Dappled sunlight and quiet thoughts in the garden. In one photograph, she doth appear the very emblem of summer’s untroubled ease—looking as if she is just about to receive a cool draught of lemonade proffered by some courtly admirer. In the next, she is transfigured into a creature far more sumptuous: languid and deeply romantic, her countenance bearing the still and fathomless quality of a Pre-Raphaelite muse. Such was the double enchantment of Nancy Cameron. Hailing from Pittsburgh and ascending to a statuesque five foot and eight, she bore herself with the quiet sureness of someone who knoweth full well she shall be noticed and remembered, yet hath no need to beseech the world for such regard.
Within the informal guild of vintage glamour enthusiasts who wander the dusky passages of the internet, Nancy Cameron occupies a rarefied niche. ’Tis but an anecdotal note of mine own making, but she remains one of the most endlessly revisited of all the 1970s Playmates—a visage and figure that riseth ever anew, passed lovingly from one digital archive to the next. A strange immortality such as only true and yearning nostalgia is wont to confer.
Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook.
