Top Model Girls Youll See Me Again
The Great Read
The Emily Ratajkowski You'll Never Run across
With her new volume, the model tries to escape the oppressions of the male gaze. So our writer is keeping some of her secrets.
Emily Ratajkowski in Oct in New York. Credit... Amanda Demme for The New York Times
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I'grand not going to tell you what the hostess said to Emily Ratajkowski. Instead, I will tell you this: We are having luncheon at a eating house. Nosotros consult the eatery's menu, which boasts many items. Ratajkowski, a model who first became famous for appearing naked in a music video, orders something. I, who have never been in a music video but accept been naked many times, likewise club something. We remark casually on the restaurant's ambience, noting its proximity to various locations. I turn on my recorder. Each of united states is wearing clothes.
We are here to talk about Ratajkowski'south new book, "My Body." In it, she reflects on her fraught relationship with the huge number of photographs of her body that have come to define her life and career. The book's marquee essay, "Buying Myself Back," which describes how Ratajkowski ended upwardly purchasing a print of her own Instagram mail from the appropriation artist Richard Prince, was published to great find in New York mag concluding fall. Ratajkowski as well wrote that the photographer Jonathan Leder sexually assaulted her in his dwelling house after a photo shoot when she was 20.
At lunch, Ratajkowski explains that New York magazine took "Buying Myself Back" from her volume proposal. In fact, she began working on "My Body" without anyone but herself in mind, jotting down notes on her phone equally they occurred to her. 1 mean solar day she realized she was writing a book. Several times, Ratajkowski characterizes writing every bit a means of "organizing" her own thoughts — not equally an human action of branding but out of what strikes me equally the genuine curiosity of a adult female whom constant exposure has deprived of the possibility of cocky-noesis.
Merely Ratajkowski knows she is in an impossible position equally a model-turned-writer. Indeed, the author has spent her career dodging the backhanded compliment that she is the "thinking human being'due south naked adult female." Failure will be met with schadenfreude; success, with smug surprise. Someone recently asked her who her ghostwriter was. Others asked if her confront is on the book's cover. (It isn't.) Subsequently "Buying Myself Back" came out, a journalist unearthed a 2018 contour in Marie Claire in which the author Thomas Chatterton Williams lavishly praised her breasts while expressing surprise that she'd read Roberto Bolaño'southward daunting novel "2666." An irritated Ratajkowski tweeted her burnout with profiles that take boiled downwardly to "She has breasts AND claims to read."
We cannot run into ourselves. This is an existential fact, as certain as decease. Yes, we can wait downward at our limbs and trunks, simply we cannot enter our own regard as subjects; we cannot encounter ourselves seeing. For a model, this existential fact is promoted, or relegated, to a professional one. "I don't even know what I look similar anymore," Ratajkowski confesses to me. "I can't even tell what'due south a proficient or bad picture in the same way. It'southward just another film." Sixteen years in the modeling industry — over half her lifetime — take left Ratajkowski burned out and grasping for narrative.
With "My Trunk," Ratajkowski has created a new mirror for glimpsing her own reflection. Some essays recount the author's hustle every bit a young model who ofttimes establish herself in troubling situations with powerful men; another is written as a long, venomous respond to an e-mail from a lensman who has bragged of discovering her. Throughout, Ratajkowski is hoping to set the record straight: She is neither victim nor stooge, neither a cynical collaborator in the male person agenda, as her critics have argued, nor some pop-feminist empoweree, equally she herself once supposed. Today she is simply a daughter, continuing in forepart of 28 million Instagram followers, asking them to take her seriously.
Whether she'll succeed remains to be seen. While Ratajkowski wrote "My Body" to reassert command of her image, publishing information technology will mean releasing all the same another piece of herself into the world. "That's the misery and the joy of it," she tells me, comparing the process to giving birth to her son, now 8 months old. In the book, Ratajkowski remembers asking for a mirror when she was in labor, so she could see her trunk. "I wanted to witness its progress," she writes. This is a modest goal, and equally profound, especially for someone who is looked at for a living — to regard oneself, without preconception or judgment.
Photography, for all its ambition, cannot evidence; nor, for that matter, tin the mirror, save perchance in moments of rapture or deep quietude. Before the mirror, we had the mysteries of water to betray our forms; before that, the glowing optics of some other creature. Ratajkowski knows there is something hungry in the camera. It takes what information technology wants and holds it forever — "like a footprint or a decease mask," every bit Susan Sontag wrote. To cope, Ratajkowski has internalized the gaze; walking a red carpet, she hears the clicking of photographers and knows, every bit if past echolocation, what each photograph will wait like — and that none will capture the real her. Ever since her private photos were posted to 4chan past hackers, she has started to assume that every motion-picture show taken of her will become public, just to quell her anxiety. "There are no images that are merely for myself," Ratajkowski remarks sadly.
The phrase reverberates in my mind as nosotros talk. "For amend or worse, I've always been drawn to overexposure," Ratajkowski writes in "My Torso," describing the thrill she still gets when uploading a photo of herself to Instagram. I'm drawn to exposure, also; I've written extensively about my ain body, and like Ratajkowski, I'thou clashing about the attending it has won me. (I can confidently say it'due south why I was assigned this article.) "I knew that when I met you," Ratajkowski discloses later; it'south why she feels comfortable talking to me. But if I'1000 sympathetic to her compulsion, I'm non doing her any favors by writing a profile nearly her, which is just another kind of portrait. Then again, she was the i who called information technology "My Trunk."
Could we assistance each other out, ane woman to another? In this context, the thought of equality would exist a fantasy; we cannot step outside our roles and histories and run into, as it were, in the wild. Simply it could be interesting to try. I ask Ratajkowski if she would like to take some Polaroids with me. As I imagine it, we would take photos of ourselves, by ourselves, and then share them with each other — and no 1 else. Ratajkowski interjects. "It would be virtually the feel of taking them," she says simply: how nosotros felt, whether nosotros could trust each other, whether we could see each other, ourselves. She agrees to the exercise, fascinated by the idea of a photograph of herself that, by some miracle, nobody will ever see. "I practice love the idea of our bodies being in conversation," she afterward tells me. I am struck by the tenderness of her remark. When I ask what we should do with the photos afterward, Ratajkowski smiles. "We accept to fix them on burn."
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Ratajkowski was born in London in 1991, only raised in Encinitas, Calif., a surf town outside San Diego. Her mother was an English professor; her father, a painter and loftier school fine art teacher. The house where she grew up, which her father built himself, was filled with eccentric details: mismatched doorknobs, exposed beams and walls that stopped short of the roof. "It'south an creative person's house," her mother would tell guests sheepishly. Equally a girl, Ratajkowski would be awakened by "the rhythmic sound of my parents having sex" — or more oft, their vicious screaming matches. She would sink onto the flooring of her bedchamber and play with imaginary friends until it ended. But fifty-fifty when the house was silent, Ratajkowski writes, "I could hear my parents' thoughts."
Early in "My Trunk," Ratajkowski describes a diptych of herself and her mother as immature girls; when guests see the photos in her parents' living room, they ask who is who. From a young age, she sensed that her mother felt entitled to her dazzler, "like a slice of bequeathed jewelry." Ratajkowski's parents, and specially her beauty-obsessed mother, took immense pride in their daughter's modeling career, which began when she was 14. When, every bit an adult, Ratajkowski finally persuaded her mother to accept down an ostentatiously placed print from an one-time photo shoot, the latter responded matter-of-factly, "Y'all're more than beautiful than that now."
This is a portrait of a immature girl with no privacy and a single artery for cocky-worth. In bed, Ratajkowski prayed for beauty, squeezing her eyes shut to "focus on the expanding spots of low-cal behind my eyelids," developing the wish similar a photograph. As a teenager, she would scrutinize herself in her bedroom's total-length mirror, which her begetter first hung for a ballerina ex-girlfriend. In her freshman year at San Dieguito Academy, where her father taught painting, word spread that "Rata'southward girl models." After graduating from loftier school, Ratajkowski studied art for a year at U.C.L.A. before dropping out to pursue modeling full time, appearing fully naked on the cover of Treats, an cocked Playboy imitator, in 2012. She liked to tell friends that the French word for "model" was "mannequin." "I'm a mannequin for a living," she would say, shrugging ambivalently.
The Treats pictorial caught the middle of the recording creative person Robin Thicke, who recommended Ratajkowski for the music video for his 2013 single "Blurred Lines." The unrated version of the video, which YouTube censors removed within a week of its posting, featured Ratajkowski and 2 other models flouncing around in nude thongs adjacent to Thicke and his collaborators T.I. and Pharrell Williams. "Blurred Lines" arrived at the peak of the feminist blogosphere — an unfederated group of scrappy writers and websites that approached the crude oil of personal feel with the blowtorch of moral certitude — and bloggers seized upon the video as an keepsake of "rape civilisation." "I know you want it," sang Thicke, a proclamation of predation putatively excused past the nudity.
The controversy rocketed a bewildered Ratajkowski to international fame. "I and, more specifically, the politics of my trunk were all of a sudden beingness discussed and dissected across the world past feminist thinkers and teenage boys alike," she recalls. When Ratajkowski told reporters she had constitute the experience "empowering," some dismissed her equally complicit in her own victimization — or worse, a clueless agent of rape civilisation. At the time, Ratajkowski responded defiantly; these days, she'due south not so sure. She knows that her fashion-week invitations, brand ambassadorships and short-lived moving-picture show career (she played Ben Affleck's topless mistress in "Gone Girl"), to say nothing of her massive Instagram platform where she hawks bikinis and endorsed Bernie Sanders — this is all the fruit of male attention.
Perhaps. The language of objectification has followed Ratajkowski like a hungry domestic dog for her whole career, waiting for her to let down her guard. Her reputation equally thoughtful and well read, coupled with her support of socialist policies, has only heightened for her the growing expectation that famously cute women be able to justify, politically, the human action of being famously beautiful. Defenseless in the wrong video at the wrong fourth dimension, Ratajkowski became an effigy for the exhaustion of a popular-feminist framework; if the author of "My Body" cannot make up one's mind whether her success has been empowering or not, that's because this is a pull a fast one on question.
It is by transforming one's body into an object that 1 can sell information technology; information technology is past selling information technology that ane may gain food, housing, status, influence and, aye, "ability." This is equally true for the poorest sexual activity worker as it is for the near celebrated actress; it is also truthful, by the way, for Amazon workers, short-order cooks and (my neck hurts as I write this) magazine writers. I am not mocking our differences; I am saying that the feel of becoming an object for pay is and so general as to be trivial. That the tiny sliver of this experience to do with female sexuality should exist singled out by feminists for censure reflects, certainly in Ratajkowski's case, a gratis inflation of male person ability'southward scope and attain.
Accordingly, the best parts of "My Torso" are when Ratajkowski realizes that the best mode to terminate thinking about the male gaze is to think about something else instead. "I'k very obsessed with women," she tells me. When Ratajkowski arrived on the fix of "Blurred Lines," she was pleased to find that the managing director Diane Martel had stacked the crew with women; for many hours, Thicke and the song'due south other co-writers weren't fifty-fifty present. Ratajkowski remembers wiggling around in her platform sneakers "ridiculously, loosely, the mode I would to entertain my girlfriends." The "Blurred Lines" video, viewed today, is clearly cocky-parodic. If anything, with its mismatched props, barnyard animals and flat biscuit cyclorama, it depicts a group of bonny people amusingly declining to brand a music video. "There'due south something risky and sexy virtually relationships with other women when you're aware of the gaze, but the gaze isn't there physically," Ratajkowski observes.
Only the blurred lines between i adult female and the next, unacceptable to misogynists and many feminists, too, will most likely disappear side by side to Ratajkowski's allegations that a boozer Robin Thicke cupped her bare breasts during the shoot. "I felt naked for the commencement fourth dimension that day," she writes, aback that it would take her years to call it sexual harassment. The allegations have already leaked to the tabloids, which have bandage Ratajkowski every bit a helpless victim. "Remind me why I decided to do this?" she texted me afterwards The New York Postal service called her childhood "sad" and "sexualized." (Representatives for Thicke didn't respond to requests for comment.)
The book contains many accounts of violation, sexual and otherwise. In i essay, it is not until later the expiry of Ratajkowski'due south first boyfriend, who she says raped her when she was 14, that she is able to whisper to herself, "Owen, no." (Owen is a pseudonym.) In "Ownership Myself Back," Ratajkowski is incredulous when she is sued for posting a paparazzi photo to Instagram; horrified when hackers leak her nudes on 4chan; furious when Jonathan Leder, who she says digitally penetrated her without her consent, publishes Polaroids of her with an allegedly forged release course. (Leder has said that Ratajkowski's allegations are "as well tawdry and childish to respond to," telling a fact checker for New York mag, "This is the girl that was naked in Treats magazine and bounced effectually naked in the Robin Thicke video at that time. You actually want someone to believe she was a victim?")
Only the author of "My Body" has no investment in herself as a victim. If the men who hurt Ratajkowski in "My Body" are predators, she does non depict them as predatory. On the contrary, they are pocket-size, insecure people drastic to testify themselves, as pathetic as they are powerful. As Ratajkowski is quick to note, her experiences are neither disintegrating, even when traumatic, nor especially unique; her betoken is simply that they are no one's but her own.
Instead of focusing on her harm — she considers suing Leder, but says he isn't worth the trouble — Ratajkowski would rather create. "My Body" is only i example of that. Last May, she cleverly auctioned off an NFT, or nonfungible token, of a photo of herself standing side by side to the Richard Prince print, coolly reappropriating Prince's appropriation of her image. (The NFT sold for $175,000 through Christie'southward.) There was cheerful wit here, and more than deliberateness in her self-presentation than the model took before in her career. These days, Ratajkowski is not looking for vengeance, or fifty-fifty recognition, only something quieter.
For the book's epigraph, Ratajkowski selected a lucid passage from the belatedly John Berger's influential book "Means of Seeing," adapted from the 1972 tv series of the same name. "You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, you put a mirror in her hand and you lot called the painting 'Vanity,' thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness yous had depicted for your own pleasance," Berger wrote, addressing an Everyman painter. "The real function of the mirror was otherwise. It was to make the adult female connive in treating herself as, first and foremost, a sight." The point is clear: If Ratajkowski is complicit in being looked at, the criminal offence is ours for looking.
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When I take told female friends that I am writing near Emily Ratajkowski, most have asked me some variation on the question "So how hot is she, really?" We often forget that, when we speak of women's envy for ane some other, we are also speaking of the always-nowadays gap, hardly unique to women, between 1'due south self-prototype and one'south reflection in the mirror. Indeed, information technology is a particular cruelty of pop feminism to have mistaken the universally alienating experience of examining one'south reflection for a uniquely female one, solvable through cocky-love and political consciousness. "I hate women who compare themselves to other women," Ratajkowski imagines yelling at her therapist in "My Torso," knowing she is talking about herself. Only feminism can exist but as competitive equally any dazzler pageant: even so some other mirror in which to examine i's blemishes, and however some other means — the irony is exquisite — of comparing oneself with other women.
For what is wrong with wanting to exist cute? Pop-feminism, for its part, is so preoccupied with criticizing what we rotely call "conventional beauty standards" that it has surprisingly little to say well-nigh beauty. Information technology may be tempting, given the evidence of Ratajkowski's own career, to deny the possibility of a beauty that would transcend male sense of taste, at least in this world. Of class, the imagined saturation of the cute by male person preference is immediately disproved by the existence of at to the lowest degree i lesbian (me); only it is further refuted if we acknowledge that the envy that heterosexual women have for one another is indeed an authentic expression of female desire.
When Ratajkowski was 15, beauty's name was Sadie. Alpine and magnetic, Sadie was a cool girl in the "Gone Girl" sense — eating burritos, getting high, hanging with a coiffure of skater boys. Ratajkowski was in awe. "Sadie seemed dangerous," she remembers, "like she was built of weapons she had nonetheless to principal." That year she fell into the older daughter's gravity, catching rides with her to the Ford modeling agency in Los Angeles (Ratajkowski helped her friend sign) and attending drunken firm parties where Sadie would play fight with boys until she collapsed on the concrete.
Later on high school, the 2 fell out of impact. Sadie went off to college in San Francisco, then to art school in Los Angeles. Ratajkowski, later a year at U.C.50.A., dropped out to focus on modeling, commuting from San Diego to Los Angeles for catalog jobs. When she was 19, she showed upwardly at a casting for Treats. Waiting at the studio, Ratajkowski spotted a big poster for "Blow-Up," the 1966 film almost a fashion photographer by the Italian director Michelangelo Antonioni, his kickoff English-language work. "I love that film," she told Treats' founder Steve Shaw, who excitedly produced a book of Helmut Newton photographs to show her the tasteful nudity he was afterwards. Then he asked her to have her dress off. "A mere mention of a pretentious film — it was and so easy to subvert your expectations," Ratajkowski writes in an essay addressed to Shaw. But she hadn't feigned her admiration for "Blow-Up," which she watched in high school, struck by the desperation of the pic's beautiful models. She even owned the same poster, which features the film'due south protagonist straddling the German language supermodel Veruschka as he searches for the perfect shot.
Later in "Blow-Up," the fashion lensman, whose name is Thomas, wanders into a park and takes candid photos of a pair of lovers. When he enlarges the photos, Thomas is startled to notice a gunman hiding in the bushes, equally well as what might be a dead trunk. Only before investigating further, he is interrupted by 2 aspiring models who need that he photo them. When he gropes one of them, she panics and gestures at her friend. "She'southward got a better effigy than me!" she squeals. In the infamous sequence that follows, the girls terminate up rolling effectually laughing on 1 of Thomas's paper backdrops while he peels off their nylons. "Much was made of the nudity in 1967," remembered the belatedly moving picture critic Roger Ebert. "Today, the sex seems tame, and what makes the audience gasp is the hero's contempt for women."
Only does the male gaze really have any more control over what it sees than Thomas does in the park? All photographs are clues in search of a mystery; they tell united states of america something happened, only they do not say what. This is every bit true of "Blurred Lines" every bit it is of "Accident-Upwards," right downwardly to the possible crime. "I don't know that a woman giggling sheepishly means what these male person directors think it means," Ratajkowski says to me, wondering how the actresses must have felt on set. The sequence is far likewise chaotic to be choreographed. The models tug at each other'due south bodies, crunch awkwardly on the paper beneath them. They are as interested in each other's bodies every bit they are in the photographer, who remains by and large clothed; when they showtime wrestle each other to the footing, Thomas is not even in the room. What kind of sex activity the models accept offscreen with him — or with each other — is left to our imagination.
When I ask if she thinks her friendship with Sadie had a sexual charge, Ratajkowski is hesitant. "I don't know if information technology was true homoeroticism considering I exercise remember it was almost male desire," she answers, recalling how much the boys at schoolhouse liked seeing the two of them together. When they were solitary, Ratajkowski was unsure what the older daughter could peradventure want from her. On the weekends, the ii friends would crash with Sadie's beau, Mike, the iii of them crammed onto one bed together. One nighttime, Ratajkowski awoke to the feeling of Mike'southward hands on her bare breasts; Sadie lay abreast her, nevertheless comatose. Ratajkowski rolled over out of his attain, and never told Sadie. "I told myself that in choosing to accomplish over Sadie's body to touch mine, Mike had complimented me," she writes. "I knew that if Sadie plant out, she'd blame me."
Ratajkowski, Sadie, Mike — this is a classic triangulation. But what does it mean? "Did it give me some power over her?" Ratajkowski wonders in retrospect. "I fifty-fifty started to convince myself that I liked the feel of Mike'due south touch. Mayhap I was into it? Turned on even?" Mike had crossed a line, yeah. Only if anything was arousing, it wasn't his attention but the prospect of Sadie'southward jealousy. "Your boyfriend likes my boobs better than yours," Ratajkowski imagines needling her friend. And every bit for Mike? If the author's teenage attraction to her friend indirectly expressed the animalism of skater boys and male photographers — that is, if Ratajkowski liked Sadie because boys liked Sadie — then information technology is every bit plausible that Mike's fumbling betrayed the intuition that his girlfriend's relationship with Ratajkowski had, at root, goose egg to practice with him. (Sadie and Mike are pseudonyms.)
My indicate is that heterosexual male desire — that vaunted juggernaut of psychic space — is just as often a convenient vehicle for women, gay or direct, to reach one another. I ask Ratajkowski if she has seen "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," the 1988 adaptation of Milan Kundera'south novel about a love triangle. (She has.) In the movie, a photographer named Tereza asks her friend Sabina, an artist whom Tereza correctly suspects of being her hubby's mistress, to pose nude for some photographs. Initially meek, Tereza begins to order Sabina around, pushing her naked body into the carpet; behind the lens, Tereza is crying. When they are finished, Sabina slips on her robe and snatches the camera. "Have off your wearing apparel," she says, pinning Tereza to the couch and miming sex. By the end of the sequence, the two women have collapsed in laughter.
Ratajkowski remarks on the hubby'southward absent presence in the scene. "There's this very clear power thing where the women are both aware of how men expect at them, and specifically ane man," she says, "and still they also have their own relationship." Then she asks me for my reading. I tell her that the women are trying the photographic camera on like an commodity of article of clothing, experimenting with the gaze, seeing if they tin can see each other. They are nervous, titillated, ashamed, jealous, cruel. They role-play every bit Tereza'due south married man; they role-play as each other. They want to humiliate each other, and they almost take sex. Their laughter, similar the laughter of the groupies in "Accident-Up," expresses both the futility of escaping and the fact that, somehow, they already have.
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I arrive first at the studio, a cavernous space with massive windows overlooking SoHo. Before the official photograph shoot for this article, Ratajkowski and I are going to have the Polaroids we discussed. In the dressing room, I take a seat in front of a vanity lined with glowing calorie-free bulbs and substitution a few halting words with Ratajkowski'due south publicist and stylist. In my tote bag are 2 lighters, a box of matches and a little brass pot, for fire safety. The night before, Ratajkowski told me she was excited to destroy the photos. "The chemical inside the Polaroids is sticky," she texted.
Ratajkowski walks in a few minutes afterward. Unprompted, she tells me she's been meaning to read "Camera Lucida," a book on photography by the French author Roland Barthes that I mentioned to her in passing. Barthes congenital the book around an old photograph of his female parent equally a young girl standing in a drinking glass conservatory. Discovering the photo while sorting through her possessions, the grieving author felt that he could glimpse in the faded epitome the total being of his late mother. Still, Barthes refused to impress the photograph in the book. "It exists only for me," he told his readers. "For yous it would be nothing just an indifferent picture." Before long after the book was published in 1980, Barthes himself died later beingness striking by a laundry van in Paris. "Let'due south hope that doesn't happen to us," Ratajkowski quips.
We retire to the greenroom upstairs with a vintage Polaroid camera provided by a crew fellow member. Ratajkowski suggests that we photograph each other in improver to ourselves; I agree. To decide who goes first, we play rock, paper, scissors. "Paper covers rock," she says triumphantly, before realizing we hadn't specified what winning meant. She's up, I say. "You just desire me to go commencement," she teases, picking upward the camera. I step outside, closing the door behind me, and sit at the pinnacle of the stairs. I tin hear echoes of the crew setting upwardly for the shoot below.
The door opens. Ratajkowski easily me the camera, grinning. "You're upwardly." Alone, I hop up on a long tabular array opposite a full-length mirror and take two shots before letting Ratajkowski back in. With artless solemnity, we place our undeveloped Polaroids facedown on a small demote in the room's odd glassed-in corner, which looks out onto the studio similar a private box at a stadium. And then Ratajkowski directs me to sit in a chair. I laugh when she points the camera at me, because I do non know what else to do. I know how my face will expect — and that I volition not like it. When it'southward my turn, I position her confronting a dark mahogany wall. "Tell me what to exercise," she says. "I similar being directed." I say, "Look away. Don't look at me."
We seat ourselves in the glass corner. There are now eight Polaroids total: 4 of her, four of me. I choice up the photos Ratajkowski took of herself, and she does the same with mine. For a moment, nosotros look. The first thing I notice is that the vanity she chose has caught the glass window across the room, producing a ghostly series of mirrored lights. I endeavor to describe her expression to her, only to my frustration I cannot find the words. "You lot know, I'm about to have a million pictures taken of myself," Ratajkowski explains, gesturing at the studio below. She decided to brand these different.
Ratajkowski turns over the photos nosotros took of each other. "Oh, whoa," she mutters. We forgot that the vintage camera didn't take a flash; without the luminescence of a mirror, these Polaroids are dark and ethereal. In some, we are non recognizable. To my surprise, Ratajkowski tin can't bring herself to destroy the photos, suggesting that we exchange them instead. "Information technology feels nice to take each other'due south picture and then have them away," she explains. "Like a handshake or a hug."
I'thou not going to tell y'all what Emily Ratajkowski looks like in the Polaroids she gave me. Instead, I will tell you this: Like millions of people around the world, I have seen many pictures of Ratajkowski. Now I have seen a few more than. These, no one else will ever meet. Does that make them whatever more existent than the thousands of other Emilys that Ratajkowski describes in "My Body," dispatched into the world with the click of a shutter? "Everybody is going to write about me in terms of what I represent in the zeitgeist," she says wistfully as I end our last interview. "The real Emily volition get lost." She leaves to get dressed for the big shoot and I decide to stay. I watch her pose in front of the photographic camera, disappearing once more behind herself.
Andrea Long Chu will become the volume critic at New York mag this month. Her book "Females," about a lost play by the woman who shot Andy Warhol, was a finalist for a 2020 Lambda Literary Award. Her essay "On Liking Women" is considered essential reading in gender-studies classes beyond the country. Amanda Demme is an artist and a artistic director based in Los Angeles and New York. She was previously a music supervisor and nightlife producer.
Source: https://www.nytimes.com/2021/11/08/magazine/emily-ratajkowski.html
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