A review by mdarceyhall
My Body by Emily Ratajkowski

2.0

I knew this wouldn't have the heart of Chanel Miller, the brain of Rebecca Solnit, or the sharp tongue of Jia Tolentino, but I still expected more from this book. Each essay is an observation and only that - there are no revelations or growth. I don't think Ratajkowski knows herself what she should take away from her experiences, only that she wanted to write a book that serves as more of a journal than an essay collection. Over the course of the book, the only claim she makes with any certainty is that she's a model for money and power, not pleasure. Her book should be called "My Power" rather than "My Body" because she speaks about her desire for power as much, if not more, than her body. To Ratajkowski, power equals money and control. She has the former, but contradicts herself about the latter. She claims nudity and modeling offers her control, yet in the same breath, reveals that she has no control as a model; she's a self-described mannequin who is told where and when to undress, how to pose, what to do, and when to stay or leave. Perhaps most disappointing is her belief that, while capitalism is bad, she has no other choice. She explains she can either play the system as a rich model or live off the grid as a nobody, failing to realize how many other choices she has, if only she weren't so driven by the two things that she admits multiple times consume her: making money and being told she's pretty. If there's any disappointment in her calling herself a feminist, it has nothing to do with her exposing her body (nudity and sexuality is not a barometer of feminist allegiance) and everything to do with the fact that, instead of rebelling, she continues to serve as a cog in the harmful cultural machine that teaches women that our value depends on the elasticity of our skin and size of our breasts.