Molly

4: Photograph

KANA

Femininity once has been my art.

It was a fond memory of spending all my time being a confident little girl who loved herself only in front of a mirror; there I pose, there I beam, there I foxily walk. I dress up, I alter my blankets, I learn my angles, and when I figure it is what the craft of modeling does, I've easily known what I want.

Until I turned 15.

Mom made an arrangement for my future by having me back in her hometown in Japan, declaring she found an opportunity to complete my dream into a tangible reality even as a means of leaving my Dad, in Germany where I grew up in.

My heart's solidly fixed on the idea that I can finally make it through the photograph and will be seen by the world this time, not just my reflection. I vision all that wearing this pink halter dress ending above my knees, made prettier by these white ankle boots in 3-inch heels. All of that— for my expectation to shatter soon as they told me that they don't need any of it for the picture or the print. For they haven't seen anybody as young yet mature as this body I'm owning. Maybe, I must be proud.

Mom helped me take off the only good thing in my life, untying my dress, then my shoes, then my bra, leaving only my most intimate area to be hidden. It confused me 'cause they're happy and I'm not. Hopelessly, I can't see anything special about being undressed. Neither I can understand why it feels condescending; the heaviness of not having anything on my body but all eyes on me. So I grasp all my tolerance till these men and their flashing cameras are satisfied, as well as my mother who motivates me at their back. She won't let them touch me whenever someone would attempt. It's how I know she loves me, still, and that what I'm doing is all for me.

We would be changing the shooting spots and I thought I can finally wear at least something. But I remain in the longest span of an hour with my breasts poking out and holding it, touching it on occasion as they demand, while they ask me to do it better when smiling. I pose all the gestures they told me to act, not a single chance to flaunt what I rehearsed while exposing everything I have. In the end, they took away my desire when no one bother to take a photo as I wore my dress back, suddenly I don't seem to exist. All they need is me— in my underwear and my body.

Maybe, that dress I bought for myself is unappealing in the first place.

Or maybe, what my mother has found is an opportunity to destroy me.

I don't know what's wrong with me. But I know when I should be mad when I found my own body— my own face, at the store counter in multiplied copies along with other women as naked as I am, all for one purpose to be seen by anybody and my friends to permanently avoid me, embarrassed me, and loathe me. It's not what the model would do, is it? Far from what I wanted to do 'cause my dreams are just too good to be real. It's not about what I wanted anymore, all I'm wishing is to bring back the way I look at my reflection as before.