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New York Post
25-04-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Post
I tried out for the Rockettes on a reality TV show as a teen
I was 17 years old, wearing nothing but a black leotard, nude tights and an intolerable pair of 2-inch heeled Capezio character shoes as a camera crew followed my anxiety-ridden peers and me in the rehearsal hall of Radio City Music Hall. How did I end up here? Considering it was my — and my mother's — dream to be a Radio City Rockette, I signed up to audition for 'The Rockette Summer Intensive' almost 15 years ago. It was a demanding, weeklong, boot camp-like program where eager young women danced their hearts out, praying they would stand out enough to possibly be offered the opportunity of a lifetime — a coveted spot on the world-famous kickline. 6 Fabiana Buontempo featured on 'The Rockette Summer Intensive' show. MSG Varsity TV Advertisement The same year I signed up to audition for the intensive with hundreds of other girls — which has since been replaced by two other summer programs and operates differently — MSG Network was piloting a cable reality TV-type show featuring 10 slightly naive, aspiring Rockettes. To be considered for the show, I submitted a janky video of myself performing with my New Jersey high school dance team, and much to my surprise, I was selected for what would become a life-changing experience — but not for the reason you'd expect. The crew followed me and the nine other local tri-state area girls around, 'Real Housewives'-style, as we performed what felt like 1,000 kicks to film the opening credits of the show at an empty Radio City in the wee morning hours. Advertisement I didn't realize it at the time, but watching it now, the magic of reality-produced drama was apparent. They honed in on one girl's injury, which resulted in her terribly messing up her audition. Another castmate revealed to the cameras that she irresponsibly went to a concert the night before the audition and was running on empty fumes — which led viewers to believe she was going to blow her chances of nailing her audition. 6 Like many young dancers, Buontempo grew up idolizing the Rockettes. Courtesy Fabiana Buontempo And of course, when it came to me, the cameras made sure to zoom in on my panicked face in that audition room — fortunately for the crew, I looked genuinely petrified the entire time. Advertisement I was pulled aside to do green-screen confessionals, all while trying to get through the audition process without crying — or throwing up — from both exhaustion and nerves. I didn't actually throw up, but I was close to it. 6 The many kicks done on audition day. Buontempo is fourth from the right. Courtesy Fabiana Buontempo I remember being a ball of nerves and anxiety, wondering how I got myself into this situation. Advertisement When it was time to open my acceptance — or rejection — email to the program, it was in front of a film crew in my parents' kitchen. My camera-averse mom was so nervous for me that she sneakily filled up a glass of wine to chug in our laundry room at 3 p.m. on a Wednesday. She admitted it to me after the fact, and my family still laughs about it to this day. I got accepted and I was relieved, excited and apprehensive knowing that this journey had just begun. 6 'We were a group of high school girls desperately trying to get noticed by both the cameras and the program's director,' Buontempo (left) writes. Courtesy Fabiana Buontempo The day of auditions was only a small glimpse into what the weeklong program was going to entail — and that was a bit terrifying. I knew I was a good dancer, but never considered myself to be amazing, like some of the other girls who had the same dreams as me. Looking back now, I may have been typecast as the 'rookie with potential' — but at the time, I was just relieved that I didn't have to read a rejection email to a camera. Every day was an exhausting six-hour day of training — something real Rockettes are accustomed to — full of intense warm-ups followed by drilling Christmas routines dozens of times and, of course, hundreds of kicks. 6 We rehearsed for six hours a day and then there was even more drilling at home. Courtesy Fabiana Buontempo Advertisement Afterward at home, more drilling. I was so anxious that I wouldn't remember the routines. I'd wake up every morning limping around, trying to get my tights on. This program was one of the hardest things I ever did, both mentally and physically — maybe still to this day, but especially at 17. The scariest part of all of this was that everything was documented for TV, at a time when Facebook was barely a thing and no one was utilizing their camera phones to their full potential. 6 At the end of the weeklong program, we performed a few numbers from the Christmas Spectacular for friends and family. Courtesy Fabiana Buontempo Admittedly, every day that week, I tried brainstorming an injury I could fake to excuse myself from the program early. Not because I wasn't enjoying it or that it wasn't worthwhile — but because I was an insecure teen who doubted herself. Advertisement It didn't help when the pros leading the intensive revealed on camera my biggest insecurities about my technique as a dancer for the world to see — that's enough to traumatize a teen. I remember them saying that some of my moves weren't sharp enough or that I had to work on my skills. We were a group of high school girls desperately trying to get noticed by both the cameras and the program's director — a recipe for cattiness, as one could imagine. I remember asking one of the girls a question about a routine we were learning and she only talked to me when the cameras were rolling. This gave me a taste of both reality TV and the world of dance — and I didn't care for either. I was in a room among so many incredibly talented dancers who would give their left kidney to be a Rockette — yet I was more fascinated with the operations of the TV show than anything else. I loved the workings of the cameras and being on-screen — all of the pre- and postproduction work excited me. Advertisement The show was an incredible experience for many reasons, but mainly because it helped me decide what I wanted to do with my life — and what I wanted to leave behind. At the time, I thought I would chase the dream of becoming a Rockette or professional dancer throughout my adulthood, but this experience helped me realize that I wanted to work in media — something I would've never known if it wasn't for that TV exposure as a teen. While I didn't become a Rockette, rather than fall down in life like the Parade of the Wooden Soldiers dance, I kicked my way to my own Spectacular.
Yahoo
22-04-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
Capezio sold after more than a century of family ownership
This story was originally published on Fashion Dive. To receive daily news and insights, subscribe to our free daily Fashion Dive newsletter. Dancewear brand Capezio has been acquired by private equity firm Argand Partners, according to a press release Monday. Financial terms weren't disclosed. The Terlizzi and Giacoio family have owned Capezio since its founding in 1887. Under the deal with Argand, several family members, including CEO Michael Terlizzi, will remain invested in the company, per the release. Argand plans to develop new product lines and establish licensing agreements. In the release, the firm said this strategy can maintain the family legacy while also modernizing the brand 'to achieve long-term growth.' Capezio designs and manufactures footwear, apparel and accessories for dancers and athletes. The Totowa, New Jersey-based company's customer base is primarily in North America and has a growing presence in Europe, Australia, Brazil and Asia, per the release. The acquisition marks a change in Argand's portfolio, whose other holdings include carpet manufacturer Brintons, water systems company Oase and keyboard manufacturer Cherry. Argand said it typically buys niche market leaders based in the U.S. in the manufacturing, distribution and business services industries. Capezio is Argand's first foray into the fashion sector. Capezio started as a shoe repair shop near the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. It eventually became the official shoe maker for the opera house, specializing in ballet pointe shoes. The brand entered the fashion mainstream in the 1940s, when department stores such as Lord & Taylor and Neiman Marcus began purchasing and promoting some of its jazz and tap shoe styles as fashion footwear. Since the 1980s, the brand's shoes, leotards, dance tights and leg warmers have become popular with celebrities including Taylor Swift, Lady Gaga and Beyoncé. Sign in to access your portfolio
New York Times
15-02-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
Man-Child Learns to Dress Like a Man
I changed my entire look shortly after turning 1, graduating from onesies to jeans, T-shirts and sneakers. No one at the time imagined it would be my final fashion evolution. But I am now 53 years old, which is an age, historically speaking, when people are dead. And I still dress like a child. I do not dress more immaturely than the other 53-year-old men I know. If anything, I dress better, by which I mean that my sweatshirts mostly lack hoods and my T-shirts mostly have no messages on them. But I have seen images of men in previous centuries, and their reaction to my daily outfits would be a pitying glance and a donation of spare change. This look has served me well enough. So well that I never thought to question it until recently, when I saw Ted Danson in his new Netflix series, 'A Man on the Inside.' For the first time in my adult life I thought, 'I need to dress like him.' Mr. Danson, who plays a retired architecture professor named Charles on the show, was not suiting up for a corporate meeting or a wedding. I knew how to do that. He was dressed for anywhere. His outfits — deep-hued windowpane-pattern jackets worn with sweaters, collared shirts, pocket squares, ties — were five percent dandy and 100 percent classic. They radiated a breezy confidence that said, 'I'm a human who does not need a ride to the mall.' My 15-year-old son, Laszlo, who also loved this show about retirees, agreed that I should dress like Ted Danson as Charles. 'I feel embarrassed when you pick me up from school. But also confused. Who would do this to himself?' Laszlo said when I made the mistake of asking him about my clothes. I emailed Kirston Mann, the costume designer for 'A Man on the Inside,' and asked if she would take me shopping for a Ted Danson glow-up. She suggested, to my horror, that we meet at the mall. The mall is where I spent my New Jersey middle school years, buying parachute pants and Capezio shoes. I thought we would be going to a tailor or a haberdasher or a suitor. I did not know all the adult clothing terms. But I knew that none of them were 'mall.' Kirston admitted that the mall was not her first choice. But for expediency, options and the fact that her favorite men's vintage shop, Crowley, was 3,000 miles away in Dumbo, Brooklyn, we needed to compromise on Westfield Century City in Los Angeles. As I walked through the mall to meet Kirston, I noticed that not one man looked like how I wanted to look, or even how he wanted to look. We had all put on whatever was comfortable, nondescript and cheap. I wore a blue 'drinking hoodie,' equipped with a bottle-opener zipper and beer koozie pocket; socks that said 'I hate meetings' (a Christmas gift from my mother-in-law); and gray cotton chinos I had paid $25 for at H&M. I instantly liked the bouncy, enthusiastic Kirston, although she is a liar. She said upon meeting me that I was 'nicely dressed.' When I asked her to defend this perjury, she said, 'You're comfortable in your look.' While technically true, upon pressing, Kirston delivered a proper assessment, calling my look 'casual L.A. dad.' Each of those words is unsophisticated alone and devastating when strung together. Kirston wore YMC jeans, loafers from The Row, a red shirt from Everlane and a tan jacket from Marni. This outfit, it turned out, was selected to get me to mimic her style. When she shops with actors, she not only invents a back story for each piece of clothing ('Your character's wife got you this for Christmas'), but also wears items that would work on their characters. Our first stop was Buck Mason, where Kirston suggested a dark navy herdsman shawl cardigan ($298) and tan chinos ($158). 'You can just upgrade your look,' Kirston suggested, which I immediately rejected. She had me slip on a $498 black corduroy jacket, but it still was not Charles enough. 'You don't want to feel like you're in a costume,' she warned. Yes, I assured her, I did. I wanted to wear the costume of a grown-up man. We stopped next door at J. Crew, where she suggested I look at some less crucial items for a reasonable price, such as a blue button-down. But before we committed, she wanted to take me to Ralph Lauren. It's where, along with Ted Baker and Paul Smith, she and Ted Danson bought a lot of his character's clothes. Immediately, the store felt right. It's less a store than an adulthood theme park, where, within a few steps, I could go from dining with Graydon Carter to horseback riding with Graydon Carter to teaching a literature class with Graydon Carter. In the more formal, more expensive, Purple Label section of the store, Kirston picked up a gray-blue blazer and light gray flannel pants that she said she would buy for Ted Danson. But when I put them on, she said I looked like a 'P.E. teacher at graduation.' I am four inches shorter than Ted Danson, my eyes not as blue, my skin not as pale, my hair not as Samuel Beckett-y, my face not as handsome. Ted Danson was a man who looked good even when hosting his podcast. Perhaps a brown Kent hand-tailored herringbone jacket with elbow patches would be right? Kirston steered me away from that, too. 'I don't think you're elbow patch yet,' she said. Same with tweed: 'You need a few more gray hairs. Remember, you're more than 20 years younger than Ted.' Looking like an adult, I was starting to fear, might mean becoming an adult. Still, I had spent decades working on this: assembling a wine cellar; reading all the Robert Caro books; amassing a traditional I.R.A., a Roth I.R.A. and a SEP I.R.A. In my belly-of-the-beast moment, the one in which Ted Danson would lift a single index finger to summon his inner resources, the assistant manager Sean Lamping entered the changing room. Unlike at most stores, which kick you out for taking photos, at Ralph Lauren, they usher you into a two-room changing area with a desk, suitcases and other props. Mr. Lamping also brought a tray with glasses of sparkling water, which is exactly how I suspected adults shopped. I spent more on half a Ralph Lauren outfit than I had collectively spent on clothing over the last five years: $1,458.53. I bought light gray flannel pants, which I've coveted for 20 years after seeing a photo of Jackson Pollock wearing them with a white T-shirt (on sale for $554 because they've been discontinued); a brown corduroy jacket ($698); and an $80 patterned burgundy tie. I would later add a white checkered shirt, a blue-and-red checked pocket square and brown Bass Weejun loafers. My pants, a bit too tight in the bum in that P.E. teacher way, were adjusted a week later on the set by the show's tailor. I emailed my before-and-after photos to Ted Danson, who had not asked to see them. 'Nice choices!' he wrote. 'Maybe a gray sweater vest next time, or the ever-classic leather patches on the jacket elbows.' Ted Danson is right. I should have gotten that herringbone jacket. But that would not have quite worked either. What I really wanted when I used the word 'adult' was what Ralph Lauren had always sold: nostalgia. At 53, I have stopped mourning my youth, instead mourning a younger world. I had frolicked in the last patches of midcentury Ivy, typing newsmagazine articles in the Time & Life Building in Rockefeller Center, expensing lunches with people who were not looking at their phones, arguing with Republicans about whether ketchup was a vegetable. I am a man on the outside. I need to accept the world as it is. But at least I can look good doing it.
