French writer Guy de Maupassant famously detested the Eiffel Tower, describing it as an “ugly iron skeleton.” Yet, paradoxically, he frequented the Eiffel Tower daily for lunch at its base. When questioned about this peculiar habit, he quipped that it was “the only place in the city where I won’t see it.” This anecdote perfectly mirrors my sentiment towards the Tesla Cybertruck. The sole justification for driving this vehicle is the blissful invisibility it offers once you are seated inside.
Back in June, I lamented the “banishment of beauty from everyday life,” decrying the decline of aesthetics across various facets of our daily existence, from mundane household appliances to even sewer covers. I questioned the absence of aesthetically pleasing objects, longing for the charm of items like vintage Japanese train tickets.
Consider also the Tesla Radio logo from 1921, a testament to a bygone era of elegant design. (Yes, Tesla—the irony is not lost on me, although it’s a different company entirely).
However, the true extent of contemporary aesthetic degradation didn’t fully dawn on me until I encountered a Tesla Cybertruck navigating my suburban streets. It resembled nothing less than a militaristic tank car, an ominous harbinger of some impending civil conflict. My disdain for it rivals Maupassant’s for the Eiffel Tower, yet, like the Eiffel Tower, the Cybertruck, in its own way, is instructive. This polarizing vehicle reveals a great deal about the corruption of aesthetics in our modern age.
Now, these metallic monstrosities, these automotive nightmares seemingly sprung from a high school metal shop, are ubiquitous. They render all the previously cited examples of aesthetic decline in my earlier article as mere trivialities compared to this battery-powered behemoth from hell.
Reflecting on pleasing car designs of the past, the word “curvilinear” immediately springs to mind. It’s as if the very essence of advanced geometry inspired their creation, artfully blending straight lines and curves into captivating forms.
However, the Cybertruck appears to have been conceived by a third-grader armed with only a pen and ruler, who dedicated a mere three minutes to sketching straight lines on the reverse side of a homework assignment.
What exactly is it? A shipping container? A waste disposal bin? Or perhaps a coffin unearthed from Dracula’s castle? No, it’s a vehicle priced at $100,000.
This eyesore is produced near my Austin residence and secluded retreat, in a facility ironically named Gigafactory Texas. This name, much like the vehicle itself, exudes both pretentiousness and absurdity in equal measure. Witnessing these vehicles thunder down the road reminds me of a Texan idiom aimed at newcomers who flaunt a cowboy persona without any genuine ranching skills: “All hat and no cattle.” This phrase aptly encapsulates the product design ethos practiced at Gigafactory Texas.
Yet, this is not merely a rant. Or perhaps, it transcends a simple rant. The Cybertruck unveils the darker facets of contemporary aesthetics, and similar visual abominations are proliferating worldwide, not just within the confines of Gigafactory Texas. Understanding the brutal aesthetic of this vehicle is crucial to comprehending broader trends in our current design landscape.
The Cybertruck: Trading Beauty for Brute Force
The esteemed critic John Ruskin posited that the human element in art is most evident in the meticulous attention to detail and nuance. This is why he revered Gothic architecture with its intricate ornamentation. Consider the softened, curvilinear contours of the Sagrada Família in Barcelona, a monumental architectural achievement of modern times, emotionally resonant and profoundly impactful.
Its visionary architect, Antoni Gaudí, deeply influenced by neo-Gothic principles, asserted that “the straight line belongs to men, the curved one to God.”
Gaudí drew inspiration from the natural world, studying vines, seaweed, oleanders, and other organic designs found effortlessly in nature. “Nothing is art if it does not come from nature,” he proclaimed. It is precisely this organic quality that is absent in the Cybertruck. This Tesla embodies design devoid of nuance, subtlety, or any humanizing touch. It radiates the emotional warmth of a battering ram or a sheet of cold metal—both of which it physically resembles.
The core issue is that the Cybertruck prioritizes power over beauty. This vehicle is designed to intimidate, projecting an image of dominance akin to a playground bully. This intimidating aesthetic is its primary design objective.
This aggressive worldview can be traced back to the Italian Futurists of the early 20th century. They were obsessed with speed and machinery and played a pivotal role in the dehumanization of modern aesthetics. Notably, the Futurist movement’s founder, Marinetti, conceived his Futurist Manifesto after surviving a car crash. He, rather than Nikolai Tesla, seems to be the true muse behind the Cybertruck. Marinetti famously declared, “Any work of art that lacks a sense of aggression can never be a masterpiece.” This could very well serve as the Cybertruck’s marketing tagline.
A comparison to Brutalist architecture is also unavoidable. While Brutalism has its adherents who profess to find aesthetic merit in these imposing concrete structures, this fundamentally misunderstands Brutalism’s intent. Like the Cybertruck, Brutalism is about projecting power, not fostering beauty.
Brutalist Buildings and Tank Cars: Symbols of Domination
I vividly recall my arrival at college as a homesick freshman and the comfort I found in the welcoming appearance of the older buildings. Their adobe walls, red tile roofs, and other inviting features drawn from local traditions and materials provided solace. However, one of the newest campus buildings stood in stark contrast, notable for its coldness and sheer ugliness.
This building was massive, resembling a bunker designed to shelter war criminals after a nuclear apocalypse. Windows were almost entirely absent, except at the main entrance, and the structure was built from immensely thick, rough-hewn rock. “Why did they make this building so ugly?” I asked an older student.
“They designed this building during a period of student protests and riots,” he explained. “The administration wanted to send a message to the students: We’re more powerful than you.” Huff and puff all you want, but you won’t blow this building down!
The irony was palpable: this oppressive structure was the campus’s new “center for educational research.” What a dismal environment for the pursuit of knowledge! Many institutional buildings from that era convey this same message: we are in power, and you are not.
During the writing of my books Work Songs and Healing Songs, my local library in San Diego was this very Geisel Library – a famously ugly building. It looked more like Darth Vader’s command center.
Day after day, I frequented this library out of necessity, yet I always felt a sense of dread approaching this stark symbol of dominance and control. This building is, in fact, the first image result when one Google searches “Brutalist architecture.” It was within these very walls that I conducted career-defining research into the human dimensions of artistic creativity. Perhaps my books were, in part, a rebellion against the oppressive environment where they were conceived.
Ironically, this brutalist library was named after Dr. Seuss, whose whimsical books I cherished in childhood. Yet, this building was even less appealing than green eggs and ham. This encapsulates the essence of the Brutalist aesthetic. Those who romanticize these ugly buildings today completely miss the intended point. We were never meant to admire them; that would defeat their very purpose. Fear and disempowerment are the intended outcomes.
And that, in essence, is the true objective of the Tesla Cybertruck design – to evoke fear and loathing from Gigafactory Texas. Only the driver is meant to feel empowered; everyone else is simply collateral damage.
The Zombie Apocalypse and the Cybertruck’s Appeal
“The Cybertruck is the perfect vehicle for a zombie apocalypse.” I suspect this underlying sense of invulnerability is why insuring these vehicles is proving so challenging. The type of individual who gravitates toward such an overtly Napoleonic vehicle is unlikely to apply the brakes unless absolutely compelled.
If this were solely about one aesthetically offensive car and some outdated Brutalist buildings, it wouldn’t warrant such extensive critique. However, the current infatuation with both these visual atrocities is revealing. Raw displays of power permeate our culture, and the realms of arts and creativity are inescapably tainted by this dominance-driven mentality. I touched upon this in a recent article titled “How Did Pop Culture Get So Gloomy?”
In that essay, I discussed the surging popularity of horror films. If I were producing a gory slasher film today, securing a product placement deal with Tesla would be a priority. The Cybertruck is indeed the quintessential vehicle for navigating a zombie apocalypse. It would make for compelling cinema – envision a Cybertruck mowing down hordes of undead attackers. However, in real life, and in my zombie-free neighborhood, its appeal is significantly diminished.
I find solace in the belief that this aesthetic phase is transient. Even the Cybertruck will eventually lose its novelty. (I’ve heard that stainless steel begins to rust after approximately six months.) This prevailing gloom will ultimately dissipate, and the cycle will swing back toward genuine beauty, with all its inherent nuances, subtleties, and human qualities.
I intend to proactively champion the beauty revival. I certainly won’t wait for Gigafactory Texas to catch on. But, eventually, even they might yearn to rejoin the realm of the living and appreciate true aesthetic value once more.
