The memoir is a weird gig. Yagoda barely scratches the surface of that weirdness. When one person is simultaneously the artist, the muse, and the model, you can get a fierce, genius Frida Kahlo. But for every one Frida, you get a couple hundred 22-year-old girls who plaster their Facebook page with faux-arty pictures of themselves and feed off the anonymous male commenters who tell her she's hot. It's the 22-year-olds that interest me.
I wonder what happens to them when they finally get sick of living their lives in full view of the public.
Maybe it's an addiction of sorts: celebrity.