When Walt Disney Met Leonardo da Vinci
Walt Disney:
Hi Leonardo—I heard you like to draw. Tell me more about the reasons you like to draw.
Leonardo da Vinci:
Ah, my friend Walt, what a wonderful question. You know, my love of drawing began not in a palace or studio, but in the rolling hills and gentle light of the Tuscan countryside. As a boy in Vinci, I had no formal schooling—just the world around me, which I observed with an insatiable curiosity. I would sit by streams, staring at how water curved around stones, how dragonflies hovered like miniature machines. I drew what I saw—plants, animals, the shapes of clouds, the way shadows shifted on bark. My sketchbook was my constant companion, though in truth, anything that could hold charcoal became a canvas.
I saw in drawing a way to understand creation. When I copied the curl of a fern or the twist of a horse's muscle, I felt as though I were peering into nature's private journal. Later, when I apprenticed in Florence under the master Verrocchio, I refined my skills—learning not only to draw but to imagine: to envision inventions, anatomical structures, even flying machines. Drawing became both a tool for study and a gateway to invention. My career, such as it was, followed my pencil. Patrons might have paid me for paintings or engineering plans, but it was drawing that fed my soul.
Now, dear Walt, I've spoken much. What of you? Why do you like to draw?
Walt Disney:
It's funny, Leonardo—I think you and I started from the same root: curiosity. I was a kid growing up in Missouri, and some of my earliest memories are from my uncle's farm. It was full of animals—pigs, chickens, horses—and I'd sit for hours just watching them. I wasn't trying to make art. I was just trying to capture what they felt like. The twitch of a cow's ear, the wobble of a duck, the goofy joy of a dog running at full speed. Drawing them made me feel connected to them—and gave me a way to share that feeling with others.
Later, I'd sneak away from chores to doodle. I didn't have a studio—I had scraps of paper and a burning need to create. In high school, I took night classes in cartooning and eventually worked at an ad agency. My first "real" job in animation involved a borrowed camera and a garage. It was rough, but I loved every minute. I realized that drawing didn't have to stay flat on the page—it could move, dance, talk. That's when it clicked: I could tell stories with drawings. Stories that made people laugh, cry, believe in magic.
So like you, I turned my hobby into a career. For you, sketching dissected the world. For me, it stitched worlds together. Drawing led me to build an entire studio, a team, even a kingdom where imagination rules. But it all started with a pencil and a cow that refused to sit still.
Leonardo da Vinci:
Then truly, we are kindred spirits across time. You observed life to bring it alive in fantasy, and I observed it to uncover its truths. You found stories in motion; I found questions in stillness. And both of us found our future in the pages of a sketchbook.
Walt Disney:
You know, Leonardo, when I think about what kept me drawing—even when it wasn't easy—I think it always came down to inspiration. For me, inspiration came from simple things: a funny animal on the farm, a story someone told me at school, a moment of laughter. But truthfully, it wasn't always encouraged at home. My father, Elias Disney, was a deeply religious man. He believed in hard work, discipline, and doing what was practical. Drawing, to him, was frivolous. A waste of time. He didn't understand why I wanted to spend hours sketching a pig instead of splitting firewood. In fact, he outright forbade it.
But I couldn't stop. Something inside me just had to draw. So I did it in secret, when chores were done or while pretending to study. My older brother Roy was a lifeline—he encouraged me quietly, helped me get my first job in art, and later became my partner when we started the Disney Company. Without Roy, I'm not sure I would've had the courage to go on. And then there were others—teachers, friends—who saw something in my drawings even when my father couldn't. I learned early that sometimes inspiration has to push through resistance. But once it does, it can carry you farther than you ever imagined.
What about you, Leonardo? Where did your inspiration come from? And were there people who helped you along the way?
Leonardo da Vinci:
Ah, Walt, your words stir many memories. Like you, I often felt that my mind reached beyond what those around me could understand. My inspiration? It came from everywhere. A bird in flight, the way light filtered through tree leaves, the mystery of the human body, the quiet hum of the earth's design. I could not see a thing without wondering why it was so—and then trying to draw it to find the answer.
As a child, I had no books or tutors. I was born out of wedlock, which denied me access to formal education. But in many ways, that was a gift. I learned by watching the world, not by reading about it. My stepfather allowed me to roam the fields, and it was in nature—among frogs and fossils and changing skies—that I first fell in love with drawing. Later, when I moved to Florence, my master Verrocchio became my guide. He saw that I was not just a painter, but a thinker. He didn't hold me back; he challenged me. He put tools in my hands and problems in my path.
There were others—patrons like Lorenzo de' Medici and Ludovico Sforza—who gave me rooms, time, and trust. But still, I often had to defend my unusual path. Many found my notebooks strange, my machines absurd. But like you, I had an inner flame that could not be snuffed out by skepticism.
Walt Disney:
That's the thing, isn't it? We both drew because we had to. Even when it was lonely, even when others told us to stop. It's funny—we were separated by centuries, but we both had to push against expectation to follow our creative instincts.
Leonardo da Vinci:
Indeed, Walt. You were told drawing had no place in a pious home, and I was told illegitimacy barred me from serious learning. And yet—here we are, two dreamers with ink-stained fingers and eyes full of questions. We were inspired not only by the world, but by the refusal to accept its limits.
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"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
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