Up-front Identities: Loquacious Logos
Car design eminence, Patrick le Quément, explains his life-long obsession with automotive insignia.
(photo © GM)
Right from an earlier age, I suffered from a redoubtable car-crazed virus. I most probably caught it from my father, an officer in the French Foreign Legion, who suffered from the same infection. This was evident to any outside observer, as my father possessed somewhat strange, yet highly interesting cars like a Citroën Licorne or a Hudson Terraplane. I was fascinated by these and inspected them in all their details. But, for some reason, my eyes were always drawn to the cars’ logos.
I became a logo freak, trying to understand the mystery behind the designs: what were they trying to communicate to mere mortals like me? Whereas the Licorne’s radiator grille was fitted with a rather chic and elated logo, the Terraplane, as the name suggests, displayed a down-to-earth, no-frills badge, which had been drawn, rather than designed. It probably was the work of some lad in the draughtsman’s office at the Hudson engineering department who is more than likely to have worn a white shirt whose front pocket was filled with a row of pens.
I began collecting logos at an early age – a sure symptom of that car-crazed affliction if there ever was one – by visiting junkyards, exchanging with their shifty owners, whilst trying to convey the impression that those objects of desire had no monetary value whatsoever. This was the only feasible strategy for me to deploy, in order to expand my collection. In those days, a successful outing constituted leaving the premises holding an Opel Blitz logo or - an even greater treasure - a Salmson badge in my paw. What continuously fascinated me were the hidden contents behind each and every logo: be it the one from a flamboyant Hispano-Suiza, which was an unattainable dream, or that rather uninspired Salmson emblem, composed of lettering enclosed within a geometrical perimeter, drawn in a mechanical manner. It also featured, on either side, the basic shapes of deployed wings. Now this told you that Salmson was a company that had links with aeronautics, as it was indeed a manufacturer of engines for planes, before venturing into the world of car manufacturing.
(photo © Design Field Trip)
I never managed to negotiate the Cadillac logo, which was fitted to a total wreck of a car hidden in a corner, but loved its appearance, as it was so full of exuberance and decidedly intent on communicating an atmosphere of aristocracy. It was only much, much later that I learnt a little more about the origins of the name of Antoine Laumet de Lamotte-Cadillac, who founded the city of Detroit. He was in fact a 17th century con-man, whose real name was Antoine Laumet. He created this forgery of a coat of arms, which has been fitted to all Cadillacs since the company began operation in 1902. How terribly, terribly embarrassing it must be to discover that you have been conned for so many years: definitely the result of the nouveau monde’s obsession with old European aristocracy!
During one of my numerous changes of address, my logo collection got lost - together with my English school’s boater and prized French curves. This did not change my fascination for logos, however. It did change in nature though when I joined the Ford Motor Company. Indeed, one of the first questions I asked one of the senior managers I met at the Dunton design center was why we used letters spelling out the name Ford on our front grilles, rather than the iconic Ford oval. The answer was close to being a curtly rebuff – the sort of thing traffic policemen would say, if you happen to slow down to register all the nasty details of a particularly spectacular car crash: « There’s nothing to see, move along, Sir ! » For some reason, the subject of the blue oval’s absence on its actual products was off-limits – which naturally made it even more fascinating.
Nothing changed for many years, until, in the mid-seventies, a superhero appeared upon the Ford of Europe scene, by the name of Robert A Lutz. This tall Swiss-American, former US Marine Corps pilot was not only good looking - as any self-respecting superhero should be - but he also spoke several languages. One of which was the language of design. So when he was approached to jump ship from BMW to become chairman of Ford of Germany, he immediately thought about what could rapidly bolster the image of Ford, as his eyes lingered on all those empty front end grilles not sporting any logo. And so it was that this Bob Lutz heroically tackled Mr Henry Ford by asking him why customers were allowed to wipe their muddy feet on scuff plates sporting the world famous Ford oval as they entered their vehicle –and yet those very symbols of corporate identity were forbidden to be displayed on the front end of Ford cars.
Bob Lutz’ exploit had the intended effect: We were immediately asked to produce mockups of all our cars, displaying a Ford logo. These new front ends seemingly spoke for themselves, as Mr Ford eventually relented. As a consequence of which a car I helped design, the 1976 Ford Taunus/Cortina, became the first vehicle to be launched, proudly wearing the ever so characteristic Ford oval. Interestingly enough, market research a couple of years later identified a significant increase in perception of Ford’s presence on European roads. Thanks mostly to this small, yet significant change. Thank you Mr Lutz!
( photo © Design Field Trip)
When I finally joined La Régie Renault in 1987, I brought with me a deeply felt frustration with the Vasarely logo featured on all Renault cars at the time. For, you see, whereas most logos talk to me, this one only answered in a metallic voice that chilled my heart. Renault has had many differently shaped logos over the years, but it was the rather prestigious 1925 40CV that became the first Renault vehicle to display a diamond shape. Variations of that theme continued until 1972, when the new Op art symbol designed by Hungarian artist, Victor Vasarely - or rather: his son, Yvaral - appeared on the most attractively innovative Renault 5. I do palpably remember myself thinking at the time: «Like the car, shame about that logo». For gone was the three dimensional material quality… and in came an illusion instead, which, for me, was more of a disillusion.
This issue quickly was added to my « to do list ». I took each and every opportunity to plant the idea in Renault president, Raymond Lévy’s ears that our corporate identity was also a pressing matter. Eventually, a new diamond-shaped logo was designed, which was to feature proudly on the facelift of the R19 first and then on the all-new Twingo, presented at the 1992 Paris Motor Show. As time passed, we also proposed to significantly increase its size, as Renault logos at that time were hardly bigger than the remnants of a squashed insect gathered on the grille during a fast run to the south of France. I argued that if we were proud of our brand, we should show it. And so we did, increasing the size by 2,5 times from what they had been during the time of the Ancien Régime - much to the objections of most of our more discreet, grey-suited managers.
When I left Renault, I had reached the point where logo sizes were definitely off the agenda. But guess what my successor, Laurens van den Acker, did upon arriving at the scene? He doubled the size of the Renault diamond, having convincingly argued that logos should not be a detail, but the focal point of the front-end identity. Which only goes to show that size does matter, after all.
