Ten years ago an unknown young man who bed been making animated cartoons of Oswald the Rabbit came to New York from Hollywood to persuade his business associates in this city to help him enlarge his small studio so that he might develop some new ideas. He had no success, and, although his resources were limited, he then and there decided to sever his connections with them and go it alone.
This young man (for he is still young) has just been East again. This time he made the trip to receive honors from two of the nation's most famous institutions of learning for doing what he set out to do a decade ego.
But when Yale and Harvard hung their masters' hoods on the shoulders of Walt Disney they were only confirming the judgment of the entire world as to the importance of his work. Academic degrees add nothing to the charm of the ridiculous rodents, the wily wolf, the playful pup or the diverting dwarfs which rival living actors and actresses in popularity on the screen. Their language is understood everywhere. They are universal, as Tolstoy said true art most be. Yet the man who has instilled new life into the folklore of the world says he knows nothing about art.
"What is art?" said Walt Disney, repeating my question. "How should I know? We are just moving-picture producers." (He always uses "we" in speaking of himself where his work is concerned; he refuses to take all the credit for himself.) "Our aim is to amuse; if we do that, we feel that we have accomplished our purpose and if the public likes what we turn out we just hold our thumbs and consider ourselves lucky."
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