When does a model own her own image?
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See youre getting sued.
My advice … he began.
I guess this comes with the territory of being a public persona, he wrote in a follow-up text.
I guess,I thought.
They want $150,000 in damages for your use of the image, she told me, sighing heavily.
In the photo, Im holding a gigantic vase of flowers that completely covers my face.
I want this bouquet to look like her!
Id said, grabbing a handful of lemon leaves.
I liked the shot the paparazzo got but not because it was a good photo of me.
Ha!Same, she wrote back immediately.
Since 2013, when I appeared in a viral music video, paparazzi have lurked outside my front door.
And I have learned that my image, my reflection, is not my own.
Id studied art at UCLA and could appreciate Princes Warholian take on Instagram.
The paintings were going for $80,000 apiece, and my boyfriend wanted to buy mine.
If I wanted to see that picture every day, I could just look at my own grid.
The giant image of me was hanging above the couch in his West Village apartment.
Its kind of awkward, a friend of mine said, describing the paintings placement in the gallerists home.
He, like, sits under naked you.
But it turned out Prince had made another Instagram painting of me, and this one was still available.
U lost the [anchor emoji].
All energy bunny now that its sunny, it reads.
I liked the idea of getting into collecting art, and the Prince seemed like a smart investment.
But mostly, I couldnt imagine not having a claim on something that would hang in my home.
When the piece arrived, I was annoyed.
My boyfriend asked the studio, and some months later, a 24-inch mounted black-and-white study arrived.
It was a different shot than the large piece we had purchased, but I still felt victorious.
In exchange for two other pieces of art, I received ownership of the Prince.
My ex told me he hadnt thought about that and told me hed moved the piece into storage.
But it was a gift to me!
I reached out to Princes studio.
Could they offer some clarity or assistance?
Help me get him to back off this ridiculous ransom?
He didnt respond well to this assertion.
I thought about something that had happened a couple of years prior, when I was 22.
Later that week, the photos were released to the world.
The next day, I wired my ex the money.
I didnt think I could survive going through what Id been through again.
When people visited, theyd rush toward it and yell, Oh, you got one of these!
My guests would cross their arms and study the painting, read Princes comment, and smile.
theyd ask, squinting.
Eventually, after enough people asked, I decided to translate the comment myself.
He came over and put his arms around my back, whispering, I think youre perfect.
I felt myself stiffen.
Even the love and appreciation of a man I trusted, I had learned, could mutate into possessiveness.
I felt protective of my image.
The next time someone asked about the German comment, I lied and said I didnt know.
I had been working with my agent full time for about two years.
I opened an IRA and paid off my first and only year at college with the money Id made.
I didnt bother to investigate further.
As promised, Jonathan picked me up from the bus stop in Woodstock.
He had a small frame and was plainly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
He came off as a nervous, neurotic artist jot down.
The more disinterested he seemed, the more I wanted to prove myself worthy of his attention.
I knew that impressing these photographers was an important part of building a good reputation.Does he think Im smart?
When we arrived at Jonathans home, two children were sitting at the kitchen table.
Maybe well shoot very early tomorrow,I figured.
She was older than me and quiet.
The makeup artist finished setting up and began working on my face while Jonathan cooked dinner.
I opened my iPhones selfie camera in my lap to check her work.
She was making me look pretty, transforming me to fit Jonathans aesthetic vision.
I could imagine her writing to me the next day, Jonathan loved you.
Cant wait to see pics!
Xx, as she had on other occasions.
He showed me naked pictures, Polaroids, hed taken during their affair.
Something switched inside me then.
I wondered where he normally kept these Polaroids.
The image of a morgue came to mind.
I was used to unusual setups on shoots, but Id never been in a situation like this before.
I made sure not to eat too much, while Jonathan silently refilled my glass and I kept drinking.
In the industry, Id been taught that it was important to earn a reputation as hardworking and easygoing.
You never know who theyll be shooting with next!
my agent would remind me.
We finished our meal relatively quickly, and I helped bring dishes to the sink as Jonathan washed them.
Thank you, that was so good, I said politely.
I turned and leaned against the counter, opening my phone.
You girls and your Instagram.
I dont get it, he said, shaking his head and drying a plate with a dish towel.
The makeup artist painted on a bright-red lipstick, and I changed into a high-waisted pink lingerie set.
We headed to the upstairs bedroom to begin shooting.
I sat up on an antique brass bed frame, my knees pressing into the faded floral-print sheets.
As Jonathan shot the first Polaroid, I explained that modeling was just about making money for me.
I was used to defining myself with this explanation, to men especially.
Im not dumb; I know modeling has its expiration date.
Jonathan frowned as he inspected the Polaroid.
You girls always end up spending too much money on shoes and bags, he said.
Its not a way to save real money.
I dont buy bags, I said weakly, but I began to doubt myself.
What if at the end of this I really would have nothing?
He paused then and turned, silently walking back downstairs to the kitchen.
I followed behind, shoeless and in my lingerie set.
He spread the Polaroids out on the table and scratched his head, inspecting them.
I peered at the pictures from over his shoulder.
These are just kind of … boring and stiff, he said with a sigh.
Maybe take off the red lipstick, fuck up your hair.
The makeup artist rubbed her nails roughly into my scalp, loosening my curls.
I could feel the acidic burn of alcohol in my chest as we proceeded back upstairs.
He was turned away from me when he said, Lets try naked now.
Id been shot nude a handful of times before, always by men.
My body felt like a superpower.
I was confident naked unafraid and proud.
Still, though, the second I dropped my clothes, a part of me disassociated.
I began to float outside of myself, watching as I climbed back onto the bed.
iCarly, Jonathan said, smirking as he shot.
Only his mouth was visible, the rest of his face eclipsed by his camera.
That was the name of the Nickelodeon show Id been on for two episodes while in high school.
My face was hot from the wine, and my cheeks glowed and throbbed.
You know, I thought you would be bigger.
A big girl, he said, his brow furrowing as he picked up another Polaroid for inspection.
You know, big-boned.
Yeah, no, I said, laughing.
Im like really, really tiny.
I sipped my wine.
What should we shoot next?
As the night went on, I became sweaty and exhausted and bleary-eyed.
But I was still determined.
I could feel him bristle as I exclaimed, Oh, I like that one!
This one is so good because of your nipples.
Your nipples change so much from hard to soft.
I love when theyre giant, he told me.
He looked back to his phone, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.
I said nothing and nodded, confused but somehow feeling that he meant to insult me.
I felt my stomach turn.
I had no sense of what time it was when the makeup artist announced she was going to bed.
I cant remember if we had stopped shooting and were just looking at the pictures together or what.
Im sure she was sick of my posturing with Jonathan.
I remember the way she sighed as she turned away from me, vanishing.
I stiffened as her presence dissolved from the living room.
I started talking faster and louder.
The next thing I remember is being in the dark.
The yellow lights were switched off, and I was cold, shivering, and huddled under a blanket.
He was asking me about my boyfriends.
As I spoke, I absentmindedly rubbed my feet against one another and against his for warmth.
I hate that Jonathan commented on something Ive done throughout my life to comfort myself.
Most of what came next was a blur except for the feeling.
I dont remember kissing, but I do remember his fingers suddenly being inside of me.
Harder and harder and pushing and pushing like no one had touched me before or has touched me since.
I could feel the shape of myself and my ridges, and it really, really hurt.
I brought my hand instinctively to his wrist and pulled his fingers out of me with force.
I didnt say a word.
He stood up abruptly and scurried silently into the darkness up the stairs.
I touched my forehead with the coolness of my palm and breathed in through my nose.
I felt the bristled texture of the old couch against my back.
I stood up carefully, pressing my bare feet against the floorboards.
I thought about Jonathans 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 Id been wearing the day before and noticed that my hands were shaking.
Jonathan didnt react much to my arrival.
Sure, I half-heartedly chimed, opening Instagram.
Jonathan had put up one of the Polaroids from the night before.
He had captioned it simply iCarly.
Of the hundreds we had shot, only a handful were included, mostly black-and-white ones.
A couple were favorites Id pointed out to Jonathan on the night of the shoot.
Years passed, and I tucked the images and Jonathan somewhere deep in my memory.
I never told anyone about what happened, and I tried not to think about it.
By then, Id appeared in David FinchersGone Girland on the covers of international magazines.
Confused, I searched my name online.
There it was:Emily Ratajkowski,the book, priced at $80.
I wondered what kind of damage this would do to my career as an actress.
I, after all, had posed for the photos.
My lawyer argued that Jonathan had no right to use the images beyond their agreed-upon usage.
I never signed anything.
Did you?, I asked, trying to catch my breath.
Then again, she was the one whod sent me to Jonathans home.
I felt suddenly terrified.
I began to run through the countless shoots Id done in my early career.
It had been only two years since the 4chan hacking.
I found myself touching the place on my scalp where my hair had fallen out.
Ill check my old email server, she promised.
But I am almost 100 percent sure I didnt sign anything.
She wrote that she hadnt found an email in response with the release signed by him.
And I didnt sign anything he sent either!!!
There was no release.
It must have been forged, my lawyer announced.
I felt my frustration grow.
I knew I had never signed anything; I had never agreed to anything.
No one had asked me.
What can I do?, I asked again, but in a smaller voice.
The problem with justice, or even the pursuit of justice, in the U.S. is that it costs.
Id heard from friends that Jonathan was a rich kid who had never needed a paycheck 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.
And the pictures are already out there now.
The internet is the internet, he said to me matter-of-factly.
I watched asEmily Ratajkowskisold out and was reprinted once, twice, and then three times.
Reprint coming soon, Jonathan announced on his Instagram.
In bed alone, I used my thumb to scroll through the replies.
This is only a case of a celebrity looking to get more attention.
This is exactly what she wants.
I had a desire to disappear, to fade away.
I developed a new habit of sleeping during the day.
My name was written on the wall in black lettering.
I blocked everyone on Instagram who was involved, but I didnt let myself cry.
He added: You do know who we are talking about right?
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.
It was intoxicating to see what hed done with this part of me hed stolen.
The article began with his description of how wed come to shoot together.
I had worked with over 500 models by that point in my career, he said.
She was neither shy or self-conscious in any way.
To say she enjoyed being naked is an understatement.
I dont know if it empowered 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 someones attention?
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 promised myself that I wouldnt look him up anymore.
She will continue to carve out control where she can find it.
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