A curse, some coins, and a killing. Little did I know that a road trip to an abandoned mental hospital would lead me to a story about the art world, a scandal, and a tragedy.

I believe everyone I meet is a teacher ready to expand my worldview and increase my knowledge. The antique shop owner in Heuvelton, New York, was an excellent instructor. He saw my interest in history as I looked through his collection of old books and purchased several yellowed magazines from the early 1900s. I told him of my interest in St. Lawrence State Hospital. He asked me if I had ever heard of Audrey Munson, and opened a new path of exploration for me.

Audrey Munson was from upstate New York, my part of the world, but I had never heard of her. She was born in Rochester in 1891 and grew up in Mexico, New York, near where I attended college. Her father left when she was a child, and her mother, Kittie, divorced him in 1899.

When Audrey was five, Kittie took her to East Syracuse to see the Gypsy Queen Eliza, who was touring the US from England. Apparently, a gypsy festival was an annual event in Central New York, as it marked the fall migration of these colorful people from Canada to the south. Audrey couldn’t see Queen Eliza, but her mom took her to a fortune teller who saw a distressing future for the little girl. She predicted that Audrey would be famous, but happiness would always elude her, that she would make a lot of money but end up poor, and that she would never find love as seven men would promise to make her their bride, but none would marry her. For some reason, throughout Audrey’s life, Kittie would remind her daughter of this fortune teller’s reading. Maybe it was this divorced woman’s way to control her daughter and prevent being abandoned once again.

Kittie became a stage mother and encouraged Audrey’s dream of becoming a dancer and an actress. Audrey was discovered during a trip to New York City for a recital at the age of fourteen as she walked down a busy Manhattan street. Her career quickly took off as she became a favorite model, especially for sculptors. She was sought after and became quite a celebrity known as “Miss Manhattan” and “The American Venus” as likenesses of her appeared all over NYC and The US.

She became a star and was invited to exhibit openings and all the best parties. People were awestruck by her beauty as she walked down Fifth Avenue dressed in the latest fashions. She believed in women’s independence and their right to chart their own course and was able to donate money to the suffragette movement. As she gained notoriety, she earned roles in three movies and was the first nude in a legitimate film, appearing as the spirit of inspiration. This bold step in 1915 rattled the values of many conservatives.

She posed for the Star Maiden statue, which was reproduced ninety times to serve as the pillars of an exhibit at the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exposition in San Francisco.

Her lovely image was everywhere, featured in statues, movies, newspapers, plays, and public appearances. But with good fortune comes the jealousy of those less fortunate, and fame can sometimes disappear as fast as it comes. Misfortune struck Audrey suddenly when she and her mother rented a living space in the boarding house from Dr. Walter Wilkins. The doctor became infatuated with Audrey, and one day, he claimed his wife had been killed by an assailant. After an investigation, it was found that Walter had murdered his wife. Audrey was wanted for questioning, but she and her mother fled to Toronto as terrible rumors and gossip spread in all the tabloids around the world. Eventually, the murdering husband was tried, found guilty, and sent to the electric chair. He hanged himself in his cell before the execution. Audrey soon became labeled as an evil home wrecker. Her provocative poses and her nudity in films encouraged the world to think of her as wicked and untrustworthy. She soon found it increasingly difficult to find work.

Audrey and her mother returned to the farm in Mexico in 1919. Gradually, the three prophecies of gypsy fortune teller came to be. Her fame and happiness disappeared. She had made a fortune, but with no work, the money disappeared. Men had pursued her, and she had many proposals, but she never married. It was rumored that once more a marriage proposal had been rescinded and, on March 27, 1921, Audrey, at the age of 28, tried to kill herself by swallowing poison.. From 1921 to 1931, the beautiful Audrey slowly descended into despair, and her behavior became increasingly erratic. In 1931, Kittie was no longer able to take care of her, either physically or financially, and Audrey was committed to the St. Lawrence State Hospital in Ogdensburg, New York. She spent 65 years in that institution, dying there in 1996 at the age of 104.

Ironically, the subject of so many lovely monuments was buried, until recently, in an unmarked grave in Fair Haven, New York, not far from her family’s hometown.

The uncertainty of being a woman is clearly evident in this tragic story. Audrey was the ideal, America’s Venus. She was beautiful, with perfect feminine symmetry and features. But somehow, it wasn’t enough—not enough for the world that wished to exalt her, as it also came to condemn her.

She was the model of myths, the personification of womanhood, the ancient ideal of the revered goddess, the giver of life. However, over time, history diluted this reverence with archetypes of the “anima” in stories about mermaids, nymphs, crones, and witches, who, to quote Carl Jung, “infatuates young men and sucks the life out of them.” Further storytelling continued to be a cultural chain for women. The sagas for men had glorious plots of heroic challenges or quests for meaning and truth. However, in fairy tales, the persona of femininity was often synonymous with weakness, and females were frequently portrayed as needing to be rescued.

This label is substantiated many times. It took many years and considerable persuasion between the Women’s Rights Convention in Seneca Falls in 1848 and 1920, when American women were finally allowed to vote. And poor Audrey was not alone in the insane asylums of America. In the 1800s, a woman could be declared insane by the recommendation, whether substantiated or not, of a father, brother, husband, or son. The adjective “crazy” is still widely used to criticize women today. And the new term “Karen” cautions females not to be too outspoken or assertive.

This manipulation is constant. It hides behind a million customs and norms. It presents itself in print and TV commercials, as well as on our digital devices. It is reinforced in our everyday lives as we judge, compare, and label one another, engaging in name-calling, slander, and gossip. It is a campaign to create doubt and cause women to question every aspect of their being, from their appearance to the validity of their intellect.

If only someone had taken the time to help Audrey Munson and told her to shut out all the noise. If only someone helped her understand that she was more than enough. If only someone had helped her rid herself of doubt and encouraged her to keep going.

This story of America’s first supermodel teaches a lesson. Women are heroes and have been heroes since the beginning of time. We need to be greater heroes in developing our own stories. We must be self-motivated, not manipulated. We must listen to our inner voices and not the random opinions of others. The time for uncertainty must end. We need to be more aware and persevere.

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