The Studebaker Avanti Couldn’t Save The Company From Disaster
Few cars are truly timeless. There are simply far too many variables in the development process for an idea to reach production intact. More often than not, a vision gets hamstrung by focus groups, overbearing corporate oversight, and bean counters that are more concerned with the bottom line than the car itself. By the time the car actually hits the road, it’s a shadow of what it was intended to be. They follow trends instead of setting them, become products of their time, and eventually mere footnotes in history. But what happens when a project doesn’t have to endure any of this?
The Studebaker Avanti is an example of an uncompromised vision. It’s a mid-century icon that bucked the conventions of its day and became immortal. The car was styled by Raymond Loewy, one of the most celebrated industrial designers in history. And because they were able to cut out the fat in the development process, it went from an idea to a production car in a little over two years, a timetable that is unprecedented among major automakers. Despite all of this, the Avanti couldn’t save Studebaker from disaster. Fewer than five years after it debuted, the company shut its doors. Why did a company drowning in red ink decide to hedge their future on a low-volume halo car? How were they able to make good on their aggressive development cycle? And most importantly, what kind of legacy did the car leave behind?
The years following World War 2 hadn’t been particularly kind to Studebaker. As the Detroit Three dusted off their pre-war designs, they rushed to release the Commander and Champion, the first all-new cars to go on sale. They were able to ride this wave for a few years, but their market share began to erode as soon as their competitors released models of their own. The Raymond Loewy-designed Starliner models are revered today, though, at the time, they weren’t exactly the soundest investment. Tooling costs were through the roof because the coupe and sedan lines shared no bodywork. Additionally, the contract with Loewy’s design consultancy was worth $1 million, a significant amount of money that Studebaker directors surely could’ve put elsewhere in the company. It also didn’t help that they abandoned the truck market right before sales in the segment took off. In 1950, they built nearly 400,000 cars and had $27 million in profits. By the end of 1954, they produced 100,000 cars and had a $26 million loss. In a matter of three short years, they let 2/3rds of their market share slip away.
They bought themselves a bit more time with the Lark subcompact. When it was released in 1959, the company saw the most profit it had ever seen up to that point. The segment was bone dry. The only real competition it had was the Rambler. Detroit released compact cars of their own in the following months and stopped any momentum they had. Sales remained steady at 125,000 in 1960, but they dipped below 65,000 in 1961.
Gleaming Hawk by Liz West is licensed under CC by 2.0
Studebaker’s time in the car industry was running out. Their board of directors were well aware of this and tried to correct their course. One of their dealings happened in 1954 when they joined forces with Packard to form the Studebaker-Packard Corporation. I could go on at length about how much of a trainwreck this was, but I think UAW representative Lester Fox summed it up perfectly when he said “the merger was likened to two drunks trying to help each other across the street.”
They wised up soon enough and began diversifying to transition away from the auto industry. They acquired at least 10 companies in the years following 1954, including Trans International Airlines, the STP Corporation, and Paxton Products, which built engine superchargers. This effort was a bit disorganized under President Harold Churchill. When Sherwood Egbert took over for him in February of 1961, he was expected to accelerate the program and ease them out of cars. He had other ideas.
Egbert sought to reinvent Studebaker. He toured the country visiting as many dealers as he could and determined that cars themselves weren’t the issue; it was their own image. Most people were hesitant to purchase a car from a company they feared would go bankrupt in a few months. Judging from their decrepit manufacturing facilities and spotty quality assurance, Studebaker was doing little to dispel these feelings. There was a cloud hanging over the company and it was in desperate need of a breath of fresh air. The Lark’s early success told him that there was room for them in the market. It was simply a matter of putting their best foot forward. He ordered remodeling of their factories and commissioned Brooks Stevens to facelift the Lark and Hawk. Stevens was given six months and a mere $7 million to do the job. Practically nothing in the car industry, but Egbert thought of these updates as the final chapter in Studebaker’s tumultuous history. He envisioned a car that would usher in a new era for the company. Taking on a project with this much at stake would be a tall ask for anyone, but in his mind, there was only one person right for the job.
On March 9th, 1961, Egbert rekindled an old relationship and invited Raymond Loewy to the Studebaker headquarters in South Bend. The meeting was pretty straightforward. He wanted him to handle design work for a high-performance halo car. It was not envisioned to be a big seller, but Egbert learned the value of such a vehicle during his round trip. Dealers heard rumors that the company planned to discontinue the Hawk. They begged him to reconsider. It drew customers to showrooms, who were then in position to drive out in either that or another vehicle. In his mind, something that aimed even higher would only amplify this effect.
Egbert reached into his pocket and handed him a stack of clippings of sports cars that he wanted him to reference. It had to be on the cheap. The company was cash-strapped and didn’t have many resources at its disposal to throw at the project. Oh, and it needed to be finished within six weeks. This wouldn’t leave him with very much time to really sink his teeth into design themes, but he’s done cars in similar conditions. Before this, he customized two Lincolns, two Cadillacs, a BMW, a Jaguar, and a number of Lancias. If there was anyone suited to create something out of practically nothing, it was him. Egbert initially had a single restriction. Loewy’s design staff would have to be overseen by Studebaker’s own styling chief Randall Faurot. This would essentially give them creative control over the project, a condition that Loewy was hesitant to accept. He responded by saying:
“Let me do it the way I want to and give me complete freedom of action. I want the authorization to do it my way, far from South Bend. I want to be free from interference, and especially free from well-meant suggestions.”
Egbert rescinded the demand and allowed him full reign over the design. This wasn’t the first time Studebaker explored a sports coupe. Loewy assisted with the development of a more focused variant of the Starliner. The company got as far as creating a full-scale model before canceling the project. The Corvette was released the year before and was struggling to find its place in the market. This combined with their own uncertain future doomed the project.
Raymond Loewy and Associates employed dozens of designers, but he wouldn’t go through his own firm to get the car finished. The accelerated schedule complicated things. The “fat” in the development process needed to be cut, so the project was approached like an “off the books” operation. The team responsible for designing the car would have just three other members. They would each be doing the work of several, but Loewy knew that they’d be able to handle it. John Ebstein was brought on as the project manager. The native of Germany had been at the firm for years where he proved himself to be a stellar designer and an equally effective leader. He personally recommended Bob Andrews to handle modeling work. His most notable design was the influential 1948 “step down” Hudson.
Rounding out the team was Tom Kellogg. He differed from the others in that he didn’t work for a world-class industrial designer nor did he have anything of significance on his resume. In fact, he only graduated from Art Center in 1955. Loewy found him while making the rounds at the school and was drawn to his work. Even still, to be brought on years after graduation was quite a surprise.
"...One Saturday morning I was kind of sleeping late when the phone rang. My wife handed me the phone, and I said, 'hello,' and a voice on the other end said, 'Dis eez Raymond Loewy. Would you like to work on a sport car with me?' I thought someone was really putting me on because I couldn't think of anything more exciting than to have Raymond Loewy ask if I wanted to work on a sports car with him. So I said, 'oh.. uh... yeah!' Then he asked me if I had any work I could show him that day. I went to see him, and he commented that he really liked my work. He said that before he made up his mind, he had a number of people he had to interview. And as I'm leaving, I heard the door open, and he came out running and said, 'Tom, just a minute. You know, I like your work, and I like you. Can you start Monday morning?' And that was that."
Loewy, Raymond, Artist. Design drawing for Avanti automobile, front view from driver's side. , 1961. Photograph. https://www.loc.gov/item/96509197/.
Within 10 days of the meeting with Egbert, Lowey set them in a modest bungalow in Palm Springs. This location was chosen for two reasons. Firstly, it was over 2,000 miles away from South Bend. It was as far away from corporate as he could manage to get. Secondly, his personal home was also in Palm Springs. He wanted to have as much involvement with the car as possible.
If this were a standard project, he would have his own studio chief manage the project. He had many other matters to attend to and was oftentimes more concerned with building up the "Loewy brand." With this project, he had no reason not to be involved. Being a short drive away from the studio would allow him to check in daily, if he so pleased, even with his incredibly busy schedule.
On a similar front, Egbert's own hands-off approach lent itself well to the project. Bob Andrews said:
“Egbert did not try to become an automobile designer overnight, which happens so much. When a new executive officer comes in, he thinks he’s got to know, and [Egbert] did not try to know . . . So the usual things that would have happened in engineering to cheapen that car—to screw it up—did not happen for that reason.”
By the time the team had convened, he already had a few principles outlined. Firstly, it absolutely couldn’t have a standard grille, as he felt that they aged cars. Egbert wanted the car styled on a five-year cycle, which was far removed from the yearly updates that Detroit had worked itself into. It needed to break away from design trends to keep from feeling dated by the time its next update was scheduled. Brightwork would also be kept to a minimum, but not eliminated altogether. He had a "chrome policy" that he spoke on during a 1950 interview with "Science and Mechanics" magazine
“Chrome Areas of tomorrow’s car will be reduced, but probably never will be eliminated entirely. Nor is this absolutely desirable in all instances, since time and time again the public has proved that it wants chromium. If it isn’t on the car, buyers will add chromium in the form of accessories and extra gadgets of poor design. So it is a better idea for the designer to handle the chrome himself and do it well. He can reduce the number of meshes, openings, lacework patterns, rods and cross-hatches, grilles, and bars. Chrome will be used in simpler, plainer mass, not over-styled with gingerbread, or in designer’s language, “schmaltz.”
Lastly, it needed to have a “coke bottle” shape. He helped reimagine the iconic bottle in 1955 and wanted the car to have a similar pinch at its midsection. He hung up a rough sketch of what he had in mind as well as several photographs of reference cars.
Palm Springs may have been a popular getaway in Southland, but make no mistake, their dealings here were strictly business. When looking back on the project, Bob Andrews said it was:
“Like a cloak and dagger movie. We had no idea what was up except that it was terribly secret and we’d have to develop the thing within an untypically short amount of time. Once we got there R.L closed us up tight. He wouldn’t even let us out for a night on the town. He disconnected the phone, stopped all the clocks, and banned wives and girlfriends. We worked 16 hours a day, every day, for weeks.”
Not that there was much room for entertaining anyways. Space was at an absolute premium. Kellogg whipped up sketches near the fireplace and then handed them off to Andrews, who worked to translate them into three dimensions near the kitchen counter.
The team wasn’t always in total agreement. The layout of the vehicle was fiercely debated from the very beginning. Egbert insisted that it should be a focused two-seater while Loewy and a few others wanted a 4-seat grand tourer. There wasn’t any time to explore both themes in-depth, so they came to a compromise. A single model presenting both ideas was finished on March 27th, a mere 8 days after design work commenced. It was taken to South Bend so that Egbert could make a final decision. The experiment convinced him to go with the GT.
A month after this, a ⅛ model was sent out to South Bend so that Studebaker’s own designers could work on a full-size mockup. The Palm Springs team had served their purpose. Its members would remain involved with the company in some capacity, though for the time being Kellogg would step away from the project. As they were loading the model for shipment, he had one final exchange with Loewy.
Loewy: “If this car comes out, you will not tell everyone you designed it and I had nothing to do with it?”
Kellogg: “No. I’ll tell it exactly how it was.”
Loewy: “Oh, good. Because if you listen to other people, I’ve never designed anything.”
On April 27th, Randall Farout and the Studebaker styling team broke ground on the construction of a full-scale model. Most of the car may have been in the books, though aspects of the car needed to be tweaked for the design to be effectively translated to the full-size model. Bob Doehler helped do it, and he went through some of the challenges in a 1987 interview.
“Building up an eighth scale model is quite a blowup. It’s really impossible to make an accurate eighth-scale model. You get a scale effect. Things that look right on the eighth scale, if they were literally blown up, become clumsy as hell on full scale.”
The fender flares were removed, the hood bulge was flattened slightly, and the front bumper was made to wrap around the front end. The quad headlights on the model were swapped out for single bulbs because of cost. The rear lights would also be altered later on in the process. The brake lights and reverse lights were intended to be connected. Studebaker felt that doing it this way would leave them no room for error on the assembly line. It would be painfully obvious if they were misaligned, even by just a small amount. They put two inches of space between them, which would give them a bit of leeway in terms of build quality.
Just like in Palm Springs, the team worked day and night to get the model finished. When it was completed, Egbert presented it to the board of directors. In an avalanche of applause, they officially greenlit it for production.
There were still a few questions that needed to be answered before the car would see the road. One of the more contentious debates centered around the way they were going to build them. It was standard industry practice to make bodies out of steel. After a bit of back and forth, it was decided that the bodies for this car would be made from fiberglass. A fiberglass body is a bit more expensive than a steel one, but they would be saving a ton of money getting the tooling implemented. It ended up costing them $600,000 to get everything in place. Doing the same for a steel car could easily cost 10 times this amount. The initial production run was going to be about 1,000 cars, which was well below the 1,700 mark that they felt justified the expense. As an added bonus, it would be considerably lighter than if it were made from metal. Studebaker had no experience with the material, so they outsourced production to Molded Fiberglass of Ashtabula, Ohio. This company had been making Corvette bodies for General Motors for years. Studebaker felt they were in good hands.
Seating was another cause for concern. The Hawk’s existing seats wouldn’t fit into the car, so the team just assumed they’d have to get creative to get around this issue. Doehler happened to have a pair of late 50s Alfa Romeo bucket seats in his garage. He brought them into the studio, possibly with the intention of running further tests. He installed them in the buck, but Egbert came by his station before he could get any further. He was pleased with them. So pleased, in fact, that he ordered engineering to create duplicates.
The windshield originally had quite a bit of rake, and the car probably would have seen production with it had Egbert not stepped inside of it on one occasion. He towered over everyone at 6’4”. When he stepped out of the car he cracked his skull on the header. He ordered them to raise the roof immediately in an expletive-laced tirade.
His height also affected the design of the sun visors. He had little need for them and initially wanted to cut them out entirely. Just about everyone else opposed this decision. The majority won out and they were included, but what actually shipped with the car could very well be the most useless set of visors ever designed. They were downright microscopic and couldn’t swivel whatsoever. If the sun weren't directly in front of you then you were defenseless.
Gene Hardig was charged with engineering. When the project was handed down to him, Egbert told him:
“It must be tops in speed, braking, handling, safety features, and general innovation - and please don’t spend any money.”
On the surface, it sounds like the directive was given in jest, but the reality was all too real. The project budget only allowed for an all-new body. Most everything else needed to come off the shelf. The car would use a highly modified version of the existing Lark frame. It turned out to be too short in the front and too long in the back. To make it work, they cut away everything past its leaf springs. The Lark wasn’t exactly the most inspiring thing in the world, so to liven the chassis up, sway bars and heavy-duty shock absorbers were added.
They took the V8 engine that Studebaker had used since 1951 and massaged a bit more power out of it. The compression ratio was raised, more valve lift was provided, and a Paxton supercharger was added. It made 240 HP without it and 300 HP if so equipped. It would also use disc brakes. This wasn’t the first American car to use them - that honor goes to Crosley back in 1949 - but this was the first time they were successfully implemented on a mainstream domestic car.
In the thick of the development process, they neglected to give the car a name. It never crossed their minds until the lack of one began to hold up progress on several components.
A number of names were considered. At its peak, Packard was among the most prestigious makes in the world. Some thought this was the perfect opportunity to resurrect it. Others wanted to go back even further and attach the Pierce-Arrow name. It soon became clear to everyone involved that this was shaping up to be unlike anything that came before it. It needed a name to match. Avanti was chosen. It comes from Italian and when directly translated to English it means “forward.” It would signify a new era for the company and, if everything went according to plan, the entire car industry.
The first prototypes were built by the engineering managers, as the company was embroiled in a UAW strike. 10 of them were assembled by early 1962. One was intentionally damaged to demonstrate various fiberglass repair procedures and seven others were used as testing and durability mules. The remaining two were the very first examples to be shown to the public. One was going to be revealed at the New York Auto Show. it was smuggled out of the plant and arrived several days early on the 21st. The other would stay under wraps in Indiana to be revealed to company personnel. Both were unveiled at the same time on April 26th, and both would receive critical acclaim.
The use of brightwork is kept to a minimum. The only places you’ll find it are on the chrome bumpers, around the headlights, and lined across the windows. It draws the eye but doesn't take the focus away from the rest of the car. The blinkers are set on a piece of bodywork that protrudes from the rest of the front. From the side, we can see that they allow for more continuity with the bumper. They provide forward momentum and the motion flows into the guard. They also level the hood out a bit.
With Loewy's no-grille directive in place, Studebaker needed to get creative with the Avanti's cooling system. The result is an air scoop that occupies the lower half of the front end. It's out of the way and broken off even further away from the rest of the elements by the bumper guard.
You may have noticed that off-center bulge on the left side of its hood. It’s accented with some brightwork and features a stylized Studebaker logo. It isn’t just here to add visual drama. Raymond Loewy explains its purpose in his own words:
“If you were on a straight highway standing at the steering wheel, that panel was oriented forward where the roadway would bend with the horizon, parallel to the centerline of the chassis frame. It made the car and driver integral, like the sight of a gun.”
A crease running down the hood continues onto the front fascia. It does quite a bit to make this area pop out. If it didn’t behave like this and the front was flat from end to end, then the entire section would appear to sink into the body a bit when taken in with the flared-out edges. The change in surfacing gives it some essential dynamism.
The shoulder comes to a defined, though not razor-sharp, point at either end. It curves down a bit when it nears the second box to sell the coke bottle effect, which had been watered down during the blow-up.
Its front arches are strange in that they don’t shadow the wheels. These were designed personally by Loewy. He sat by the clay model and outlined the wheel openings. He referred to them as Sputnik, and they’re meant to mimic the flight trajectory of the satellite. The roof of the car is straight to create adequate headroom for rear passengers, then slopes down as soon as it reaches the back.
Studebaker Avanti V8 Front by Abxbay is licensed under CC by-SA 4.0
Unlike most entrants into this segment, the Avanti takes the “touring” in grand touring seriously. The roof is level across both the front and rear seats, which gives both areas ample, even headroom. The rear glass initiates the cargo section. As soon as the roof hits this area, it slopes down until it meets the shoulder. It explodes over the rear wheels and rounds out to define the rear deck. In the process, it creates a set of small, outwardly-protruding fins. And just in case you were wondering, no the Avanti does not have a hatch.
1963 Studebaker Avanti by Tinto Rossini is licensed under CC by-2.0.
Aviation influences can be seen in a few areas. Rocker switches for the lighting and fan controls are on a panel mounted on the roof. The instrument cluster is also inspired by what you might find on a plane’s IP. The gauges vary in size and stack on top of each other. A pair of dials even flank the driver at either side. Everything inside is backlit with red lights. This differed from other cars in its day which typically used white backlighting. When driving at night, the interior resembles that of an aircraft. The padded dashboard provides a bit of extra protection in the event of a crash. It might seem insignificant today, but this feature put the Avanti miles ahead of the competition in regard to safety. Lastly, the B-pillar is actually disguising the roll bar. In the unlikely event that that car does roll over, you can be confident that you won’t be turned into tomato paste.
Studebaker Avanti V8 Rear by Abxbay is licensed under CC by-SA 4.0.
Studebaker didn’t waste time promoting the Avanti. Following the show, two cars were loaded into shipping containers and flown to 24 cities in 16 days. They were seen by nearly 7,000 dealers, employees, and reporters. It was featured as a prize on “The Price is Right” from mid-September to mid-October. There was a giveaway that promised 350 cars to lucky contestants. A few models even fell into the hands of prominent public figures. Notable owners included Jimmy Dean, Dick Van Dyke, Johnny Carson, and Frank Sinatra. With this much hype and publicity, it’s little wonder to learn that the Avanti was a very sought-after commodity. Every Studebaker dealer wanted them, even just a single example to display at their storefronts. Egbert assured them that the company would be able to meet the insatiable demand. He promised an initial run of 1,200 cars with many more to come after that.
But that’s if they could build the things first. Studebaker ran into a myriad of issues with MFG. They went on strike right after they signed the contract. Construction got underway once they returned, but the line started at a trickle and production never ramped up. MFG rushed through tooling to keep pace with Studebaker’s own aggressive development schedule and, in turn, neglected to account for the 2-3 percent shrinkage the components would see during the curing process. As a result, the workers had great difficulty consistently getting the roughly 130 components to fit together. They were also, somehow, creating the bodies without all of the needed fixtures and jigs. Early models felt the full brunt of these teething issues. The rear window would just pop out at high speeds due to the air pressure inside of the cabin. This issue was amended in July, but this defect would forever sully the car’s reputation in the eyes of consumers. Their sloppy handiwork was made especially obvious on black cars. Studebaker made it an extra cost color in August in an effort to steer customers toward lighter colors that would mask the imperfections.
They built 24 cars in June, 12 in July, and 118 in August. By the end of the year, only 1,389 Avanti’s were built. This was far short of Egbert's lofty expectations at the start, but for 1963, there was nowhere to go but up. Studebaker dusted themselves off and gave the car an update to try and move cars off the lots. Tom Kellogg returned to the project and was charged with the refresh. In his own words:
"At first, we were going to redesign the round lights. There were also scoops in the front fenders. We had complaints about the cabin overheating. In fact, much of the revision for the '64 was based on customer complaints given to us by Egbert. The rain gutters are a good example. Each week he'd go to the Avanti assembly plant with a list of things to be corrected that he discovered by driving his own personal Avanti. It was sort of a "correct this week or else" order...We wanted to make the car more acceptable to a greater number of people. We tied that down in not too long a time and got on to the square headlights, plus other styling details. We also worked on new interior trim with solid color schemes.”
The car wasn’t the problem. Studebaker would have to iron out some deep-rooted issues if they wanted to give the Avanti a chance. It was a vicious cycle. Low sales caused them to slow production because they didn’t want to be stuck with large amounts of unsold inventory. The book “Studebaker’s Last Dance” gives an example of what the timeline was like. An Avanti ordered on April 15th wouldn’t be built until the middle of May, and not delivered to the customer until Memorial Day. Potential customers that had been eagerly awaiting the car grew impatient and canceled their orders. Those that put money down didn’t receive theirs when they expected and didn’t think they’d ever get them. Many of them went with another vehicle. The 4-seat coupe segment drew fierce competition from Ford, Pontiac, Buick, and Plymouth, whose cars were less expensive and readily available on dealer lots.
An exit from the automotive industry was looking as likely as ever. With the walls closing in around them in September of 1963, Egbert went on record saying:
“We wouldn’t be putting these kinds of millions into cars if we didn’t intend to stay in business.”
His optimism in the face of insurmountable odds was far removed from the resignation that the directors had succumbed to. He was an outsider in many respects. Born in Easton, Washington in 1920, Egbert’s early years were nothing too out of the ordinary. His father juggled being a barber and running a cafe to make ends meet. His entire life would change when a fire consumed both of these establishments as well as their lives as they knew them. With the Egbert legacy up in flames, the family of four had to endure the worst the Great Depression had to offer. They lived in a tent and scavenged trash bins for nourishment. He did what he could to provide for the family.As a youth, he walked along tracks and stole coal from Northern Pacific railroad cars and then found employment in the construction industry at the age of 12.
He managed to balance this with his academics and, by some miracle, was able to attend Washington State College on an athletic scholarship. He majored in mechanical engineering but dropped out of the program to support his family. I’d say it turned out all right for him. Sherwood learned that the company he worked for was looking to hire an engineer. He applied, got the job, and within two years became the assistant chief engineer. He had a brief stint at Boeing before enlisting in the Marines. As an aviation engineer, he learned to fly so he could experience the machines from the pilot’s point of view.
In 1946, he moved over to the McCulloch corporation. The Los Angeles-based company produced chainsaws, superchargers, and outboard engines. In his 14 years with the company, it grew into a $70 million a year operation. In 1960, Studebaker hired a talent agency to help them look for a new manager. They returned with Sherwood's file. He officially took over the reins in 1961. He was quite young to be the president of a car company and also had no experience in the industry, but he actually saw this as a positive.
“Coming from the outside has its advantages. This is a completely different business. As a result, I don’t have any in-house preconceived notions.”
This may have played a role in his statement in September, But It would all come crashing down just a month later. Egbert had been diagnosed with cancer in 1962. He kept things running as long as he could, but in October 1963, it became too much to bear. He went to the hospital for surgery, stepped away indefinitely, and eventually resigned on November 24th.
Production was suspended in October, as they had an 86 day supply of unsold cars on hand. On December 9th, They announced that car production in Indiana would cease permanently. The final car, a white Avanti, rolled off the line on New Year’s Eve. Company treasurer Byers Burlingame was named president in Egbert’s absence, and he shifted production to a facility in Hamilton, Ontario in a last-ditch effort to salvage automotive operations. It was too little too late. The last car produced here, as well as the last Studebaker ever, was completed on March 17th, 1966. The day after the Lark Cruiser was built, the company shuttered its doors for good.
Sherwood Egbert met a similar end three years later at 49. Whether it was getting by on scraps as a child, serving his country in the war, or attempting to bring America’s oldest automaker back to prominence, he was a soldier until the bitter end.
There was plenty of blame to go around as to why the company failed. Dealers blamed the Avanti for their untimely demise, arguing that its styling overshadowed Studebaker’s other, more homely models. Loewy pointed to the innumerable delays, saying:
“No one can expose a body to the general public, arouse excitement over its form and design, then deliver nothing for 10 months - except possibly Brigitte Bardot. Avanti sales accelerated from zero to zero in less than 12 months.”
Bob Andrews said Studebaker’s own dealer network wasn’t able to support such an expensive car. The truth is, the Avanti wouldn’t have been enough to save the company, even if production had gone on without a hitch. The walls were closing in on them long before the car was even conceived. Studebaker was a victim of weak leadership. It’s painfully obvious that they never had a long-term plan. Most of their decisions were aimed at stopping the bleeding instead of setting themselves up for the future.
They squandered every golden opportunity they fell into. The profits from those rare years in the black weren’t put back into the company to fund the development of more hits. They were put into the pockets of the directors, as part of healthy stock dividends, or, later, used to pay for their diversification efforts. Their staff suffered as a direct result of their shortsightedness. The roughly 6,000 employees came to find that their pension plans were gutted. Those under 60 only received about 15 percent of their benefits and employees under 40 were denied outright. The money that should’ve been set aside for their retirements was used to fund the company’s rapid expansion. Their short-sighted decision making, inability to sustain success, and general complacency sealed their fate.
Automotive historian Thomas Bonsall summed up the twilight years of the Studebaker corporation when he said:
“The fall of Studebaker was not inevitable. It was the result of peer decisions in South Bend, hastened by opportunities missed. It was a tragedy that need not have happened and in that may lie the greatest tragedy of all.”