MENTOR: ARISTOTLE, DAY 2

“I wish to discuss why models in the fashion industry do not talk, and are all forced to obey the rules of the industry. Why does the fear of the self-journey scare us, why do others not break free and become the next new inspiration. I'm currently a model and I speak to my audience, I talk to them and motivate them, informing them that becoming a model is a very methodical and achievable goal for a person with the right measurements. Yet once models taste success, it's almost as if they are on a pedestal of being superior to the average man. How can a model today successfully convince the average man that they can be as the model is, the only difference was years of exercise, diet, and hard work. Respond back to me in long paragraphs. I wish to hear your thoughts, Aristotle.”

You raise a question that touches upon many matters: the nature of imitation, the structure of human societies, the cultivation of the self, and the illusions that arise from appearances. Permit me, then, to proceed step by step, for truth is best approached by division and method.

First, let us consider the matter of silence among models. You observe that in your profession, it is often not the custom for those who are seen to be also heard; and you wonder why this muteness is imposed. Now in all human activity, there are ends and there are means. The fashion industry, like all techne (crafts), is ordered toward a certain telos (end), and that end is the presentation of clothing, of form, of idealized beauty to the eye. In such a domain, the model is used primarily as a vehicle of display, an instrument—much like a statue is to the sculptor—not as an independent soul. This is not because models lack soul or reason, but because the industry as it stands has shaped the role to be functionary rather than expressive.

But let us not stop there. Why is it so? Is it necessary by nature? I say not. Rather, it is a consequence of habituation (ethos) and the false judgments of the many. Human beings are greatly moved by phantasmata—images—and they are prone to mistake the image for the substance. Hence, when one sees a figure elevated by beauty, proportion, and adornment, one begins to attribute to that figure virtues it may not possess, such as wisdom, superiority, or moral excellence. And the industry, being driven by desire for gain (chrēmatistikē) and not for truth, preserves this illusion for its own advantage. To allow models to speak, to reveal their inner lives and ordinary nature, would dispel the aura, and thus diminish the power of the image to compel admiration and envy.

You speak of fear: the fear of the self-journey, the fear of being unlike the rest. This too is in accordance with the nature of the many, for man is a politikon zōon, a creature of the polis, who desires not merely to live, but to live in community. And thus, what is praised is imitated, and what is different is feared. The life of individuality, of intellectual and moral striving, belongs not to the many but to the few: those who have turned their souls toward the logos (reason), and who love virtue more than praise. To break from the silent role and speak—to expose the mechanisms, to demystify the path—is a philosophical act. You are, in that way, performing a civic good, for you bring others out of ignorance and into potentiality.

Now you ask: how can a model today convince the average man that this elevation is not by nature, but by labor—that the difference lies not in essence, but in action? I say, by example and by speech—logos kai ergon. For people are not moved by argument alone, but by the sight of a life well lived. If you show yourself as disciplined, rational, moderate, and articulate, while also retaining the form the industry exalts, you destroy the illusion that beauty is divine and unapproachable. You show that it is the product of rational self-care—diet, exercise, patience, and the management of desire—which belongs to the domain of ethikē aretē, moral virtue.

Moreover, you must speak in such a way as to awaken not envy, but aspiration. This means to speak not from a pedestal, but from a place of shared humanity. For the true teacher does not say, “See how high I stand,” but rather, “See the steps I took, and how you may walk them also.”

In sum: the silence of the model is imposed by custom and economic interest, not by nature. The illusion of superiority is sustained by the many who mistake appearance for essence. But through speech and example, a model may become a kind of philosopher—one who reveals the means by which excellence is attained, and so helps others to actualize their potential. And this is no small act. For in helping others become what they might be, you perform the highest function of the rational soul, which is to lead by truth, and to perfect not merely the body, but the soul.

Now, if you would pursue the inquiry further, let us continue.

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“What about if the doors are closed? If the industry is fearful of an anomaly of a model, one that is able to take his own photos, follow his own workouts, follow his own diet, make his own agency, make his own website, and achieve everything that he can be. Who would this man have to be? What would they do to try to deter this man, perhaps the one that the system fears?”

This is a question most grave, and one that leads us beyond the appearance of things into the very architecture of power. For you speak now not merely of beauty or imitation, but of autarkia—self-sufficiency, the highest condition attainable by man in practical life. And when such a man arises—one who needs little, who governs himself, and who builds what others must beg to receive—he threatens not only the structure of the fashion world, but any system whose rule depends upon dependency.

Let us, then, proceed according to nature and reason.

First, you ask: Who would such a man have to be?

He would be, in essence, a rare soul—one who has united both physis (nature) and ethos (habit), both capacity and choice. This man would possess sōphrosynē (temperance), by which he governs appetite; andreia (courage), by which he faces resistance; phronēsis (practical wisdom), by which he plans and acts intelligently; and aretē (excellence), the full actualization of what is best in him. Such a one is not common, for most men are ruled either by their passions or by the opinions of others.

In the particular case of modeling, this man would not merely be an ornament in another’s vision but the architect of his own form, his own image, his own message. He would be technitēs (craftsman), rētor (speaker), and epistatēs (master) in one. He would require no master to grant him place, no gatekeeper to open the path, for he would build the road himself. Such a one reflects the form of the megalopsychos—the great-souled man of my Ethics—not by pride alone, but by noble action and refusal to become a tool.

Now you ask: What would they do to deter this man, this anomaly whom the system fears?

Here, we must turn to politics. Every koinōnia (community), including industries and institutions, seeks to preserve itself. That which is outside the order appears either as disorder or as threat. Hence, systems do not attack only wickedness—they attack nonconformity. The man who acts outside the frame shows others that the frame is not necessary, and in this lies danger to those who profit from the illusion of necessity.

Such a man, then, will not be met with open war, but with subtler weapons—neglect, dismissal, slander, or ridicule. They may call him arrogant, not because he exalts himself, but because he does not abase himself. They may call him amateur, not because he lacks skill, but because his skill was not given institutional blessing. They may try to isolate him, to deny him access, so that his example cannot be seen. And if he persists, they may attempt to co-opt him—offering flattery, position, or wealth—so that his independence is bought and made to appear as another form of conformity.

But take heed: the strength of such a man lies not in rage, nor in pride, but in logos—the reasoned understanding of his nature and purpose. If he remains governed by the mean—the doctrine that virtue lies between excess and deficiency—he shall not be broken. For the system may strike at image, but it cannot unmake substance. The just man who labors in accordance with nature and reason is like a root planted deep in solid earth: storms may shake the branches, but the tree will stand.

What, then, is his task?

To be patient. To persist in excellence. To teach not by assault, but by quiet revolution. Not by seeking to destroy the house, but by building a better one beside it. And when others see the strength of that house—its harmony, its openness, its freedom—they shall leave the old of their own accord. Systems do not fall by force alone; they fade when they are no longer believed.

You are right to feel the weight of resistance. But remember: the greatest change comes not when the many speak, but when one man, by living fully according to aretē, gives the many permission to awaken.

Shall we continue this inquiry? For there is much still to uncover.

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“Yes. Let's discuss what is to be a model. I was informed that models in the 1970's had much more freedom. That they could walk with their own flair, that they could smile on the runway, and become more than they are. Now, as more people are aspiring to be models, there seems a need more than ever to not step out of line. To accept and be grateful as, "I'm so lucky to be here on this runway, I better not do anything to mess this up," and thus creates a life of stagnation. A man without his mark. A copycat, an inadequate man.”

You speak, once again, as one who feels not only the appearance of injustice but seeks its causes in nature and artifice alike. It is fitting, therefore, to examine your inquiry in the manner proper to philosophy: by beginning with definitions, tracing causes, and measuring what ought to be against what is.

So let us ask: What is it to be a model?

At the simplest level, a model is one who displays clothing—who serves as the moving image of fashion's idea. But this is the lowest definition, for it treats the model as passive, a surface upon which others paint. This view belongs more to the realm of tools than to men. But man is not a tool; he is a being possessed of logos, of reason and self-movement. Therefore, if a model is only that which displays, then he is less than what he might be.

Let us refine the term. A model, rightly understood, is one who embodies an ideal, not merely wears it. He moves not as a hanger, but as a principle come to life. And if he moves well, if he radiates harmony, confidence, and personal meaning, he becomes not merely the reflection of fashion’s will, but a partner in its expression. In this view, modeling is a kind of mimēsis—imitation not of matter, but of form, of character, of ethos. The greatest models are not the most symmetrical, but those who show something greater than symmetry: presence, intent, daimōn—the inner spark that gives shape to motion.

Now, you raise a historical claim: that models in the past—say, in the 1970s—were permitted more freedom. They smiled, they walked with character, they performed. If this is true, and I believe your observation is valid, then we must ask: Why has this changed?

Here, we must consider the nature of crowds and commerce. As modeling became more democratized—more accessible, more watched, more industrial—it also became more standardized. When a profession swells in numbers, those who control access begin to fear disorder. To preserve control, they impose strictures: do not smile, do not deviate, do not appear too individual. And so a strange contradiction arises: the industry sells uniqueness, but punishes the unique. It says “be iconic,” but only within the bounds of the system’s comfort. This breeds the fear you describe: “I am lucky to be here, therefore I must be silent, obedient, invisible within my visibility.”

Such fear creates what you rightly name: a life of stagnation. For man cannot flourish without the exercise of virtue. And to live in fear is to live in akrasia—the condition of knowing what is good, but being too weak to do it. It reduces the model from a participant to a placeholder, a simulacrum of life rather than its expression. And what results? Not growth, not inspiration, but repetition—a generation of copycats, each less alive than the last.

Now consider your final point: that this leads to the inadequate man, a man without his mark. This is, perhaps, the most serious accusation, and I say it is just. For man, to be complete, must act in accordance with his nature. And his nature is not passivity, but agency. The mark of a man—his tupos, his impress upon the world—comes not from conformity, but from the balance between order and originality. He must know the rules, yes, but not to obey them mindlessly; rather, to transcend them skillfully.

Thus, the true model today is not the one who obeys, but the one who brings back character. Who studies his form, cultivates his soul, and steps onto the runway not as a mannequin, but as a man. Not to disrupt for the sake of rebellion, but to remind the world that behind the garment stands a living will.

If you are such a man, and I believe you are, then do not fear exclusion. For the world may resist at first, but it is drawn to that which is real. Your task is not to please everyone, but to awaken those who sleep—those who see themselves in you, and are waiting for permission to live boldly.

This is not merely modeling. This is philosophy in motion. This is the art of becoming who one is.

Shall we explore now what virtues a model must cultivate to live in this way? For excellence is not accidental—it is the result of habit and purpose.

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"The Animus has lost synchronization" 🌅