For a grey, featureless slab – and I mean that with great affection – the reveal of the Audi Nuvolari didn’t half generate some strong opinions.
Some of these opinions concerned the Nuvolari’s vital statistics and price positioning, particularly regarding Audi’s decision to charge £500k for what could uncharitably be described as ‘a Lamborghini Temerario with all the styling airbrushed out’.
But far more opinions concerned the way it looked. This in itself is not unusual. The design of fast, expensive cars does seem to provoke a specific flavour of outrage.
Take, for example, the Ferrari Luce (no, please, take it), whose design engendered many, many hot takes, a very small number of which could be safely printed on a family website.
But with the Luce, there at least seemed a general consensus of opinion that it looked like either (1) a mutated Nissan Leaf, or (2) a mutated Leaf giving birth to a smaller mutated Nissan Leaf.
With the Nuvolari, though, total lack of consensus. Some saw its blocky, monolithic form as anonymous. Some saw it as aggressive. Some saw it as derivative, some as original. A surprising number saw a moustachioed German dictator in its front end.
For what it’s worth, I rather like the Nuvolari. Curves have had their own way in the world of car design for too long now. It’s about time for the slab to have its moment in the sun. And it’s nice someone’s finally catered to the supercar buyer who likes their purchases to neatly stack.
But this is my point. The Nuvolari hasn’t just split the room. It’s atomised the room into a thousand pieces. No unison of opinion. What’s going on?
I have a theory. I have no solid evidence for this theory, but hey it’s a quiet week in the world of cars so let’s run with it.
The Nuvolari generates such very strong opinions not in spite of its lack of design, but because of it. It is a blank slate upon which we project our own noise. It gives us nothing to work with, so we fill the gaps.
The technique is effective. The Nuvolari is the grizzled old detective in the interview room, sitting in stony silence until the suspect confesses.
It’s the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. It’s Moby Dick. Jay Gatsby’s green light.
The Nuvolari is a Rorschach test. The ink-blot is not a horse. You are seeing a horse in the ink-blot because your mother was eaten by a horse.
Peer deep into the Nuvolari, and it will reflect the very depths of your soul. I am not a psychologist, but I have listened to three psychology podcasts, so pretty sure what I’m saying here is watertight. It is a mirror.
If you see the Nuvolari as aggressive, or a disappointment: yes, this may reveal more about you than the car.
The Nuvolari, then, is a psychoanalyst supreme. Saying nothing, allowing the patient to give more of themselves than intended. Sigmund Freud would be proud.
Freud, of course, believed all his patients were preoccupied with doing unseemly things to their parents. Everyone eventually realised Freud was talking about Freud.
So you might argue that my theory that the Nuvolari is a mirror on the soul says more about me than the car. On this reading, the Nuvolari is just a car, and I am someone who overanalyses and talks about mirrors too much.
But this only proves my point. I looked at the Nuvolari, and it revealed me as someone who sees mirrors in things. Which is exactly what a mirror does. I am trapped in a recursive loop of logic and cannot escape.
This is what the Nuvolari does. Any attempt to argue with this theory only proves my point. To truly understand the Nuvolari is to understand ourselves. I suspect Editor Pattni will not ask me to write any more pieces on car design.