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?
This is the story of the Studebaker Avanti. 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 most sound 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. 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 Chruchill. 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 a 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 their 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. A more
focused variant of the Starliner was considered. The wheelbase was shortened. Funnily enough, Lowy
was involved with this as well. The company got as far as creating a full scale
model before cancelling 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 often 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." ……………….. 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. He came by daily to provide feedback
as well as to hear out their suggestions. 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 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 themselves into. It needed to break away from design trends to keep from feeling
dated by the time it’s 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. Space was at a 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. 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.” The team wasn’t always in total agreement. The
layout of the vehicle was fiercely debated since 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 finished, 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 raise the
roof at once 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. “Careful what you wish for?” 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 inspired 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. 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 were 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. 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.
Oh, and just in case you were wondering, no the Avanti does not have a hatch. The shoulder
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. 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. From this diagram, we can see that it continues past the rail and rounds off
to the other side. In the unlikely event that that car does roll over, you can be confident
that you won’t be turned into tomato paste. 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. Studebaker flew someone out to the
factory to see what was keeping things. 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 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.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 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 cancelled
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 cancelled their orders and 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 car building 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 vividly
recalled making due on stale, moldy bread quite often. He did what he could to provide for the
family. At first, he walked along tracks and stole coal from Northern Pacific railroad cars then
found employment in construction 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 February 1961. He was quite young to be the president of a car company at 41. He had no
experience in the industry, but he didn't see this as a negative. He wasn't aware of how dire the
situation was at Studebaker until he got there. "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. 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 Years Eve. Byers Burlingame, former treasurer and now company president,
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 said “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 inability to sustain success, short-sighted decision making,
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.”
