My romance with Bunny Yeager

In June of 2013, life swept me into making a set of portraits of Bunny Yeager. I didn’t know who she was and I found that Bunny Yeager was a celebrated pin-up model turned pin-up photographer… the woman who once posed and later commanded the camera, capturing legends like Bettie Page in the 1950s, and daring enough to rival Playboy’s male photographers at their own game. Suddenly, my assignment wasn’t just another job—it felt like stepping into a playful, glamorous chapter of history, with a dash of romance hidden in the shadows of her story.

I arrived at the rendezvous dressed to the nines, hair in perfect order. Even my cameras were spotless and smelling faintly of cologne—because, as I told myself, “there’s no second chance for a first impression.” A lady must be dazzled from the very first glance. I knocked gently, and from the other side came a playful voice: “Come in, it’s open.” My heart skipped—suddenly this felt less like a photo assignment and more like the opening scene of a romantic comedy where the heroine steals the show before I even see her face.

Bunny Yeager was 84 years old at the time of our first (and only) “date.” With a mischievous grin, I asked, “Would you pose nude for me?”—hoping to catch her off guard and maybe coax out a daring “yes.” But she, clearly far sharper than me, shot back without missing a beat: “Only if you pose nude for me.” I felt the blood rush to my cheeks—too old, too bashful, too unprepared for such a duel. So, retreating into the only defense I had, I raised my Leica R5 and began photographing her… fully dressed, while she laughed with the sparkle of someone who had already won the game.

Yeager carried an intriguing blend of elegance, charm, and delicacy. Yet behind it all there was that sharp gaze, an inquisitive look paired with a razor-keen mind. How much had those eyes witnessed? She spoke to me while I photographed her, and though I was the one supposedly in control of the session, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was the one leading me.

“Look, Bunny—this is how I looked when I was your age, the same age you were when you first picked up a camera,” I said, proudly showing her a photo of my faraway youth, hoping to impress her.

She studied it with a sly sparkle and replied, “You looked very handsome… but I’m not sure you would have convinced me to pose for you.”

And with that playful wink, I realized my charms were hopelessly ineffective against hers!

This is the photo I showed Bunny Yeager. I was 25 years old then, convinced I was the king of the world.

She quickly pointed to a photo hanging on the wall. “That was me at 25—what do you think?” she asked, with that playful spark in her eyes.

After 37 sweet minutes of listening to her honeyed voice and watching her through the safe little frame of my viewfinder (my shield against the fluster she caused), the session came to an end with a most surprising declaration from Bunny: “Well, I live in North Miami. Stop by and visit me, and in the light of my windows I’ll decide whether or not to photograph you.”

It felt less like an invitation and more like the opening line of a new chapter in a romance I hadn’t dared to imagine… But life, as it so often does, swept me down other paths—toward new distractions, fresh temptations. A year later, Bunny Yeager left this world, and with her departure came that unmistakable ache: the hollow feeling of knowing you could have done something… but never did.