I’ve always been obsessed with my family’s old photo albums; they bring back memories so far gone that sometimes I think I’ll never get them back. On a recent visit with my parents, my dad (while looking for some important papers in a tightly-packed drawer) stumbled upon some albums from his own childhood and teenage years. It was the seventies and eighties; the bell-bottoms were nothing short of epic, the plaids were so bad they were good, and the floral-prints were downright groovy.

Where to begin? Look at those pants (second from the left, like you didn’t already notice)!
Then there’s my grandmother and Auntie Ruth in plaid (on the right). Also note my
Uncle Bill’s hair (centre, back) and that awesome shearling coat in the front row.

Here’s my dad’s mum in a poppy-printed dress, belted at the waist. Spring inspiration?

Well, what do we have here? There’s some wicked-cool knee-high socks with what looks
like a school kilt and a leather jacket. Then there’s the mustard yellow tops (far left, far right), and
my dad in double-denim (front and centre). My cousin Adam sports a bonnet and one-piece sleeper.

Dad’s mum again, this time wearing a simple, navy, nautical-themed outfit.

Auntie Ruth, perfectly happy in purple flowers. If I were in that dress, I’d be smiling too.

I don’t have any recollection of the events at which these photos were taken — I hadn’t yet been born. But somehow, looking at these albums, I’d like to think I was there. I’d like to think my personal style grew from all of these people. Because, after all, I knew my parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents before I knew my right shoe from my left.

- Stephanie Fereiro

Looking at my family’s photo albums from the nineties is always a happy hour or two spent each time I visit my parents. So, of course, my Christmas vacation has to start the same way. On one of my first nights home, I curl up with an over-stuffed album, and there’s no turning back.

After seeing dozens of photographs of myself, my parents, my cousins, and my brother, I begin to wonder: Are these trips down Memory Lane a search for nostalgia of a relatively peaceful childhood in a yellow-brick bungalow? Maybe. For memories of events that happened when I was too little to keep track? Perhaps. Or, for my dress phase (which seems to be returning, more than a decade and a half later), the Halloween costumes my mom made for my brother every year, and my multiple multi-coloured-bear-patterned outfits? That sounds more like it.

My fashion choices as a child, or the choices my mother made for me, never cease to amaze me. They fill me with a desire to throw out all that I own now and start fresh, with adult-sized replicas of everything I wore before I hit ten.

Instead, to maintain my bank account and some semblance of sanity, I’ll settle for swooning over these photographs - again, and again, and again…

Here I am, sitting pretty with my grandparents’ stuffed cat on their
“spinny chair,” both of which are still in their house. Look at the dress.
Gorgeous, right? I’m not biased. It’s not me that makes the photo cute…

Here’s me again, on my third birthday, according to the candles on the cake.
Again, I’m wearing a frilly, puffy, little-girl equivalent of a ball gown.

Until recently, I would look at these photos and think nothing of the dresses. Now, I want to know exactly what’s up with the heaps of photos of me in beautiful, fancy dresses. How many formal occasions did I attend at age three? Not many. According to my mom, these designer dresses - handed down by one of her friends’ daughters - were all I would put on for at least a couple years of my life.

Moving on to Halloween, which was apparently a big event at our house. Photos of me in costume are, sadly, hard to come by. My brother, on the other hand, seemed to only wear Halloween costumes in his early years. All three are home-made by our mom; all three make me laugh out loud when I see pictures of them; and all three make it clear that my brother was a great costume model. Check out the poses.

Here, we have a sleepy clown - probably the best and least creepy kind of clown,
and certainly the only kind welcome to sleep on our kitchen table.

It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Superman! The fake muscles tie the whole thing together, and everything else is pretty self-explanatory. I mean… Those muscles aren’t fake!

Last but not least of the best costumes of all time is the lobster. I can’t believe my mom made it! Who’s that off to the right, imitating the lobster pose? Definitely not me.

And finally… The hand-made rainbow-bear-patterned outfits. How many pieces of clothing my mom made for me out of this fabric and why there was such a large supply of it, I have no idea. But, you have to admit, it’s adorable and clearly very flattering.

Here I am, rocking the print in a shorts and t-shirt combo,
complete with a matching red hat, winter boots, and a blank stare.

And look, here I am again, next to a fellow with a killer mullet,
in some pants and a hair-bow of the same material. Thanks, Mom.

What I’ve come to realize by exploring these albums in so much depth over the years is not that the self who I was in the photos is gone, but rather that she shaped my style into what it is today. My love of strange patterns, my appreciation for thoughtful Halloween costumes and my preference for dresses over pants are all results of my childhood wardrobe. An underrated inspiration, perhaps? I think so.

- Stephanie Fereiro

Cary Grant by George Hoyningen-Huene 1934 Vanity Fair,
November 1934 © Condé Nast Publications Inc. / Courtesy Condé Nast Archive

Walking into the Vanity Fair Portraits exhibit at the Royal Ontario Museum is like stepping into a time warp. No one takes photos, all is silent, and people walk around, discussing quietly amongst themselves the lives of celebrities I’m much too young to recognize.

On one side of the maze of rooms, black-and-white images of film stars, writers, artists and dancers line the walls. The photographs are smaller than I anticipated. I recognize few names and even fewer faces.  On the other side, there are much larger, mostly colour portraits of people I’ve seen in movies and on television for my entire life. The contrast is striking.

The first collection of portraits, taken between 1913 and 1936, before Vanity Fair’s mid-life hiatus, contains eerily staged snapshots of the best-known celebrities of the time. In one image, film star Cary Grant, clad in a cardigan and pleated pants, leans against a wall, smiling and gazing towards the camera. It’s easy to see how he captured the hearts of young women in his day like Brad Pitt does today. In another, actor and director Charlie Chaplin sits pretty with a stern stare in a crisp black suit.

With the notable exceptions of Josephine Baker, who poses in a rather tiny dancing outfit, and Douglas Fairbanks Jr and Joan Crawford, who lounge on a beach in swimwear, the vast majority of the Vintage Vanity Fair portrait subjects are fully and immaculately dressed.

Julianne Moore as Ingres’s ‘Grand Odalisque’, New York City,
by Michael Thompson 2000 Vanity Fair, April 2000 © 2000 Michael Thompson

What does this contrast between the vintage and modern portraits say about Vanity Fair? The fact that nudity seems more accepted in the media now more than ever may say nothing but,  to put it quite simply, “times have changed.”

What I do know is that after I look past the most obvious contrasts between the collections - those of size, colour, and photograph quality - it is the difference in dress that catches me. Everything else about the images is the same. Each collection contains portraits of celebrities, politicians and artists who were famous in their day; the subjects of both collections are all posed in ways that are meant to define who they are; and all of the images are well-composed and visually appealing.

But there is one difference that sets the collections apart and breaks the time warp. And that, undoubtedly, is fashion.

Mick Jagger, Madonna and Tony Curtis by Dafydd Jones
1997 Variant pose published in Vanity Fair, June 1997 © Dafydd Jones

Vanity Fair Portraits: Photographs 1913-2008 will be on display on the fourth floor of Toronto’s ROM until January 3, 2009, as part of the museum’s “Season of Celebrity.” A beautiful coffee-table book that showcases all of the images in the collection is available at the ROM store.

- Stephanie Fereiro

I recently flew across the country, paying approximately one arm, one leg, and fifty cents, to visit home. In many ways, I hope that a certain portion of my childhood is preserved in the home in which I grew up, that somehow it remains intact and untouched by change. Driving into my old neighbourhood it’s clear that much has been modified; my old high school is now a strange colour of evergreen rather than the original boring blue, and entirely new streets have been built and named. Even at my parents’ house I notice small things, modern differences, like olive oil hand soap in the bathrooms and shiny new saucepans. These changes are small, but when added together, substantial enough to rattle me.

As a creature of habit, I have a tendency to look through old photographs to restore and affirm the history I have memorized. I find it consoling to return to these small 4X6 records of time, in part because they will never change.

I would love to share with all of you perfect family snapshots and candid moments of picnics and past pets – but alas, I have uncovered some deep and dark secrets about my childhood. The photos I’m about to share with you reveal something so shocking and absurd that all I can do now is shake my head.

Mom, why did you dress us kiddies only in stripes?

Without further ado, the evidence:

Here I am at about 3 years old in my backyard. Sure, I am clearly excited about something (probably the attention of a camera lens), and every piece of my clothing (save for the shoes) is striped. Obviously, I myself have taken the liberty of putting on the hat I’m wearing, hence the asymmetrical hair did. In defense of my mother, I will say that she was trying to teach me my ABC’s through fashion, but this is only the beginning of my case materials.

Same hat, another day, another striped shirt. Sigh. What you see here is the very complicated baby bottle pose where one has to drink the milk with no hands. Not everyone can master this but I was particularly adept. Again, the tee-shirt is actually quite cute, puffed sleeves and all, but what about florals? Or solids? Maybe even an offensive fluorescent? Honourable mentions in this photo go to my bunchy diaper peeking out of my shorts, and the somewhat embarrassing fact that I am much too old to be drinking from a bottle.

Oh look, here I am on another day, this time impossibly even more decked out in striped gear. Honestly, this outfit almost makes me blind with the stripes going in every direction. It’s sort of like when Forrest Gump describes all the types of rain he experienced in Nam. My bangs and pigtails do look awesome, and luckily I didn’t do those myself.

To show some range, here is my brother wearing… you guessed it: stripes. He too is quite excited, as apparently we were all camera hams. Perhaps he was screaming: “MOM, CAN’T YOU DRESS US IN SOMETHING ELSE?!”

This one is of my sister outside our front door. With her blonde hair and twiggy body she almost looks adopted, but it’s not like my brother and I ever told her that… repeatedly. Admittedly, her crop top and matching shorts are adorable, but this does not excuse my mother’s blatant love of godforsaken stripes.

This last one is subtle and almost crept by me unnoticed, but the hard facts are there. Nestled into my mother’s leg I am most certainly wearing a pink and white striped skirt. Busted again, Mom!

Fast forward to the present day, and somehow, mysteriously, I am drawn to striped anything. Could this penchant for parallel lines be indicative of childhood trauma? Unfortunately the evidence is all here; the signs point to yes.

Sure, they say stripes are slimming, but be careful folks – they can engulf your childhood.

-Carmen Vicente