In classic CEO fashion, Strickland typically conceives such ideas, works his vast web of business and government contacts to secure funding, then turns the project over to his staff. Removed from day-to-day operations, he spends much of his time on the road, delivering his PowerPoint raps and forging alliances. When Strickland does happen to be in town, however, he is quietly but distinctly present. His modest office sits in the middle of the brick building, much in the way that a principal's office sits at the heart of a public school. And, like a good principal, Strickland displays an uncanny knack for appearing at decisive moments to greet a visitor, consult with a staffer, or speak to a student. He seems to inhabit his building as comfortably as he does his own body.
My way of working is sort of stream of consciousness. Today I'm going to be spending time in the studio throwing pots, tonight I'll be giving a black-tie dinner for sponsors and escorting them to our concert, and tomorrow morning I'll probably be emptying the trash. Every moment is important. And everybody here comes at what they're doing from a slightly different angle. But no matter their angle, people stick here because it's a hopeful place. Most people just don't get treated anywhere else the way they get treated at Manchester Bidwell.
"Improvisation is my guiding philosophy. Dancing back and forth between public and private, arts and jobs, right brain and left brain. Corporate executives love this place, but sculptors and singers dig it too."
Last night I was talking to David Baker, leader of the Smithsonian jazz orchestra. He comes up to me and says, How did you figure all this out, Bill? I told him, I think like you, David -- like a jazz musician. Improvisation is my guiding philosophy. Dancing back and forth between public and private, arts and jobs, right brain and left brain. Corporate executives love this place, but sculptors and singers dig it too.
"It's not just that Bill overcomes obstacles," reflects Rep. Melissa Hart, a U.S. congresswoman from Pennsylvania who hopes to sponsor a bill that will fund Manchester Bidwell's expansion into other cities. "It's more like he just refuses to recognize them. That greenhouse, for instance. Ten years ago he and I stood together in this grimy, bombed-out industrial area, and Bill was saying, This is where we're going to have the irrigation system, and this is going to be the computerized control room, and we're going to sell our orchids at Giant Eagle. I said, 'Sure, uh-huh, Bill.' But he actually saw that greenhouse standing in that bombed-out field. He was absolutely convinced that it was a done deal. And today, of course, Bill has his greenhouse."
The MacArthur Foundation, in short, did not bestow on Strickland a genius grant by accident. (He used part of the $295,000 award to establish a college fund for his two daughters. Strickland lives in a modest house not far from where he grew up, drives a late-model VW Beetle, and takes an annual salary of $125,000.) And yet, day to day, Manchester Bidwell displays a quality almost as rare, and perhaps as valuable, as genius. The center functions. It feels cut to a healthy human scale, like a solid public school, or the Manchester neighborhood that once unassumingly thrived right here.
Bill Strickland aimed to become a man like his teacher, Frank Ross, and in 1965, as he graduated from David B. Oliver High School, there still seemed to be a clear path to that end. Strickland's SAT scores were lacking, but with Ross's help, he was able to win a scholarship to the University of Pittsburgh and matriculate on a provisional basis. (In one of Strickland's choice PowerPoint set pieces, he informs his audience that he overcame his lack of academic pedigree to become a dean's list student. In fact, he now serves on Pitt's board, and in 2002 he delivered the university's commencement address to a crowd of 18,000. Strickland received an honorary degree at the ceremony. The other person honored that day happened to be head of the Educational Testing Service, which administers the SAT.)
By this time, Strickland had developed into an accomplished potter. He liked to work fast, bright, and big. He was more of a craftsman than a fine artist, however, and didn't think he was talented enough to pursue ceramics as a profession. So he majored in history, thinking he'd become a high school social studies teacher. It was not a path to wealth or fame, but to a productive, balanced life like the one modeled by Frank Ross.
But as Strickland attended college, Pittsburgh and the world underwent a fundamental shift. The new expressway severed the heart of Manchester, and white flight and shuttered mills bled the formerly vibrant neighborhood. The stores on the North Shore boarded up and the rumble in the streets got louder. When he was still in high school, Strickland had traveled to Georgia one summer with the Freedom Riders to work on voter registration. He had met Julian Bond and other leaders of the movement. Back up in Pittsburgh, Strickland joined a youth group sponsored by the American Friends Service Committee.
"That was a great experience," Strickland recalls. "There were kids from all different races and economic classes. We used to get together and stay up all night in church basements talking about politics and philosophy. My senior year in high school I was hanging out with that group, and learning about art and jazz and life from Frank Ross, and studying Shakespeare and Dickens with this terrific English teacher. I was just sailing. But my friends at Oliver High School thought I came from another planet."
