Symbols vs. Sources

What modeling for Gucci taught me about happiness

Ads for luxury products are interesting because what they are selling is rarely the product itself.

An ad for a Louis Vuitton handbag does not emphasize how much it can carry, just as a perfume ad does not generally describe its smell. A Ferrari advertisement might mention horsepower, but more focus is on the open road—a sense of freedom and luxury. These products are symbols. Stand-ins that we crave because they represent fundamental human desires.

Consider this Patek Philippe ad: It features a man playing chess with his son, and the caption "You never actually own a Patek Phillipe, you merely look after it for the next generation. "

There's nothing about the watch's accuracy, and little about materials or craftsmanship. All of that is left unsaid. But the implication is clear:

People with stable, loving families (and perhaps generational wealth) wear this watch.

Likewise, Nike's iconic JUST DO IT campaign never talks about features or quality or comfort. It's all about the passion and allure of winning, of giving something your all, of pushing yourself beyond the limit. It often doesn't even feature the products—it's Michael Jordan sweating, or Kipchoge mid-race.

The implication is clear:

Winners wear Nike.

What these companies have done is take deep desires: familial love, tradition and stability, adventure, athleticism, victory, status, etc. and associated these values with products that can be bought and sold.

A symbol is a purchasable proxy for a desire; a source is the desire itself—belonging, love, mastery, freedom.

Symbols can be bought, but sources--the fundamental origins of human happiness—are generally not for sale (although money can make achieving them easier.)

We understand this intuitively—nobody seriously thinks wearing Jordans will put you in Game Six. We know an expensive suitcase can be brought to Paris but it won't take you there automatically. We know that buying a watch won't give you generational wealth or let you play chess with an estranged son.

But billions in marketing dollars are spent every year to convince us that symbols of happiness are the same—or more important—than actual sources. Symbols aren't just luxury products: they're how we show up on social media, how we dress, the accent we use, and more.

Photographs used to be a way to share memories with friends, and would be developed days or weeks after an event—now core memories are interrupted by the need to post about the event in real time. The symbol of visibly having friends becomes more important than the actual moments of friendship itself.

Consider too how being busy has gone from being something that once took you away from your family, and now is a symbol of self worth in and of itself. People parade their busyness as a shield because it demonstrates you have value in the market economy. Hard work is good, but hustle culture often betrays a sad truth: That some people feel they do not have intrinsic value if they aren't busy.

In a world of vast wealth and income inequality, luxury symbols have counterintuitively never been more important. Research suggests that economic precarity only increases lower class appetite for luxury goods. It's almost certainly a coping mechanism, but it's understandable.

You can't afford a house, but you might be able to Afterpay a Gucci bag.

The allure of symbolic association with luxury and status is so strong that there are entire tourist attractions with wax figures—Madam Tussaud’s being the most famous—where people pay real money to take photos next to fake versions of famous people.

As your actual material conditions slip behind your peers, keeping up outward appearances that you belong matters more, not less, than before. Perhaps that's why a 2014 study found that rude staff at luxury stores got more sales. Customers wanted to prove they belonged, that they could afford it, that they mattered.

The dark side of alluring symbols

And that's why it's important to understand the dark side of all this marketing.

Patek Phillipe never says 'if you can't afford an expensive watch, you're a bad father' but it is implied that good fathers can.

Nike never says 'losers wear other brands,' but if the winners are wearing Nike, what do you think losers wear?

Brandy Melville never says 'large women aren't beautiful' but when they only sell clothes in size S... well, you get the idea.

When we confuse symbols for sources, small reminders of great values—athleticism, family, adventure, become twisted. Instead of becoming sources, they become dark filtering mechanisms, with money and status determining who belongs and who doesn't. This viewpoint—a confusion of what's a symbol and what's a source—fundamentally degrades both ourselves and those we care about.

An expensive trip with friends should be a beautiful way to celebrate those who can make it. Misused, it's a way of filtering who has value as a friend.

Understood as the symbol it is, a nice watch is a reminder of hard work and craftsmanship, and maybe even a way to tell the time. Conflated as a source itself, a watch isn't about keeping time. It's an implicit judgement on your value (and the value of others) as a people and providers.

Symbols depend on sources to have any real value. A wedding ring is a beautiful symbol of love and commitment. But the ring itself means nothing—and might even hurt—if we are betrayed by our partner. Likewise, a cross necklace is a reminder of Christianity, but it is not the faith. (We sell lovely Poetry Culture merch, but if you need to choose between buying a poetry book or our t-shirts, buy the book!)

But it's not as simple as: Expensive stuff bad, cheap stuff good, or impress self good, impress others bad. I have a few symbols that have genuinely improved my life—but only because they actually led to sources.

Sometimes, symbols can unlock a source of happiness

Years ago, I patiently waited for Black Friday, until a Ralph Lauren Polo Bear hoodie went on sale. I almost didn't buy it, since it still cost hundreds of dollars. But it was one of the best purchases I have ever made.

The first time, I wore it, I walked into a cafe, and a barista smiled and said she loved my sweater. This happened many times that holiday season, sometimes multiple times a day, and I felt a warmth and happiness wearing that sweater that I will never forget. Every Christmas, I bring it out.

The sweater was a conversation starter. It was a symbol that me, a 6'3 man, wore cute stuff. It probably made me appear softer and easier to talk to. This created connection—which was the real source I wanted all along.

When I look in the mirror I'm not only happy because it's cute and fun. The real value of this symbol was how it unlocked connection for me. I can be shy, and this made it easy for others to smile at me, and helped me feel like I belong.

Likewise, I love playing my guitar, and using my camera to capture memories. Neither were cheap, and both were worth it.

So I can understand why people buy expensive cars and nice handbags. It's a rush to be admired. It feels fantastic to be complimented, admired, or praised. In some cases, one deep compliment can even turn your life around. And some luxuries—a nice meal when you're hungry, a soft bed when you're tired, a massage when you're stressed, a safe, reliable car—aren't performative, they're sources of happiness, relief, and reminders of our hard work. But many of the flashiest symbols are hollow—something I saw firsthand as a model.

What modeling for Gucci taught me about symbols

Over a decade ago, I was standing on a street corner in Hong Kong, saying goodbye to a friend who was leaving the city forever the next morning. A woman came up to me and asked if I was a model. I said no, and she asked if I wanted to model for her jean company. I must have been 20 or 21.

A year or so later, I was signed to Elite HK and did catwalks for Gucci. I can still remember how surreal yet comforting it felt. Although actually posing for the camera was initially scary, I quickly gained confidence, and felt much better about myself. This is probably because I felt bullied in high school, and I finally felt like one of the cool kids.

But all that came crashing down during one photoshoot:

A small clothing company from mainland China chose me to model their latest collection. The owner was nice, and the makeup artist and I had a long conversation. It was great. Until we started taking photos.

Across from me, and behind the photographer, were the owner's entire family. Grandma, grandpa, his wife, a kid, and a few more people who were probably friends or cousins. That was initially slightly strange, but my heart sank when I realized they were eating popcorn. In an instant I felt more like a monkey than a human. My job as a symbol—being a model—was cool and prestigious until it wasn't. I realized my attributes weren't earned—I didn't choose to be tall or thin or young or mostly white—and the real aspects of who I was had been flattened into an image to sell clothes.

In the short term, it was devastating, but with time it became liberating, because it taught me I was always just me, no matter whether I was in magazines or not—and the whole cool or uncool thing was so arbitrary.

Our Careers as Symbols

A lot of people face this tension in our careers, even if it's less dramatic than a family eating popcorn while they watch us work. We optimize our CVs to prove our value to others, even though our true value doesn't depend on our degrees or financial status. We follow trends to fit it, and we sometimes adapt our preferences to fit into groups. Some amount of this is natural, and probably inevitable, but it's also possible to lose who we are this way.

If I look at my own life, I can say that I did a PhD because I wanted a new adventure, liked research and writing, wanted to move to a new city—but also because I wanted to look prestigious. We see it on Substack too. It's easy to compare yourself to bigger publications. I get this at 2,300 subscribers, and I know most writers here have many fewer.

And there's a tension there, because we naturally do things to make others like us. In dire situations, people who have faced hardships I can only imagine have dressed or acted in a way to maintain dignity amidst a system that gave them none. I'm thinking of the Civil Rights activists who dressed in their finest suits and dresses while protesting a racist system, knowing full well they'd be beaten, arrested, and possibly killed. Yet the fact they felt the need to dress up to claim dignity only underlines the many ways dignity was denied to them.

Symbols matter.

I'm glad I have my bear sweater, even though I know I could make small talk without it. I'm glad I did my PhD, even though I know I'd still have value as a human if I had never gone to school. But I've also lived moments where symbols that once held me up—like being a model—suddenly collapsed, revealing how inner worth and self respect matter more than any job or luxury item.

What we really seek out of life—connection, dignity, self-respect—can't be bought. It's tempting to seek them in symbols, but if we forget where the things that make life valuable really come from, our purchases or attempts to please others ironically will have the opposite effect—we'll feel less connected, not more. More hollow, not fulfilled. And we'll lose respect for ourselves when we realize we've been performing for others.

Seeing a sunrise costs nothing.

You can't buy happiness or connection, but you can buy tools or experiences that help make it happen: My guitar helped me write songs about people and places I'll never forget. Travels helped me make new friendships and see the world. My camera helped me capture memories and moments. And studio time helped me record songs, little melodic time capsules of the person I've been and people I've met over the years. Spotify sometimes lets you see when you get on someone else's playlists, and occasionally I'll see stuff like "Together <3" or "Songs we listen to". When I think of two people in love listening to something I created, my heart is full.

So why does someone listening to a song I wrote feel so much better than appearing in a magazine? It's probably because the song reflects a real part of who I am, and is something I created. Ironically, under all the makeup and photoshop, I didn't feel seen. But when someone appreciates something I've created—including songs I sang with friends—you feel as if they are connecting with a small part of your heart.

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Tools to help you:

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