What more is there to a designed object than meets the eye, wonders Stéphane Geffray.

*Beholdin’ (image © Turner Entertainment Co)*

Forget what hypocrites say about ‘inner beauty’: regardless of whether it concerns people, clothes or cars, first sight is what really matters. Indeed, sight is probably the most crucial of the five senses when it comes to design. However, it is also the most deficient. That it is the most crucial is evident, if only for economical reasons: each and every year since the late great Harley J. Earl created General Motors’ Art and Color Section, car makers have been spending huge amounts of money on design departments whose mission is largely dedicated to creating eye-catching shapes. Is the investment worth it? Yes, definitely.

*A spectacle, even when fully dressed (image © Lamborghini)*

I vividly remember that day of 1972 when I saw a Lamborghini Miura in the street for the first time, painfully idling in a congested Parisian street. The 9-year old me was mesmerised, and I subsequently spent all my pocket money buying a gold ‘normal’ and a red SuperKings Matchbox Miura, a silver Solido Miura, a blue Mebetoys Miura, plus a few other ones. I read and re-read the Sport-Auto article in which José Rosinski explained that he had not dared go further than 288 km/h, as he felt the front of the car losing contact with the road. I was in love. 30 years later, I spent a whole day driving a real Miura, only to discover that I could not find a driving position in which I could easily reach both pedals and steering wheel, and that the build quality of this one-owner, perfectly maintained car was, well, iffy.

*Appearances can be deceiving (image © Renault)*

Later, I also was among the wowed crowd that discovered the first (and, to my eyes, the only one worth admiring) Renault Twingo at the 1992 Paris Motor Show. Naturally, I have driven many more Twingos than Miuras in my life, the last time only a few months ago. Each and every time, I have marveled at its looks and at its physics-defying interior space. And each and every time, I have been bored to death by its tepid engines, its stodgy handling, its clunky gearbox. All this goes to say that exterior design can induce severe cases of «love in haste, and repent at leisure». Still, I cannot help loving Miuras and Twingos, as their proportions, their volumes, their stance, however different, are undeniably right.

Undeniably right? What, you may ask, allows me to write this? Good question, for it leads us back to what I opened this column with, namely that sight is our most deficient sense when it comes to design. I can feel the rightness of a Twingo, a Miura, a Fiat 130 Coupé, but I cannot demonstrate it. I have been fortunate enough to spend time with designers who were kind enough to explain to a layman like me how they had to play with shapes, light, volumes and proportions to achieve the desired effects. They also explained to me what actually went wrong with some designs which I felt were missing something, although I was not able to explain what. I learned invaluable lessons from them. Still, when I look at a car, I remain primarily driven by what I see, more than what I understand. The 9-year old in me is not dead, and I like it that way. After all, I am responsible for my taste, or lack thereof, and I pay for it whenever I buy a car (even in Matchbox format).

This is what matters: I buy cars, I do not sell them. I am a customer, not a manufacturer. I pay the price for my ‘love at first sight’ moments. But conversely, I deny anyone the right to tell me that his (or hers, but there are precious few women among top automotive executives) own love at first sight is what I absolutely must buy, with no possible alternative. This is exactly what has been happening for years, and therein lies another proof that sight is utterly deficient. Especially other peoples’ sight. Especially, unfortunately, automotive bosses’ sight. Which is an everlasting problem, since they are the ones who sign off designs, and who sometimes go as far as giving instructions to designers. Carlos Ghosn certainly did so, just after succeeding Louis Schweitzer at the head of Renault: at the last minute, he decided the Twingo 2, which was rather anodyne, needed a new face. This was duly done, and the poor car was launched with a several months’ delay, and the blandest front possible.

*Offensively non-offensive (image © Renault)*

Clearly, managing a big company is one thing. Having an eye for designs that can trigger people’s emotions is another. Being able to do both occasionally happens, as was the case with William Lyons or Bob Lutz. Others, like Citroën’s Pierre Bercot, or Renault’s Raymond Lévy, were clever enough to trust their designers. Others again, and I have the depressing feeling that they are more and more numerous by the day, blindly think their own subjective tastes actually are an unquestionable truth.

One must keep in mind that an automotive CEO is not democratically elected. At best, he is an enlightened despot or, as Immanuel Kant wrote in his Was ist Aufklärung?: « A prince who does not find it beneath him to say that he takes it to be his duty to prescribe nothing». At worst, the automotive CEO is a dictator to whom all must obey. And so do the marketing researchers, who certainly do not want to lose a big customer. And so do designers (who can blame them? They need to get paid at the end of the month), who draw what they are asked to, whether they loathe the idea or not.

Clearly, this method does not work. The best design team in the world is bound to fail if it has to work on such oxymoronic creatures as a 4-door coupé SUV, or a «fastback bodystyle that blends saloon and station wagon by adding some elements that make SUVs so appealing» (not my imagination, but a quote from Citroën’s C5X press kit).

Frederick the Great left us the Sans Souci Palace; Nicolae Ceaucescu, the Palatul Parlamentului. The choice is yours.