It is an absolute monstrosity of a grandiose affair that includes rib-sporting glamazons. It is a complete façade that propagates these willowy models as the ideal. Woe betide the teenage girl who indulges in this blatant thin-inspiration nightmare. Magazines, models and glossy images are in fact a murky propaganda of what a woman’s body should look like. And quite frankly, unrealistic. What happened to the concept of natural beauty and uniqueness in flaws?
During my adolescent years, I had no choice but to define myself by my body. I looked different from the other girls at school, for whom the supermodel was not just an ideal but also an echo. Eventually, I loosened my attachment to my outline and forced myself to look inward. I began to see myself reflected not in the undulation of the supermodel, but as someone whose existence is real.
I think it is grotesque when women become forced to acquiesce to this unhealthy illusion. I flinch at the twisted idea that beauty is about perfectly sculpted bodies. It is our flaws that make us beautiful. It is our flaws that make us real.
And with that being said, I am going to start taking pictures of beautiful women. Because the supermodel is a façade; beautiful is a woman.