You Keep Looking for What You Did Wrong When the Problem Is His Behavior

Sometimes Sir really is the one bringing the problem into the relationship, yet somehow you are the one who ends up wondering what is wrong with you. To see how easily that little mix-up happens, let us turn the whole situation into an imaginary portrait session, with Sir in the chair and you behind the camera.

Your task is wonderfully simple: take one good photograph of the man.

Nothing extravagant, of course. He does not need to balance on a horse, stare moodily across the Mediterranean or hold a falcon. He simply needs to sit in a chair and remain still for approximately three seconds, which both of you agree sounds entirely manageable.

Sir takes his place, you straighten him slightly in the chair, step behind the camera and find a rather lovely shot. He looks relaxed, the light is good and for a brief moment everything appears to be cooperating.

Then, just as you press the button, Sir turns toward the window.

The photograph comes out blurry.

Never mind. These things happen.

You settle him again, wait until he is looking exactly where you want him, and try a second time. Sir chooses that particular moment to adjust his collar.

Another blur.

Still, nobody is concerned. Two photographs hardly constitute a crisis.

So you try once more. Sir puts one hand neatly on his knee, pauses, looks at it for a moment and then decides the arm of the chair would be better.

Click.

By now you have three blurry photographs of a man who, according to Sir, has been sitting perfectly still the entire time.

You look at the camera.

Sir looks at the camera too.

“Maybe it needs adjusting,” he says.

Ah.

Three photographs in, and already the equipment has been called in for questioning.

The Camera Begins Receiving Unfair Attention

You check the focus and move one of the studio lights slightly. Sir settles back into the chair, gives you a lovely expression and, for one glorious moment, appears ready to cooperate.

“Stay exactly like that,” you say.

You press the button just as an itch appears on his cheek, producing a rather handsome portrait of a man halfway through attending to his face.

So you try again. Sir smooths his jacket. On the next attempt he unbuttons it, then decides buttoned was better and fastens it again. By now you have taken several portraits and somehow documented every small act of personal upkeep Sir performs during an ordinary afternoon.

“Can you sit still for three seconds?”

“I am sitting still,” Sir says, while moving his hand again.

By now, naturally, your attention has wandered away from Sir and toward everything around him. Maybe he is uncomfortable? Maybe the chair is too low?

So, you raise it.

Sir sits down, crosses his ankles, uncrosses them and shifts slightly to the left.

Maybe too high.

You lower it again.

The chair, having done absolutely nothing wrong, is now going through quite a lot... and the photographs are still blurry.

And this is where things become sneaky. Because you are the one holding the camera, it starts to feel perfectly reasonable that the problem might somehow be yours.

Of course. Sir has moved eleven times, but somehow the woman holding the camera is beginning to look guilty.

The Studio Gets Another Chance

Once you start wondering whether you are doing something wrong, other suspects become surprisingly easy to find.

Maybe the room is not helping? The light could be better, Sir might be too close to the window, and frankly the first chair has suffered enough. So the entire session moves into another studio room with better windows, more space and a different chair.

Fresh room, fresh chair, fresh optimism.

Sir sits down, you position him carefully and ask for those famous three seconds. He nods, waits beautifully and then looks down at his sleeve just as you press the button.

On the next attempt he turns his head because he hears something outside. After that, his nose develops an itch. A little later one leg begins bouncing gently up and down while Sir remains completely unaware that his lower half has joined the rebellion.

“Sir.”

“What?”

“The leg.”

He looks down as though meeting it for the first time.

By the end of the session, everyone could use a break. Two rooms, two chairs and a great deal of patience have still failed to produce one reliably sharp portrait, so eventually the camera itself comes under suspicion and you decide to have it checked.

A few days later, however, it comes back perfectly fine.

Excellent news for the camera, which has spent the past few days accused of crimes it did not commit.

A few days later, Sir returns. The camera has been cleared, the room is lovely, the chair is comfortable and, rather sweetly, everybody is willing to believe this may finally be the session where Sir remains still long enough to be photographed.

It is not.

At first Sir settles beautifully, but then, all of a sudden, something small distracts him again, the camera catches the movement and another portrait comes out blurry. After enough attempts like this, the entire photoshoot has somehow come down to one surprisingly difficult request: three uninterrupted seconds of Sir sitting still.

Sir, however, remains quite cheerful about all this. He studies one of the blurry portraits with the thoughtful expression of a man who has contributed generously to the problem and is now ready to help with the diagnosis.

“Maybe the shutter is too slow?”

Goodness.

Now Sir has technical theories.

The Camera Would Like a Word

That little comment brings the whole situation into focus rather better than any of the portraits.

By now the lights have moved, the chair has gone up and down, the session has changed rooms, the camera has been sent away to prove its innocence and you have reconsidered almost everything within reach.

Through all these adjustments, one thing has remained wonderfully consistent: Sir has continued moving.

Yet somehow you are still wondering what else you might change, which is quite a lot to put on one photographer when the gentleman in the chair seems to regard stillness as an interesting idea for somebody else.

And this little habit does not belong only in a photography studio. Sir behaves exactly as Sir behaves, and instead of simply noticing it, you begin making adjustments on your side. Maybe you asked the wrong way, expected too much, should have been more patient, less bothered, more understanding or simply easier about the whole thing?

Maybe another six inches with the chair will save us all?

Meanwhile, Sir is scratching his ear again.

And now the picture is rather hard to miss. You have changed your angle, your timing, your expectations and nearly everything around the man, while Sir has continued exactly as before, making no particular effort to change the very thing that keeps creating the problem.

At some point, you have to admire how many innocent things have been questioned before anyone thinks to look at the gentleman in the chair.

The camera has been checked. The room has been changed. The chair has been raised, lowered and thoroughly inconvenienced.

Sir?

Still moving.

Goodness.

The camera appears to have been innocent all along.