent history of the Royal Danish Ballet has not been without tumult. In 2024 its then artistic director, Nikolaj Hübbe, resigned following accusations of a harsh teaching environment and a “culture of silence” at the school. Years earlier, there were allegations of cocaine use in the company. Californian Amy Watson was chosen as Hübbe’s replacement. She is the first woman who danced in the company to become its director – and the first to last more than a year in the post.

“Things have evolved,” says Watson. “I can say with certainty that you do not need to be brutal to raise a ballet star. Positive affirmations create better outcomes.” Scandals, plus a perception of ballet as an elitist form of art, could be an existential threat to the company, which relies on generous state funding. “This country appreciates art and culture, and it’s fantastic to have the government’s support,” says Watson. “The message that I have to get out is that ballet is for everyone.”

Back in the wings, Elbo, now in costume as Odile, the Black Swan, spits her gum into a large dustbin as the curtain rises on the second half of the production. She seems remarkably relaxed given that she is about to perform the daunting 32 pirouettes (or fouetté en tournant) in Act III. Audiences count the rotations as she delivers them perfectly to tumultuous applause. Afterwards, Elbo seems satisfied. “It felt so good that I could have kept going,” she says.

But with a job this punishing, how does she relax? “I have started going out dancing more,” she says. “I go to a techno club and stand at the front of the crowd so I can’t see anyone. I don’t even move to the beat because I’ve been told to be on the music my whole life. I just dance.”

How Nonna Lietta’s founder keeps the brand woven with love

“The first designs that I created for Nonna Lietta were all inspired by my grandmother,” says Greek-Italian designer Lietta Kasimati from her Athens studio. It’s on a cobbled street that hedges the National Archaeological Museum, right in the bustle of the city. You can imagine Kasimati’s grandmother – a 1960s aesthete with Roman origins – walking down these alleys wearing a swipe of red lipstick, a fine knit and a pair of heels (always).

It’s the influence of grandmother Lietta – her granddaughter shares her name – that anchors the brand; its pieces have a handmade sensibility that’s classic and gentle, and are threaded with a little whimsy. “When my grandmother knitted, she liked to add small details,” says Kasimati. “If there wasn’t a pretty adornment, there was colour: bold splashes of it. She has passed down her love of knitwear to me.”

Nonna Lietta’s genesis came when Kasimati was at a crossroads in her life. She was living in Belgium, working in fashion retail, and had to decide between a progress-marked career path that stretched comfortably ahead of her or a riskier, entrepreneurial adventure. She returned to her native Athens and launched Nonna Lietta in 2018, while Greece was still riding the stormy waves of the financial crisis. Design and daily operations took place in Athens, while production was outsourced to Barcelona.

Eight years on, the brand has grown an international customer base (the US is its biggest market) and Kasimati has been able to turn her focus to Greek manufacturing, joining a growing group of young entrepreneurs who are helping to slowly revive the dormant sector. Nonna Lietta’s sheep yarn is sourced from high in the mountains of northern Greece, where the label’s current manufacturing partner works with shepherds from the area to source and spin wool exclusively for her. It’s raw, unprocessed and, says Kasimati, “as natural as it gets”. It’s then made into knitwear – slouchy vests, thick, woollen cardigans, delicately ruffled tops – in Athens.

The rest of the yarn, a premium blend of eco wool and alpaca, is sourced in Italy and the pieces are produced in Spain. Kasimati describes Nonna Lietta as an essentially Mediterranean label, with its combination of Italian, Spanish and Greek yarns, craftsmanship and sensibilities.

The newest collection includes elegant navy and pastel “winter bloom” hues, as well as playful star intarsias. “I want our pieces to remind our customers of their childhood, to take them back to that old feeling of warmth,” she says. Nonna Lietta is only sold via the brand’s website and various pop-ups. Kasimati travels to New York every year, as well as occasionally to London, Amsterdam and Paris, to host pop-up shops but her time spent in large-scale retail confirmed to her that wholesale shouldn’t be part of her business model.

She is also in the process of moving to a bigger studio to continue expanding the label’s production, slowly and steadily. “I never dreamed of a super-big brand,” she says. “My dream is really to keep being creative, to maintain our values, to keep it all sustainable.”

Next, Kasimati plans to take on Asia, to bring the message of fine Greek production and craftsmanship to further-flung shores, plus expand and experiment with more yarns. “I want people to invest in our ethos,” she says. “And not just buy for the sake of buying.”
nonnalietta.com

Editor’s letter: The power of determination

There are a lot of themes threaded through this issue – the potency of good design, legacy, our shifting perceptions of health and ageing – but when I looked at the final proofs, one word seemed to link many of the narratives that run across its pages: determination. This November outing of Monocle reads like a playbook on how to follow your own path, fight for your independence and ignore the naysayers.

Let’s start with the Expo. A few months ago I went to an exhibition at the Saatchi Yates gallery in London. It was the opening night and the space was rammed, guests spilling out onto the street to smoke and talk art. It was a cool crowd and, inside the gallery, the punchy, political canvases on show were being scrutinised by lots of twenty and thirtysomethings. These new works were not the creation of some fresh-faced enfant terrible but Peter Saul, an American artist who is still at the top of his game at 91. Later I spoke about the show with Sophie Monaghan-Coombs, who runs our culture pages. She pointed out that there is a whole host of artists in their eighties and nineties being championed by galleries and museums – many are women who are only now getting the recognition that they deserve. So Sophie put together a feature on seven in-demand senior artists who continue to push boundaries; who live through their work. It’s an inspiring tale of artistic determination.

Giorgio Armani, who died in September, ran an extraordinary business, not least because in an era when key luxury groups have come to control many of the most potent and important labels, he stayed independent – the sole owner of his empire. This allowed him to do things his way, whether that was telling models to smile and look happy or being the only spokesperson for the company. Our fashion director, Natalie Theodosi, was granted backstage access to report on the runway show for his final collection to see how his determination will live on. Her report is combined with the glorious photography of Andy Massaccesi.

A cultural shift is shaking up the health-and-fitness industry. Younger folk – well, a lot of them – see going to the gym less as a necessary evil to combat their daily excesses of food and booze, and more as a way of life. This cohort of clean-living Gen Z consumers will happily spend all day tending to their body’s needs. Enter the “super-boutique” gym, a place not just for taking a class but also for health tests, spa treatments, dining on virtuous meals and hanging out. For this issue, writer Grace Cook travelled to Brussels to meet entrepreneurs (and health advocates) Alexandre de Vaucleroy and Antoine Derom at their recently launched Animo Studios, a space designed to be the backbone of members’ fitness, social and even work lives.

Political, military and diplomatic determination also makes an appearance in this issue. In our Affairs pages, we head to Poland to see how the country is preparing to defend itself should Russia attack. We also sit down with former Estonian prime minister Kaja Kallas, who now, as vice-president of the European Commission, is in charge of the EU’s foreign policy (even if member states are hard to align). In an interview with our foreign editor, Alexis Self, she explains why she is determined to stand up to threats from the East and unwanted challenges from Washington.

You will also read about the doggedness of art sleuths, the firm focus of three Pritzker Architecture Prize-winners and how Noura bint Mohammed Al Kaabi, minister of state for the UAE, is unwavering in her belief that we need to listen to everyone, while maintaining red lines. I hope that this issue will harden your resolve, as you look ahead. It’s an issue that shows you how you can stick to your principles and do good too.

The art of ageing: Inside the studios of seven in-demand artists in their eighties and nineties

Though crafts that rely on the dexterity of your hands become more difficult as you age, your decades of learning and life experience can imbue what you create with depth and unique perspectives. Here, we visit the studios of seven artists who continue to paint in their eighties or nineties, still staging big exhibitions, selling work and finding inspiration.

Isabella Ducrot
Rome, Italy

Isabella Ducrot’s craft is something of a patchwork. It incorporates textiles procured on her travels in Russia, Turkey, China, India and Tibet, and stories from her voracious imagination – Ducrot has been writing for far longer than she has been painting.

Born in Naples, Ducrot moved to Rome in her thirties, lured by the promise of freedom and anonymity. “Romans are indifferent,” she says. “They’re not particularly interested in each other. That’s a good quality.” In the Italian capital, Ducrot surrounded herself with intellectuals, including novelist Alberto Moravia and filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini.

She picked up a paintbrush in her fifties and now, in her studio in the 16th-century Palazzo Doria Pamphilj, she paints on Japanese gampi, a fine, fibrous paper with a satin-like sheen and a fine weft. Made for etching, inking and painting, the delicate material is as recognisable a part of Ducrot’s output as her ochre, green and rust flower motifs, which are achieved with a brush tied to a stick.

Ducrot says that she came to painting so late because of an early education that instructed her to respect tradition and not make changes to the world around her. “It took many years for me to dare to begin this unusual adventure,” she says. Today, at the age of 94, her adventure continues.

Peter Saul
Germantown,USA

“Except for occasionally talking about modern art to college students, I haven’t done anything but paint pictures since 1959,” says Peter Saul. Those pictures are hard to forget. Saul’s subjects bend, distend, wriggle and writhe across the canvas, transforming into colourful, twisted monstrosities along the way.

Those subjects have changed with the times too: the Vietnam War, Ronald Reagan, Donald Trump. American life – its vividness and its vulgarity – is a loose theme. That and, as Saul puts it, “bad guys”. “I have more freedom to distort, invent motivation or do anything I want to bad guys,” he says. “Whereas with ‘good guys’, the artist is supposed to follow the rules.”

Saul works from preliminary sketches that have a sense of “freshness”, which can be developed as he paints. As he adds his cacophony of colours, he thinks about how to make the painting interesting to the highest number of people. “The picture has to live in the world,” he says. Saul’s work has done just that for a long time but the critical response to it has become far warmer in recent years. While he is appreciative, the change has had little effect on his practice. “Unlike most artists I know, I don’t seem to respond much to encouragement,” he says. “As long as I’ve got the art supplies, I’m going to paint a picture.”

Rose Wylie
Kent, UK

When a particularly big globule of paint falls off Rose Wylie’s brush, she’ll simply cover it with a sheet of newspaper to stop it getting on her shoes. “I’m not a precious worker,” she says as we stand in her studio. A soft layer of newspaper carpets the floor, paintbrushes stick out of cans stacked on chairs and colourful splatters obscure the skirting board. Wylie’s unruly garden has crept up the side of the house and into this first-floor room – a jasmine plant pushes through a window in one corner. “Mostly you’re criticised if you don’t tidy up,” she says. “But if you get through a certain threshold, it becomes iconic.”

Wylie’s artistic training went unused for years while she raised her family but, since returning to painting in her forties, she has become a critical and commercial darling of the art world. She is currently working on a painting that features a large, “nonchalant” skeleton. It will appear in her upcoming exhibition at London’s Royal Academy in early 2026, her biggest show to date.

Wylie’s bold canvases often combine text and figures from history, mythology or contemporary pop culture. And while Wylie’s process can be messy, she is exacting about her practice, regularly working late into the night wrestling with a painting. “Often it’s horrible, slimy, trite, pedestrian,” she says. “There are 100 things that can go wrong, particularly with faces, and then, for some odd reason, suddenly it’s alright.”

Read more about Rose Wylie and her exhibit at Royal Academy London

Martial Raysse
Bouniagues, France

When Monocle meets Martial Raysse at his home in Dordogne, southwest France, the chill of autumn is creeping in, giving the light a quality that we can’t quite put our finger on. “In Paris, the shadows are blue but here they are pink,” says Raysse. “That’s what seduced me.” Though at 89 he is focused on painting “in strict obedience to the great masters”, the multidisciplinary artist can look back on a remarkably diverse body of work.

Raysse is cryptic about his artistic awakening but, according to his gallerists, he was already painting and writing poetry at the age of 12. By the time the Centre Pompidou put on a retrospective of more than 200 of his works in 2014, Raysse’s artistic expression had taken on dozens of forms, from poetry and painting to neon sculptures and cinema. “The interaction of these different forms enriched my artistic practice,” he says. “But I haven’t adopted any digital tools. I prefer pencil, which I think gets much closer to rendering emotions faithfully.”

Raysse is considered one of the earliest French champions of pop art. In 2011 his 1962 painting “L’année dernière à Capri (titre exotique)” fetched €4.8m at auction, for a time making him the highest-valued living French artist. But as a testament to his constant evolution, today he describes his association with the movement that made his fame as “a youthful error”, denouncing it as an “avatar of ready-made culture”.

Is creativity linked to longevity, we ask? “Unfortunately, creativity doesn’t extend your life,” says Raysse. “But with experience, what you do gain is progress.”

Frank Bowling
London, UK

At 91, Frank Bowling is still searching for new ways to let paint speak for itself. “I’m always following my instincts,” says Bowling, who has painted, poured, sprayed, stained and stitched vivid colours onto unprimed canvases for more than 70 years. “There was a time when I didn’t have a dealer and museums weren’t buying,” he says. “Now, my paintings are in more than 70 museums around the world.” His work is currently on show at the Bienal de São Paulo 2025 – a full-circle moment for the South America-born artist in the bright throes of his twilight years.

A Bowling artwork begins on the floor. Every cotton-duck canvas receives its first colours in the form of drips of paint that fall from an earlier in-progress painting hanging above – a sort of artistic assembly line. “Then my assistant fills a bucket with paint and water and pours it down the canvas while I direct the flood,” he says.

When Monocle visits his studio in South London, Bowling is directing his son, Ben – who’s armed with silver glitter-laced spray paint – from a wheelchair. “Brighter,” says Bowling of a long white streak that cuts down the canvas like a coastline, “all the way.” When Ben reaches a patch of empty space, Bowling reacts instinctively. “Put red in it,” he says. But the painting is still not finished. Later, it will appear “on the ceiling of my room”. Bowling’s imagination never rests. “I’m preoccupied with the search for something new in painting so I’m always working in different ways.”

Inson Wongsam
Lamphun,Thailand

Inson Wongsam is a key figure in the history of Thai modern art and the scene’s evolution from staid and traditional to colourful and contemporary. The son of a temple goldsmith, he studied under influential Italian sculptor Corrado Feroci, who changed his name to Silpa Bhirasri.

“Professor Silpa once told me: ‘Inson, if you wish to be an artist, you must sketch and work every day,’” says Wongsam from his studio and private museum in Lamphun, a small city near Chiang Mai. Wongsam has been an artist his entire adult life, creating metal sculptures and wood carvings in the 20th century and, in recent decades, wood block prints and paintings. His days begin at about 04.00, drawing in bed with watercolours or red and green pens or pencils. This is followed by some stretching, breakfast and more drawing in his studio. “When I cannot work, such as on days when I must visit the doctor, I feel uneasy,” he says.

Wongsam celebrated his 91st birthday in September with an exhibition at Bangkok’s Nova Contemporary. “Age has never affected my determination because I believe that the spirit is more important than the body,” he says. “As I grow older, I aim to make my work even more vibrant – never dim or lifeless.” Wongsam is currently working on an exhibition that is planned for next year. “I have reached a point in my life where everything feels clear,” he says. “I don’t need to look elsewhere for inspiration. Ideas come from me, pushing my work forward.”

Martha Jungwirth
Vienna, Austria

At 85, Martha Jungwirth remains as industrious as she was when she first appeared on the art scene in the early 1960s. Her belated recognition (she only began attracting serious attention and staging large solo exhibitions in the 2010s) and the attendant title of grande dame of Austrian art have not made her aloof. Instead, she is kind and inquisitive, asking as many questions as she answers. Jungwirth works in watercolour or oil on paper rather than canvas and her style is marked by colourful abstraction, with pinks and reds at the fore.

Jungwirth’s wanderlust has taken her across the world, though in recent years she has favoured Greece, which she first visited with her late husband, art historian Alfred Schmeller. “When you travel, you meet people, you eat differently and you feel that you don’t understand anything,” she says as she shows Monocle a series of watercolours from Bali, comprising her impressions of the custom of placing small, stylised houses outside homes. “That activates you again.”

In Jungwirth’s large, light-filled studio, pride of place is shared equally between her current works and her sources of inspiration: reproductions of baroque paintings (classical art has always moved her), alongside newspaper clippings and photographs scattered among countless paint tubes. “I don’t even know what colours are in them,” she says. It is this disorder that drives her to keep working and exploring.

“I always try to surprise myself. Otherwise, you stiffen up and get stuck.”

Why Donald Trump’s ‘beautiful architecture’ mandate could make Washington look worse

In August the US president, Donald Trump, signed an executive order titled Making Federal Architecture Beautiful Again in which he declared that future federal buildings nationwide – from courthouses to office blocks – must employ and be built in approved historical styles. From now on in Washington, the default language of public architecture will be classical, unless an exception can be justified.

While Trump’s taste has often been called into question, this move, which solidifies an order issued in the final weeks of his first presidency, shows that he’s well aware of the capacity of architecture to unite, divide, project power and create a link to an imagined past.

Supporters, including the National Civic Art Society, frame the order as simple common sense. Classical architecture, sympathisers insist, is America’s God-given birthright. Its colonnades, cornicing and corbels carry the weighty associations of legitimacy, inspiration and timelessness. There is much to be said for classical architecture but surely it’s faintly ridiculous, short-sighted and lacking in imagination to mandate it as the capital’s only permissible style? Such sweeping edicts politicise taste and curtail conversation or innovation. Washington has long been a showcase of contrasting styles and, by extension, a democracy of ideas played out in its structure and streetscape since it was first planned (on a marsh, not a swamp) in the 1790s. We have come a long way since then, in engineering and thought, and the built environment should reflect this.

The city’s strength has always been its pluralism, in architecture as in politics – from Henry Bacon’s Lincoln Memorial and Edward Durell Stone’s Kennedy Center to IM Pei’s National Gallery of Art East Building and Gordon Bunshaft’s Hirshhorn Museum – reflecting a diversity of expression. Privileging nostalgia over experimentation risks producing pastiche: a watered-down echo of the countless times when bullies have tried to impose a unified architecture on cities. See Mussolini’s attempts to link his fascism with the grandeur of Rome or Saddam Hussein’s Babylonian-inspired reworking of Baghdad. Today, there are other strongmen hard at work reforging their capitals and seats of power, from Putin’s Cathedral of the Armed Forces to Erdogan’s Ak Saray palace in Ankara (about four times the size of Versailles) and Modi’s new-look New Delhi that replaces colonial associations with historic Hindu and nationalist motifs.

It’s too early to see the results in Washington but Trump’s mandate asserts centralised control over federal aesthetics and seeks an architecture portraying hulking power with precious little nuance. Instead of leaving it to competitions or a respected advisory process, the White House now dictates which forms are worthy of housing American democracy. It’s a patently subjective and problematic idea: are the president and his yes men now suddenly qualified to rule on what makes a building work?

That said, a return to classical architecture could well create good, even great, buildings, providing that architects respect traditional craft, proportion and materials, which is not a given in today’s uncertain construction market. The risks such sweeping legislation possesses are literally colossal too. From botched efforts to corner-cutting or projects palmed off to cronies, commissions might quickly descend into over-scaled kitsch, boring imitation or ill-suited structures aimed to appease aesthetically rather than serve, elevate or enlighten.

Without true architectural investigation and denied the freedom to disagree in the debate around urbanism and public buildings, the architectural discourse – much like the political and social ones – could stray from thoughtful invention into blind partisanship. Columns, pediments and porticoes might look like progress to some but making them the only option will drag architecture back to antiquity.

Sam Lubell is a New York-based architecture writer and book editor.

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