What the Shit Happened to Joyce?

She's known, or was, as Gabrielle and Joyce and Joyce Spaeth and Cherie Pinegar and Joyce Grable (trying to evoke another glamor girl?) and the list probably goes on. Pre-XXX and XX and X publications (mags, books, film), the models used their real names or perhaps a stage name, and the names generally varied by way of adjusted spellings - see Betty Page, Bettie Page, Betty Paige, and even as Gaby. But then the "artist's handbook of models" become "Busty Babe" with not even a wink to the photographer or the possibility that the customer might actually be an artist for art's sake. So a few years after the blowup of pinup and fetish models, straightforward soft- and hardcore glossy-cover magazines saw light. Magazines the size of magazines! The digest day ended. Black-and-white was still in, and today virtually only in fashion magazines, but the use of color photography to really illustrate all the contours, shadows, freckles, moles, stretch marks and hair follicles to the prospective artist began to take hold, and this issue of Parliament's "Busty Babe," volume one number two, is a perfect example. But who is, who was Joyce? For the money, five bucks for nearly 130 sets of breasts and almost half as much cooch, Joyce, a Denver-ite, was one of the shapeliest of the 1970s solo pinups. Maybe she was a pinup on the pegboard toolbox walls of auto shops. Maybe not. I pin her up here. We don't know a lot of the career of this well-endowed half-Native American woman, nor much of what came before and after said career. I have only seen a handful of publications that might possibly have an image or two of Joyce/Gabrielle/Cherie, but this particular Parliament issue has to be her single best contribution to the world of nude photography. Suddenly I ponder the statistic of nude photography preference when presented with professional, well lit but mood-lighting lit studio photography of elegant nude models, and professional, daylight-lit comfort of your own house kind of studio photography of exaggerated porn-star prototypes. A head nod goes to Candy Barr for the legit prototype, though. Fun fact.

Digressing, most of the photographs in this issue are black and white, and many of them show the pocahontas with headband and long dark hair. Thankfully, the producers left out the bow and arrow bit. This is one of the more accessible shots taken of the hot, slender squaw. 

Tan-lines were in, obviously, and the contrast really motivated the soul of the black/white still, and really punched with color photos. Joyce's negative spaces hold true, but somehow stir her aura of Native American mother-type into So-Cal beachcomber. It's the thought that really counts. Joyce knew what she was doing, and she knew what the trends were of the affluent tit and ass models who stop short of hetero-homo coupled photo shoots. She was solosexual. The best ones were. Another Joyce who came a short while later began solo, and gradually went over the fence, and is a good example of the evolution of the solosexual. But why mess with perfection? Make some flatbread, jewelry and shawls, don yer headgear and strip down to the stockings and make a few dollars. Surprising is the method of appearing and disappearing with such haste nude models of the 70s and 80s employ. 

So what happened to you, Joyce? It seems you packed your envoy, your tipi, your clay pots, your pelts, and skipped settlement. You picked some flowers along the way to remember your territory as it was yours to own, and promptly laid to rest any further development of your career, maintained your throne's host and kept your jewels straight. You left the place cozy, and blessed the couch and the foot of the fireplace with your ass and the sky with your boobs, and set a bar for successors to reach, other pocahonti, other Joyces. How could you leave without saying, well...you said enough. More than, perhaps. With a full pair, a bellybutton sometimes AWOL, and perhaps the best legs of your era, cowboys have been spurring their steeds numb. 

The magazine purports to have interviewed the buxom Chippewa, with selected quotes, stating her preferences in the opposite sex, the usual semi-autobiographical "I like men to play with my..." type of responses. Near the tail end of the journey, and indeed the flipping pages became like hunting for the three rings, Joyce says she likes to take care of her man, pamper and even mother them. There's some esoteric fetishism I will not be blogging about. Perhaps her strong Native upbringing on Roosevelt's grass-hewn buffalo prairies instilled within her the Mother of the earth. If Roosevelt had seen Joyce sitting she-style, wrapping a child's braids in agate, horse hair and pipestone, he would have left a few bulls alive. 

What the shit happened to you, Joyce of the Mother Earth? You flew the planet and left your own globes behind. And now too, like buried artifacts from so long ago, specific tools for specific purposes, we find you on our solosexual archaeological dig. Honey, we dig.

*all photos courtesy of my android and a (now) rainy weekend afternoon. If you or someone you know has any information or material regarding the model represented, feel free to contact me.