Rebecca Dolan When we reflect on the last 23 years in an attempt to locate just which version of ourselves we would consider the most awkward and insecure, the answer is glaringly obvious. Seventh grade, when we considered oversized BUM sweatshirts haute couture? Sadly, no. Sophomore year, when we chopped our long blond locks into a seriously misinformed pageboy? Close, but no cigar. Our first week of college, when we dropped our lunch tray in front of the entire cafeteria? Doesn't even reach the top five. No, that most special time of life, which included those remnants of a bad perm, that extra padding our mom -- and only our mom -- still called baby fat, and daily relay races to make us genuinely consider the benefits of teen suicide can be summed up in two words: summer camp. So imagine our instantaneous full-body paralysis when we walked down the stairs of the Beth Allison Gallery and into a circle of digitally manipulated versions of our camp counselors. The twelve large, individual portraits show beaming, clear-eyed teenagers in matching orange polo shirts, each framed by a backdrop of lush green trees. To be honest, we still haven't recovered. Thanks for the memories, Rebecca. Through May 28 at the Beth Allison Gallery, 2012 Baltimore, 816-474-5637. (A.F.)