21/10/2025
The night Walt Disney lost everything, a quiet man with ink-stained hands stayed behind — and drew a mouse that saved the world.
It was 1928. The studio was collapsing. Universal had stolen Oswald the Lucky Rabbit — Walt’s first hit — along with nearly every animator on his payroll. The contracts, the characters, the rights — gone. Walt came back from New York broke, humiliated, and ready to quit.
But one man didn’t leave. Ub Iwerks.
Ub wasn’t a showman. He didn’t give speeches or dream in slogans. He was the kind of artist who spoke through graphite and movement — a perfectionist who could turn blank paper into life. That night, in the middle of despair, Walt told him, “We need a new character. Something simple. Something we own.”
Ub didn’t argue. He sat down and began to draw. A cat, a dog, a horse — then, almost carelessly, a mouse. Round ears. Short nose. Friendly eyes. He simplified the shape, made it easy to animate, made it something that could move like joy itself. When Walt saw it, he smiled for the first time in weeks.
“What do we call him?” Walt asked.
“Mortimer,” he said.
“Mickey,” Walt corrected.
While Walt pitched dreams, Ub built them — frame by frame, hundreds a day, until Steamboat Willie was born. He worked so fast that his wrist bled from the friction. The sound synchronization had never been done before. Everyone said it wouldn’t work. But when the cartoon premiered in November 1928, audiences screamed, laughed, and clapped. It was magic.
Walt became a household name. Ub stayed invisible. But he didn’t mind — not at first. “I just like making things move,” he said. Yet, as fame swelled around Walt, something between them broke. The friendship that built an empire became a shadow war of pride and silence. A few years later, Ub left the studio.
He failed on his own, quietly, painfully — but he never stopped inventing. Years later, Walt called him back. This time, Ub didn’t draw characters. He built machines — cameras, effects, illusions. The multi-plane camera that gave Snow White its depth? Ub’s. The blend of live action and animation in Mary Poppins? Ub’s. The magic of Disneyland’s rides? Ub’s fingerprints, everywhere.
He never demanded credit. He never chased fame. But Walt knew. When people called him the father of animation, he said softly, “If I’m the father, Ub is the godfather.”
Ub Iwerks didn’t save Disney with a drawing.
He saved it with loyalty, brilliance, and silence —
a man who built magic, and then stepped back to let it shine.
History remembers the mouse.
But the mouse remembers the hand that drew it.