The whole world saw me roll my eyes in the final, viral edit. In a matter of months, “Blurred Lines” catapulted me to global fame. The first time someone stopped me, yelling “Emily?” I was on the phone with my mother, crossing the street in my neighborhood. I looked at the man, confused, studying his face in an effort to try and place it. “I love ‘Blurred Lines!’” he exclaimed, smiling widely, before asking for a selfie. I was stunned.
Online people debated whether the video was misogynistic. The way my fellow models and I were writhing—and almost naked, in the unrated version—in front of the male musicians raised eyebrows. Journalist after journalist asked me the same question: “What do you say to those who have deemed the video anti-feminist?”
The world was shocked to hear me respond that I didn’t see it that way. I was secure in my body and my nakedness on set, I’d tell them honestly. I focused on how I felt during the majority of the shoot, remembering being in the company of many women I trusted and liked.
After the success of the video, I moved to New York and signed with the same agency that had rejected me only a year before. I shot Sports Illustrated. I was happy to discover that fame had granted me access to two new sources of income: appearances, where I could show up to an event or speak with a media outlet about a product, and sponsored posts on my Instagram, both of which paid more than what I had made in a week as a working model prior to the video.
Mainly, though, I was disoriented. I grew tired of talking about the music video and sharing my thoughts on it, feeling a distinct twinge of dislike whenever Robin Thicke’s name was mentioned or placed next to mine. I was grateful for my career, but I resented that every profile began with a mention of “Blurred Lines,” a music video I’d only agreed to do in order to make some money. I didn’t know how to marry the identity and ego that I’d kept as separate as possible from my work with the one that the world was now labeling a sex symbol. Since I’d been in high school, modeling had just been a job, and now suddenly it seemed to be who I was. I flailed. Continuing to relate to my work passively, I signed up to be in movies that I didn’t have any interest in and modeled for brands I thought were lame.
I floated through the next couple of years. In between frequent shoots and travel, I spent too much time on the internet and in bed and out drinking with people I didn’t particularly like. I knew that by most standards I should be happy—I’d achieved the thing that all aspiring actresses and models are thought to want: to be known for their beauty and desirability. “You’ve made it!” the friend who had commented on my navy jacket years before wrote to me on Facebook, reminding me of how the world viewed my “success.”
But I wasn’t just famous; I was famously sexy, which, in many ways, felt gratifying. It had seemed obvious to me that the most desirable, attractive woman was always the most powerful in any given room, just like the Victoria’s Secret models who marched toward me on that giant screen. And in many ways, my life did change. Strangers greeted me with enthusiasm. Famous men I’d had crushes on as a child hit on me. Beautiful women talked to me as if I were one of them. I was on the covers of magazines, got invited to glamorous parties I’d never dreamed of attending. Forget Thai food and chain-store quilts—now I was being sent endless boxes of free designer clothes. I could show up at popular restaurants in New York or Los Angeles and be seated whenever I liked. And I had more money than I’d ever imagined making: I put a down payment on a loft only a few blocks from my place in the Arts District, this time a place with a giant window and plenty of light and a pool on the roof. I was even able to give my parents some cash.
Yet I felt like I was spinning and out of control. I hadn’t chosen this life, and I was unsure of how I’d ended up living it and what it meant about who I would become. I hated going to auditions, especially for TV and film, where I almost always read in front of several men who I was convinced thought very little of me. They already think I suck, I’d tell myself. I’m nothing more than an LA piece of ass to them. I’m not talented. I’m not even that pretty. I’d barely rehearse for these auditions, reading the pages once or twice before going in, paralyzed by self-loathing. Did I even want to be an actress? I couldn’t remember when or how this had become the thing I was supposed to pursue and excel in. I’d always imagined myself as someone who had ideas and made decisions. I’d get in my car after one of these readings, feeling worthless, and think about how I’d rather be in the position of the men in these rooms, choosing whom to hire for my projects.