I have always been a fan of Walt Disney. Not just of his animated films but of a certain image I have of the man himself.

It’s not the dictatorial egomaniac that some biographers have depicted but the gentle, welcoming character who appeared at the beginning of each episode of The Wonderful World of Disney — small mustache, grey gabardine suit, warm smile, standing in his book-lined office.

There’s one episode of the show that I rewatch regularly. In it, Walt answers letters from art students seeking direction in life.

His advice to them is to read a book called The Art Spirit by Robert Henri.

Henri was a painter and art teacher in the early part of the twentieth century, a terrifically inspiring guy who taught the generation of American realists that emerged in the 20s; people like Edward Hopper and Stuart Davis and John Sloan and Rockwell Kent — many of whom I admire too.

Henri encouraged his students to paint what they saw around them, urban scenes of everyday life — gritty, bold, and true. His students collected their notes from his lectures and assembled them into The Art Spirit and it has been a valuable guide for artists ever since, full of observations and ideas that are accessible and encouraging.

One of Walt’s correspondents asks him how he can develop style and Disney responds via Henri, with something like, “Don’t worry about your originality. You couldn’t get rid of it even if you wanted to. It will stick with you and show up for better or worse in spite of all you or anyone else can do.”

To demonstrate how individual vision is really at the heart of style, he selects four animators from his studio, men who by day are paid to subvert their individuality in the service of creating a unified look for Disney movies. He takes them out to the countryside and films them, of a Sunday, painting a tree.

Each has his own way of painting, but more importantly, his own way of seeing. One describes the tree in terms of architecture, like a solidly engineered structure on the landscape. He paints the tree as if it were made of steel pylons.

Another artist is fascinated by the movement of the tree’s bark and studies the surface textures in detail.

A third sees the tree’s relationship to the sky behind it and studies the negative space between the branches.

A fourth observes the entire tree as a unified shape and works on its relationship to the rectangle of his canvas.

Then we see how each artist interprets his vision in different ways through his materials. One paints of a big slab of plywood thrown down on a rock, painting with long brushes in a muscular way. Another draws in charcoal and then fills in with casein.

When the paintings are done, they are juxtaposed and we can really see the varieties of world-views in each of the four men.

Even though they are talented artists, the real lesson comes from their willingness to put their own characters in their work.

It’s all shot in muddy black and white, typical old TV images, and the painters are not fine artists showing in NY galleries, just modestly paid artisans working for the Man.

But the little film demystifies the process of art-making in a wonderful way.

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It’s also a reminder of how the world has changed.

Hard to imagine these days primetime Sunday night TV being devoted to something as conceptual and niche as this.

However, this spirit of Disney still lives on in certain corners of the mega-corporation that bears his name. I am a fan of Pixar’s behind-the-scenes videos showing how the company works to re-inspire all its employees as they work on new movies.

For years I had a VHS recording of this episode that I’d made from a rerun on TV, but then I discovered the segment had been included on the DVD of Sleeping Beauty and I wore that disc down through repeated watching.

Today, of course, you can find the episode on YouTube. Alternatively, treat yourself to a copy of The Art Spirit and be directly inspired by a great teacher.

Try to keep in mind the wisdom of Robert Henri who said: “The object isn’t to make art. It’s to be in that wonderful state which makes art inevitable.”​
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Your pal,

Danny
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P.S. A couple of apologies 1. My essay last week about an incident from my screwball adolescence rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. Some were mystified as to why I shared it. Others just unsubscribed in apparent revulsion. I apologize to all who I offended. Reexamining my childhood is an enduring source of fascination for me. I've discovered that not everyone shares my interest. 2. To Studio Notebook subscribers: In the frenzy of work on my new course, Your Illustrated Life, I decided to pre-crastinate this week's Studio Notebook essay. In fact, I double-pre-crastinated it and sent out two essays on the same day in error. I hope you'll be okay if I skip next week to give you time to read the deluge.

PPS: I have no current plans to be cryogenically preserved. Phoenix is far too hot for that.