I am looking forward to the last chapter discussing how Studebaker went wrong, especially since I also have theories. It would fun to compare notes. I often quote from your book: “For many years, Raymond Loewy Associates would be the only thing standing between Studebaker and dull mediocrity.”

Like you I owned a 1962 Gran Turismo Hawk, a surprisingly impressive car. Drove it back and forth to Hamilton when we were working on the last 1966 production Studebakers. I put a ’53 Starliner decklid on it and ’54 Starliner wheel covers; I thought each addition was an improvement. —B.M.

Studebaker remembered

Thanks for the kind words. My GT Hawk was one of the best cars I ever owned: fast yet easy on gas, stylish, fun to drive. It leaked oil and the famous “flexible frame” was a little creaky, but it was a satisfying car, if overly susceptible to the dreaded tinworm.

At the end of my book is a list of what Studebaker did wrong, beginning with chairman Paul Hoffman accepting every union demand after World War II. James Nance, the last president of Packard, which purchased Studebaker in 1954, had it right. “The trouble with Studebaker was that they wouldn’t take a strike. Everybody else took strikes after the war and reasonable compromises were reached on wages and benefits. Studebaker didn’t, and they never caught up.”

What Packard didn’t know when they bought Studebaker they learned to their horror when accountants finally got into the books. Studebaker’s break-even point by the mid-Fifties was 50,000 or more cars higher than their best-ever annual volume. A Studebaker designer told me he once priced the 1953 Starliner using General Motors costings. He found that GM could have sold the identical car for $300 less (which was a lot more then than it is now).

Packard indeed had its own problems. But Studebaker dragged Packard down with it, making it impossible for Nance to find the finances to bankroll an all-new 1957 line that might have allowed Studebaker-Packard to go on longer than it did.

The greatness of Raymond Loewy

And yes, Raymond Loewy led the teams that created the 1953 Starliner and 1963 Avanti. They were the key to the cars being as distinctive as they were. Loewy had a keen eye for talent. He hired and directed fine designers, such as Bob Bourke (Starliner) and Bob Andrews, John Epstein and Tom Kellogg (Avanti). The Avanti was impressive, but perhaps not the right product for Studebaker. Otto Klausmeyer, a longtime and outstanding engineer, told me he regarded it as “our first a duck-back, droop-snoot sport car.”

Studebaker’s sales and marketing people blunted those good designs by inept planning and promotion. In 1953, for example, they built a surfeit of sedan models, finding to their shock that people mainly wanted the beautiful Starliner hardtops and Starlight coupes. Their production mix was the exact opposite of what the public desired.

Brooks Stevens’ life support

But Studebaker’s styling was consistently good. Trying to save the rump company in the Sixties, President Sherwood Egbert hired Brooks Stevens, who deftly facelifted the Lark and Hawk, and came up with novel ideas like the sliding-roof Wagonaire station wagon—but these were all reskins of the 1950s models. Stevens and Loewy then offered  exciting ideas for all-new designs for 1966 and beyond.

But by then it was too late. Studebaker shut down its main factory in South Bend, Indiana, in December 1963, and the Hamilton Ontario plant closed after building the last 1965-66 models. But no—Studebaker didn’t have to fail. George Mason of Nash saw the future before anyone else. He tried to build a conglomerate of independents—Studebaker, Packard, Nash, Hudson—in the 1940s. Nobody else was listening. It was probably the only way to stave off death for those companies. After World War II, economies of scale worked greatly in favor of the big automakers. But hindsight is always cheap. And far too easily indulged.

Recently at an estate sale I picked up the book and found it an excellent read. On page 38 is a terrific sketch of a car that should have been built, rather than the design management chose. My question is: Who drew that sketch? Are there more drawings like that in existence? It would make a great guide for a project car.

Hudson’s styling team

The drawing (top) shows a crisper shape than the production 1948 Hudson. It was one of many Hudson styling proposals. Compared to the car they actually built, it looks more modern. There’s a one-piece curved windshield, and the tail end is squared off rather than tapered. But I can’t say who the artist was because the Hudson styling team was large—and impressive. It was typical of the kind of diverse groups that inhabited styling studios in an age when cars were shaped by people, rather than computers.

Styling at Hudson was then under famous Design Director Frank Spring.  He had conceived the basic package as early as 1941. Later Spring would produce the compact Hudson Jet and the radical Hudson Italia. Chief of Design under Spring was Art Kibiger, who later helped conceive of the Aero-Willys. There was Robert F. Andrews, who would be involved in the Studebaker Avanti for Raymond Loewy. Strother McMinn would become a noted design instructor and automotive writer.

Hudson Characters

Dick Caleal and Bob Koto were Hudson stylists who would later contribute to the famous 1949 Ford. (Caleal, nicknamed “the Persian Rug Salesman,” baked the small clay model of the ’49 in his wife’s oven before presenting it to George Walker at Ford.) Art Fitzpatrick was later associated with Dutch Darrin and Pontiac. Hudson also had Arnold Yonkers (artist), Arthur Michael (modeler) and Bill Kirby, a balding hippie. Kirby was a scruffy idea man who always looked like he’d just emerged from a wastepaper basket. Yonkers, an affable Dutchman, was a part-time minister. These were the kinds of individuals who designed cars in those days. They were the reason cars then looked so different from each other.

Alas Hudson destroyed most of its images of styling proposals and clay models once a car was built, and the only ones I could find were loaned by the above people for my book. The one you like bears no signature, so we can’t pin it down. It is not Bob Andrews’ work; his style was different, and he usually signed his drawings “RFA,” like the one shown here.

Ideas for the “Step-down”

What both these sketches illustrate are the ideas Kibiger and Andrews were promoting: tubular bumpers, a high-mounted grille and fenders almost flush with the hoodline. Raising the front fenders was a radical idea in 1946, when the ’48 Hudson was designed. They didn’t reach the hood level on a production car until the 1951 Packard.

Kibiger and Andrews joined Willys before the new Hudson was finished. But they drove up from Toledo to attend its debut at the Masonic Temple in Detroit. “The workmanship surprised me,” Bob Andrews said. “It looked great. And it seemed as though the new Hudson was going to create quite a splash….all of the frustrations of the last few years were eased. This was my first experience at milling through crowds who were applauding something I had been a part of.”

Not easy to change…

The Step-down Hudson was so-named because you stepped down into it. The floor sat low between the frame rails, permitting dramatic lowness. It was, for example, seven inches lower than the 1948 Buick. The problem was that it was hard to modify. Hudson had to stick with this basic shape through 1954. In those years, the public expected a new style every twelve months. This hurt and ultimately crippled the company as an independent producer of automobiles. Nevertheless, the low center of gravity made for a roadable car that held the NASCAR manufacturer’s championship for 1952-54—powered by a six-cylinder engine at that.