The most humbling style moment of my life happened at my friend Dave’s wedding three years ago. I’d spent actual hours planning my outfit—a navy suit I’d had custom-tailored in a light, breathable wool-linen blend, paired with a subtle pink shirt, a textured tie in a complementary burgundy, and burnished brown monk straps that I’d had resoled specifically for the occasion. I felt fantastic. I looked fantastic. At least that’s what the mirror told me.
Then the wedding photos arrived.
There I was, standing with the groomsmen (I wasn’t one, just grouped in some shots), looking like I’d borrowed someone else’s suit—someone bigger, older, and considerably less stylish than I imagined myself to be. The jacket bunched weirdly across my chest. My tie was slightly askew. My posture resembled a question mark. Next to me stood Craig, Dave’s college roommate, wearing what appeared to be an off-the-rack suit from some department store, nothing special, probably cost a third of what mine did. And yet, somehow, infuriatingly, he looked like he’d stepped out of a damn Tom Ford campaign.
That photo haunted me. Not because I’m vain (okay, I’m a little vain—occupational hazard), but because I couldn’t reconcile the disconnect between how I thought I looked and the photographic evidence to the contrary. I’ve spent my career studying how clothes fit, move, and appear. I can spot a quarter-inch alteration needed on a suit jacket from across a room. Yet somehow, I’d missed something fundamental about how clothes translate to photographs—and by extension, how they actually appear to others in real life.
I became obsessed with understanding this disconnect. I talked to photographers, consulted with stylists who specialize in preparing clients for photo shoots, and even briefly dated a woman who worked retouching images for a major men’s magazine (the relationship didn’t last, but the education was invaluable). What I discovered is that there’s a substantial gap between how clothes look in our imagination or in the mirror and how they register visually to others or on camera. And the guys who consistently look great in photos—whether they’re models, actors, or just that annoyingly photogenic friend—understand this difference intuitively or explicitly.
The most immediate revelation came from posture. In the mirror, I was standing naturally, which for most of us means a slightly rounded spine, relaxed shoulders, and a head that tilts slightly forward (especially in our phone-obsessed era). This looks and feels normal in person. In photos, it looks terrible—tired, unconfident, and adding about 10 pounds and 10 years. The guys who look good in photos are practicing what photographers call the “military stance”—chest up, shoulders back and down, spine straight but not rigid, chin parallel to the floor. It feels exaggerated and awkward when you do it, almost like you’re posing for a presidential portrait. In photos, it looks completely natural and dramatically improves how clothes hang on your frame.
I spent weeks practicing this posture until it became second nature. The change was so noticeable that colleagues started asking if I’d lost weight or been working out more. I hadn’t—I’d just finally recognized that how we stand fundamentally changes how our clothes drape and how our overall appearance registers visually. It’s the single biggest change you can make that costs absolutely nothing.
The second revelation concerned clothing proportions—specifically, how they read in two dimensions versus three. In the mirror (3D), a slightly oversized jacket can look relaxed and comfortable. In photos (2D), that same jacket looks sloppy and ill-fitting. Conversely, what might feel slightly snug in person often photographs as perfectly tailored. This explains why actors and models are often sewn or pinned into clothes that would be uncomfortable for actual movement—they’re optimizing for how the garment will look on camera, not how it feels to wear.
For those of us not being dressed by studio wardrobe departments, this means considering a different standard of fit than what might initially feel comfortable. Most men wear clothes that are too large—not dramatically so, but just enough that they lose definition in photographs. The guys who consistently photograph well tend to wear clothes cut slightly closer to the body than average. Not uncomfortably tight or fashionably skinny, but with less excess fabric than most men default to.
My tailor, Anton, a 67-year-old Ukrainian man who’s been cutting clothes since before I was born, confirmed this when I brought him my photo concerns. “Americans always want comfort first,” he sighed, pinning my jacket more closely to my torso. “But the camera doesn’t see comfort. It sees lines.” He took in my jacket by approximately half an inch through the waist—a change so subtle I barely noticed it when wearing the suit, but one that dramatically improved how it photographed.
Color and pattern present another photography challenge that photogenic guys seem to navigate instinctively. What looks appropriately bold in person often reads as garish on camera. What feels subdued in the mirror can disappear entirely in photos. I’ve had countless experiences where a subtly textured blazer that looks rich and detailed in person becomes a flat, characterless blob in photographs.
The solution lies in understanding how different fabrics and patterns translate visually. Solid colors photograph more reliably than patterns. Texture reads better than flat fabrics, especially in natural light. Small patterns like tiny checks or herringbone often create a moiré effect on camera—that strange, shimmery distortion that makes the fabric look cheap. Larger patterns generally photograph more accurately, as do textured solids like nubby wools, slub silks, and oxford cloths.
After considerable trial and error, I’ve developed something of a hierarchy of photogenic menswear. At the top: textured solid garments in middle tones (navy, medium gray, olive) with visible physical dimension. These consistently look excellent in photos while remaining conservative enough for almost any setting. In the middle tier: larger-scale patterns with clear contrast and simple garments in more saturated colors. At the bottom: micro-patterns, extremely dark colors that lose their detail, and very light colors that tend to blow out under flash photography.
An unexpected insight came from watching how the most photogenic men position their clothing just before being photographed. There’s a subtle adjustment that happens—a quick tug on the jacket to eliminate wrinkles, shoulders rolled back to set the collar properly, shirt cuffs adjusted to show precisely the right amount beyond the jacket sleeve. These micro-adjustments take perhaps three seconds but dramatically improve the final image.
I’ve adopted a pre-photo mental checklist: straighten tie, tug jacket bottom, adjust pocket square, shoulders back, chin up slightly. It felt ridiculous and self-conscious at first, but the photographic results speak for themselves. More importantly, becoming aware of these small adjustments has made me more conscious of how my clothes are sitting throughout the day, improving my real-life appearance as well.
Facial expression represents another area where photogenic men seem to have an innate advantage. The default expression most guys adopt when being photographed—what they think is a neutral face or natural smile—often comes across as strained, uncomfortable, or vaguely threatening. The guys who look consistently good have practiced a relaxed expression that photographs well without appearing forced.
The photographic industry standard is what’s called the “Duchenne smile”—a genuine-looking smile that involves both the mouth and eyes. It’s surprisingly difficult to fake convincingly, but can be achieved by thinking of something genuinely amusing just before the photo is taken. A slightly more subtle variation is what male models often use—a very slight smile with relaxed eyes, chin tilted down marginally to prevent the “looking up nostrils” effect that straight-on shots can create.
I spent an embarrassing amount of time practicing expressions in my phone’s selfie camera before discovering a simple trick: exhale slowly just before the photo is taken. This naturally relaxes facial muscles and prevents the strained expression most of us inadvertently adopt when holding a pose. Combined with the slight smile, this creates a relaxed, confident look that photographs consistently well.
Grooming decisions read differently in photographs than in real life, something that became painfully obvious when I grew a beard two winters ago. What looked appropriately full in my bathroom mirror appeared wildly unkempt in photos, with stray hairs I hadn’t noticed becoming glaringly obvious. Photogenic men understand that cameras pick up details the eye might miss in casual observation, and they groom accordingly.
The same principle applies to hair styling. What works in three dimensions often fails in two. I discovered that my usual side-part hairstyle, which looked perfectly reasonable in person, photographed with an odd flatness on top. A barber explained that adding slightly more volume on top creates dimension that translates better to photographs. Similarly, a bit more product than seems necessary in the mirror often provides just the right amount of definition on camera.
Skin tone represents another photographic challenge, particularly for men who don’t wear makeup (which is to say, most of us). Cameras tend to accentuate any redness, unevenness, or shine. The guys who consistently photograph well have usually addressed this in some way—whether through skincare routines that minimize these issues or through judicious use of products like tinted moisturizer or translucent powder.
I’ve found that a simple mattifying face moisturizer, applied about 20 minutes before I expect to be photographed, makes a noticeable difference without venturing into actual makeup territory. For more important photo opportunities, I’m not too proud to admit I’ve used a translucent blotting powder that eliminates shine without being detectable as makeup.
The most surprising discovery in my quest to understand photogenic men is how much of it comes down to confidence and comfort in front of the camera. Stiffness and discomfort read immediately in photographs, creating an awkwardness that no amount of sartorial perfection can overcome. The most consistently photogenic men have developed a relationship with the camera—they’re not necessarily performing, but they’re aware of being seen and are comfortable with that awareness.
Developing this comfort requires practice, yes, but also a shift in perspective. I’ve found it helpful to think of being photographed not as having an image taken of me, but as communicating visually with whoever will see the photograph. This subtle reframing—from passive subject to active communicator—creates a more engaged expression and posture that photographs markedly better.
After months of experimenting with these principles, I had a chance to test them at another wedding. Same level of care in selecting my outfit, but with new awareness of how it would translate photographically. I chose a suit with slightly more texture, had it altered to fit marginally closer to my body, practiced my posture and expression, and made those crucial micro-adjustments just before photos were taken. The difference was dramatic. I finally looked in photos the way I’d always imagined I looked in real life.
The true value of understanding these principles extends beyond just looking better in wedding photos or social media posts. It’s about recognizing the gap between how we see ourselves and how others see us, then deliberately bridging that gap. The adjustments that make clothes photograph better—proper fit, considered proportions, appropriate scale of pattern—also make them look better in real life, even if we don’t always register that improvement in our mirrors.
This isn’t about vanity (okay, not entirely). It’s about effective visual communication. Like it or not, we are constantly being “photographed” by the people around us—their mental images forming just as permanently as digital ones. Understanding how to present yourself visually is increasingly important in a world that processes information visually more than ever before.
So next time you’re tagged in a group photo and find yourself wincing at the result, remember that the most photogenic men aren’t necessarily the most handsome—they’re the ones who understand how clothing, posture, and small adjustments translate visually. And fortunately for all of us, these are learnable skills rather than genetic gifts. Though I’d still like to have a word with Craig about his unreasonably photogenic presence at that wedding. Some guys just hit the genetic lottery, I guess.