The early sampler (advance reader copy) of Emily Ratajkowski’s essay collection, My Body, forthcoming from Metropolitan in November 2021, promises the literary form of the same commodified exhibitionism the author describes in her experience as a ‘mannequin,’ a model. But we get something better, sexier. We get humility and intelligence, a keenly observant, writerly mind.
Using the French word for ‘model’—mannequin—to describe herself, Ratajkowski means to invoke the pejorative, seeing herself in the role as an empty, plastic, woman-shaped hanger. She knows it’s a role, but, hey, going naked, especially in her body, sells. There’s a sense in her writing that, now that everyone who wants to has already seen her totally nude, she’s trying to figure out what’s left to take off. She seems to believe that writing confessional, nonfiction narrative requires a humiliating baring, much like modeling has demanded of her, so she strips herself to the bone. She’s not wrong. What we find in this public display isn’t vapidity or an integrity too damaged to manage coherence. What we find is humanity, depth. Laudably, Emily Ratajkowski is more captivating as text than as sex—not that she isn’t selling the latter, too. From time to time, she mistakes her humility and intellect for a debilitating insecurity and flagellates herself for their existence. Yet, her keen observations, her sensitivity, reveal the development of a raw, rare wisdom that more commonly arrives much later in life.
While her unabashed capitalism is admirable, I wouldn’t recommend embodying her brand of it. Her determination for financial success shows a smart, wry, brave young woman, who willingly, even eagerly, endures work as a model. She’s fetishized, abused, assaulted and demoralized, which tarnishes the deal, devalues the money, but she survives. She gets through it all by consciously entering dissociative states resembling techniques for surviving prison life, which, yeah, mars the dream. Her claim that she does it for the cash isn’t new and it’s only empowering if we recognize that every industry comes with risks. Most industries, however, don’t require posing topless with barn animals while dancing too close to wasted, male pop stars who have grabby hands. But we’ve long since sung the praises of uber-hot chicks with agency who capitalize on their Holy Shit looks. The controversy around the 2013 music video, “Blurred Lines” (Robin Thicke, T.I. and Pharrell Williams), criticized for perpetuating misogyny, both brought Emily Ratajkowski’s name to the fore and contributed to a necessary discussion of women’s own use of their bodies for gain. She cut her teeth with that video. The uproar both defined her in a way she finds unfortunate, but which, too, she recognizes as her golden ticket.
My Body is a hotter, healthier ticket, both for its author and for the girls and women who are mesmerized by the sirens of skin, skinniness and sex as their path to power. What’s delightful and unique about these few, racy pages is watching Ratajkowski move through the world with the awkward grace of a shockingly beautiful, exotic baby-bird who’s convinced herself that walking in stiletto heels through midday Manhattan in a pair of black tights too sheer for the sun is going to turn into a win-win kind of day. Her vulnerability and ridiculousness are stunning and exist on the same page with her equally notable Amazonian strength and learned pragmatism. There’s an acerbic wit holding back that I hope to see more of when the full book publishes this fall. Her ferocity on the page thus far, summons the image of a dangerously underweight, dark-haired Plath-lite teetering from the Barbizon Hotel to Mademoiselle’s offices on her fateful first day as guest editor there— wearing nothing but transparent-plastic hot pants. I want to see more of Ratajkowski—in text.