The New York City Ballet Costume Shop

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.

The Rose Building

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

Pete at Work

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 and Pete

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.

Artoo Lincoln

‘Handsome Glen’

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

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.”

Glen and Ronnie

Glen Strangling Ronnie

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.

Richie Greene & the Security Department

Richie Greene, Director of Security

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.

Roll Call

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.

Officer Maclean

Fish

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.

Jean & Leo

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.

‘Jeano’

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

Leo

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!”

On the Clock at Lincoln Center

Movado Clock, Lincoln Center

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.

Lincoln Center Plaza

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.

Detail of Henry Moore Reclining Figure