(Re)Centralising the Female Body and Emily Ratajkowski's Choice Feminism

Emily Ratajkowski’s My Body is a book of 12 essays discussing beauty, abuse, sexuality, and power, as the author attempts to reclaim her image through feminist narratives on self-discovery and self-reflection.

The book was brought to my attention the other night in conversation. “I didn’t realise she was writing a book,” I thought to myself. In fact, I didn’t care much for her writing.

Ratajkowski’s writing first came to my attention when The Cut published an essay entitled: “Buying Myself Back: When Does a Model Own her own Image?” In this piece, Ratajkowski narrates a history of men taking possession of her image—and by extension, her body. She illuminates the ways in which the modelling industry normalises the mistreatment and objectification of women. The purpose of this essay, Ratajkowski stated, was to reclaim power over both her voice and her image.

There is a lot of power behind Ratajkowski’s argument. It goes without saying that the modelling industry is notoriously predatory against young women. This is a form of violence against women in and of itself—I do not wish to dismiss this fact nor to I wish to interrogate the validity of her experiences. Instead, I wish to deconstruct the troubling method in which Ratajkowski represents her type of feminism.

As a feminist myself, I don’t feel the need to consider what is and what is not feminism. I don’t believe that feminism can be boiled down into something so simple. For me, feminism is a way of existing in an environment built by and for men. Feminism is a keen awareness for gender inequality in and among society, in addition to recognising intersectional feminist perspectives. The reality is that feminism is not a one-size-fits-all category. It is much more complex than that.

That being said, it’s worth noting that I’ve struggled to articulate the discomfort I have with Ratajkowski. On one hand, there is a way to side with Ratajkowski; she articulates that by commodifying her own body, she has made a game out of the system to obtain significant economic success—and general economic freedom. To make a game out of the system I mean the process of playing into the patriarchy by understanding the cardinal marketing rule: sex sells. In effect, Ratajkowski sells images of her body and representations of her self to make money. As you might have guessed, she has succeeded within this system.

While this is admirable, I have trouble grappling with this kind of success. Ratajkowski’s success represents a duality between critiquing a culture and simultaneously enjoying its spoils. Her writing calls out elements of the patriarchy and implicitly celebrates the patriarchy for affording her this kind of success. Indeed, I’m sure that many women will purchase her book solely on the basis that she is a beautiful woman, selling a beautiful book, to other beautiful women. Her book will outsell smaller named authors because she has the star power to promote it. I guess this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it does beg the question: Who is this book written for?

I recently came across the term ‘choice feminism’. Choice feminism is a branch of contemporary feminism that emphasises the agency of a woman; it is an individual-centric approach to feminism. This kind of feminism is often criticised for its prevalence among upper-class, white feminists who fail to consider the ways in which their message impacts BIPOC women or BIPOC feminism in general. This is how I perceive Ratajkowski’s feminist discourse.

In a web of words, Ratajkowski falsely appears to challenge the discourses on and about her body. She ironically condemns patriarchal objectification and proceeds to (re)situate herself as object of the public (male) gaze. It’s almost as though Ratajkowski’s feminist intervention applies only to [Her] Body and to the bodies that fall within that category: white, tall, and thin. In this sense, Ratajkowski’s ostensible choice feminism is inherently exclusive and problematically ignorant of those bodies that do not fit within this Western-centric patriarchal ideal.

There is a way to see choice feminism as another limb of the ‘Girl Boss’ mentality that was celebrated in the early 2010s and subsequently criticised in 2020 for its application to (predominantly) white, upper-class women. The term ‘Girl Boss’ is fundamentally a juxtaposition between girl and woman; female entrepreneur and (male) entrepreneur. The term ‘Girl Boss’ makes the female entrepreneur more palatable for the public, patriarchal business sphere. And yet, the term infantilises women and trivialises their entrepreneurial spirit. To be a ‘Girl Boss’ is to be a female variation of the male CEO which implies that such positions will never be equal in stature or carry the same weight within the boardroom. Fundamentally, the term ‘Girl Boss’ reinforces this idea that ambitious, business-minded women are immature and bossy while ambitious, business-minded men are simply just that: ambitious businessmen. It feels as though ‘Girl Boss’ sought to challenge the category of women in the public sphere by striving for equal representation but really only succeeded in distinguishing one above the rest. Ratajkowski’s My Body (and her feminism more generally) follows a similar narrative—she attempts to de-centralise her body from the discussion but really only succeeds in re-centralising her body as the topic of discussion.

Another point of critique is that Ratajkowski frames her discourse as feminist in order to protect herself from criticism. This, I believe, is the trouble with choice feminism. It enables others to speak about their own feminist experiences while silencing those (female) voices who contest the purpose of such feminist discourse. This is cancel-culture’s equivalent in feminism. In other words, those who critique Ratajkowski’s feminist pursuit are themselves ‘anti-feminist’. This is the issue. It silences all voices except her own.

In one image, Ratajkowski posted a bikini photo holding her baby. The infant, only one week old, is cradled in his mother’s arms. In this image, Ratajkowski fashions herself as both beautiful woman and beautiful mother. She represents the Western ideal that indeed women can do it all—raise a family while maintaining her physical beauty and sexual attraction. It has since come out that she finished this book while experiencing all the challenges and trifles of motherhood. The world gawks in awe as this woman can really do it all. But here’s the problem: this is yet another idealisation and false representation fed to women.

Though I am not a mother, nor have I experienced pregnancy, I do recognise that pregnancy and post-partum isn’t easy on the mother’s body and mind. And yet, women are encouraged to return themselves to their pre-baby body from the moment in which the baby leaves the womb. Despite the hormonal fluctuations, the physical and mental traumas of labour, and the learning curve of motherhood, women are still encouraged to return themselves to their pre-baby bodies as soon as possible. This is not always a narrative construed by men but rather one enforced by other women. Ratajkowski herself, in her toned and flawless physique, one week after birthing a child fashioned herself as a living, breathing representation of this ideal. She made the impossible, possible. After only one week, Ratajkowski returned herself to her pre-baby body.

This is the problem I have with Ratajkowski and generally choice feminism. She presents these images, under the fierce feminist umbrella, and fails to consider how her image affects anxiously onlooking women, girls, and mothers in society. It’s frustrating how her words contrast power with powerlessness only to present images of herself that render other women powerless to her physically impeccable body. In her attempt to reclaim power she justifiably does so, but at whose expense?