The modern world often strikes me as a remarkably monochromatic place. Stroll around any car park and the chances are that the vast majority of vehicles will be some variation of metallic grey. That sea of dullness might be interspersed with the occasional splash of red or blue, but peer inside even the most brightly hued of modern cars and, unless perhaps it’s a Fiat 500 (I dread to think how those white steering wheels will look once they are a few years old), you can pretty much guarantee that the interior will be unremittingly, overwhelmingly and unforgivably grey. For my sins, I have a modern hatchback that I use for my daily commute across South West London and, although on the outside it’s yellow, inside the thing is as grey as a banker’s wardrobe.
Quite why cars have become so desperately sombre is open to debate, but one thing that’s absolutely certain is that 40-odd years ago things were very different. Designers in the early 70s, probably high on the fumes of injection-moulded plastic, were addicted to colour. It was there to be rejoiced, not shied away from as appears to be the case today. And the bolder and brighter its use, the better. From clothes to cars to ships to architecture, bright hues were omnipresent, and one in particular was king. Orange.
A little research suggests that from about 1970 to perhaps 1974, it really was impossible to avoid – adorning everything from Space Hoppers, Bond Bugs and Anglepoise lamps, to railway stations (I’d strongly recommend a visit Merienplatz U-bahn station in Munich) and speedboats (remember Roger Moore’s Glastron 150 in Live and Let Die?).
As the decade progressed, this striking celebration dimmed, an invasion of brown, ochre and olive green putting an end to the plastic-fuelled party as strikes took hold, unemployment soared and all sense of joy seemingly ebbed away from the world. Before we knew it, the futuristic optimism of the orange era was long gone, its memory fading into a dull and murky past that maybe never existed at all…
