More Blondes

Georg Baselitz, More Blondes, 1975

It came down to Baselitz, Dame Elizabeth Fink, and Allen Jones. I consulted Joshua, who’s never met the man in his life, and he gave me his feedback: Goggle Head by the Dame was too obvious – it’s a bronze cast of a bald man with gold goggles, Man Woman by Allen Jones was too Jungle Fever-ish, but Baselitz, well, he’s just right. “There’s your sweaty mess,” he said, and the title, More Blondes, couldn’t be better for a man who choreographs a class called “Abs, Butt, Thighs” to the tune of top 40 beats.

Location: Third Floor of Reily Gym. Tulane University. New Orleans, Louisiana.

Exchange: I’ve been going to ABT for months now, and while Joe knows most of the regulars by name, I’ve yet to grow some balls and introduce myself. This trend is pretty typical for me; rather than buddy up to my most favored and admired teachers, I’ve always avoided them. Except when I haven’t. One minute, I’m perfectly normal, and the next minute, I’m analyzing how much eye contact is too much eye contact, how much personal information is convivial and how much is over sharing, I’m planning my exit strategy, and I’m saying stupid shit like, “this class is so cool” and “well, oopsy-daisy, would you look at the time!” to fill awkward pauses in conversation. Smooth. So today I have a plan. I’ve pre-selected the Arty Calling Card. I’ve written on the back: “Dear Joe the ABT Sculptor and Slayer, You’re my teaching and exercising superhero! Thanks, Ellie. P.S. I wrote about you and your class in my blog! Check it out.” I’ll swoop in, say something like, “Here you go! It’s my last day, and I just wanted to say thanks. I really enjoyed your classes,” and then I’ll swoop out. In short, I will not be growing a set of balls today or any day soon.

Characterization: This rock-solid, bald-headed black man whips spoiled-rotten sorority sisters and other masochistic pear-shaped femmes into a sweaty mess Monday through Thursday at the Tulane University gym. He does not tolerate chit chat, cell phones, or tardiness, and he holds our sweaty sneakers in the palm of his hand. Patron saint to the firm of thigh and voice, this man is my personal superhero.