A Lincoln studio helps artists with developmental disabilities find their voice. It was almost shuttered.

Joey Dowding sits at the ceramics wheel on a Wednesday morning in June. He’s sporting a flower-print apron and a hesitant look directed at the hunk of brown clay before him. 

“Faster,” instructor Samantha Weiland says reassuringly as Dowding eases his foot on the wheel’s pedal. She guides his hands around the spinning clay. Dowding’s classmates chime in with encouragement. 

“See, you’re telling it who’s boss,” Weiland says. 

Dowding, now laser focused, unintentionally presses a finger through the clay. “It’s a donut now!” he blurts, prompting a chorus of laughter.

It’s just another morning at Lincoln’s Live Yes Studios, a nonprofit art studio and service provider for adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities. It’s the sort of morning that nearly became a thing of the past.

After surviving a pandemic, several moves, staffing challenges and evolving state policy priorities, Live Yes received what seemed a death sentence earlier this year. Its parent organization was shutting down programs across the country. Live Yes would cease to exist after June 30. 

No more painting or ceramics. No more screen printing or podcast production. No more music or woodwork. No more time together for the 30 artists who spend time at Live Yes any given week. The loss seemed impossible to quantify.

“I feel like I can be myself here,” said artist Khan Salmon in early June at the studio. “I don’t have to hide.”

Faced with the closure, staff members Natasha Scholz and Micah Snyder saw an opportunity. Could they preserve the Live Yes “family” and gain the autonomy they’d long desired? And could they do it in four months?

As spring turned to summer, the nondescript brick building on the outskirts of downtown Lincoln slowly started to empty out. Live Yes had to be out by the end of the month.

‘A lot of tears’

Live Yes opened in 2011 under a Philadelphia-based nonprofit serving adults with developmental disabilities. That parent nonprofit, Resources for Human Development, eventually built a presence in 13 states including Nebraska. 

It operated Nebraska group homes as well as two art studios – Live Yes in Lincoln and Valiant Studios in Omaha.

In the early days, Live Yes served as more landing spot than destination, said Scholz, who started that first year as an intern. Some participants came from the criminal justice system. Others came from the state’s lone residential center for adults with developmental disabilities in Beatrice.

But the studio gradually found its footing, even after RHD shuffled its Nebraska group homes to another nonprofit in 2017.

Stability gave way to uncertainty when COVID-19 forced Live Yes to close. The studio moved to a cheaper building near Q Street and North Antelope Valley Parkway before gradually reopening starting in November 2020.

“I think it was just joy,” Snyder said of the dozen artists who returned immediately. “Like everyone was just jacked to be back.”

The pandemic provided a reset. But deficiencies in the 64-year-old building quickly became apparent. The second story – a planned gallery – wasn’t compliant with the Americans with Disabilities Act.

Live Yes landed a $213,000 American Rescue Plan Act grant to fund some needed building improvements. 

Then in January, staff received an email from RHD. The Philly-based nonprofit was facing an unexpected seven-figure deficit, Scholz recounted. Layoffs targeting administrative positions would begin in February. 

Though Live Yes initially seemed safe, the forecast gradually grew more grim, culminating in a phone call on Feb. 28. Live Yes would close after June 30. 

“There was definitely a lot of tears …” Scholz said.

‘It’s very unique’

Khan Salmon feeds yarn through a tufting gun with help from Snyder, the staff member who is now the co-executive director alongside Scholz. Salmon confidently explains the technical aspects of tufting, essentially large-scale needle point that uses a gun and yarn rather than needle and thread. He then resumes work on a giant paw print – a gift for his mother.

“Good job, Khan … a pro in the making,” says fellow artist Dakota Poynor.

“I’d say I’m already a pro,” Salmon responds. 

Between turns with the tufting gun, Salmon, who is autistic, says he was  depressed and unemployed before he came to Live Year a year ago. The studio has given him so much, he says: confidence, happiness, friendship and new skills.

“This place is like the greatest,” he says. “It treats us like people, not things to make money off of.”

While other Nebraska organizations serving adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities incorporate the arts, Live Yes may be the only one centered in the arts with a vocational component, said Alana Schriver, executive director of Nebraska Association of Service Providers.

“It’s very unique in that it’s the main focus,” she said.

Artists can come up to five days a week. Trained instructors teach classes, striking a balance between instruction and fun. Many artists become proficient in multiple mediums. 

And they have the ability to sell their work, with most of the money going to the artist.

The artwork is what first drew in longtime Lincoln-based artist Craig Roper, who hadn’t heard of Live Yes until being invited to a studio visit two years ago. 

“When I saw the place and discovered what they were doing, I was just kind of floored. … The art world can be pretentious, but this was just so down to earth and honest,” he said.

Roper joined the Live Yes advisory board and eventually its board of directors. He’s become an evangelist for the organization, routinely bringing in community members for tours. Most, Roper said, tend to have the same reaction he did – admiration for the art and artists, and shock at being utterly unaware of the studio’s existence.

Challenging time for providers

In March, Gov. Jim Pillen announced the state was ending its waitlist for developmentally disabled individuals seeking comprehensive services but unable to get them due to limited funding. The state has maintained such a list for decades, despite repeated attempts to bring it to zero.

According to the Department of Health and Human Services, 2,712 Nebraskans were on the waitlist as of April 1. About 44% of them were receiving some level of service while waiting for more comprehensive services.

Early intervention is a central piece to the plan, which calls for ending the waitlist by October 2025. State leaders argue that by ditching the waitlist in favor of an individualized approach, they can better deliver baseline services through the course or a person’s life – an improvement over spending years waiting for one-size-fits-all services.

“Eliminating the waitlist will ensure families and participants have the individualized services they need to be supported and thrive,” a DHHS spokesperson said. 

But advocates worry the state’s plan will make it harder for people with developmental disabilities and their families to get the level of service they need.

They view a needs assessment that the state plans to conduct as a way to prevent Nebraskans from receiving the comprehensive services they’ve already been deemed eligible for. 

“It isn’t eliminating the waitlist – it’s changing eligibility for those services. So you’re not on a waitlist, you just don’t qualify,” said the Nebraska Association of Service Providers’ Schriver, who has a child with developmental disabilities. “To say that’s eliminating the waitlist is really a manipulation of the public.”

That’s not the only issue raising concern among providers. 

On Monday DHHS announced it was pausing implementation of new billing verification requirements for certain providers. The requirements, which DHHS said are federally mandated and intended to prevent fraud, spurred an injunction filing from the Nebraska Association of Service Providers, which argues they’re overly restrictive and could lead to people with disabilities losing services.

DHHS said the pause will help ensure a smooth transition.

New day

Scholz and Snyder knew what they needed to do the moment the Feb. 28 phone call ended. Live Yes could not close, they agreed. They wouldn’t let it. 

“I think Micah and I both decided no matter what, we’ve got to figure out how to stay open. … This community can’t lose this place,” Scholz said.

March was a blur of meetings. They explored merging with an existing service provider. Ultimately they chose to go out on their own. 

“We’ve talked about running the place for so long,” Scholz recalled. “This is kind of our chance.”

In a few short months, they would need to become a standalone nonprofit, keep the staff on board, get approval through Medicaid, raise money to bridge the inevitable funding gap and find a new home – all while continuing to operate through June 30.

Roper, the board member, helped them find a new location. He connected them with Adam Morfeld, an attorney and former state lawmaker, who helped them with the nonprofit paperwork. That led to a connection with Connie Duncan, an independent consultant and member of the Lincoln Public Schools Board of Education, who helped them fundraise. Autism Center of Nebraska, one of the providers that Live Yes considered merging with, showed Snyder and Scholz the ropes of being a standalone service provider.

“It was really kind of crazy how it happened, but everything just kind of lined up,” Snyder said.

By the time July arrived, Live Yes was christening a new space near M and 11th streets in downtown. Eventually they’ll move into a different suite in the same building – a space designed just for Live Yes. Property owner Speedway is waiting on approval of some city permits, Scholz said. They hope to be in the permanent home in September.  

“I genuinely don’t know if we could have done it without every person that surrounds this program,” she said.

“Everyone just wants to see this place succeed …” she added.

It was easy to see why on that Wednesday morning in June.

After making his bowl-turned-donut in ceramics, Joey Dowding shuffles down the hall to a small room with a drum kit and other instruments, including the guitar he has owned since 2003 – “my baby,” he says. 

With the black and white instrument laying across his lap, he starts plucking strings and moving his thumb around the neck. He falls into a familiar guitar groove: “Smoke on the Water.” Soon fellow artist Poynor, himself a guitar player with a rockstar haircut, is standing in the doorway. The two start talking bands, concerts, songs. It’s just another morning at Live Yes.