september14–27, 2020| newyork 27breathed in throughmy nose.I feltthebristledtextureoftheold
couch against my back.My bodywassoreandfragile,andI kept
stroking parts ofmyselfwiththebackofmy hand—my arms,my
stomach, my hips—maybetocalmthemormaybetomake sure
they were still there,attachedtotherest ofme.Anintensehead-
ache began to beat intomy temples,andmy mouthwassodry
I could barely closeit.
I stood up carefully,pressingmy barefeet against thefloor-
boards. I climbedupthewoodenstairsandintotheroom
where we’d shotat thebeginningofthenight,thenlay down
on the thin, flowery sheets.I shivereduncontrollably. I was
both confused astowhyJonathanhadleft withouta wordand
terrified that hewouldcomeback.I listenedfora signofhim
as I watched the blue light of dawn peek in through the win-
dow. I thought about Jonathan’s daughter. Does she normally
sleep in this bed?, I wondered.
Later in the morning, I woke with a vicious hangover.
I dressed quickly in the clothes I’d been wearing the day before
and noticed that my hands were shaking. Downstairs, Jona-
than was making coffee, and the makeup artist was already up
and dressed and sitting hunched over a mug. Jonathan didn’t
reactmuchtomy arrival.“Youwantcoffee?”heasked.My
templespounded.“Sure,”I half-heartedlychimed,opening
Instagram.JonathanhadputuponeofthePolaroidsfromthe
nightbefore.
Hehadcaptionedit simply“iCarly.”
ItwasonlyasI sat onthebusheadedbacktothecity that
I realizedJonathanhadneverpaidmebackforthefare.A
fewmonthslater,my agentreceivedthe
oversize,heavymagazinewiththePolaroids
printedinitspages.Ofthehundredswehad
shot,onlya handfulwereincluded,mostly
black-and-whiteones.
AcouplewerefavoritesI’d pointedoutto
Jonathanonthenightoftheshoot.I was
relievedtoseethat he’d donea tastefuledit,andI wentasfaras
tothinkhemighthavechosentheimagesheremembered
I liked.Yearspassed,andI tuckedtheimagesandJonathan
somewheredeepinmy memory. I nevertoldanyoneaboutwhat
happened, and I tried not to think about it.
A few years after my photo shoot, I received a call from a well-
known magazine asking if they could help promote my new
book of photographs.
“What book?”
By then, I’d appeared in David Fincher’s Gone Girl and on the
coversofinternationalmagazines.Whenthenewsbroke ofa book
beingsoldwithmynameonit—thecoverwascompletelywhiteand
readonlyemily ratajkowskiinboldblacklettering—several
mediaoutletsreachedouttomedirectly,thinkingthey werebeing
generousbyofferingtheirsupport toa new project ofmine.
Confused,I searchedmynameonline.Thereit was:Emily
Ratajkowski,thebook,pricedat $80.Someoftheimageswere
postedonJonathan’sInstagram,andthey wereamongthemost
revealingandvulgarPolaroidshehadtakenofme.
I waslividandfrantic.Newarticlesaboutthebook,accompanied
byimages,werepoppinguphourly. My fingerswentnumbas
I readthecommentsfromeagercustomersonJonathan’spage.
Hisfollowerswereskyrocketing,aswere thefollowersof
@imperialpublishing,a “publishingcompany”—Irealizedafter
justa fewmomentsofresearch—that Jonathanhadpersonally
fundedandsetupsolelyforthepurposeofmakingthisbook.
I wonderedwhatkindofdamage thiswoulddotomy career
asanactress.Everyonehadtoldmetoshy awayfrombeing
“sexy” inordertobetakenseriously, andnowanentirebook
containinghundredsofimagesofme,someofthemthemost
compromising and sexual photos of me ever taken, was available
for purchase. And from what was being said online, a lot of
people believed the entire situation had been my doing. I, after
all, had posed for the photos.
My lawyer sent cease-and-desist letters: one to Jonathan’s
makeshift publishing company and one to a gallery on the Lower
East Side that had announced it would be holding an exhibition
of the Polaroids. My lawyer argued that Jonathan had no right to
usetheimagesbeyondtheiragreed-uponusage. WhenI agreed
toshootwithJonathan,I hadconsentedonlyforthephotostobe
printedinthemagazinetheywereintendedfor. Thegallery
respondedbygoingtotheNewYorkTimesandtellingthepaper
thatit hada signedmodelreleasefromme.Bythat time,I’d
stoppedworkingwithmy agent,who’dquittheindustry,but
readingthis,I calledherina panic.t book?” Confused, I searched my name online.
Emily Ratajko wski, the book, priced at $80.2017
The New York Post headline for
Jonathan Leder’s gallery show read:
“Emily Ratajkowski doesn’t want you to see
this art show.” People went anyway.(Continued on page 84)