Article by Liz Langley

Full-on glamour -- it's good for the soul

By Liz Langley

She can be reached at 407-650-6398 llangley@orlandosentinel.com

When I was about 9, my Aunt Eva, who smoked out of a carved ivory cigarette holder and wore a peridot ring the size of a lizard egg, sent me birthday money. This gift, I decided, was meant to be lavished on something momentous: metallic gold sandals trimmed with a rainbow of plastic gems. My mother, who never wore anything brighter than Keds, cast her eyes upward and begged me to save the $10 for college.

I wore the shoes with nail polish that was so pink you could hear it and asked to be called Sylvia, which I thought was very sophisticated. My mother intimated that I should move to Miami and learn to play mah-jongg with the other retirees. Her and her Keds . . . what did she know about glamour?

My Day-Glo, skin-tight, leopard-print tastes never changed, but my self-image eventually did. I fell into that painful self- consciousness that ruins many teenage years; at 15, I decided to be a writer mainly because -- this is true -- you could do it alone. Writers were free to look like something that hadn't been in the kiln long enough, and who would care or even know? Nobody. I didn't see Kurt Vonnegut winning any beauty contests.

Funny, though . . . however you hide it, your real self will tunnel out, sometimes with the showmanship of the thing that killed John Hurt in Alien. When I hid behind writing, the voice I wrote in became sexy, flirtatious and unconfined, a voice that wore gold shoes and red lipstick. My inner flirt found her way out. Your real self always does.

Cheesecake vs. Cheez Whiz

Time got me past the self-consciousness, but I never quit the girlish enchantment with glam. And the archetype of glam is the pinup girl.

Pinups radiate the joy of sex, self-possession and above all, playfulness. They were models who seemed happy, as if they had consumed something besides cocaine and cigarettes that day. These coquettes were more like real women: soft, confident and approachable, cheesecake compared with fat-free cheese-food product that's part of these harsh-and-bony times.

So when Sheree Sunkin asked me to be one, what could I say? Sheree is the volunteer coordinator for Orlando Museum of Art's 1st Thursdays; she asked me to be a strolling model for the recent show "Pin-Ups: The Women Who Kept Our Men Fighting," a tribute to the eye candy of the World War II era. Some writers get Pulitzers; not many are asked to appear in public in their underwear. Take that, Stephen King.

I said "Yes!", hung up and thought "Oh my God. What did I just agree to?"

There is a story about a bill sent to Esquire magazine for touch- ups and alterations done on a cover shot of Michelle Pfeiffer. The photo was captioned: "What Michelle Pfeiffer needs. . . is absolutely nothing."

If Michelle Pfeiffer needed altering in a picture, what chance did I stand live? There was no way of being worked on for a few weeks by whoever restores things like the Acropolis. Before doing any actual refurbishing, I called Miss Sammy and asked her to do the show with me. A brilliant hostess and performer, plus a local and personal treasure, I couldn't imagine a pinup show without her: She was made for it. Besides, her presence would relax me as much as a couple of cocktails. Sammy has a gift for making people happy, and a happy pinup is a sexy pinup.

A nighty and a camera

Tottering around a stranger-filled museum wearing a red negligee might sound like a dream you tell your shrink, but I was happier than a Kobe cow, posing, smiling and being grabbed for photo ops like a Disney character without the big head (well, the fiberglass head). I wore stilettos so pointy you could spearfish for small, sluggish house pets in them. Miss Sammy (perfect in an army jacket and heels only) had transformed me into Liz Taylor, circa 1960, and my friend Barry, who worked with that legendary actress, approved of the facsimile. Meditation, feh. The road to bliss is paved with wigs and satin.

I was happy with my look. But my eyes became kaleidoscopic when a friend showed me her pinup portrait as done by artist Iman Woods (imanphotography.com). This girl is already pretty, but under Iman's lens and paintbrush, she became dazzling: the very image of mischievous beauty that defines pinup.

"We've all had too many bad photographs," Iman says. "I'm out to change that . . . one person at a time."

To that end Iman will make you a pinup, or you can bring friends and make it a pinup party. She'll consult with you beforehand, coordinate outfits from your own wardrobe and provide a professional stylist. After this, with her detailed blend of photography and painting, viola! You're a heartbreaker. People see themselves too harshly, Iman says: She wants them to see themselves as beautifully as she sees them.

However you do it, ladies, I'd recommend a turn as a pinup, or as I like to think of it, getting re-vamped. So often we're mired in practicality we forget how much fun it is to play, to flirt, to be full-on gorgeous. I know: It's what's on the inside that counts. But would it really be so bad to occasionally put some lights on the front door?