On Lenses

When I was 22, I worked for Maxim Magazine. (You remember Maxim — the publication for the “modern man” that celebrated the objectified woman.) I was young, ambitious, and energized by New York City life, and despite the content of the magazine, I really loved that job, and most of the people that worked there.

I remember sitting at my desk one day when a man who had been consulting with the Photo Director approached my desk. He was a bit disheveled, an artsy type, with an overloaded messenger bag and a camera slung across his body. He was older than me, but not by much, and had a friendly smile. He wasn’t like some of the sleazy, groping-me-with-their-eyes men who had walked across the Maxim floor during my tenure.

“Hi!” he said, putting out his hand. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you had a minute?”

I had absolutely no idea what this man was going to say to me. I was really low-man on the totem pole there.

“Do you model?” he said.

That’s ridiculous. “That’s ridiculous,” I said.

Okay, I didn’t really say that but I might as well have.

“No,” I replied bashfully. 

“Well you should! You have a beautiful face.” (Oh, the beautiful-face routine! As anyone over a size 8 can tell you, this feels like a backhanded compliment.) “I actually, I was wondering, do you mind if I have my friend come up for a second to meet you?”

His friend, a woman named Courtney, turned out to be a fashion designer working out of her apartment in Brooklyn. She had just created some pieces and was looking for a model to wear them at a show scheduled for the following week. She asked if I would be able to come to Brooklyn to try on the clothes.

Flattered, I said yes. 

When I showed up in Brooklyn later that night, the apartment was busier than I expected. Maybe 5 or 6 other people, all in the fashion or photography industry, drinking wine and eating. 

I remember feeling instantly relaxed and at ease with these people, despite my intimidation. They were kind to me. They asked me questions and listened to my answers. They were artists, and despite their reverence for aesthetics I did not find them artificial or poised — they were just people who knew how to angle a lens to expose something beautiful.

They offered me wine and cheese, which of course I did not accept because #calories. But I almost did, because I felt relaxed and for a few minutes I was living in the present moment.

Maybe I knew that. Maybe I suspected that I would be seen by these people, these strangers, and it scared me. They saw something in me that I did not, and not in a Maxim sort of way, but in a human being sort of way. 

But when I put on the clothes, something changed. I felt uncomfortable. I felt ugly and disgusting and HORRENDOUS and OH MY GOD WTF AM I DOING HERE?? The words “plus-size model” echoed in my head, shaming me. I knew these clothes weren’t made for tall sinowy runway models, but for girls like me who had hips and asses. And suddenly that felt so shameful, and I saw it as if for the first time since I’d arrived there.

I finished trying on outfits, holding back tears, my face red and hot with shame, fire rising within me and threatening to burst out into tearful flames. I don’t remember much after that, but I know that I left in a hurry, and went home and binged, and never showed up for the show. I called to say I had gotten sick, that I was sorry. I felt twice the shame for wasting Courtney’s time, but there was no way in hell I was going to do this. I was fat, I was ugly, I was a joke, and I did not deserve to be seen through their lens.

I am now 40 years old, and had almost forgotten about this story. It came back to me a few months ago, as I find certain memories do from time to time since recovering from my eating disorder. It’s as if the memory is ready to speak now, to work itself through, to be seen and digested by a more compassionate self. 

I don’t know how to end the story. I weep for that girl, who found such fault with herself. I feel regret and sadness for the years gone by, so stifled and lonely. But I can see myself now, in a full length mirror, and I know I am not afraid to show up anymore.