24 newyork| september14–27, 2020
you’re a body, you thought you could have a public life, but your
private life is here to sabotage you, you thought you had power so
let us destroy you.” I’d been destroyed. I’d lost ten pounds in five
days and a chunk of hair fell out a week later, leaving a perfectly
round circle of white skin on the back of my head.
The next day, I wired my ex the money. I didn’t think I could
survive going through what I’d been through again. I exchanged
the safety of those hundreds of Emilys for one image—an image
that had been taken from my platform and produced as another
man’s valuable and important art.
I hung the giant Instagram painting, the image from the
Sports Illustrated shoot, on a prominent wall in my new home
in Los Angeles. When people visited, they’d rush toward it and
yell,“Oh,yougotoneofthese!”Watchingmy friendsoohand
aah over the piece and gush about Prince’s genius made me bit-
ter. I couldn’t help but wonder if everyone had forgotten about
my role in its creation. After all, it was my face, my body, my
filter, and my crop.
My guests would cross their arms and study the painting, read
Prince’s comment, and smile. They’d often turn back to me to
ask if I knew what the comment above Prince’s, from some
unknown user, said. “Is it German?” they’d ask, squinting.
Eventually, after enough people asked, I decided to translate
the comment myself.
“It’s about how saggy my tits look,” I told my husband, whom
I now share a home with. He came over and put his arms
aroundmyback,whispering,“Ithinkyou’reperfect.”I felt
myselfstiffen.Eventheloveandappreciationofa manI trusted,
I hadlearned,couldmutateintopossessiveness.I feltprotective
ofmyimage. Ofher. Ofme.
ThenexttimesomeoneaskedabouttheGermancomment,
I liedandsaidI didn’t know.
I
n2012,myagenttoldmeI shouldbuya busticket
fromPennStationtotheCatskills,wherea photogra-
phernamedJonathanLederwouldpickmeupand
reimbursemeformyfare.We’dshootinWoodstock,for
somearty magazineI’d neverheardofcalledDarius,
andI’dspendthenightat hisplace,shesaid.Thiswas
somethingtheindustrycallsanunpaideditorial,mean-
ingitwouldbeprintedinthemagazineandthe“exposure”
wouldbemyreward.
I hadbeenworkingwithmyagentfulltimeforabouttwo
years.ShehadknownmesinceI was14,whenI landedmy first
modelingandactingjobs,butshebegantotake my careermore
seriouslywhenI turned20.I begantotakemy careermoreseri-
ously, too:I droppedoutofUCLAtopursuemodelingandwas
workingquiteregularly.I openedanIRAandpaidoff my first
andonlyyearatcollege withthemoney I’d made.I wasn’t doing
anythingfancy orimportant,mostlye-commercejobsforplaces
likeForever 21 andNordstrom,butthemoney wasbetterthan
whatany ofmy friendsweremakingaswaitressesorinretail.
I feltfree:freeoftheassholebossesmyfriendshadtodealwith,
freeofstudent-loandebt,andfreetotravelandeat outmoreand
dowhateverthehellI pleased.It seemedcrazytomethat I had
evervaluedschooloverthefinancialsecuritythat modelingwas
beginningtoprovide.
WhenI lookedupJonathan’sworkonline,I saw a few fashion
editorialshe’d shotonfilm.A littleboring,I rememberthinking.
Hipster-y.His Instagramwasmostlypicturesofhishomeanda
fewstrange,retroimagesofa very young-lookingRussian
womanwithobviousbreastimplants.Kindofweird,I thought,
butI hadseenweirder.Maybethisis justthestuffheputsonhis
Instagram?HisworkonGooglelookedcelestialandpretty.
Legit.I didn’t bothertoinvestigatefurther.Besides,my agent
wasinfullcontrolofmycareer:I didwhat shetoldmetodo,and
inreturn,shewassupposedtoexpandmy portfoliosoI could
bookmorepaidjobsandestablishmyselfintheindustry.As
promised,JonathanpickedmeupfromthebusstopinWood-
stock.He hada smallframeandwasplainlydressedinjeansand
a T-shirt. He seemeddistinctlydisinterestedinmeanddidn’t
All these men, some of whom
I’d never met, were debating
2016
At my home in Los Angeles with the
Richard Prince Instagram “painting.”
PHOTOGRAPH: COURTESY OF EMILY RATAJKOWSKI
