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

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 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 doughnut now!” he blurts, prompting laughter.

It’s 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, a move, staffing struggles and evolving state policy priorities, Live Yes got what seemed like 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 each week.

“I feel like I can be myself here,” said 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 Live Yes while gaining autonomy they’d long desired? Could they do it in three months?

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

Live Yes opened in 2011 under a Philadelphia-based nonprofit serving adults with developmental disabilities 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, Scholz said. Some participants came from the criminal justice system, while others came from Beatrice, site of the state’s lone residential center for adults with developmental disabilities.

The studio gradually found its footing, even after the parent nonprofit, Resources for Human Development, shuffled its Nebraska group homes to another nonprofit in 2017.

Then COVID-19 forced Live Yes to close. The studio moved to a cheaper building 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.”

But problems in the cheaper building quickly became obvious. The second story — a planned gallery — wasn’t compliant with the Americans with Disabilities Act.

Live Yes landed a $213,000 federal grant to fund some needed improvements.

But in January, staff received an email from RHD. The Philly-based nonprofit was facing a huge deficit. Layoffs 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.

Khan Salmon feeds yarn through a tufting gun with help from Snyder, the staff member and co-executive director alongside Scholz. Salmon confidently explains the basics 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 Yes last year. The studio has given him 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.”

Artists can come up to five days a week. Trained instructors teach classes, balancing instruction and fun.

Many artists become proficient in multiple mediums. They have the ability to sell and profit from their work.

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.

“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 eventually joined the Live Yes 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 they were unaware of the studio’s existence.

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

According to the Department of Health and Human Services, 2,712 Nebraskans were on the wait list as of April 1. Nearly half were receiving some level of service while awaiting more.

Early intervention is a central piece to the plan, which calls for ending the waitlist by October 2025. State leaders say ditching the waitlist will allow them to better deliver baseline services through a person’s life — better than spending years waiting for one-size-fits-all services.

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

But advocates think the state’s plan will make it harder for people with developmental disabilities and their families to get the help they need. They worry Nebraskans will never get the comprehensive services they’ve already been deemed eligible for.

“It isn’t eliminating the wait list — it’s changing eligibility for those services. So you’re not on a wait list, you just don’t qualify,” said Alana Schriver, executive director of Nebraska Association of Service Providers, who has a child with developmental disabilities.

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, then decided to go it 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, retain staff, get approval through Medicaid, raise money to bridge a funding gap and find a new home — all while continuing to operate.

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 nonprofit paperwork. Connie Duncan, a consultant and member of the Lincoln Public Schools Board of Education, helped them do fundraising. Autism Center of Nebraska, a provider that Live Yes considered merging with, showed Snyder and Scholz how to be 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 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 some city permits, Scholz said. They hope to be in the permanent home in September.

“Everyone just wants to see this place succeed …” Scholz said.

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

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

He lays the guitar across his lap and starts plucking strings. He falls into a familiar groove: “Smoke on the Water.”

Soon fellow artist Poynor, himself a guitar player, is standing in the doorway. The two start talking bands, concerts, songs. It’s just another morning at Live Yes.

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