STEPHEN BAYLEY

The Aesthete

We aesthetes are not necessarily attracted to speed. Having the world pass by in a rapid blur is a problem if you like looking at things. But speed does have its aesthetic aspects. As Aldous Huxley cleverly noted, speed was the sole novel sensation available in the 20th Century. There is endocrinology to consider as well. Acceleration and speed excite glands whose secretions change, perhaps enhance, our perceptions. Meanwhile, danger is itself a stimulus which sharpens the reactions. Speed thrills. Hunter S Thompson, batshit mad author of Fear and

Loathing in Las Vegas, variously rode – in states of high intoxication – a Vincent Black Shadow, a Bultaco Matador and a Ducati 900 Supersport. Before shooting himself, then having his ashes shot into space on a rocket released by Johnny Depp, he wrote: ‘Faster, faster, faster until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death.’

Quite so, but speed is not an option available to urban aesthetes, even if death is. In London, traffic now moves more slowly than it did when the major source of pollution was horse manure. But travelling slowly, especially on foot (my own urban custom), allows plenty of time to stop and stare. One of the things I think as I pick my way through queues of enraged, thwarted, stationary drivers is that never have cars been more artistically various and technically competent. Nor have they been more practically useless.

On my footsore daily commute, I pass a house in Belgravia whose off-street parking space is occupied by a BMW i3 the colour of a laboratory work surface and a Lamborghini Aventador the colour of an irradiated macaw. Marvellous machines, each. And then I think of the glum Søren Kierkegaard, who thought that ‘the best demonstration of the misery of existence is by contemplation of its marvels’. To get an idea of The Sublime, simply measure the distance between the dream of mobility the BMW and Lamborghini represent and the matter-of-fact reality endured by their users.

But there are times when I do use a car: at night and at weekends. The car I have been using recently is an Audi SQ7. If we are (ever so briefly) discussing speed, let me say immediately that this huge car is one of the most sensationally, yet controllably, fast cars I have ever driven. I can think of nothing I would prefer for a long journey.

However, my unlikely praise for this Audi is based not on dynamics but on aesthetics. At first, I thought this refreshed and squared-off Q7 was a maladroit calamity, both annoyingly reticent and ham-fistedly aggressive. But now, after stopping and staring a while, I understand how subtle and well-considered it is. There is nothing that needs to be added, nor taken away.

Best of all is the interior, something which can be enjoyed whether congested or liberated. It’s not a matter of style or innovation: there is little here to excite, no flamboyance, no extremities, no conversation pieces. The pleasure comes from the immaculate execution. There is proof here, if proof were ever needed, of Le Corbusier’s belief that ‘design is intelligence made visible’. In particular, I loved the third row of seats. That is a sentence I never thought I would write. They are deployed by a discreet button in the loadspace, almost invisible except for a tiny, dull, glowing red lamp. Press the button, which has no lost motion, and a servo whirrs them into place. To stow them, press again and they decline, the headrest snapping shut halfway through the travel. And when stowed, they form a perfectly flat floor, flush with the larger stowed seats in front. The action is absolutely beautiful and the result worthy of long, long contemplation. For me, this third row of SQ7 seats takes its place by Santiago’s Porta de la Gloria. And I do not mean to be blasphemous.

This result speaks of clarity of thought and methodical execution together with a degree of care unusual in any business, let alone the scruffy motor trade. The depth of implied expertise is profound. It’s not physics, it’s metaphysics. Meanwhile, I have heard Range Rover owners complain of their seats’ folding mechanism. Playing repeatedly with the Audi’s third row, I found myself mumbling, ‘Come over here, Gerry [McGovern]. Stop polishing your Church’s loafers! Put your bloody Bulgari catalogue down and take a look at this!’

Here are precision and accuracy, but precision and accuracy are not quite the same thing. If interested, I recommend checking their definitions. Why? Because I think in these troubled times, the greatest satisfaction from car use or ownership will come from interiorised philosophical speculations about details, not mashing the pedal to the metal. In an Audi SQ7 you can enjoy both.

‘IN PARTICULAR, I LOVED THE THIRD ROW OF SEATS. THAT IS A SENTENCE I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD WRITE’