Guy de Maupassant, a famous French writer, famously detested the Eiffel Tower, calling it an “ugly iron skeleton.” Yet, paradoxically, he frequented the Eiffel Tower area daily for lunch, explaining it was “the only place in the city where I won’t see it.” This same logic, strangely enough, applies to the Tesla Cybertruck. Perhaps the only rationale for driving this vehicle is that from the driver’s seat, one is thankfully spared from having to look at its exterior.
Earlier this year, I voiced concerns about the “banishment of beauty from everyday life,” lamenting the decline of aesthetics in modern design across various products, from mundane household items to infrastructure. I questioned why we seem to have lost the ability to create pleasing and beautiful objects, pointing to examples like vintage Japanese train tickets as reminders of a more aesthetically conscious past.
Consider also the elegant Tesla Radio logo from 1921 – a different “Tesla,” yes, but the contrast is poignant.
However, the true depth of our contemporary aesthetic crisis didn’t fully hit me until the Tesla Cybertruck, this angular, militaristic-looking vehicle, began appearing on suburban streets. It resembles less a consumer car and more a dystopian militia vehicle, embodying a stark departure from traditional automotive aesthetics. My reaction mirrors Maupassant’s disdain for the Eiffel Tower, but the Cybertruck, in its own way, is instructive. It reveals a disturbing trend in modern design: the prioritization of power and intimidation over beauty and user-friendly aesthetics.
This “motorized monstrosity,” as I’ve come to think of it, is increasingly common. These vehicles, seemingly born from a high school metal shop project gone awry, are becoming ubiquitous. Compared to the Cybertruck, the examples of aesthetic degradation I previously discussed now seem minor.
Reflecting on pleasing car designs of the past, the word “curvilinear” immediately comes to mind. These classic designs, seemingly inspired by advanced geometry, blended curves and lines in a harmonious and visually appealing manner.
In stark contrast, the Cybertruck appears to be designed by someone armed with only a ruler and pen, sketching straight lines with minimal effort.
Is it a shipping container? A dumpster? Or perhaps a coffin straight out of a vampire film? No, it’s a vehicle with a price tag that can easily exceed $100,000.
This automotive eyesore is produced near my home in Austin, Texas, at a facility ironically named “Gigafactory Texas.” The name, much like the vehicle itself, feels like a mix of pretension and absurdity. Seeing these vehicles on the road evokes a Texan saying: “All hat and no cattle,” perfectly encapsulating the superficial and ultimately hollow nature of the Cybertruck’s design.
However, this is not merely a rant about aesthetics. The Cybertruck is symptomatic of a broader issue: the corruption of beauty in contemporary design. Understanding why this vehicle embraces such brutal aesthetics can help us understand larger cultural shifts.
The Cybertruck’s Design Ethos: Power Over Nuance
The esteemed critic John Ruskin argued that the essence of human artistry lies in the attention to detail and nuance. He admired Gothic architecture for its intricate ornamentation. Similarly, consider the Sagrada Família in Barcelona, a masterpiece of architecture known for its emotionally resonant curvilinear forms.
Antoni Gaudí, its neo-Gothic visionary designer, famously stated, “The straight line belongs to men, the curved one to God.”
Gaudí drew inspiration from nature, studying plants and organic forms. “Nothing is art if it does not come from nature,” he proclaimed. This natural, organic quality is precisely what is absent in the Cybertruck. This Tesla model embodies design devoid of subtlety, nuance, or any humanizing elements. It exudes the emotional warmth of a battering ram – which, incidentally, it resembles.
The crucial point is that the Cybertruck trades beauty for a raw assertion of power. Its design is deliberately intimidating, projecting an image of dominance. This aesthetic echoes the Italian Futurists of the early 20th century, who, obsessed with speed and machines, significantly contributed to the dehumanization of modern aesthetics. It’s telling that the Futurist movement’s founder, Marinetti, penned his manifesto after a car accident. He seems a more fitting muse for the Cybertruck than Nikolai Tesla himself. Marinetti famously declared, “Any work of art that lacks a sense of aggression can never be a masterpiece.” This could easily be the Cybertruck’s marketing tagline.
The parallels with Brutalist architecture are undeniable. While some claim to find aesthetic merit in these imposing concrete structures, they fundamentally misunderstand Brutalism’s intent. Like the Cybertruck, Brutalism prioritizes power and imposing presence over beauty and welcoming design.
Brutalism in Buildings and “Cyber Car Tesla” Design
My own experience with Brutalist design began during my first days of college. The older campus buildings, built with adobe and red tiles, felt welcoming and rooted in local tradition. However, a newer building stood out for its stark, cold ugliness. This massive, bunker-like structure, devoid of windows except at the entrance, was constructed from thick, rough-hewn rock.
“Why is this building so ugly?” I asked an older student.
“It was designed during student protests,” he explained. “The administration wanted to send a message: We are more powerful than you.” The message was clear: institutional dominance over individual comfort and aesthetic appeal.
This building, ironically, was the campus “center for educational research.” A bleak environment for studying education indeed. Many institutional buildings of that era convey the same message: hierarchy and control.
During my time writing books in San Diego, the nearest library was the Geisel Library, a building that consistently appears in searches for “Brutalist architecture.”
Working daily in this imposing structure, a “visual symbol for domination and control,” as I perceived it, might have ironically fueled my work on books exploring human qualities in creativity – perhaps a subconscious rebellion against my working environment. The irony deepened when I learned the library was named after Dr. Seuss, whose whimsical books I cherished as a child. This building was far less appealing than even green eggs and ham.
This encapsulates the Brutalist aesthetic. Nostalgia for these buildings misses the point. They were never intended to be loved; their purpose was to instill a sense of awe, perhaps even fear and disempowerment.
And this, I believe, is the core intention behind the Tesla Cybertruck design. It’s an exercise in projecting power and intimidation. Only the driver, encased within this steel shell, is meant to feel empowered. Everyone else is, in a sense, secondary.
Cybertruck: The Ultimate Zombie Apocalypse Vehicle?
Perhaps this aggressive design contributes to the reported difficulties in insuring Cybertrucks. Drivers of such overtly assertive vehicles might be less inclined to yield.
If this were solely about one unsightly car or some Brutalist buildings, it would be trivial to dismiss. However, the current embrace of such aesthetics reveals a broader cultural trend. This raw assertion of power permeates our culture, poisoning even art and creativity. As I explored in my article “How Did Pop Culture Get So Gloomy?”, horror and dystopian themes dominate popular culture. In a dystopian action film, the Cybertruck would be the perfect vehicle, perhaps mowing down hordes of zombies.
Indeed, the Cybertruck is the quintessential vehicle for a zombie apocalypse. While potentially entertaining in fiction, it’s less desirable in everyday life.
However, aesthetic trends are cyclical. Even the Cybertruck’s novelty will fade. (Stainless steel, I hear, can rust after a few months). The current gloom in aesthetics will eventually give way to a renewed appreciation for beauty, with all its nuances and humanizing qualities. I, for one, am ready for the beauty revival and not waiting for Gigafactory Texas to catch up. Eventually, even they might choose to rejoin the world of the aesthetically living.
