Half magic beauty ylta is a concept that explores the idea of feeling and experiencing beauty in a way that is only partially understood or accessible. It suggests that true beauty often lies beyond what is immediately visible or apparent, and can only be fully appreciated through a deeper understanding or connection. The term "half magic" implies that there is a mystical or enchanting quality to this type of beauty. It suggests that while we may be able to glimpse or partially comprehend its essence, it remains elusive and unknowable in its entirety. This idea challenges traditional notions of beauty, which often prioritize external appearance or physical attractiveness. By emphasizing the "ylta" aspect of this concept, it suggests that the true source of beauty lies within oneself.

“As an Added Bonus, She Paid for Everything”: My Bright-Lights Misadventure with a Magician of Manhattan

She walked into my life in Gucci sandals and Céline glasses, and showed me a glamorous, frictionless world of hotel living and Le Coucou dinners and infrared saunas and Moroccan vacations. And then she made my $62,000 disappear.

According to my closest friends and various suspect Internet sources, turning 29 on January 29, 2017 marked my golden birthday. At the time, I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I had a gut feeling about my 30th year: it was going to be special; it was going to be good.

It was a total disaster.

It began with Anna. In her signature black athleisure wear and oversize Céline sunglasses, she sat beside me in the S.U.V., pecking at her phone. Seemingly everything she owned was packed into Rimowa suitcases and stacked in the trunk, just behind our heads. We were running late. Anna was always late. Our S.U.V. hummed along the cobblestones of Crosby Street as we drove from 11 Howard, the hotel Anna had called home for three months, to the Mercer, the hotel Anna planned to move into when we got back from our trip. The bellhops at the Mercer helped us to off-load her bags (all but one), and they checked them away to await Anna’s return. Our errand complete, we climbed back into the car and set off for J.F.K. two hours before our flight: we were Marrakech-bound.

Anna, taking an iPhone photo during a day-trip to Kasbah Tamadot, Sir Richard Branson’s resort in Morocco’s High Atlas Mountains. Anna returned for a stay at Kasbah Tamadot after leaving La Mamounia.

Photograph courtesy of Rachel DeLoache Williams

I first met Anna the year prior, in early 2016, at Happy Ending, a restaurant-lounge on Broome Street with a bistro on the ground floor, and a popular nightclub past the bouncer one flight down. I was with friends in the lounge downstairs. It was a group that I saw almost exclusively on nights out, fashion friends, whom I’d met since moving to the city in 2010. We walked in as the space was kicking into gear, not empty but not crowded. Young men and women made laps through machine-pumped fog, scouting for action and a place to settle in, as they sipped their vodka soda through plastic black straws. We made our way to the right and back, where the fog and people were denser and the music was louder.

I can’t remember which arrived first: the expectant bucket of ice and stack of glasses, or “Anna Delvey”—but I knew that she had appeared and with her came bottle service. She was a stranger to me, and yet not unknown. I’d seen her on Instagram, smiling at events, drinking at parties, oftentimes alongside my own friends and acquaintances. I’d seen that @annadelvey (since changed to @annadlvv) had 40K followers.

The new arrival, in a clingy black dress and flat Gucci sandals, slid into the banquette. She had a cherubic face with oversize blue eyes and pouty lips. Her features and proportions were classical—almost anachronistic—with a roundness that would suit Ingres or John Currin. She greeted me and her ambiguously accented voice was unexpectedly high-pitched.

Pleasantries led to discussion of how Anna first came into our friend group. She said she had interned for Purple magazine, in Paris (I’d seen her in photos with the magazine’s editor-in-chief), and evidently traveled in similar social circles. It was the quintessential nice-to-meet-you-in-New York conversation: hellos, exchange of niceties, how do you know X, what do you do for work?

I can’t remember which arrived first: the expectant bucket of ice and stack of glasses, or “Anna Delvey”—but I knew that she had appeared and with her came bottle service.

“I work at Vanity Fair,” I told her. The usual dialogue ensued: “in the photo department,” I elaborated. “Yes, I love it. I’ve been there for six years.” She was attentive and engaged. She ordered another bottle of vodka. She picked up the tab.

Not long after we first met, I was invited to join Anna and a mutual friend for dinner at Harry’s, a steakhouse downtown, not far from my office. The vibe at Harry’s was distinctly masculine, fussy but not frilly, with leather seating and wood-paneled walls. Anna was there when I arrived, and the friend came a few minutes later. We were shown to our table, and my company ordered oysters and a round of espresso martinis. Conversation went along, as did the cocktails. I’d never had an espresso martini, but it went down just fine.

Anna told us huffily that she’d spent the day in meetings with lawyers. “What for?” I asked. She lit up. She was hard at work on her art foundation—a “dynamic visual-arts center dedicated to contemporary art,” she explained, referring vaguely to a family trust. She planned to lease the historic Church Missions House, a building on Park Avenue South and 22nd Street, to house a night lounge, bar, art galleries, studio space, restaurants, and a members-only club. In my line of work, I had often encountered ambitious, well-off individuals, so though her undertaking sounded grand in scale and promising in theory, my sincere enthusiasm hardly outweighed a measured skepticism.

For the rest of 2016, I saw Anna every few weekends. As a visiting German citizen, she’d explained, she didn’t have a full-time residence. She was living in the Standard, High Line, not far from my small apartment in Manhattan’s West Village. Anna intrigued me, and she seemed eager to be friends. I was flattered. I saw her on adventure-filled nights out, for drinks and sometimes dinner, usually with a group, but occasionally just the two of us. Towards autumn of that same year, Anna told me she was returning to Cologne, where she said she was from, just before the expiration of her visa.

Nearly half a year later, she came back.

Anna photographed at Paris Fashion Week after party in NYC on September 26, 2013.

By Joe Schildhorn/BFA/REX/Shutterstock.

On Saturday, May 13, 2017, we landed in Marrakech. Our hotel sent a V.I.P. service to greet us at the airport. We were escorted through Customs and taken to two awaiting Land Rovers. After a 10-minute drive, we pulled up to a palatial compound and entered through its gates. At the front entrance, we were welcomed by a host of men wearing fez caps and traditional Moroccan attire. We had arrived at our singularly opulent destination. Miss Delvey, our host, opted for a tour of the grounds for her and her guests. We proceeded directly, not having any need for keys or a traditional check-in procedure, since our villa was staffed with a full-time butler and, according to our host, all billing had been settled in advance.

The vacation was Anna’s idea. She again needed to leave the States in order to reset her ESTA visa, she said. Instead of returning home to Germany, she suggested we take a trip somewhere warm. It had been a long time since my last vacation. I happily agreed that we should explore options, thinking we’d find off-season fares to the Dominican Republic or Turks and Caicos. Anna suggested Marrakech; she’d always wanted to go. She picked La Mamounia, a five-star luxury resort ranked among the best in the world, and knowing that her selection was cost-prohibitive for my budget, she nonchalantly offered to cover my flights, the hotel, and expenses. She reserved a $7,000/night private riad, a traditional Moroccan villa with an interior courtyard, three bedrooms, and a pool, and forwarded me the confirmation e-mail. Due to a seemingly minor snafu, I’d put the plane tickets on my American Express card, with Anna promising to reimburse me promptly. Since I did this all the time for work, I didn’t give it a second thought.

Anna also invited a personal trainer, along with a friend of mine—a photographer—whom, at a dinner the week before our trip, Anna had asked to come as a documentarian, someone to capture video. She was thinking of making a documentary about the creation of her art foundation, and she wanted to experience what it felt like to have someone around with a camera. Plus, it’d be fun to have video from the trip, she said. I thought this was a bit ridiculous, but also entertaining, and why not? The four of us stayed in the private villa together. Anna and I shared the largest room.

We spent our first day and a half exploring all that La Mamounia had to offer. We roamed the gardens, relaxed in the hammam, swam in our villa’s private pool, took a tour of the wine cellar, and ate dinner to the intoxicating rhythms of live Moroccan music, before capping our night with cocktails in the jazzy Churchill bar. In the morning, Anna arranged for a private tennis lesson. We met her afterward for breakfast at the poolside buffet. Between adventures, our butler appeared, as if by magic, with fresh watermelon and chilled bottles of rosé.

Anna was no stranger to decadence. When she returned to N.Y.C. in early 2017, after months away, she checked into 11 Howard, a trendy hotel in SoHo. Her routine dinner spot became Le Coucou, winner of the James Beard Award for best new restaurant that same year, which was on the ground level of her hotel. Buckwheat fried Montauk eel to start and then the bourride: her dish of choice. She befriended the staff, and even the chef, Daniel Rose, who, upon her request, obligingly made off-the-menu bouillabaisse just for her. Dinners were accompanied by abundant white wine.

The men followed us back to our villa, as Anna spoke clipped phrases into her phone. They stood ominously on the edge of our living room.

Her days were spent at meetings and on phone calls, often in her hotel. She regularly went to Christian Zamora for $400 full eyelash extensions, or $140 touch-ups here and there. She went to Marie Robinson Salon for color, Sally Hershberger for cuts. She toured multi-million-dollar apartments with over-eager realtors and chartered a private plane for a weekend trip to Berkshire Hathaway’s annual shareholders meeting in Omaha. All things in excess: she shopped, ate, and drank. Usually wearing a Supreme brand hoodie, workout pants, and sneakers, she embodied a lazy sort of luxury.

Anna checked into 11 Howard on a Sunday in February and that same day invited me to lunch. She’d texted me occasionally while she’d been gone, excited to get back and eager to catch up. I wondered if she kept in touch with other friends that way. She had a directness that could be off-putting and a sort of comical overconfidence that I found equal parts abhorrent and amusing. She isolated herself, and I felt privileged to be one of the few people whom she liked and trusted. Through past experiences, both personal and professional, I was casually accustomed to the lifestyle and quirks of moneyed people, though I had no trust fund or savings of my own. Her world wasn’t foreign to me—I was comfortable there—and I was pleased that she could tell, that she accepted me as someone who “got it.”

I met her at Mamo, on West Broadway. Anna had settled into the L-shaped booth closest to the door. Above her hung an oversize illustration of Lino Ventura and Jean-Paul Belmondo, both holding guns, floating above a dark cityscape. “ASFALTO CHE SCOTTA,” it read, in caps-locked Italian. She had come directly from the Apple Store, where she’d purchased a new laptop and two new iPhones—one for her international number and one for a new local number, she said. She ordered a Bellini, and I followed her lead.

When we finally left, it was almost five o’clock. We walked towards Anna’s hotel and she invited me in for a drink. We passed through 11 Howard’s modern lobby, heading straight for the steel spiral staircase to the left, which swooped twice around a thick column, rising to the floor above. On the second level, we entered a large living room called the Library.

The room’s design had distinctly Scandinavian overtones. My eyes scanned the setup and paused on a photograph that hung in a frame across from the concierge desk, a black-and-white image of an empty theater—part of a series by Japanese photographer Hiroshi Sugimoto. Light emanated from a seemingly blank, rectangular movie screen, casting its glow out from the center of the composition onto the empty stage, seats, and theater. Sugimoto used a large-format camera and set his exposure to be the full length of a film, hoping to capture a movie’s thousands of still frames within a single image. The result was otherworldly. Looking at his work always reminded me of Shakespeare, a play within a play. It captured kinetic energy, portentous and alive with emotion and light. The viewing experience was meta and inverted: I was the audience, looking into an empty theater, beneath a blank screen. Anything was possible, or maybe it’d already happened. Maybe it was all already there.

After that day in February, Anna and I became fast friends. The world was charmed when she was around—the normal rules didn’t seem to apply. Her lifestyle was full of convenience, and its easy materialism was seductive. She began seeing a personal trainer and invited me to join. The sessions were her treat, as she generously insisted that working out was more fun with a friend. We went as frequently as three or four times a week, often ending our sessions with a visit to the infrared sauna.

I saw Anna most mornings. During the day, she’d text me frequently. After work, I’d stop by 11 Howard on my walk home. We’d regularly visit the Library for wine before going downstairs to Le Coucou for late dinners.

Anna did most of the talking. She held court, having befriended the hotel staff and servers, with me as her trusted adviser and loyal confidante. She would tell me about her meetings with restaurateurs, hedge-fund managers, lawyers, and bankers—and her frustration over delays with the lease signing. (She was set on the Church Missions House.) She mused about chefs she’d like to bring in, artists she esteemed, exhibitions that were opening. She was savvy. I felt a mixture of pity and admiration for Anna. She didn’t have many friends, and she wasn’t close with her family. She said that her relationship with her parents felt rooted more in business than in love. But she was strong. Her impulsivity and a sort of tactlessness had caused a rift between Anna and the friends through whom I’d met her, but I felt that I understood her and would be there for her when others were not.

Anna was a character. Her default setting was haughty, but she didn’t take herself too seriously. She was quirky and erratic. She acted with the entitlement and impulsivity of a once spoiled, seldom disciplined child—offset by a tendency to befriend workers rather than management, and to let slip the occasional comment suggesting a deeper empathy. (“It’s a lot of responsibility to have people working for you; people have families to feed. That’s no joke.”) In the male-dominated business world, she was unapologetically ambitious and I liked this about her.

She was audacious where I was reserved, and irreverent where I was polite. We balanced each other: I normalized her eccentric behavior, as she challenged my sense of propriety and dared me to have fun. As an added bonus, she paid for everything.

It was late on Monday afternoon, after almost two full days in La Mamounia’s walled palace. It was time to venture out. Anna wanted two things: piles of spices worthy of an Instagram photo and a place to buy some Moroccan kaftans. La Mamounia’s concierge arranged everything: within minutes we had a tour guide and set off with a car and driver. Our van came to a stop and we stepped out one by one, fresh from our sheltered resort life, into the dusty warmth of the medina’s mysterious maze.

“Can you make this dress, but with black linen?” Anna asked of a woman in Maison Du Kaftan. Before the woman could reply, Anna continued, “I’ll take one in black and one in white linen and, Rachel, I’d love to get one for you.” I scanned the store’s racks as Anna tried on a bright red jumpsuit and a range of gauzy sheer dresses. I tried on a few things but, wary of the iffy fabric content and high prices, I soon joined the videographer and trainer in the shop’s seating area for glasses of mint tea. Anna went to pay. Her debit card was declined.

“Did you tell your banks that you were traveling?” I asked. “No,” was her reply. Then I wasn’t surprised that such a purchase would be flagged. Anna asked to borrow money, promising to reimburse me the following week. I agreed, careful to keep track of the receipt. We wandered the medina until dusk. Back in the van, we went directly to La Sultana for dinner. I paid for that, too, adding it to my “tab.”

On Tuesday, we were walking through La Mamounia’s lobby, leaving for a visit to the Jardin Majorelle, when a hotel employee waved Anna to a stop. “Miss Delvey, may we speak with you?” he said, as he tactfully pulled her aside. “Is everything O.K.?” I asked, when she rejoined the group. “Yes,” Anna reassured me. “I just need to call my bank.”

The next morning, I, too, was stopped as I passed through the lobby: “Miss Williams, have you seen Miss Delvey?” I sent Anna to the concierge. She was agitated by the inconvenience. You could always tell when Anna was agitated: she made almost comical huffy noises (“ugh, why!”) and typed furiously on her phone. She left the villa and came back shortly after, ostensibly relieved that the situation was being resolved.

Watch Lil Uzi Vert Get Scared By Anna DeGuzman's Magic Tricks

The digital age magician freaked Uzi and their friends out, but did leave Uzi wanting to learn how to crack their girl's phone passcode.

Anna DeGuzman is a master magician of the digital age. The 24-year-old Filipina-American knows her way around a few intricate card tricks, but she’s built a loyal online fanbase using newer stunts like iPhone illusions and cracking phone passwords. Her charisma can make a group of grown men giggle. “Brilliant,” Simon Cowell expressed his approval of her 2023 Season 18 America’s Got Talent audition that launched her into virality.

Just ask Lil Uzi’s friends, who lost their minds when she unlocked their phones behind the scenes of Uzi’s latest GQ Hype shoot. “This is the number one thing every girl has asked me to teach them,” DeGuzman remarked.Even Uzi, courter of the grotesque, was a bit terrified—accusing her of witchcraft at one point. (Though Uzi did ask to learn the passcode trick to unlock their significant other’s phone).

DeGuzman’s skill routinely baffles audiences. “Oh yeah, you crazy,” Uzi says after a calculator app trick. Alchemizing random numbers, such as the day Uzi and their friend met, the cost of their jewels, and the number in their bank account—a staggering amount that doesn't phase them—she conjures a nostalgic date for Uzi.

With 2.1 million views and counting on Youtube, DeGuzman’s audition video continues to win her admirers. But, the journey there started six years ago when, after a lifelong love of magic, she decided to pursue it professionally. Now, she has carved a lane for herself in cardistry, one of the few women to do so, and performed for audiences on ESPN, Disney, The CW, and MTV.

From the big stage, packed club, and cramped green room, DeGuzman will have you questioning reality and, like Uzi, wondering “How’d she do that?”

Magic Maestro: Filipino-American Anna de Guzman makes history as America's Got Talent runner-up

CAPTURING HEARTS: Anna de Guzman, the talented Filipino-American magician, captured viewers' hearts as she soared to the runner-up position in the 18th season of "America's Got Talent." Image Credit: insta/annadeguzman

JOURNEY TO THE BIG STAGE: Her incredible journey on the show marked a significant milestone, as she became the first female magician ever to reach the finals. Anna was on the verge of becoming the first Filipino-American winner in the show's history. Image Credit: insta/annadeguzman

TRIUMPH: Ultimately, the title went to Adrian Stoica and his canine companion, Hurricane, who not only claimed victory but also received a substantial prize of $1 million (equivalent to P57 million) and a coveted performance slot at the Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas. The dance troupe Murmuration finished third. Image Credit: AFP

MAGICAL ACT: For her grand finale, Anna engaged the audience, along with judges Howie Mandell, Heidi Klum, Sofia Vergara, and Simon Cowell, as well as host Terry Crews. Image Credit: Youtube/agt

SECRET CARD: A secret card sealed in an envelope was distributed to each crowd member, and Anna masterfully orchestrated a mesmerizing card trick. She left everyone stunned by accurately matching nearly all of Terry's cards, which astonishingly corresponded to the exact broadcast time of her performance on September 26, 2023, at 10:10 p.m. Image Credit: insta/annadeguzman

FINAL CARD: The queen of hearts, Terry's final card, was revealed to be the card in every sealed envelope, earning Anna thunderous applause from the audience and the judges' admiration. Image Credit: insta/annadeguzman

FAMILY BOND: Anna's mother, Tess, flew from the Philippines to witness her daughter's historic magic trick. This momentous occasion was a significant bonding experience for the single parent. Anna shared, "This has been very bonding. My mom doesn't know this world. She's always been a very normal, conservative woman. This is the first time I feel she's kind of been brought into my world." Image Credit: insta/annadeguzman

PERSONAL VICTORY: In Anna de Guzman's eyes, her journey on "America's Got Talent" was already a victory in itself. Her remarkable talent, charismatic performances, and groundbreaking achievements have undoubtedly left an indelible mark on the world of magic and entertainment. Image Credit: insta/annadeguzman

YEARS OF PRACTICE: During her audition in June, 25-year-old De Guzman shared that she is an only child and was raised by a single mom. She added that she has been practising magic tricks for over five years. Image Credit: insta/annadeguzman

By emphasizing the "ylta" aspect of this concept, it suggests that the true source of beauty lies within oneself. It implies that beauty is not simply a superficial trait or quality, but rather something that emanates from the depths of one's being. It encourages individuals to look beyond external appearances and cultivate an inner beauty that radiates from within.

In a world that places great importance on outer beauty and image, the concept of half magic beauty ylta serves as a reminder that true beauty lies in the intangible and ineffable. It urges individuals to seek and appreciate the deeper, more meaningful aspects of beauty that exist beyond the surface. By doing so, we can tap into a wellspring of joy, awe, and wonder that enhances our overall experience of life. Ultimately, half magic beauty ylta invites us to embrace a more expansive and inclusive understanding of beauty that extends beyond societal norms and standards. It challenges us to see and appreciate the beauty that exists in all things, including ourselves. In embracing this concept, we can elevate our perception of beauty and cultivate a greater sense of connectedness and appreciation for the world around us..

Reviews for "From Ordinary to Extraordinary: The Magic of Half Magic Beauty Ylta"

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