Blank eyes. Sallow skin. Protruding bones. Deadly stare. We’re all familiar with the cadaver-chic look popularized by fashion’s most eminent tastemakers- the human hangers frequently gaze over at us from the covers of Italian Vogue and saunter past desensitized editors on European catwalks. More than likely, we, too, have grown accustomed to the obligatory child-like bodies, the sharp cheek bones, and the angular hips- low points in the frivolous, fantastical world that is fashion. So it was with jaded eyes that an unintentionally zombie-ridden editorial in W shocked me out of my boots. In the place of radiant beauties energetically flaunting fall’s luscious fashion smorgasbord, emaciated, sunken-in faces plastered with ghastly, near ghoulish expressions gawked blankly from the gloss, the drab, dreary lighting highlighting their fragile limbs and bony ankles. Standing lifelessly or lounging in supposed stupors like mindless revelers at a corpse bazaar, few people could identify these girls as warm-blooded humans, with only their visibly protruding veins giving them away as not-quite-legal money signs in the modeling biz. It hardly seemed like I was eliciting the emotional response luxury companies anticipate when they throw their product out on the market- I was appalled!- and not only at the industry’s glamorization of weakness and childlike frames, but because the nightmare lives on in every important style publication, with fashion’s once-bright young things tirelessly succumbing to its pressures. And contrary to the claims of delusional casting directors and out-of-touch designers, it fails to represent any sort of aspirational fantasy, but rather a dismal confirmation of fashion’s stereotypical selfishness and inhumanity.

It’s a widely-accepted fact that models must be thin. Through time they’ve maintained an image of perfection and elitism, and as society’s waistlines have grown to epic proportions, the proud high fashion industry has required its models to shrink to near skin and bones- an effort to distance itself from the piggy McDonald’s-craving mainstream, making it even harder to achieve the model look, and therefore more exclusive and more fantastical. Clothes move gracefully on the sticks, which, in the absence of curves, require little tailoring, and therefore mean less work for design houses. These hangers with faces fail to enliven clothes (impossible when so many appear to have scratched their way out of coffins), but rather provide an anonymity which enables buyers and editors to solely focus on the designs. But who does this really benefit?

Let’s examine the food chain. Elitist, egocentric narcissists over in Paris want rotting corpses in their next campaign. (MAJOR. FIERCE.) Tragically, black magic doesn’t sell so hot to the trashy American public (uncultured, illiterate fools- duh) so they opt to hire three underage new faces for an opulent opium-den theme instead. Much less offensive, no? Attention-Hungry Narcissist #1 wants to book that pretty pillow-lipped Dutch girl along with his other two victims, but Attention-Hungry Narcissist #2 knows she’s a total chunkster, so he refuses to hire her unless she’s lost that blubber around the hips- totes the same fat that forced her into the massive Yeti-style coat she overheated in at the company’s show last season. In the mean time, Narcissist #2’s vote’s for the cool Australian girl who’s agent’s legendary bribes are impossible to pass up- plus she’s been offering sexual favors to the campaign’s photographer, so she’ll easily make it through his ballot. Unfortunately, Aussie’s contracted pink eye or crabs or something, so she’s “recuperating” back home/getting a boob job. On the other side of the Atlantic, Dutchie’s New York booker is scrambling to prove himself worthy of a promotion to New Faces Director, but none of his charges are scoring much more than Asian department store ads while his table-mate just finalized his sixth campaign for a models.com top-ten hottie. Sooo Booker #1- little white liar- tells Narcissist #2 that Dutchie’s gotten skinny! Then he BBMs Dutchie to come in and meet with him and the new faces board for a chat. SUSPENSEFUL. Surprise, surprise- Dutchie learns that she won’t get hired by major conglomerate’s biggest design house (or anyone else- THREAT) until she stops being so fat, but Booker #2 (heart of GOLD), tells her that his little Russian diva over at the model house is also going for a pancake butt, so- ooommmmggggg- they can share diet tricks! All of Dutchie’s friends back home think she’s like some sort of supermodel or something- she’d be a loser if she showed her face back there without so much as rubbing her hot model pics in the cool kids’ faces- so she’d be a complete idiot if she didn’t agree to be the company’s puppet… RIGHT?!

Heartbreaking, no? Egocentric narcissists- and the sheep that follow them- convince impressionable young models everyday that they are inadequate. They pressure them into losing weight, going out with creepy promoters, and into painful beauty treatments all for the sake of fashion. They are brainwashed into believing their only chance of approval and monetary success in this world is to fit into a wickedly-designed mold, and potentially hurt or deprive themselves in the process, despite what a stunning personality, sweeping intellect, or genuine sweetness they may possess. So what is to be made of the models? The girls required to maintain the body types of prepubescent children, a nasty position which often forces them into resembling the vulnerable victims of terminal illness? Heaven forbid they gain an inch around the hips and lose that major show next season, or worse, be shunned into commercial modeling (the horror!). Respectful agents will quietly suggest their models eat less or forgo dessert, while aggressive bookers will stop at nothing to whittle down their charges’ waistlines, perhaps offering pills, smokes, some lines, and a lesson in Bulimia 101. The models are meal tickets, susceptible means to that must-have Bora Bora vacation or trendy detox retreat. To quench the fear of undesirability, the girls don’t eat, restricting their diets, insisting they “just ate” in measurement-compromising situations, and frequently- notoriously- claiming they’re all “big eaters.” But how is it possible for an entire industry to become numb to a flock of growing children and malnourished women? To treat them like objects, on call for any whim or request, without a care for their genuine well-being? And most importantly, when will they remove their blinders?

I grew up aware of my body and was always taught by my wise mother to appreciate it whilst focusing on my inner beauty and mind as the most important facets of my person. Contorting my shape to become another was never a desire, as I was just delighted with the one that I have and was far more interested in developing my talents and strengths than looking like the man-eating Victoria’s Secret brigade. And since boys weren’t very interested in the curve-challenged physique of my gene pool, I dedicated myself to intellectual pursuits and obsessed over my performance in track and field, hoping that if I wasn’t visually alluring to my bimbo-loving peers, I would have other notable qualities worthy of attention. Despite my career goals (I set my sights on the thrones over at Vogue), when modeling became a possibility, I took it. It wasn’t a hard choice, but it was a sacrificial one, as I gave up the chief editorship at my school newspaper, my favorite classes, and any inkling of a track scholarship- all things I had worked years towards. And of all the things I lost, the easiest were the inches. When I was told I needed to “work on” my hips, I was shocked, embarrassed, and ashamed. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing… they wanted me to what?! My hips gave me power and strength, but they- and the attributes they continue to represent- weren’t acceptable in this new world. Still, I reduced my hips by two inches in four months, and I was suddenly the most dedicated new face on the board, an inspiration to the poor Brazilians bingeing on Haagen-Daas at the model apartment every night as the Russians left for their suspiciously gratuitous dinners with sleazy American businessmen. Little did I know that foreign agencies would refuse to take me on board for being too bony, and when my feet were too big, my shoulders too narrow, and my ankles too large, I was accepting, and I took the criticism gracefully, strictly detaching my body’s “shortcomings” from who I was as a person. The day I left modeling was only hard knowing that I had given up so many of my passions to work towards stardom in a fickle, meaningless business that didn’t want me, but merely my shell. I found it callous and unforgiving, and I was sickened that I had become reliant on the predatory power players holding all my cards in their conniving hands.

Casting directors and designers know of this frequent dilemma- they’re well aware of the pitfalls of their industry. The sex and the drugs will never disappear, low self-esteem is an unwavering constant, and there will always be girls who are forced to lose an illogical number of pounds… but the question remains as to why such an ill lifestyle continues to be so romanticized. If I wanted to watch zombies I’d find “Thriller” on YouTube, not look at footage of the most recent Prada show or flip through Italian Vogue- two of the most influential catalysts of the modeling industry and frequent purveyors of the childish zombie phenomena. As much as I adore Olivier Theyskens’ work for Nina Ricci (the man is beyond brilliant), his show girls were almost always spot-on doppelgangers for killer skeletors (PLEASE PLEASE click on that link for what may be the most eerie example of this topic). And Alexander McQueen? He’s an absolute genius, but if I didn’t know all the names of his mannequins, I’d SWEAR they were all malnourished aliens. Why can’t the industry switch gears and endow healthily slim, athletic bodies as the ideal? Obviously I’m biased, not out of petty envy, but rather because I identify with poster-children of that type, like the vivacious Hilary Rhoda and the former speed-skater Doutzen Kroes, their bodies products of both physical training and “good” genes. In a society that worships glowing health, why shouldn’t such models be demanded? They are strong and exude a gorgeously Amazonian, feminine power. Such healthy, slender bodies are still hard to attain, but when they are achieved, it is through exercise and proper eating habits rather than devastating disorders or underaged cruelty.

So has fashion finally realized its farthest extreme? Once the pendulum has swung as far as it can go, someone will have to make the leap for a change, the question is, who will have the courage to take the risk?