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Amid the praise, there were, of course, inane underestimations of Ratajkowskis intelligence.
Turning inward rather than outward, the memoirsets aside the question ofbodiesand situates an individual body at its center.
I have learned that my image, my reflection, is not my own, she writes.
In subject matter, Ratajkowski is archival, looking back in the hopes of moving forward.
Her writing shines brightest in anecdotes where she allows the narrative to breathe without elaborate explanation.
Beauty was a way for me to be special.
When I was special, I felt my parents love for me the most, she writes.
Shes on a quest to both see herself differently and be seen differently.
This is evolution as a series of self-edits, and the writer she examines most closely is herself.
Revisiting those words years later in the essay Blurred Lines, Ratajkowski now admits that her argument was shortsighted.
My defensiveness and defiance are palpable to me now.
Whatever influence and status Ive gained were only granted to me because I appealed to men.
Of these moments, Ratajkowski asks herself, What is the power of my body?
I stood on their shoulders.
Where Steve is concerned, Ratajkowski asserts, I do not believe I owe you anything.
But what of the women whose shoulders she stands on?
The flip side to refusing indebtednessis that the collection ends up suffering from an aversion to citation.
The result is a story of beauty and alienation, the narrative of an only child.
These moments require acknowledgment of her bodys existence beyond its perceived beauty.
But then: It doesnt matter what I look like, I realized.
She understands that any memoir is a vanity project, settling into this tradition without shame.
Ratajkowski sets her own timer and poses for her literary portrait.
