It’s always the models who get blamed for anything that goes wrong with the girls and weight. Girls get obsessive about weight, it’s our fault. We’re too thin. We’re setting too high of a standard. We’re ugly. E.t.c.

Now, I personally believe that models are beautiful, the same way artwork by Paul Delvaux is beautiful. The long legs, the long arms, defined eyes, small face are all phrases used to describe beautiful people (not just women). Let us take a look:

Gemma stretched her long legs; her large brown eyes stared into the distance. The small face and the delicate chin completed the look that gave her an ethereal air; her arms were white and reminded him of white snakes, unravelling to sway this way and that. Her porcelain skin was milky white in the light, and her expression told him she was feeling melancholy.

That is actually a description I wrote while watching a model shoot on youtube. Now, let’s turn Gemma into a “normal” size 10 (US) person.

Gemma stretched her legs; her brown eyes stared into the distance. There was some flesh on her jawline and her face was round; her arms were not long, and her legs, if they were long, did not appear so. Her face had some acne, made a little glaringly obvious in the light, and she just looked tired.

Gemma as a “normal person”, someone you might see at the mall. Not very appealing.

People seem to be forgetting that models are exaggerated forms that are supposed to look good from the viewfinder, not on the street. Many artworks, varying from Cranach to Delvaux, depict slim women with long arms and long legs and small faces; since the cranium is approximately the same size for most humans (unless you’re Johann Sebastian Bach), the taller you are, smaller your head would appear. There had been periods when grossly obese women (Renoir, Rembrandt) were the vogue, but that’s a minority.

Thinness is not a new vogue. Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, was about 172cm and weighed less than 50kg; she was a known beauty in Europe. Quite a few of the models from 1920s all the way to 70s were tall and thin; models are not supposed to be “cute” or “pretty”. They are supposed to be “beautiful”, or “artful”, and many of the artworks depict exaggerated forms. They are in exaggerated poses with exaggerated body forms because each photograph is supposed to be artful. This is why there are professional photographers such as Patrick Demarchelier, or Serge Lutens, or Mario Testino. They are not trying to create easily accessible, cutesy fashion spreads; they are trying to find that sparkle through the lens, which renders each photograph something that can be put up on a wall.

That is not a photograph I’d like to put up on the wall of my apartment. It’s ugly. No finesse, no poetry. Imagine framing that in stainless steel frame and putting it on the white wall. It doesn’t work.

That, however, would look nice in the same frame, up on a white wall. Sure, the woman herself might look almost disfigured in real life, but in that photograph? She looks ethereal. Each shot in fashion magazine is supposed to be an inspirational look (unless you can actually afford a Burberry coat, Prada handbag, Miu Miu pumps, and Balenciaga shirt); but it can’t just look “cute”, because people then won’t buy. After all, if you are selling products to look “average”, it won’t sell. Fashion industry is an illusion to say, “hey, if you buy this handbag, you might look as ethereal and picturesque as this woman in this photo!”.

Is it a con? Sure it is. Just as men smoking cigarettes or drinking vodka in advertisements look suave and refined. I have never seen a vodka drinker at a bar in a tux. EVER. But people aren’t yammering about that.

I’m starting to think models are up on the blame docket because women don’t want to go through the hellacious task (or Herculean, if you want to think about it that way) of losing weight. Let’s admit it, losing weight is a horrible task that denies the most basic of your bodily needs. We are constantly bombarded with chocolate, ice cream, doughnuts and other food, and you have to walk by it – almost every day – without eating it. It’s Tantalus all over again, every single day. So it’s easier to say “they’re ugly! They look weird!”.

Well, duh, they’re supposed to look like that.

What people are forgetting is that they are a select few of the population who were endowed with a certain set of genes. Small head, beautiful shoulders, long limbs, height. Trying to look like a model is akin to trying to be born into the royal family: aka, forget it. Sure, you can buy products that the royal family might use and try to emulate their lifestyle, but you will never become one of them. Being a model is the same concept. But it also comes with hard work: partying, contrary to popular beliefs, isn’t that popular (lack of sleep wreaks havoc on your skin); eating healthy is paramount to surviving in the industry; and exercising is a must.

This isn’t anything new. Balenciaga’s model from 1950s was about as slim as those we see today:

Is it because gay men select the models? Not really. Surprisingly (to me), quite a few fashion designers are straight; it’s just that the gay ones tend to receive the spotlight in regards to sexuality because, well, they work with women and they’re gay. But the likes of Oscar de le Renta, Ralph Lauren, and Calvin Klein are all straight. And it was Calvin Klein who used Kate Moss and started the “Twiggy is in” look again.

Men tend to look at models as “ugly” because, apparently, they’re unravelling the clothes and finding stick-thin figures underneath, and well, that isn’t really cushy and lovable in bed (I read this in gender theory book somewhere… and it completely eludes me what the title or the author’s name was). I find that highly offending. I want to be viewed as “beautiful” as a form or a creature, much as we find the slender form of a deer beautiful; I definitely don’t want to be viewed as “my, those breasts would be lovely to squish my head into”. Ugh, no thank you.

But that’s just me. And thankfully, the boys around me aren’t really looking to squish their heads into any of my body parts, but rather seems to prefer looking at me like some sculpture and appreciating it. And as long as they find me lovely, I suppose I won’t complain.