John, Toronto, 1987

“Fashion you can buy, but style you possess. The key to style is learning who you are, which takes years. There’s no how-to road map to style. It’s about self expression and, above all, attitude.” ~Iris Apfel

As a youth of the 60s, I dressed like my peers and idols. Except I arrived in Canada before fashion travelled at the speed of Instagram, so I found myself (wearing the eccentric garb of an English troubadour), standing out like a sore thumb among my Canadian peers. If I was not yet resigned to my new home, I was thrilled to escape the compulsory black blazer and grey slacks of my English high school. But nothing could have prepared me for the conformity of clothing at Caribou Hill Junior High: blue jeans, madras shirt, and brown brogues … those horrible brogues.

The hippy era saw me adopt the dress of faux farmer, whose wardrobe had, perhaps, been dragged through the Dustbowl by a rusty Model T.

Back in civilization, when I wasn’t wearing wool cycling tights and jersey a la Eddy Merckx, I donned the tweed threads of a country gentleman (a persona I still indulge.)

I arrived in Toronto, in 1987, with a couple of eccentrically-tailored sports jackets, somewhat less garish than those worn by the hockey world’s favourite buffoon Don Cherry, whose costumes are apparently sewn from recycled 1980s curtains. My style was somewhat outré, but not offensive.

Certainly it was presentable enough to get through an interview at market research firm Angus Reid, not that the job required sartorial flair as much as a pleasant phone voice.

It was there, less than a month after my arrival, I met another chap holding down a day job, or night job in this case, to further his creative aspirations. Arturo was a young fashion designer hoping to promote his label, Arturo₂.

Despite a few examples in my portfolio from ad and catalogue work in Vancouver, I didn’t consider myself a fashion photographer. Nonetheless, Arturo insisted I had the kind of approach he was looking for. I agreed to photograph his latest work, a military inspired fall collection. I chose a “palette” of grainy, high-ASA film to remind of early colour processes.

Around the same time, I’d managed to secure another position for which my attire was even less relevant: as a janitor at TDF commercial studios. In between sweeping floors and scrubbing toilets, I got to schmooze with the photographers, some of whom candidly let me assist. I also met many of the models who passed through, including John, one of the most promising male models in the city. The image above took pride of place in his book. It also helped get me out of the loo at TDF, to another studio across town, closer to my chosen trade though not entirely out of the bathroom.