“I loved the Ninja Turtles,” Dana D’Adamo tells me. “Do you remember the live-action Ninja Turtles growing up? I would look at all their costumes and I would look at their breathable holes, in their armpits and their crotch, like, ‘how did they make that?’”
The accomplished Broadway stylist is talking to me from her home in Brooklyn, New York; she lives in an apartment in a multi-family building owned and occupied by her grandfather.
“He’s an amputee, and he’s also ill—he just got home from the hospital on Monday—and I’ve kind of been his caretaker and he’s been cutting my rent in half. We’ve been really helping each other out. I don’t know how other people make it without family support in New York.”
Whether through family support or her own hard work, Dana’s achieved a lot in her relatively brief time working in theatre—while she’s only been in the world of professional theatre for about four years, she’s worked backstage on more than a handful of Broadway shows and become something of a regular on the crew at Lincoln Center Theater.
She started out, like many theatre people, performing in school plays—but she quickly discovered that she loved helping to create the stage picture more than she loved being in it.
“I was always into art, and I thought I was gonna be in storyboarding—I was really into production development. I loved breaking things down, seeing how many things we needed for a scene, how many people were gonna be there, scheduling locations, things like that.”
Rather than go to college after high school, Dana went straight to Manhattan to attend LIBS.
“That’s the Laboratory Institute for Beauty Science,” she says. “I wanted to do special effects for film—that was my goal. But I didn’t know how to network from the certifications that I got. So right after makeup school I went to hair school at Aveda, got my cosmetology license.”
The plan was to take her certifications and connections and find work in the film industry, but things didn’t go according to plan.
“I got very sick. I needed to be under my father’s health insurance, which meant I had to go back to being a student.”
So she ended up attending college after all, earning a B.A. from Hunter College—majoring in both film/media and religious studies. I ask her how she ended up with that combination.
“It kept my sanity,” she tells me. “The thing is, film is very artistic, but it’s also cutthroat and subjective. Religion was more intuitive, and about oneness versus individuality. Our religion classes weren’t: ‘okay, you’re studying Christianity and here’s what the Bible says.’ It was open to interpretation. And it was comparative religions, it was tribal religions—it was wonderful.”
Once she finished her time at Hunter, having spent a few more years in the academic world than she had originally planned, Dana hit the ground running.
“I started doing a lot of indie film—I worked a lot with NYU. I did NY Film Academy for a little while; I taught their special effects for youth program, and I was also, like, an office manager. For a couple summers. And just a bunch of indie stuff, anything I could get my hands on—at that point I was building a portfolio, so half of it was free, and then half of it was…really poorly made,” she laughs.
It was through her work in indie films that Dana fell back into theatre.
“I met a wonderful person named KeLeen Jean on a project, and she wanted me to swing on The King and I at Lincoln Center. And I’d never done Broadway before, but I always was into theatre in school—high school, middle school—so I was like, ‘yeah, sure, let’s do it!’ Cut to four years later, and here I am.”
Here she is, indeed. Her work on The King and I led to a lot more work on high-profile projects—including the thoughtful political drama Oslo, where she met legendary Broadway hair designer Tom Watson.
“I met Tom Watson—he’s amazing. He took me under his wing, so, as I was doing Oslo, I would also go to the studio and learn how to make wigs. He taught me that—well, him and everybody there at the studio.”
Her new-found wig-making skills would be put to the test when she worked on The Wolves, a play about a girls’ soccer team discovering themselves on the field.
“That wig was very hard,” she says of one piece. “I was putting it in the air—I was like: ‘the reason why I have this wig is that it’s prepping me for SNL—I know it is!’
“It was a shaved head wig. [The actor] wore a regular ponytail curly wig at the beginning, and then in the second act, she shaves her head. So this wig was fully hand-tied—which meant each individual hair in each individual hole—and then was shaved off. The main goal was to get her wig cap to look like flesh, and I had to play with undertones, so I was constantly dying these wig caps in preparation, to make them look like shaved skin—because the wig cap itself was so transparent, you saw everything underneath it. It was one of the hardest things, but one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done.”
I comment about how much work is involved in a single costume piece—how much time and effort goes into crafting a single item when there are countless props, costumes, and set pieces involved in one production.
“It’s a lot more than people think it is, that I will say straight off the bat,” she says.
When asked to detail her experience on the job, she tells me about her process on the national tour of My Fair Lady—the project she was working on when we met.
“I was fourth chair—there’s a supervisor, there’s an assistant supervisor, there’s a third chair and a fourth chair—I was the last to come onboard. We were all in the studio a week or two before tech week, and I was building Shereen [Ahmed]’s wig, and I was building a couple others while the rest of the crew was styling. So we dedicated at least a week or two before tech week.
“Then you run tech week, which is an intense period of ten-hour or twelve-hour days to get the show in order. And at that point, you are doing logistics—logistics on how it works with the costumes and hats, logistics on who’s doing what changes and what actors are assigned to you, logistics on what pathway within the theater you’re taking—because every theater is set up differently. So you have to figure out where you’re going to be, who you’re going to be with, what dressers you’re going to be working in relation to, what pieces they need for their hats, who you’re trading wigs with—because sometimes, even though you’re assigned one actor, you’re going to be changing them for one scene, and then you have to bring their pieces over to someone else [who changes] them on a different side of the theater. So it’s all about the strategy and logistics of how you’re gonna make everything flow.
“Once you settle all that down, things always change—designers want different things, directors want different things. So for previews, you do six shows a week, eight shows a week, but it’s not the same twelve-hour or ten-hour shifts. You’re still restyling, washing, changing around wigs, seeing what fits better, what looks better—it’s a whole adjustment period.
“Finally, when you’re settled, and your actors, you’ve developed this rapport, and they know what they need, and you know what they need, then it becomes easier—so that when opening comes, and things are solidified, you have 6 days a week and you usually [work] about 6 hours. Except for Wednesdays and Saturdays, which are two-show days that are 12 hours, and you get an hour, if you’re lucky, in between—but that all is union based.
“I’ve been blessed to only work in union houses, where they compensate you if you don’t have a certain break, or if you need to do haircuts in between—because it’s not just wigs. If someone needs their hair recolored or someone needs constant trims—facial trims, hair trims—you’re booking that in whatever moment you can book it. So it could be between shows, it could be before a show, it could be after a show.
“The main goal is to keep the continuity. You want to make sure that the silhouette’s the same, the style’s the same, it’s authentic to the period, it’s exactly what the designer wanted—because the designer designs it with a purpose.”
It’s a lot of work, but Dana has a passion for it—and her passion has kept her working consistently since her first day on The King and I…that is, up until this year.
She was working on Moulin Rouge as a swing—substituting for one of the full-time stylists—when she was notified that Broadway would be shutting down due to the COVID-19 pandemic.
“I didn’t anticipate how long this was gonna be,” she tells me. “I was giving the respect and understanding that health comes first; I’m always like that—health does come first. So I was respecting the process of shutting down, like, ‘okay, we can do it for a week or two, whatever.’ But then after it passed the two-week mark, I was like, ‘oh…okay.’ Then after it passed the three-month mark, I was like, ‘all right, so, I’ve gotta figure something out.’”
And she’s been figuring things out—applying both spirituality and entrepreneurship to craft a service that she can provide while not able to work backstage.
“I’ve been studying something called Human Design,” she says. “Human Design is a tool used for people to get in touch with their authenticity. Basically, it shows how you work and what is best for you in your life, what is your purpose, how you’re meant to function in the world, and how to make decisions best for you, based on your energy. So I’ve been studying that, and I’ve been doing a couple of readings—a couple of coaching sessions for people to get in touch with their energy. I’ve also been wrapping crystals for healing—I’m gonna sell them on Broadway Merchant Collective.”
Founded by actor Anne Brummel, The Broadway Merchant Collective is a website that spreads awareness of small businesses created by theatre professionals during the pandemic. It’s a valuable resource for theatre folks to showcase the non-theatre work they’ve been doing, and for people looking to support the community as we all find ways to move forward during a tumultuous year.
In addition to coaching others in Human Design and preparing to sell her wares online, Dana’s been continuing to work with hair—both as a volunteer at New York City shelters and as a way to make ends meet.
“I’ve been doing at-home hair services for people,” she says. “Obviously, I’m very careful—like I said, my grandfather is sick, and I do take care of him. He has immune system issues, and I am also immunocompromised. I have an autoimmune disease called ulcerative colitis, so I get infusions every single month, and they’re a lot of money, and I need insurance.
“I’ve been trying to do side gigs—get onto more film and keep my union work up, because if I don’t keep union work up, I’m out with health insurance.
“To get the union benefits, you have to continuously work on union projects. So whether it’s theatre or film or tv or whatever, that [work] feeds into your benefits—your health insurance, and your pension—but if you don’t have that work available to you, you’re losing out on all of that. You’re not feeding into your pension; you’re not feeding into your healthcare.
“I was lucky to work a certain amount of time [to get coverage for] a year after the pandemic happened, basically. Other people aren’t so lucky.”
While Dana’s luckier than most in regard to the amount of healthcare she had earned prior to the pandemic, her luck—and her healthcare—will run out in March.
“They have to do something,” she says of the federal government. “How do they expect us to go to school, invest in an education—whether it’s private or government funded—put thousands of dollars into that education, and expect us to just go to a different niche?
“What’s an insult to me is: cosmetology school was $16,000; learning about film was $25,000; makeup school was $13,000. So I’m bred for this particular niche, and then you’re telling me I have to go get something else. Meanwhile, I’m lucky enough to not have, like, a mortgage and kids.
“For anybody who’s not in this field, picture being with a company for twenty years and being let go. That’s what it feels like for half of these people. You were dependent on a career—you built a career. It’s not just a job, it’s not people just coming out of college and trying something out—you’ve built a network, you’ve built relationships, you’ve built a name for yourself.
“I was only in the game for four years, and its hurting me so much. Someone who’s been doing theatre for twenty: that’s who they are.
“It feels like we’re being disregarded. The government needs to come up with something that’s applicable to us specifically. And not just New York, but regionally, tours, cruises, things like that—because that is our entire community. So they need to think of something. And it shouldn’t be just a stimulus package; it needs to be an actual plan and policy they put in place for future problems that occur—just for the safety of our network.
“Art is essential. What we do for others, especially now—your Netflix is art, all this media and film you’re digesting is art, and I don’t think people realize that. They’re getting our benefits without us having the benefit of a livelihood right now.”
While Dana’s frustrated with the apparent lack of concern America has for the theatre industry’s current struggles, she finds comfort in her community—and she encourages others to do the same.
“Honestly, it’s people who remind me about who I am and that I’m not alone. And that’s the same thing I’ll say for anybody else: you’re not alone.
“Don’t be afraid to use all the available assets, whether it’s free psychological help through apps or your health insurance, if you still have it. Keep positive energy around you, and likeminded people around you.
“I live with my family and they’re like, ‘oh, its gonna come back—you’re gonna be fine,’ but then I talk to all my artist friends, whether they’re actors, dancers, hair people, and they’re like, ‘no, part of my identity is gone, and you don’t realize that part of who I am is missing.’
“And I’m just gonna say: you’re not alone. Reach out to all your friends for that support.
“That’s what it is. That’s what theatre is. It’s just a family—it has to be a family.” ↓
If you’re making holiday donations, she’d like you to consider Crohn’s & Colitis Foundation and New York City Relief.
And be sure to visit The Broadway Merchant Collective to support theatre artists’ business ventures.
Thanks for reading. See you next time.
