Roger Sewhcomar 3/1/26 Roger Sewhcomar 3/1/26

Percy & the Revson Fountain on Christmas Eve

“We need umbrellas, Percy! It’s a Friends thing!”

Percy exuded such genuine, mellow vibes that we became work friends without even realizing it. He was the kind of guy who could turn a mundane day into something special—thoughtful, always ready to share a smile, and a warm chat.

In December 2019, I had just transitioned from Lincoln Center to The Juilliard School as the Director of Facilities, Operations. My family arrived from England a few days later for a Christmas holiday adventure. On Christmas Eve, we found ourselves in Reynolds Bar on 57th Street, sipping cocktails. I suddenly came up with a brilliant idea —we would recreate the iconic Friends opening credits scene at the Revson Fountain on Josie Robertson Plaza!

After midnight, ten of us skipped through the crisp New York air, filled with giggles and anticipation. But as we reached the fountain, our excitement fizzled out: it was off, and we didn’t have any umbrellas—an essential prop for our masterpiece. I spotted Officer Percy in David Geffen Hall and ran over to tap on the glass, gesturing for him to let me in. With a curious smile, he opened the doors, and I quickly laid out our mission.

“We need umbrellas, Percy! It’s a Friends thing!”

He chuckled, disappeared for a few minutes, and returned armed with a colorful assortment of mismatched umbrellas. My nonplussed nieces glanced at each other, then back at me.

“Um, the fountain’s still off,” one of them pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

With a wink, I pulled out my phone and called the Central Mechanical Plant's overnight engineer. Despite no longer being on Lincoln Center’s payroll, I spun my tale.

“Al, I’m with my family from London, and they’re desperate to see the fountain in all its glory and I was wondering…” He grumbled and scowled, then relented with a knowing, “You owe me one.”

Five minutes later, 577 jets roared to life, spewing 9,000 gallons of water into the night sky. We erupted in astonished delight, laughter echoing against the stunning backdrop of Lincoln Center. My teen nephew, wide-eyed, was convinced I had mob connections.

“Wait, who did you call?” he whispered, half in awe.

He had no idea I used to work at Lincoln Center, so he thought we’d stopped at a random fountain where I made a call—presumably to the Mayor of New York City—to ask a favor that might one day be returned.

His misunderstanding made the night even more special, transforming a simple holiday into a legendary family story. As the water danced in the moonlight to the sound of singing and humming (the Friends theme song, of course), I felt a rush of gratitude—for Officer Percy, for the fountain, and for the magic of New York, weaving us all together under the shimmering lights of the Revson Fountain.

In that moment, I was overwhelmed by a love for Lincoln Center itself. This captivating cultural haven had not only embraced my family’s holiday spirit but had, over nine years, nurtured my own passion for the arts and my deepest sense of belonging.

It was, I realized, the city's beating heart—a place where cherished memories are not just made, but born from the simple act of bringing people together.

**Me with Officer Percy and my sister, Jenny**

Since leaving Lincoln Center in 2019, the composition of the operations team has changed. Many people have moved on or relocated, retired to their native countries, or, sadly, in some cases, passed away. In their place, new employees have taken on their roles, eager to prove themselves. This continuous cycle of change highlights an ongoing reality: the revolving door of institutional upkeep never stops.

This blog stands as a reminder to people and organizations everywhere: the person in uniform who hauls garbage, stands guard, climbs ladders, paints ceilings, replaces bookshelves, and installs faucets is a vital contributor to the public commons. They embody dedication, integrity, and a deep sense of purpose. They are human beings who deserve to be recognized and appreciated.

Roger Sewhcomar 2/21/26 Roger Sewhcomar 2/21/26

SNOW!

“it felt like hearing an air raid siren during the London Blitz.”

When snow was forecast at Lincoln Center, it felt like hearing an air raid siren during the London Blitz. The operations team would scramble into action, gathering in the conference room for a logistics meeting. Quantities of calcium chloride were checked, gas runs for the fleet of snow vehicles were designated, and petty cash was distributed for incidentals. A driving roster was drawn up, shifts were assigned, and calls were made to staff to confirm availability—all while monitoring the storm’s progress. Engineers were instructed to raise the temperature of the Reflecting Pool on the north plaza, where the cleared snow would be dumped to melt away. Rooms at the Empire Hotel were booked for team members that wouldn’t make it home.

The key message was: The Show Must Go On!

Staff without proper gear were given shovels, gloves, snow jackets, pants, and boots. The conference room transformed into a makeshift break room, with the onsite caterer keeping coffee urns piping hot. Lunch for 50 people was pre-ordered but with snowstorms snarling deliveries, we had to pick it up ourselves. Three of us loaded the truck to haul forty bags of food—a task I’d done myself, and it wasn’t fun. Navigating snow mounds, we hauled hot bags of food from the restaurant to the truck, stuffing them into garbage liners and covering them with plastic tarps to keep them dry.

After twelve hours in the elements, the team favored a hot meal from La Caridad 78 on Broadway. A steaming plate of yellow rice, red beans, ropa vieja, with sides of chicharrones and plantains, always got a thumbs up before they headed back into the storm.

Harry, AKA Captain Bligh

Harry began as a porter at the David Koch Theater before moving to Lincoln Center in 2000, eventually becoming Director of Facilities and Maintenance. A proud Moroccan from Tangier and father of two daughters, he had a fierce love of football—we’ve watched many World Cup and Champions League games together. While he still passionately supports Spain and Morocco, I root for England. He’s a die-hard Real Madrid fan; I favor Barcelona, which leads to fun banter.

Before I worked at Lincoln Center, snow in New York was a bone-chilling, wet ordeal for me. Harry noticed my lack of proper gear and took it upon himself to order me a Helly Hansen suit—waterproof pants and a double-insulated jacket with a removable lining. It was a revelation, as were the double-stitched, fur-lined waterproof boots he provided. From that point on, I was never cold or wet again during a snowstorm.

When it snowed, Harry became Captain Bligh on the HMS Bounty, striding across the plaza in his yellow sou'wester and barking commands like he was rounding Cape Horn. He was relentless. After particularly tough phone calls, he'd glance at me over his glasses and ask:

“Roger, tell me something. Am I the crazy one?”

NOTE: One of the most crucial tools was the humble bucket opener. With dozens of pails needing to be opened to supply salt to the spreaders, I often found the team struggling to pry off the stubborn plastic rims with their bare hands, as if trying to crack a safe in the middle of a blizzard. When I asked why they weren’t using a proper opener, they shrugged and said they couldn’t find one. Determined to solve the problem, I bought a box of pail openers, tagged them like prized possessions, and only handed them out only on snow days, keeping a log. Yet during the next storm, I still found team members stubbornly battling the pails with their bare hands, as if the openers were some kind of forbidden technology.

Matthew

Matthew would stand nodding slowly under swirling snowflakes, absorbing the work orders I read out, his brow furrowed in concentration. You could almost hear his brain whirring, processing the information while his eyes remained fixed on the ground.

As plaza supervisor of the day crew at Lincoln Center, Matthew had a challenging role. The snow-covered plaza required his keen oversight of daily routines and special tasks. He tirelessly pursued team members who vanished on unofficial breaks, keeping operations running smoothly amid the winter chaos. Though he scowled when the workload grew heavy, Matthew consistently stepped in, embodying the resilience and leadership needed to maintain order on the plaza.

Santos

Santos was a stout, lively Dominican porter with a purposeful stride. Known for his sharp execution and confident handling of any task, he commanded respect. His bashful smile often surfaced while searching for the right English words—a charming contrast to his determined demeanor.

Behind the wheel of the Kubota snow pusher, Santos was a force of nature, maneuvering through the plaza with choreographed chaos. When the snow melted, he zipped around campus in his Cushman cart, delivering everything from barricades to planters.

Santos loved his homeland and frequently vacationed in Santo Domingo to reconnect with his roots. Whether moving snow or delivering chairs, he brought spirited dedication to every task—a true testament to his work ethic and pride.

Orlando

Orlando, a Puerto Rican from the Bronx, was the day supervisor of the Rose Building, known for his loud and clear communication style that instantly created a strong rapport with his crew. With a commanding presence, he oversaw the cleaning and janitorial requests for the prestigious School of American Ballet and the Juilliard School dorms—spanning the 14th to 29th floors—along with all six floors serving esteemed constituents like the New York City Ballet, Chamber Music, Film Society, Metropolitan Opera, and the bustling ninth-floor offices of Lincoln Center.

When winter blanketed the campus, Orlando took the wheel of the snowplow and tirelessly kept the plaza accessible for his team. He earned a well-deserved promotion to the Facilities Management Department, a testament to his impressive growth and expanding responsibilities.

Saunders AKA “DMX”

The crew affectionately dubbed Saunders "DMX" because of his resemblance to the famed rapper. On snowy days, when Lincoln Center transformed into a winter wonderland, Saunders undertook the formidable task of clearing the Grand Stairs—a monumental challenge consisting of seven broad steps, each five feet wide and stretching nearly the length of a city block. This seemingly never-ending effort required not only physical strength but also a stoic resilience.

As showtime approached on those frigid days, the plaza became a scene of beauty and chaos. Patrons in evening attire slid and stumbled past the Revson fountain, eager to secure their coveted seats. Amid this whirlwind, Saunders remained a steadfast figure, ensuring the Grand Stairs were as safe as possible, all while maintaining a light-hearted spirit.

During the harsh blizzard of 2016, a frail octogenarian bundled in elegant winter attire emerged from a limousine at the foot of the steps. Recognizing that the snow was too treacherous for him, a team member sprang into action, rallying porters, including Saunders. With care, they carried the gentleman across the plaza, impressing the crowds, and set him down at the Metropolitan Opera entrance.

"I didn't want to miss the show," the grateful man said.

As he entered the opera house, he waved his thanks while the team shared a proud moment of camaraderie over their act of kindness.

Roger Sewhcomar 2/15/26 Roger Sewhcomar 2/15/26

Bobby, the Painter and Joe, the Electrician

“We’re at Lincoln Center where we do it properly. Okay?”

Bobby, the Painter

Bobby

When I first met Bobby, I had no idea that engaging with him would be like opening Pandora’s Box of conversation—once it started, there was no turning back. Seasoned staff members took great delight in watching this unsuspecting newbie get caught in Bobby’s charming cul-de-sac of chatter. He was a master of the conversational trap, innocent and inquisitive, tying you up with questions about personal dilemmas or weaving endless stories that magically disappeared into thin air, leaving you wondering how you got there.

I often caught sight of his willowy 90-pound frame, topped with a shock of white hair, pushing his cart around campus in the far distance. By the time I met him, he’d been on the job for 30 years, and his love of talking was no secret. A Vietnam veteran, Bobby proudly shared that his unit had christened him “Walkie Talkie.”

One of Bobby's favorite stories was when he and Denzel Washington became best friends. Denzel was on campus shooting a movie, and Bobby happened to be painting the office next to his holding area. According to Bobby, one day Denzel casually said hi, and from that moment on, they hit it off like a house on fire. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

One infamous incident had become the stuff of legend. Bobby was tasked with painting the sidewalk of the 64th Street drive that led to our offices. He meticulously painted a bright yellow 3-inch strip along the curb and had just finished the area outside our office when a woman from the New York Philharmonic came along and slipped. Unfortunately, she didn’t just slip—she rolled, over and over, along the curb, effectively painting herself bright yellow from head to toe.

Bobby was horrified. In a desperate attempt to fix the situation, he doused her with mineral spirits, hoping to improve her comic appearance. The poor woman stumbled off looking like a police cordon and reeking of kerosene.

Bobby adored his job and showed it through his work. He dedicated most of his working life to painting, leaving his mark—quite literally—on Lincoln Center.

Joe “Sparky”

Joe, the lead electrician at Lincoln Center, managed a team of four, who were tasked with maintaining the entire 16-acre campus. Their toughest job was replacing the in-ground fixtures around Josie Robertson Plaza that had succumbed to weather and rust. This grueling task meant long days on their knees, prying stubborn fixtures from cold concrete in the dead of winter.

Joe had a habit of repeating my name during our conversations. He’d start with a cheerful, “Rahdge, how’s it going, Rahdge? Rahdge, about these LED bulbs for the fountain, Rahdge.” His enthusiasm became a running joke between us. But beneath the banter, Joe’s commitment to his work was unwavering. As the lead electrician, Joe was a great problem solver who took pride in making sure everything was done right, with a sense of accomplishment, whether it was a quick fix or a major installation.

Junior, Josh, and Brian completed the motley Electrical crew who found it hilarious when I asked them to clean up after themselves. I guess my English accent was to blame. I simply said:

“Gents, let’s clean up after ourselves, yes? We’re at Lincoln Center where we do it properly. Okay? Properly. Yes?” They nodded sheepishly.

After that, whenever they saw me, they’d shout across the plaza:

“Rahhdge! Yes, we’re doing it properly!” followed by schoolboy giggles.

Those moments of laughter and camaraderie were as important as the work itself.

Roger Sewhcomar 2/12/26 Roger Sewhcomar 2/12/26

Frank, the Window Cleaner and Timmy

“I left some of the best blackfish I ever caught in your fridge this morning.”

Every weekday morning, Frank, the Window Cleaner, could be spotted around Lincoln Center, his silhouette cutting a distinct figure against the soft dawn light. With his bucket, ladder, and cleaning pole, he moved swiftly across campus with a loping stride.

There was something about his learned schoolteacher appearance and raspy city accent that drew me to him. But what really won me over was his habit of leaving freshly caught fish in my fridge before I even got to work.

One morning, I heard Frank calling my name from across the street. He was waving, a broad grin on his face:

“That blackfish is like sushi!” he hollered.
“What blackfish?” I replied, confused.

Still laughing, he crossed the street and said:

“I left some of the best blackfish I ever caught in your fridge this morning. You were probably still asleep! Those fish like to hide under rocks. You need a lot of patience to find them. Oh boy, they’re sweet. Make tacos! You’ll love them.”

Frank was incredibly generous. He’d be out on his boat off Long Island Sound at 3 a.m., catching, cleaning, gutting, and fileting fish before sunrise. When I arrived at work, I’d find two ziplock bags full of pristine fish waiting for me. I was lucky enough to try his striped bass, fluke, porgy, and of course, blackfish. And Frank was right; the blackfish made the sweetest tacos I’ve ever had.

Timmy

Tim, affectionately known as Timmy, was Lincoln Center’s go-to handyman/plumber. A gentle giant and popular figure around campus, Timmy cruised around in his electric cart, which was stacked with bags of cement, a wet vacuum, slabs of paving stones, tiles, buckets, a blowtorch, and copper pipes. Whether it was fixing an uneven paving stone on the plaza or unclogging a storm drain choked with fall leaves, Timmy was the one who got it done.

Timmy had a bit of Southern charm to his voice and manner. Around Thanksgiving, he was always eager to share tips about how to deep fry an entire turkey. Each time I called him, he answered the phone with his signature greeting:

“Whayou saying Rahdge?”

Timmy’s handiwork wasn’t just limited to Lincoln Center—he has been to my house numerous times, installed new faucets in my bathroom, fixed a leak from the washing machine, replaced the pipe under the kitchen sink, and even repaired the igniter on my gas stove. I’m extremely impatient so I was amazed at his willingness to tinker and figure things out with the help of the internet. I remember being on the verge of telling him to give up on my washing machine until, with a little help from YouTube, he got it working again.

My landlord, Bill, who lives above my apartment in Harlem, also called him Timmy. Bill, being an architect, once asked Timmy to break down a bathroom wall to fix an ancient German faucet rather than upgrade it to a simpler Home Depot fixture. The job took four days and required Timmy to coordinate with me in the basement where the water mains were located.

While Timmy was working upstairs, my wife and I were busy in the kitchen, making steak and ale pies. She handled the crust, I prepared the filling. Timmy had been at it all day so we invited him to join us for dinner. He politely declined, preferring to buy some materials, so I sent him off with a freshly baked pie for the road. About 20 minutes later, I got a call from him. He was stuck in traffic, pie in hand, and asked if my wife was nearby. When I put him on speaker, he said:

“This pie is amazing. The crust is so, so buddery! I started eating it, and the lady bus driver beside me said, ‘Whatchu eating, Sweetie? You look happy!’ I told her, ‘My friend and his wife just made the best steak pie with the budderiest crust I ever tasted.’ She even wanted some!”

We all laughed, delighted at how much Timmy had enjoyed the buttery pie—and at his unique dining experience.

Roger Sewhcomar 2/8/26 Roger Sewhcomar 2/8/26

The Porters

“You want to take a picture with us?”

Lincoln Center porters operated across three shifts—morning, afternoon, and overnight—each overseen by a supervisor who managed the routines and implemented work orders in three key areas:

Concert Halls: David Geffen Hall, Alice Tully Hall, Lincoln Center Theater, Walter Reade Theater, David Rubenstein Atrium, and Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center.
Rose Building: Seven floors of administrative offices and dance studios, four floors of dormitories for the School of American Ballet, and twelve floors of dormitories and residences for The Juilliard School.
Plaza: Damrosch Park, Josie Robertson Plaza, Barclays Grove, Hearst Plaza, Illumination Lawn, the block of 65th Street between Amsterdam and Broadway, Columbus Avenue between 62nd and 66th Streets, 66th Street South from Broadway to The Juilliard School, and five underground parking garages coded by color—red, green, yellow, black, and blue.

In these areas, porters set up and struck outdoor seating, emptied garbage cans, buffed poster cases, operated ride-on sweepers, cleaned and polished offices, lounges, and kitchens, vacuumed and shampooed theaters, polished lobby terrazzo, scrubbed and disinfected bathrooms, handled load-ins and load-outs for special events, and donned black attire to fade into the background while servicing VIP premieres.

The most dreaded task? Fixing a clogged toilet that had become a health hazard. Engineers and plumbers tackled the dirty work, while front-of-house staff held their noses and stood a safe distance away, anxiously watching the clock. Once the clog was cleared, porters armed with buckets, wet vacuums, disinfectant, and air freshener swooped in to clean up the aftermath.

Porters were often called upon for emergency tasks, usually requested at the last minute by panicked constituents who’d overlooked something crucial for an event. Their expectation? That the operations team would drop everything to accommodate their request. As one of my colleagues often said, “Your emergency is not my emergency,” a mantra he frequently cited during tense phone calls. When emergencies did arise, our teams were already knee-deep in scheduled tasks but we always did our best to meet the constituents' needs, skillfully maneuvering the teams to assist. The porters and trades understood the importance of last-minute requests, and their ability to adapt and overcome these challenges only increased their value.

Group Picture

One morning, I strolled into Alice Tully Hall to find the crew in the midst of a large furniture move. I spotted Louis, the supervisor, orchestrating the scene like a maestro guiding his symphony. I was in the habit of taking my camera with me around campus so an idea struck me: I wanted to capture this moment, this team, in a photograph.

“Louis,” I called out, “how about we take a group picture?”

He turned to me with concern. Taking a picture of mere porters was not an everyday occurrence. He pulled me aside, his voice tinged with worry.

“Excuse me, Mister Roger. I’m confused. You want to take a picture with us? What is this for?”

I could see the uncertainty in his eyes, as if he feared some kind of official compliance was at play. I quickly reassured him, explaining that I wanted to document the lives and contributions of Lincoln Center’s operations employees. My goal was to one day share the stories of these hidden champions, the people who keep the heart of Lincoln Center beating.

As I spoke, Louis’s expression softened, his concern melted away and a smile broke across his face. He loved the idea. Turning to the team, he explained my intentions with the enthusiasm of a man who had just discovered he was being celebrated. At first, there was a ripple of confusion among the crew, but it didn’t take long for delight to spread. Their faces lit up, and the team quickly arranged themselves for the photo.

**Left to Right - Mike, Mattis, Derek, *Mister* Whyne, Warlters and Louis.**

I treasure this picture. It’s not just a photo; it’s a portrait of genuine joy, positivity, and character. Each person in the frame exudes a natural unity and pride. Alice Tully Hall’s lobby is a befitting frame for Louis’s wide smile and his outstretched hand, as if he’s inviting us all to acknowledge the true stars of this show—the first chair and principal sections of his own remarkable ensemble.

Mike (kneeling far left)

Mike was sharp, self-assured, and serious—a dependable worker. I met him during an office upgrade in David Geffen Hall, when we needed extra help to move some furniture. From the moment we shook hands, he maintained great eye contact, radiating an energy that clearly said, "You can count on me." And he delivered on that promise every time I needed him. If there were ever a special forces team of porters deployed during an apocalyptic snowstorm, Mike would be the lone survivor.

Mattis (standing top left) and Derek (kneeling right of Mike)

Mattis and Derek worked in the Concert Halls, embodying the qualities of diligent employees who listened and smiled but remained reticent, background players whenever I spoke with their supervisors. They exemplified the honorable yet cautious approach to their work—doing what was required without drawing attention to themselves.

In this picture, however, Mattis and Derek show their true characters.

Mister Whyne

Mister Whyne, the slim man in the white-striped shirt, was a quiet and cordial gentleman who worked in the Concert Halls. He carried himself with the gentle grace and uncommon poise of an English butler—always standing straight and speaking with a soft Jamaican accent. To management, Mister Whyne was as reliable as a Swiss watch. I knew that if I asked him to do anything, it wouldn’t just get done; it would be done properly.

When I joined the operations team in 2013, I noticed he was the only porter everyone called "Mister." Curious, I asked a colleague why. He simply shrugged and said:

“No idea, but when you look at Mister Whyne, he just looks like a Mister, right?”

Louis (far right) was the day crew supervisor in the halls. Charismatic and well-liked, Louis could brighten anyone's day. His popularity was clear when he was voted one of the most helpful and conscientious workers by his peers, earning an award and a hefty check. The cheers that filled the room as he accepted the honor were evidence of this high regard.

Louis’s smile radiated fun, friendship, and warmth. On tough days, if Louis showed up at your desk to help remove boxes or a stray chair, his presence wasn’t just a task completed—it was a welcome break, leaving you feeling lighter and at ease.

Walters (left of Louis) co-supervised the Hall’s crew with Louis. With a strong Jamaican accent and commanding presence, Walters was like an irksome grandparent—tough yet endearing—who held sway over the Lincoln Center West Indian community. Though demanding, he was always genial and polite. The dynamic between Walters and Louis was fascinating—they bickered like an old married couple but remained inseparable. No matter the day's disagreements, they were always side by side, even after hours.

Robin, one of the only female plaza porters, hailed from the Bronx and commanded a strong presence. Her Bronx accent was as bold as her personality, laced with the colorful intonation that came from growing up in the projects. At first, I was a bit wary of her, unsure of what to make of her tough exterior. But that all changed when I saw her greet my boss with a soft kiss on the cheek before giving me a friendly wave. It was then that I realized Robin hid a soft side under that formidable exterior.

Robin's toughness was no myth. One night, when a disturbed man attacked a security guard in the underground concourse, Robin sprang into action. With an umbrella in hand, she wielded it like a nunchuck and chased off the attacker, leaving no doubt about her fearless spirit.

Roger Sewhcomar 2/1/26 Roger Sewhcomar 2/1/26

The New York City Ballet Costume Shop

“As I entered, the workers’ eyes would catch mine then refocus on their tasks, working meticulously to turn abstract ideas into tangible expressions of beauty.”

Nestled away on the 7th floor of the Rose Building at 70 Lincoln Center Plaza, the New York City Ballet costume shop felt like a well-kept secret in the bustling heart of Manhattan. Whenever the shop directors sent requests for maintenance projects, I seized the chance to escape my office in the underground “bunker” below David Geffen Hall.

To reach that enchanting world, I stepped past the Metropolitan Opera stage door, where, down in the staff cafe, Eddie and Francesco crafted the best bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches, perfectly paired with a crispy hash brown nestled on a toasted English muffin. As I made my way toward the Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center, daylight often spilled into the corridor, lighting my way. I liked to pause on the President’s Bridge and snatch a small moment for reflection amidst the chaos. From that elevated perch, I took in the campus views, letting the pulse of the city surround me. Then I’d take the elevator to the 7th floor.

When I first stepped into the NYCB costume shop, it felt like I had discovered a hidden realm steeped in hushed focus and quiet dedication, its only sounds the rhythmic hum of Singer sewing machines and the soft rustle of drapery. As I entered, the workers’ eyes would catch mine then refocus on their tasks, working meticulously to turn abstract ideas into tangible expressions of beauty.

Costume Shop Directors Mark and Jason would approach me with playful grins, their arms crossed in front of their chests, reminiscent of mischievous schoolboys summoned to the headmaster's office. Much like other constituents in the building, they often hesitated to voice their specific requests, whether it was for new clothing racks or adjustments to the pulley systems they used to manage their costumes.

During these meetings, whenever I spoke, my English accent raised eyebrows. Many of the women would smirk and mumble in Russian to one another while smiling in my direction.

Stepping into the Costume Shop felt like being granted a backstage pass to the ballet's secret heart. Principal garments were tagged and personalized with notes on dimensions, size, weight capacity, and fitting dates. I was lucky to witness the process—the sketching, cutting, and sewing that transforms fabric into a dancer's second skin. It was a stark reminder that the illusion of effortless art on stage always begins in a room of meticulous, beautiful work.

Roger Sewhcomar 1/25/26 Roger Sewhcomar 1/25/26

The Rose Building

“The clanging of a fire bell echoed ominously, followed by frantic shouts, before a door ten feet to my left swung open…”

After securing a distribution deal for my feature film, in 2013, I applied for and landed the full-time position of Facility Manager at the David Rubenstein Atrium. I was ecstatic—this was a life-changing moment. Not only had the freelance world become challenging and often unrewarding, this opportunity marked my first real full-time job in the U.S., complete with health insurance and great perks.

A few months into my role at the Atrium, the Senior Director of Operations invited me to join the main team, expanding my responsibilities. This transition required moving from the Atrium to an underground office at 146 West 65th Street. My new duties involved assisting management with the daily operations of several prominent venues, including David Geffen Hall, Alice Tully Hall, The David Rubenstein Atrium, the Rose Building, Lincoln Center Theater, the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, the Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center, Lincoln Ristorante, WNET Studios, 140 W. 65th Street, and three engineering plants.

Pete Hoey, Chief Engineer

While being introduced to the trade crews, I was sent to meet the Chief Engineer of the Rose building, Pete Hoey. Pete’s domain, the Rose engineering plant, was located three floors below street level and accessed via a dimly lit, soot-ridden tunnel that spiraled down an eerie parking garage. With a nervous frown, I approached the entrance and pressed the doorbell. The clanging of a fire bell echoed ominously, followed by frantic shouts, before a door ten feet to my left swung open and Pete appeared.

On what he affectionately dubbed our five bob tour, Pete guided me through the labyrinth of the engineering plant, a place alive with the cacophonous sounds of machinery. Together, we navigated enormous fan rooms, climbed tiny ship ladders, and treaded carefully across catwalks sixty feet above the iconic stages of Lincoln Center—each step a mix of thrill and trepidation.

Pete’s intelligent and curious demeanor radiated kindness. He took a genuine interest in my background, quickly discovering our shared love for football. He proudly declared himself a lifelong Liverpool fan and, with a laugh tinged by empathy, he acknowledged my allegiance to Arsenal. The rivalry sparked an instant camaraderie between us.

With an endearing softness around his midsection, Pete's wide-faced Irish grin reminded me of a softer James Gandolfini. Yet behind that friendly smile lay a depth of resilience and wisdom from years of experience, making him a reliable ally and mentor in the fast-paced world of Lincoln Center.

Pete became one of the closest friends I made, his sincere demeanor and big belly laughter bringing warmth to an often challenging environment.

Glen, Chief Engineer

Glen, Pete’s second-in-command, took the reins as the Chief Engineer upon Pete’s retirement, stepping into the role with equal parts enthusiasm and charm. Our relationship was spirited and boisterous, marked by playful banter.

With a wink, Glen often mocked my management skills, pointing out every little fault with a flourish that was as entertaining as it was educational. In return, I couldn’t resist teasing him for his undeniable good looks and nicknamed him Handsome Glen, joking that he should be the poster boy for Lincoln Center.

I grew to look forward to our spirited conversations which were full of banter. Each time I called the Rose engineer plant, Glen would answer, his trademark fervor booming through the receiver, drowning out the machinery noise around him:

“Rahdgaahh! What the hell do you want!?

Without missing a beat, I’d reply:

“To speak to da most handsomest engineer at Lincoln Center!”

This routine, filled with laughter and camaraderie, cemented our unique bond.

Little Ronnie

I met ‘Little’ Ronnie during a routine plant inspection in the Rose Building. When I mentioned that my wife was away at the National Veterans Memorial and Museum, Ronnie paused, gazing into the distance.

“I’m a Vietnam vet,” he said. “One thing I’ll never forget was that awful smell—like charred meat.”

Ronnie described the jungle, where his feet were perpetually damp, and shared grim, admiring tales of his Australian counterparts:

“They were hardcore!” he exclaimed, eyes lighting up. “They made necklaces with the ears of their victims and wore them with pride.”

Ronnie called them Orsies instead of Aussies, in a softer pronunciation, the way a child would say horsies.

Roger Sewhcomar 1/19/26 Roger Sewhcomar 1/19/26

Richie Greene & the Security Department

“Do you have a Green Card?”

One afternoon, while I was tucked away in the cramped office at the David Rubenstein Atrium, the door swung open abruptly, and in walked Richie Greene, clad in a form-fitting, dark two-tone suit, trailed by two high-ranking security officers. I had no idea who he was, but his entrance was marked by a barrage of profanities—“f**k this and motherf**k that!” As he caught the sound of my English accent, he quipped:

“Do you have a Green Card?” And just like that, he was gone, leaving a whirlwind of energy in his wake.

Moments later, Jean strolled in, a smile spreading across his face.

“Who was that guy?” I asked, still taken aback.
“Ah, that’s Witchie Gweene,” Jean chuckled. “He’s the director of security. He likes to cuss!”

Richie took the lead role of all VIP and high-profile events. I watched him coordinate with the FBI during the visit of the Chinese ambassador, handling everything with aplomb, grace and efficiency.

I got to know Richie better after I relocated to the main operations building. His office was just down the hall from mine. With a background shaped by service in Vietnam and time spent as a front-line operative on the NYPD’s SWAT team, Richie quickly became not only a good friend but also a reliable drinking companion.

Remarkably, his colorful language seemed to vanish whenever I visited Lincoln Center for an evening out with my wife. On those occasions, Richie and the LCPA team made it a point to ensure our nights were nothing short of special.

Lincoln Center Security

Every morning at 8:00 AM sharp, the security team squeezed into the conference room at 146 West 65th Street. This cramped bunker, with its unforgiving metal chairs and blasts of arctic air from the oversized AC, became the daily hub for the energy of old-school West Indians, sharp-witted Black Americans, seasoned Italian Americans, stoic Latinos, proud Africans, and a spirited Greek.

Amid this group was Officer Maclean, one of the few women in the security ranks. She was a beacon of positivity and treasured by her colleagues for her affable nature. Whenever I saw her, she’d flash a smile, and with a heartfelt tap to her chest, say:

“Make sure you have a blessed day.” It was a simple greeting, but it had a way of leaving me with lasting warmth.

Sergeant Harry Fisher, better known as Fish, was an imposing figure—well over six feet tall and almost as broad. Despite his formidable size, he had a genial, jolly demeanor, though he took his job seriously. Fish worked the early morning shift, so when I arrived at 7:00 AM, I often found him outside my office, making photocopies for the daily briefing, his deep sighs echoing through the hallway. There was something about him that reminded me of John Candy’s character in Uncle Buck—a blend of humor and quiet pathos.

One day, our human resources department announced a Harry Potter-themed competition, inviting staff to name the perfect campus location for an entrance to a secret wizard hollow. The prize was a pair of tickets to the premiere of the next Harry Potter movie. A week later, it was revealed that Sergeant Harry Fisher had won. The next day, I ran into Fish and congratulated him on his victory. With a wide grin, he confessed, “I love Harry Potter; I’m a huge fan. My wife and I even had a Harry Potter-themed wedding!”

**Security Officer Dalmineras** (center)

After joining the main operations team in 2013, I made it my mission to walk the campus daily, checking for areas in need of care. Every time I entered David Geffen Hall, Officer Dalmineras would glance at me, then look away. The other guards were always quick to nod, fist bump, or share a bit of gossip, so Dalmineras’s cold shoulder threw me. After a month of constant silence, I caught myself thinking, “If he’s not going to say hello, neither will I!”

Eventually, I decided to stop acting like a ten-year-old and asked a colleague about him. That’s when I learned Dalmineras was Greek. Now, Greece isn’t just a country to me—it’s a love affair. I dream of moving to Crete, spending weekends in Athens, and feasting on grilled fish in Kos every day. I’ve been vacationing there since my twenties, and it’s never disappointed me.

Armed with this new knowledge, the next time I entered David Geffen Hall, I walked right up to Dalmineras and extended my hand. He gave me a blank stare and a half-hearted handshake.

“You’re Greek?” I asked.
“Yeah, who told you that?”
“I love Greece. I’m headed there this summer.”
“You do? You are?”

I produced my phone and showed him pictures of the apartment I’d rented for two weeks in Kos. As he scrolled through, his face lit up.

“Kos is in Greece?”
“It’s one of the islands.”

I found out that Dalmineras was a Hell's Kitchen native who had never set foot in Greece but from that day on, things changed. When I walked into David Geffen Hall, I’d get a shy smile, a firm handshake, and an eager chat about all things Greek. I’d share stories about my travels and even introduced him to my favorite childhood book, My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell, which inspired the PBS series The Durrells in Corfu.

Roger Sewhcomar 1/13/26 Roger Sewhcomar 1/13/26

Jean & Leo

"You should have swapped queens, you’re going to lose this game."

Jean was the porter at the David Rubenstein Atrium and the first person I met at Lincoln Center when I started my journey there in 2010. By then, he had already dedicated fourteen years to the Atrium, following four years in the parking garage beneath Josie Robertson Plaza. With his deep knowledge of the campus, Jean quickly became my personal encyclopedia.

Born in Haiti, Jean was an enthusiastic fan of Brazilian football and reminisced about playing on the weekends with the local Haitians in Long Island (until their games got too competitive). He was popular among staff, known for running the American football sweepstakes each season. On Fridays, breathless colleagues often sought him out to settle dues for the weekly pot.

One day, while engrossed in a game of chess on my phone, Jean approached, looking surprised.

"Do you play?" I asked.
"Of course," he replied with a grin.

His peers affectionately called him "Jean with the big brain," and he lived up to the title. Jean often helped me with intricate event planning at the Atrium, and after accepting his chess challenge, he developed a habit of wandering over while we were mid-game to casually point out:

"You should have swapped queens, you’re going to lose this game."

And every time he made a prediction, he was right.

Jean spoke with a gentle Haitian accent, pronouncing Rs as Ws—my name, Roger, became Wudger. His keen sense of humor often peeked through in a chuckle that escaped when something amused him. He drove to work from Long Island daily and was almost always on time. He projected an unmistakable contentment with his role as the Atrium porter—something I envied as I struggled to settle into one role. I believe Jean will remain at Lincoln Center until retirement.

When I shared my project with him, he nodded his approval.

Security Officer Leo Distefano

I met Leo while working on the Visitor Services desk at the David Rubenstein Atrium in August 2010. He sat behind me monitoring security. He was a very large man who didn't speak at all for the first few days. I didn’t realize that he was a shy gentle giant with a slight stutter until I asked him what he had for breakfast one morning.

“For…for…breakfast?” He repeated. I nodded.
“For breakfast? I had a…a oatmeal and a…a coffee.”

He spoke with a Bowery boy accent, deep and melodic. There was an innocence to his response and he maintained an expression that was on the verge of smiling or waiting to be surprised whenever we spoke.

Leo repeated any word or question that I put to him, like he’d heard them for the first time. When he realized that I was from England he asked about the Queen. With a glint in my eye, I told him that she liked bacon for breakfast and loved Corgis.

“Corgis?”
“Yes, she owns lots of Corgis.”
“Corgis?”
“Yes.”
“What the hell is a Corgi?”

After we stopped laughing, I showed him an online image of the Queen with her Corgis and told him that she was very fond of them.

We became pals and spent our downtime discussing kale (he caught me eating a kale salad one day), and life in England. After seeing a trailer for the film Despicable Me, I told Leo that he reminded me of Gru from the movie. Before I left the Atrium to work across the street at the main Lincoln Center campus, I printed a picture of the Queen and her Corgis alongside Gru. I gave it to Leo and said: “Whenever you look at this picture you will think of me.”

After that, anytime I saw him on campus our conversations went something like this:

“Heyyyy Rahhhdge! You still eating kale?”
“Yep Leo, I’m still eating kale.”
“How’s the…the Queen?”
“She’s great, she sends her love.”
“How’s those Cor…Cor…Corgis?”
“They send their love too!”

Roger Sewhcomar 1/11/26 Roger Sewhcomar 1/11/26

On the Clock at Lincoln Center

“These anonymous workers have never stood in the spotlight, received a round of applause, caught a bouquet of flowers…”

This blog is a selection of my photos, anecdotes, and character sketches that portray some of the dedicated employees I was privileged to work with from 2010-2019.

As a manager, filmmaker, and storyteller, I felt it was my duty to document and dignify some of the people I came to know, their jobs, and their unique lives - On the Clock at Lincoln Center.

My Road to Lincoln Center

In May 2000, I left my home in London for a new home in New York City, driven by a dream to make a feature film that would launch my career as a writer and director. Drawn to stories of underdogs and unsung heroes, I wanted to be the voice of the unheard.

By July 2010, after working on countless independent films, I needed a job to cover my rent while fundraising for a feature film that I would direct. Lincoln Center suddenly came to mind, and on a whim, I checked their job openings. I found a position that seemed perfect: Facility Assistant/Visitor’s Service Representative, 20 hours a week. I applied on a Monday and to my surprise received a call the very next day—Lincoln Center wanted to interview me.

In August 2010, I began working at Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. What started as a part-time job quickly evolved. Over the next nine years, I moved through various roles: Facility Manager, Senior Manager of Operations & Facility Services, and Assistant Director of Operations & Facilities. By December 2019, I became the Director of Facilities, Operations at The Juilliard School, a premier performing arts academy and a Lincoln Center constituent.

During my fourteen years at Lincoln Center’s 16-acre campus, I forged meaningful friendships, cultivated relationships, and developed a love for the community, especially within the facilities and operations teams.

At Lincoln Center, the Metropolitan Opera, New York Philharmonic, New York City Ballet, Chamber Music Society, The Juilliard School, The David Rubenstein Atrium, and Lincoln Center Summer Stages put on an estimated 1500 performances per year for over 5 million visitors. Behind the scenes, before, during, and after these performances, a secret army of shadow workers—electricians, carpenters, security guards, porters, cleaners, custodians, maids, engineers, and painters—prepare, maintain, and clean up, often long after the last curtain call.

This dedicated group scours countless toilet bowls, replaces thousands of light bulbs, catches and disposes of stubborn pests, squeegees hundreds of panes of glass, makes snow magically disappear, keeps the Revson Fountain spouting like clockwork, and deters drunk students from diving into it. They remove the hair brushes that clog toilets in Juilliard dormitories, provide School of American Ballet students with air purifiers, repaint concert halls, replace hand sanitizers, disinfect doorknobs, and work overnight shifts and on public holidays to scrub and mop classrooms, dance studios, and restaurants, and handle all the unglamorous tasks that maintain the standard of excellence required of the world's leading performing arts center. These efforts are largely invisible to and unrecognized by the patrons focused on the stage, but their purpose is to provide those patrons with a splendid night of entertainment at world-class facilities.

**Revson Fountain and Metropolitan Opera**

For some operations employees at Lincoln Center, this may be the only job they hold in the United States. Many are immigrants of color, adjusting to life in a new country where English is not their first language. Some of these dedicated individuals work multiple jobs to support their families. These anonymous workers have never stood in the spotlight, received a round of applause, caught a bouquet of flowers, or been asked for an autograph, yet after their shifts they return home with a sense of fulfillment, satisfied to have completed their tasks and eager to return the next day to do it all over again.

Paul Milstein Reflecting Pool and Henry Moore *Reclining Figure*

Their decades of unwavering commitment have forged personal legacies of exceptional service at Lincoln Center, an institution that embodies a welcoming community for those devoted to its mission. These silent pillars are the backbone of the performing arts, blending resilience with dignity as they ensure the Lincoln Center campus runs smoothly. They are often unseen but always essential.