I was nineteen years old in 1968 when I founded the Manchester Craftsmen’s Guild, the tiny neighborhood arts center that grew into Manchester Bidwell. Our first home was a derelict row house on Buena Vista Street in Manchester.

My plan was to use the space as a studio where I could teach neighborhood kids to make bowls and pots. I was a neophyte potter myself at the time, and making pottery was one of the great joys of my life. I liked the way the wet clay felt in my hands. Working with clay calmed me and excited me all at the same time. There was a sense of control, but also one of rich possibility. And there was a potent sense of accomplishment and pride once you developed some skill at it.

A high school art teacher had turned me on to the craft and has been my hero ever since. I was just another aimless kid, coasting through school, bored and disengaged, with no sense of what I’d do with my life after graduation, when Frank Ross invited me into his classroom and let me sit at his potter’s wheel. The magic I felt when I first laid my hands on wet clay gave me the belief that I could do something interesting with my life. It opened up doors to meaning and possibility that showed me, for the first time, that I had talents and capabilities no one had seen before and that I had never dreamed of. I’m convinced that those insights not only gave me a vision of my future, they literally saved my life.

In 1968, Manchester was suffering from the racial strife that rocked so many inner-city neighborhoods in the wake of the assassination
of Martin Luther King Jr. Homes were in flames, riot cops and armed National Guard troops patrolled the streets, there were shootings and frequent clashes between demonstrators and police, and in the middle of it all were a lot of terrified kids, wondering if someone was going to shoot them or set their house on fire.

I wanted to do something for those kids, but I had no experience as a social worker, teacher, or community activist. I was a know-nothing freshman at the University of Pittsburgh at the time, trying my best to keep from flunking out and to get my own life in order. All I knew was clay and what it had done for me. Intuitively, I knew it could do the same for them.

I knew what they needed—a safe, sane, quiet environment where they could escape the madness that reigned in the streets, work on some clay, find a way to shape something personal and beautiful, and spend some time in a bright, clean, nurturing place where it did not seem pointless to dream. With the help of local Episcopalian churches, I was able to secure a ramshackle row house, which I cleaned and painted, then furnished with potter’s wheels and stocked with clay.