I’m one with my body only during sex. When my husband and I fuck, I like to look in the mirror so I can see that I’m real. It helps me to return to myself, instead of floating above us, which happens from time to time. When I come, I finally allow myself to exist inside my body, even if only for a few seconds.
My body has been crucial to my survival; it’s the tool I use to make a living as a model. But it isn’t a part of my job in the way a body is for an athlete or a construction worker or the women who work at the spa. Those women are strong. They climb up on platforms and push their whole weight into the backs of other women. My body—or rather, my appearance—is an ornament used for decorating.
At the spa, we all understand that we can see each other, but we don’t look. We’re comforted by our collective nakedness. We’re not here to perform. We don’t have to be self-aware. Our bodies are simply undergoing maintenance. When I’m here, I’m anonymous, just another body.
I’m never self-conscious about being naked, always ready to strip. “But of course you are! If I had your body, I’d never have clothes on,” people often say to me.
“It’s just not that simple,” I want to respond, but I know that then I’d have to tell them about how I dissociate when my body is being observed, how I don’t even really recognize my body as me. “Does that make any sense?” I’d ask, and I can see them shaking their heads: Not really. Dissociating makes everything easier. In a way, overexposing myself has always felt like the safest option. Strip yourself naked so it seems like no one else can strip you down; hide nothing, so that no one can use your secrets to hurt you.
* * *
AS IN THE spa, there are unspoken rules to being a model. On set, you learn quickly to change clothes wherever you’re told to change; finding a private place wastes time, and time is money. But the expectation that models should change in front of people is also a way for the client to exert power. It’s both a test and a reminder of your position: everyone else is doing their job, and now it’s time for you to do yours. The stylist, their assistant, the client or editor, the other models, and sometimes the photographer will stand right in front of you and wait as you strip. You understand that your body is a means for them to accomplish what they’re here to accomplish: to make an image to sell whatever it is they’re selling. They’re in charge of it now, not you.
Now hand it over, they seem to say. Your body is why you’re here and we need it. Now. You know that they’d never strip down in front of ten strangers, but that’s not part of their role, is it? You’re the model. No one has time for your hesitation. You drop your clothes, and usually, they do not look away. In these moments, I don’t hesitate. I rise to the challenge; I want to pass the test. I want to make it seem like there is no power dynamic at all, like I’m simply doing my job, like I want to get naked on command. I will reveal my body as naturally and uneventfully as I might do anything else. See, nothing to hide here, I want to say as I pull off my dress and stand naked in front of them. “I’m not afraid of your eyes.” I look down at my body and it doesn’t feel like my own. It feels like something, but not me. They can look at me all they want, because they’re right; my body is just a tool.
* * *
ON MY FIRST big fashion shoot, photographed by Bruce Weber, I changed next to Karlie Kloss in an ice-cold trailer. A female stylist and her assistant watched over us both. As I began to undress, I remembered my agent’s enthusiasm as she’d told me about the booking on the phone the week before the shoot.
“This is huge!” I could feel her beaming. “Bruce Weber! Karlie Kloss!”
“But I’ll look ridiculous next to her,” I said, staring into my bathroom sink, which was no bigger than an airplane’s. I turned on the faucet and examined myself in the mirror. “She’s so much taller than me.” I felt I had to remind my agent of our seven-inch height difference. Maybe it was something she hadn’t considered? Some part of me hoped she’d pause and say, Oh, you’re right. I’ll cancel.
When I arrived in heels at Bruce’s farm in Montauk, the sun hadn’t yet fully risen. Mist surrounded the trailer and the catering tables. I felt silly as I poured black coffee into a paper cup, trying to balance as my heels sank into the moist grass, but I didn’t care. I was committed. I’d already decided that I’d rather look like a fool than leave anyone with the impression that I wasn’t the right body for the job. I wanted to prove that I belonged, that I could hold my own.