84 newyork| september14–27, 2020
Emily
Ratajkowski“Ineversigned anything.Didyou?,”
I asked,tryingtocatchmy breath.It’sfairly
typicalforagentstosignreleasesonbehalf
of models(a pretty unacceptablenorm),but
I knewshewasn’t sloppy. Thenagain,she
wastheonewho’d sentmetoJonathan’s
home.I feltsuddenlyterrified.IfI hadn’t
been protected duringmy shoot with
Jonathan,what didthat meanforallthe
otherthousands,maybemillions,ofphotos
ofmethathadbeentakenovertheyears?
I begantorunthroughthecountlessshoots
I’ddoneinmy earlycareer. It hadbeenonly
twoyearssincethe4chanhacking.I found
myselftouchingtheplaceonmy scalp
wheremyhairhadfallenout.
“I’llcheckmy oldemailserver,”she
promised.“ButI amalmost 100 percent
sureI didn’t signanything.”
Thenext day, sheforwardedmeanemail
sentinthedaysfollowingtheshoot,in
whichtheagency hadrequestedJonathan’s
signatureonthemodelrelease.Shewrote
thatshehadn’t foundanemailinresponse
withthereleasesignedbyhim.“AndI didn’t
signanythinghesenteither!!!”shewrote.
Therewasnorelease.
WhenmylawyercalledtheNewYork
Timestoletthepaperknowthatwhatever
documentsJonathanandthegallery were
claimingtohavedidnotexist,hewas
informedthatJonathanhad“supplied
a copyoftherelease”signedbymyformer
agent.I wasshocked.My lawyerandI got
onthephonethenextday withtheagent,
whowassureshehadn’t signedit.“It must
havebeenforged,”my lawyerannounced.
I feltmyfrustrationgrow. I knewI had
neversignedanything;I hadneveragreed
toanything.No onehadaskedme.
“What canI do?,”I askedagain,butina
smallervoice.I wasstillholdingontoa faith
inoursystem,a systemI hadthoughtwas
designedtoprotectpeoplefromthesekinds
ofsituations.
Theproblemwithjustice,oreventhe
pursuitofjustice,intheU.S.is that it costs.
A lot.Forthefourdaysof lettersandcallsfor
whichI hadenlistedmy lawyer’sservices,I’d
racked 8,0 while
I didh hav ndof
moneyI’d toldJonathanI hopedto haveone
day. I’d heardfromfriendsthat Jonathan
was a rich kid who had never needed a pay-
check in his life. My dad was a high-school
teacher; my mom was an English teacher.
I had no one in my life to swoop in and help
cover the costs.
The next day, my lawyer informed me, on
yet another billable call, that pursuing the
lawsuit, expenses aside, would be fruitless.
Even if we did “win” in court, all it would
meanwas that I’d come into possession of
thebooksand maybe, if I was lucky, be able
toaskfora percentage of the profits.
“Andthe pictures are already out there
now.Theinternet is the internet,” he said to
mematter-of-factly.
I watched as Emily Ratajkowski sold out
andwasreprinted once, twice, and then
threetimes. “Reprint coming soon,” Jona-
than announced on his Instagram.
I tweetedabout what a violation this book
was,how he was using and abusing my
imageforprofit without my consent. In bed
alone,I used my thumb to scroll through the
replies.
Theywere unrelenting.
“Usingand abusing? This is only a case of
a celebrity looking to get more attention.
Thisis exactly what she wants.”
“Youcould always keep your clothes on
andthenyou won’t be bothered by these
things,”a woman wrote.
“I’mnot sure why she would want to stop
herfansfrom viewing these Polaroids,” he
saidinaninterview. I had a desire to disap-
pear,to fade away. My insides ached. I devel-
opeda new habit of sleeping during the day.
Thegallery on the Lower East Side held
anopening for the exhibition of Jonathan’s
picturesof me, and I looked up photos from
theeventonline. My name was written on
thewallin black lettering. The place was so
packedthey had to leave the door open and
letthecrowd pour out onto the sidewalk.
I sawphotos of men in profile, gripping
beersandwearing hipster jackets, standing
inchesfrom my naked photos, their pos-
turesslumped and their silly fedoras cocked
backasthey absorbed the neatly framed
images.I couldn’t believe how many people
hadturned up despite my very public pro-
test.Speaking out about the images had
onlydrawn more attention to the show, the
book,and to Jonathan. I blocked everyone
onInstagram who was involved, but I didn’t
letmyselfcry. When anyone mentioned the
bookorthe show to me, I just shook my
headand said softly, “So fucked up,” like
I wastalking about someone else’s life.
(Whenthe fact-checker I worked with on
thisstory reached out to Jonathan about
whathappened that night after the shoot, he
my ons were “too tawdry and
isht nd to.” He added: “You do
knowwho we are talking about right? This
is thegirlthat was naked in Treats! maga-zine, and bounced around naked in the
Robin Thicke video at that time. You really
want someone to believe she was a victim?”
Years passed, and Jonathan released a
second book of my images, then a third. He
had another show at the same gallery.
I looked him up online occasionally;
I almost felt like I was checking in on a part
of me, the part of me he now owned. For
years, while I built a career, he’d kept that
Emily in the drawers of his creaky old house,
waiting to whore her out. It was intoxicating
to see what he’d done with this part of me
he’d stolen.
I found an extensive new interview with
him, and my chest tightened when I saw the
headline: “Jonathan Leder Reveals Details
of His Emily Ratajkowski Shoot (NSFW).”
The article began with his description of
how we’d come to shoot together. He man-
aged to make himself sound like a sought-
after photographer and me some random
model who had been desperate to shoot
with him. “I had worked with over 500
models by that point in my career,” he said.
“And I can tell you that Emily Ratajkowski
... was one of the most comfortable models
I had ever worked with in terms of her body.
She was neither shy or self-conscious in any
way. To say she enjoyed being naked is an
understatement. I don’t know if it empow-
ered her or she enjoyed the attention.”
I felt dizzy as I wondered the same thing.
What does true empowerment even feel
like? Is it feeling wanted? Is it commanding
someone’s attention? “We had a lot of dis-
cussions about music, art, the industry, and
the creative process,” Jonathan said in the
interview. “She was very pleasant to speak
with, and very intelligent and well-spoken,
and cultured. That, more than anything, in
my opinion, set her apart from so many
other models.” I felt myself on the carpet of
Jonathan’s living room, the texture of it rub-
bing into my skin as I posed and talked
about art-making and felt a deep twinge of
shame. I promised myself that I wouldn’t
look him up anymore.
At the end of last year, Jonathan pub-
lished yet another book of the photos, this
one hardbound. I’ve often stood in my
kitchen and stared at myself in the large
Richard Prince piece, contemplating
whether I should sell it and use the money
to sue. I could try to force him to cease pro-
duction of his books; I could tangle him up
in a legal fight that drains us both, but I’m
not convinced that spending any more of
my resources on Jonathan would be money
well spent. Eventually, Jonathan will run
out of “unseen” crusty Polaroids, but I will
remain as the real Emily; the Emily who
owns the high-art Emily, and the one who
wrote this essay, too. She will continue to
carve out control where she can find it. ■