Leave the Design to Me
Tomio Kubo, both Executive and Designer
Kiyoshi Honda
The Beginning of a Design Focus
The Road to Becoming an Aircraft Engineer
New President with Passion for Design
Introduction
Among Mitsubishi’s historic models, the Minica ’70, Colt Galant, Galant Sigma, Galant Lambda, Mirage, and even the Starion—all introduced from the late 1960s through the 1980s—were, so to speak, the models that established the golden age of Mitsubishi car design. These cars became hits not only because of their performance but also due to their appealing design—a key selling point. As a result, Mitsubishi’s passenger car business, which had initially struggled, got back on track and contributed significantly to strengthening the company’s foundation. So why did such outstanding designs emerge? Behind them was Tomio Kubo, an executive who provided strong leadership to the designers on the front lines.
Kubo had a background as an engineer who designed the Ki-46 Type 100 Command Reconnaissance Aircraft —Japan’s fastest at the time—during the war, and after the war, he devoted his efforts to car development. Although he was an executive, he frequently visited the design development sites, directly leading the designers and personally approving the designs.
This was not only unique among Mitsubishi Motors’ successive executives, but even when looking at automakers worldwide, there are very few figures comparable to him. Looking back through history, one such figure is Sir William Lyons, co-founder of Jaguar.
Lyons adopted “Grace, Space, Pace” as his guiding philosophy and pursued unique designs based on the principle of “Copy Nothing.” He led designers such as Malcolm Sayer while setting the design direction himself, rigorously examining every aspect of the design, down to the proportions and details. As a result, he produced numerous beautiful and iconic cars, including the Mark II, XJ6 Series 1, D-Type, and E-Type.
Another such figure is Ferdinand Piëch, the grandson of Porsche’s founder. During his tenure as Audi’s executive in charge of development, he introduced a thoroughly modern aerodynamic design with the Audi 100. Furthermore, as chairman of the Volkswagen Group, he significantly enhanced design quality from an engineering perspective, notably by dramatically improving the precision of body assembly. As part of his business strategy, he established design philosophies for each brand—including Volkswagen, Audi, Porsche, and Škoda—and enhanced their value, thereby turning around the Group’s struggling overall operations.
Photo: Stuart Mentiply / Wikimedia Commons（GFDL）
Kubo, too, was a man of rare talent. Although he was an executive, he had his own design philosophy and, through hands-on guidance and a discerning eye for selecting the best proposals, succeeded in shaping them into cars with genuine appeal.
For these reasons, it is impossible to tell the history of Mitsubishi’s car design without recognizing Kubo’s pivotal role. I would therefore like to begin with my first encounter with him—an experience that remains vividly etched in my memory even today.
The Beginning of a Design Focus
―― To the First Technical Center in Okazaki
I first met Kubo in June 1973, shortly after he became the second president of Mitsubishi Motors, which had been spun off from Mitsubishi Heavy Industries in 1970. The meeting took place in the Styling Section at the First Technical Center in Okazaki, Aichi Prefecture, where I was then working.
The Technical Center had been established only four years earlier to consolidate Mitsubishi’s development operations, which had previously been divided between Nagoya in Aichi Prefecture and Mizushima in Okayama Prefecture. Designed in an American-style campus layout, the expansive complex brought together separate facilities for engineering, engine development, research, testing, prototype construction, styling, and administration, along with a test track.
The grounds were carefully landscaped with Japanese zelkova trees, fragrant orange osmanthus, bush clover, windmill palms, and azaleas. Near the Styling Section, where I worked, stood a U-shaped pond measuring about ten meters on each side. Together, these surroundings created an atmosphere well suited to the creativity and innovation that research and development demand.
The Technical Center was a project that Kubo had conceived and driven forward while serving as head of Mitsubishi Heavy Industries’ Car Division. Ironically, however, he had spent nearly five years away from the automobile business (the circumstances behind this will be discussed later), and as a result was unable to attend the opening ceremony. It was not until this day that he finally set foot in the very place he had envisioned.
Having arrived from the headquarters in Tokyo, the first place he visited was the Styling Section—the very place where the development of every new car first began to take shape through design.
―― The new president’s rallying cry
That day, every designers in the Styling Section was told that the new president wished to address them. About thirty designers gathered in the studio. I was only in my fourth year with the company, and like everyone else, I felt more than a little nervous, wondering what the president himself was about to say.
Kubo, led into the studio by the head of the Styling Section, was sixty-four at the time. Well over six feet tall, with a solid build and refined features, he reminded me of the American Western film star John Wayne.
Standing before us, Kubo began with a bold declaration.
“From now on, I’ll make the design decision. Leave design to me.”
His predecessor, Yuji Sato, had come from the sales side of the business and was known for the confidence he inspired among banks. He had taken little direct interest in design, however, and design approval had been left to a committee of senior executives representing the various divisions. It was difficult to expect truly creative designs to emerge from a process based on balancing the competing interests of different divisions.
Kubo continued.
“Design comes first. Technology takes money and time. Design takes nothing more than creativity and a good design sense.”
Then he added,
“You designers pay too much attention to what the sales people tell you. Have more confidence in yourselves.”
The sales department’s requests often reflected short-term market trends and competitors’ latest moves. Kubo’s message was clear: we didn’t have to listen to people who knew little about design. If we created good designs, he would stand behind us and make the final decision.
One car that comes to mind in connection with his remarks is the new Galant, which had just been launched around that time. While the hugely successful Colt Galant had a sporty, taut appearance, the new Galant had evolved into a heavier-looking design, with greater emphasis on a sense of luxury. This did not seem to be the direction Kubo had in mind.
“You should do what others cannot. Creativity is the very essence of human existence.”
With these words, Kubo brought his talk to a close. For him, this marked a memorable first step at the Okazaki First Technical Center, which he himself had conceived.
His powerful words left a deep impression on all of us. Until then, cost-reduction demands from other departments had dominated the design process. During the development of the New Galant, an executive had even instructed us to attach tags showing the cost of each component to the design model, turning design review meetings into what often felt like cost-cutting sessions. The standardization of parts across different car models was another issue that repeatedly surfaced during design discussions. Designer morale had sunk to a very low level. Yet Kubo’s words transformed the atmosphere throughout the studios. A new sense of optimism spread among us. We felt that an era in which design would finally be given the priority it deserved was about to begin.
Before following Kubo’s work from this point on, however, let us look back at how his philosophy toward design evolved.
The Road to Becoming an Aircraft Engineer
―― The First Ordeal
Kubo was born in 1908 in Aino Village, Minamitakaki District, Nagasaki Prefecture (now part of Unzen City), as the youngest of six children. Aino lay on the narrow isthmus of the Shimabara Peninsula, between the Ariake Sea and Tachibana Bay.
As the ringleader of the village boys, young Kubo spent his days catching fish and sea urchins in the tidal flats of the Ariake Sea and along the beautiful sandy beaches of Tachibana Bay. His father was the wealthy owner of extensive farmland and served as the village mayor. His mother was descended from the former lords of the Shimabara Domain, and her father had been both a samurai and a physician.
One day, trusting in his integrity, people persuaded Kubo’s father to act as a guarantor for a land reclamation project in the Ariake Sea. When the project failed, he was ruined financially, losing almost all of his farmland and other assets. Kubo was still in the fifth grade of elementary school. With the family’s livelihood destroyed, he left for Tokyo to live with an older brother, many years his senior, who was already working there.
Leaving home after his father’s bankruptcy must have been a profound experience for a young boy. Yet being separated from one’s parents at such an early age often instills a strong sense of independence and purpose. It is easy to imagine that Kubo came to realize he would have to rely on his own efforts from then on.
After moving to Tokyo, he entered Kaisei Middle School. Although he had been an excellent student in Nagasaki, he soon discovered that the academic standards in Tokyo were far more demanding. He failed the entrance examination for the first school he applied to and was eventually admitted to Kaisei. He later went on to the newly established Tokyo High School, whose liberal educational philosophy was modeled on the British public school system.
Hirotsugu Hirayama, one of Kubo’s classmates at Tokyo High School, later recalled, “Kubo was mentally tough and polished. He excelled in mathematics and English, and he was a much faster runner than I was.” Kubo then entered the Department of Aeronautics in the Faculty of Engineering at the University of Tokyo, determined to become an aircraft engineer. It was a time when, in the aftermath of the First World War, Japan’s military was vigorously promoting the domestic development of aircraft.
Supported throughout his middle school, high school, and university years by his eldest brother, who had effectively become a father figure, Kubo is said to have devoted himself to his studies to become financially independent as early as he could.
―― Making His Mark
Kubo graduated from the University of Tokyo in 1931, the year the Mukden Incident, engineered by the Kwantung Army, marked the beginning of Japan’s march toward imperial expansion. He joined Mitsubishi Aircraft Company (later Mitsubishi Heavy Industries) at its Nagoya Works. The plant stood on a vast tract of reclaimed land overlooking Nagoya Harbor. Employees enjoyed baseball and rugby on the open fields beside the factory, while Kubo devoted himself to practicing the high jump.
As a student, Kubo had never had the money to enjoy himself. After starting work, however, he bought a German-made NSU motorcycle. On weekends, he rode it throughout central Japan, recording each journey on a map with a red line. Before long, the map was crisscrossed with countless routes, stretching west to Wakayama and east as far as Nagano.
His first assignments at Mitsubishi were on the design of the Type 96 Carrier Fighter under Jiro Horikoshi, four years his senior and later the chief designer of the Zero fighter, and on the Type 97 Command Reconnaissance Aircraft under Fumihiko Kono, who would later become president of Mitsubishi Heavy Industries. Both aircraft would earn an enduring place in aviation history.
Looking back years later, Kubo recalled, “It was a time when every major transition came at once—from wooden to all-metal aircraft, from biplanes to monoplanes, and from licensed production of foreign designs to aircraft designed entirely in Japan.” At the same time, advances in aerodynamics were bringing dramatic increases in aircraft performance. Having earned the confidence of his superiors through his expertise in structural design and strength analysis, Kubo was appointed chief design engineer of the Ki-46. He was just twenty-eight.
―― The Success of the Ki-46
The Ki-46 was the fastest aircraft in Japan at the time. With its outstanding performance and a total production run of 1,741 aircraft, it played a significant role across the vast battlefields of the Pacific War. Its primary mission was to photograph enemy positions and return with intelligence that would improve the accuracy and effectiveness of the bombing missions that followed.
Designed without armament, the aircraft placed absolute priority on speed. Its design philosophy was simple: to evade enemy fighters through superior performance rather than by fighting them. For this reason, the appearance of a Ki-46 was said to be regarded as a warning that a bombing raid would soon follow.
The Ki-46 Model III and Ⅳ later became renowned around the world for its graceful appearance. Kubo, however, took a different view. Looking back years later, he remarked, “Because we had to install such a large engine in such a small airframe, it never became as well-proportioned as I had envisioned.” Despite the aircraft’s worldwide reputation for beauty, Despite the aircraft’s worldwide reputation for beauty, he remained committed to achieving the right proportions in his designs.
He also once said, “If looking at an aircraft doesn’t make you think, ‘What a beautiful airplane,’ it will never become a truly good airplane.” To Kubo, beauty and performance were inseparable.
As the war situation steadily deteriorated, the military issued an unending stream of requests for design modifications and new aircraft, leaving Kubo overwhelmed with work. As a result, he was forced to give up what would have been a rare opportunity to take part in the record-setting flight of the very aircraft he had designed.
The flight was carried out in the prototype of the final Model IV, equipped with an exhaust-driven turbocharger. Flying 2,250 kilometers from Beijing to Fussa, near Tokyo, it achieved an average speed of more than 700 kilometers per hour. Kubo was said to have been delighted when he heard the news.
―― The Ki-83: Pursuing the Ideal
The next aircraft for which Kubo served as chief design engineer was the Ki-83 long-range fighter, a twin-engine aircraft designed to achieve even higher speeds than the Ki-46.
Kubo disliked the conventional method of shaping a fuselage by drawing its contours freehand and refining them with a flexible wooden spline, considering the approach unscientific. He believed that “a true streamlined form is defined by continuous curves that can be expressed mathematically.” Guided by this conviction, he instructed Teruo Tojo—who would later become president of Mitsubishi Motors—to calculate mathematically derived streamlined contours. Unsatisfied with the results, Kubo had him repeat the calculations more than twenty times until they met his standards.
Nor did his pursuit of perfection end there. When designing the cockpit canopy, he had Tojo produce countless contour drawings before he was satisfied.
Kubo seems to have believed that true aircraft design lay in achieving both outstanding performance and beauty. In this episode, we can clearly see his uncompromising pursuit of the ideal.
The completed Ki-83 was even slimmer and better proportioned than the Ki-46. It may well be regarded as the aircraft that most fully embodied Kubo’s design philosophy.
―― Evacuation Following the Air Raids
On December 13, 1944, Nagoya came under its first major air raid by B-29 bombers. The Mitsubishi Aircraft Works were devastated, leaving the vast factory complex reduced to a skeleton of twisted steel.
Fortunately, the Engineering Department to which Kubo belonged escaped destruction. Six days earlier, it had been forced to relocate to several sites across the city after suffering damage in the 1944 Tōnankai Earthquake. Not everyone was so fortunate, however. Some employees who had taken shelter in air-raid bunkers near the factory were killed when the bunkers themselves were obliterated. Witnessing the horrific aftermath left Kubo stunned.
The Engineering Department, together with the prototype workshop, was subsequently evacuated to Matsumoto in Nagano Prefecture, where work continued on improving the Ki-46 and developing the Ki-83. As air raids intensified across Japan, roads, railways, and communications were crippled, making it increasingly difficult to obtain materials and even food.
An Army colonel who worked closely with Kubo secretly listened to American shortwave broadcasts. One day he confided, “Kubo, it’s over. The Imperial Headquarters’ announcements are nothing but lies. We’re losing everywhere.”
Many of those working on the front lines of aircraft development had already realized that victory was impossible and defeat inevitable. Even so, development continued with unwavering determination. Four Ki-83 prototypes were completed, but one crashed after a canopy malfunction during a test flight, and two others were destroyed in air raids. Before further progress could be made, the war came to an end.
Shortly after Japan’s surrender, Kubo was present when the U.S. military arrived at the airfield in Matsumoto to take possession of the last surviving Ki-83. He watched as a man who appeared to be a general walked across the airfield chatting casually with an ordinary enlisted soldier, as though they were close friends.
Such a scene was unimaginable in the Japanese military. Kubo is said to have remarked, “So this is what people mean by American democracy.” Yet despite belonging to an older generation, Kubo’s progressive education may have fostered a strong interest in democratic ideals.
That moment remained with him as a vivid symbol of the end of Imperial Japan and the beginning of a new Japan.
―― Developing the Three-Wheeled Truck
In 1945, Japan’s defeat brought aircraft production to an abrupt end. Under orders from the GHQ, the manufacture of aircraft was prohibited, leaving aircraft engineers throughout the country without work. Kubo was thirty-six.
With little to do in the immediate aftermath of the war, many engineers left the company. Kubo chose a different path. He compiled his research on structural mechanics into a dissertation and was awarded a Doctor of Engineering degree by his alma mater, the University of Tokyo. It brought to a close the fourteen years he had devoted to aircraft design since joining Mitsubishi, while also marking a turning point as he prepared to embark on a new career.
The following year, Kubo was transferred from Nagoya to the Mizushima Works in Okayama Prefecture. During the war, the plant had been Mitsubishi Heavy Industries’ second major aircraft production center and had suffered less bomb damage than the Nagoya Works. His new assignment was to develop a three-wheeled truck. The project began with a team of about forty engineers, consisting of Kubo’s own group and that of his junior colleague Yukichi Mochida, who would later become Executive Vice President of Mitsubishi Motors.
For Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, this project marked the beginning of its full-scale postwar reconstruction. Kubo often reminded his staff:
“Mitsubishi’s aircraft engineers are now scattered, but one day they will come together again. Only then will we be able to demonstrate our true strength. Until that day comes, let us be patient.”
He also repeatedly told them:
“Whether you’re designing an aircraft or a three-wheeled truck, the fundamental principles are the same. Pursue them to their limits.”
The following year, the TM3 three-wheeled truck—better known as the Mizushima—was completed. It went on to support the movement of goods during Japan’s postwar reconstruction, particularly in western Japan.
According to Mochida, after spending six months in 1950 touring automobile plants across the United States—including a two-week voyage each way by sea—Kubo spoke about the future of Mitsubishi’s car business:
“If we are to succeed in the automobile business, the first priority is to change the mindset of the company’s leadership. Then every function—from planning, development, sales, purchasing, accounting, production, and labor management—must be fully committed to a mass-production business aimed at the consumer market.”
Even so, the company’s culture, shaped by years of relying on government contracts, did not change easily. Even in the years that followed, profitability in the automobile business was often planned on the assumption of receiving orders from companies within the Mitsubishi Group. According to Mochida, this way of thinking proved slow to change.
―― Resuming Aircraft Production
For several years after the war, Japan’s aircraft engineers had little opportunity to practice their profession, and many moved into other fields of mechanical engineering, including the car industry. That changed in 1952, when the San Francisco Peace Treaty came into force, restoring Japan’s sovereignty and allowing aircraft production to resume.
By then, Kubo had become General Manager of the Engineering Department, overseeing the overall technical direction of both the aircraft and car divisions. In 1961, he returned to Nagoya and was appointed General Manager of the Nagoya Aircraft Works.
There, he was involved in the licensed production of the Lockheed F-104, followed by the development and manufacture of the YS-11, Japan’s first domestically produced passenger aircraft after the war. This was followed by the development and production of Mitsubishi’s own MU-2 business aircraft, fulfilling his long-held ambition to revive aircraft manufacturing in Japan.
The MU-2 project was especially significant. The design drawings of the Ki-83, which Kubo had designed during the war, were consulted during its development, and and he had some involvement in the design of its wing.
―― Unremarkable Design and a Struggling Car Business
While Kubo was engaged in aircraft development, Mitsubishi’s Car Division began developing passenger cars. Starting with the Mitsubishi 500 in 1960, it introduced the Colt 600, Colt 1000, Debonair, and Colt 1500 in rapid succession. This was the beginning of Japan’s my car boom, when cars were rapidly becoming part of everyday life in Japan. Mitsubishi’s commercial vehicles continued to perform relatively well, but sales of its passenger cars remained sluggish.There were several reasons for this, but one of them was the lack of appealing design. With the exception of the Debonair, a luxury sedan styled by an American designer, Mitsubishi’s cars tended to be conservative and visually understated. As cars became more common and competition among manufacturers intensified, design was becoming an increasingly important factor in a car’s appeal—and ultimately, in its sales.
Mitsubishi had many highly capable former aircraft engineers, but it had few experienced car designers, and those it did have were still developing their skills. The car business remained barely profitablee, and its future looked uncertain.
―― Discovering ”Never Leave Well Enough Alone”
While researching Kubo’s life, I had the opportunity to speak with his son, Ken Kubo. Among his memories was that, when he was in the upper grades of elementary school, there was a copy of “Never Leave Well Enough Alone” in their home. Its author, Raymond Loewy, was a world-renowned designer who worked in the United States and is widely regarded as one of the pioneers of industrial design. The Japanese edition, published under the title “From Lipstick to Locomotives“, attracted considerable attention in postwar Japan and helped introduce the concept of industrial design to a wider audience.
The original title, “Never Leave Well Enough Alone“, itself is thought-provoking. It reminds us never to be satisfied with what is merely “good enough.”This was precisely the philosophy Kubo had already put into practice throughout his career. Having relentlessly pursued the ideal in aircraft design, those words must have resonated strongly with him.
Loewy’s work ranged from locomotives, cars, and ships to household appliances. His design philosophy rejected unnecessary ornamentation in favor of combining sound engineering with refined styling to create products that were both modern and commercially successful. He also proposed the MAYA principle—Most Advanced Yet Acceptable—which argues that successful design should be as advanced as possible while remaining acceptable to the public.
The ideas presented in this book have much in common with Kubo’s later approach to design. It seems likely that the book helped further shape his own design philosophy.
―― The Struggle to Build a Passenger Car Business
In 1963, Kubo was appointed Senior Managing Director and returned to the car business for the first time since developing the three-wheeled truck in the immediate postwar years. He was 55 years old at the time. The first project he became involved with was the Colt 800, developed at Mizushima Works. However, the design was the work of Tokujiro Kaneko, who at the time served as consulting designer overseeing the design of all vehicles produced at Mizushima Works, and Kubo had little input into its styling.
The next project he undertook was the Colt Sports, a full-fledged sports car developed at Nagoya Works. By this time, Japan was entering the era of full-scale motorization. Motorsports were becoming increasingly popular, and one sports car after another was being introduced by Japanese manufacturers. Given Kubo’s bold and forward-looking nature, it is easy to imagine that he was inspired by this trend. He appointed the young Shinichi Mitsuhashi as chief designer and set the project in motion. However, just as the design was completed, the project was cancelled.
The decision was probably based on the view that, with their car business not yet firmly established, a sports car—with its relatively low sales potential despite the investment required—was too great a risk. Even so, there were people within the company who later remarked, “If only it had reached production…”
Kubo’s next challenge was to develop a successor to the Colt 800 series, Mitsubishi’s compact car, whose sales had lagged far behind the hugely successful Toyota Corolla and Nissan Sunny. With Mitsubishi’s own car designers still lacking experience, he turned in 1966 to Giorgetto Giugiaro, already recognized as one of the world’s leading car designers, and commissioned him to create the new design. It is said that Kubo had been particularly impressed by Giugiaro’s Fiat Vanessa, unveiled at the 1966 Turin Motor Show.
At that time, Giugiaro was on the verge of leaving Carrozzeria Ghia to establish his own design company together with Hideyuki Miyakawa, engineer Aldo Mantovani. Unlike traditional carrozzerie, which focused primarily on building prototypes and producing limited numbers of specialty cars, the new company would become the world’s first comprehensive automotive design firm, offering everything from styling and engineering to prototyping and even tooling for mass production.
Kubo quickly recognized the significance of this new venture and entrusted the development project to the company. The assignment itself was ambitious, covering three models: a two-door sedan, a four-door sedan, and a coupe. By the following year, 2 sedan prototypes had been completed, and a presentation for Kubo was held at a villa owned by the family of Miyakawa’s wife on the outskirts of Turin. The project was progressing smoothly.
(Kubo is on the far right)
―― Designing the Colt Galant
At about the same time, development also began on a successor to the slow-selling Colt 1000 series, a car that would later become the Colt Galant. Once again, Kubo commissioned Giorgetto Giugiaro to prepare a design proposal. At the same time, he asked Shinichi Mitsuhashi, who had just returned from studying at a design college in California under a company-sponsored program, to develop an in-house proposal. This led to a design competition between the two.
Although they were of roughly the same generation, there was a vast difference in experience and achievements. By then, Giugiaro had already established himself as one of the world’s leading car designers through numerous concept cars and production models. Mitsuhashi, on the other hand, had worked only on the sports car project mentioned earlier, which had never reached production. Kubo no doubt expected an outstanding proposal from Giugiaro, but he also seems to have hoped that the competition would encourage Mitsuhashi—and Mitsubishi’s in-house design team as a whole—to grow.
When Giugiaro’s proposal arrived from Italy, it was an elegant design with a distinctly European character. Even at this first stage, it was remarkably well developed and clearly reflected his greater experience. The in-house proposal, by contrast, had a powerful wedge-shaped form that conveyed a strong sense of forward motion, but it was unmistakably rough around the edges.
At the design review, the senior executives unanimously favored Giugiaro’s highly polished proposal. Kubo, however, chose the in-house design.
Under Kubo’s guidance, and through the dedicated efforts of the design team, the in-house proposal was refined again and again. It evolved into a remarkably sophisticated design and was eventually launched as the Colt Galant. The car became a major success, and Mitsubishi’s car business finally began to gain real momentum.
At the time, Giugiaro also submitted designs to Isuzu, Mazda, and Suzuki, and in each case his proposals were essentially accepted as they were. Mitsubishi was therefore unusual in commissioning a design from him but ultimately choosing not to adopt it. This was probably because, while Kubo recognized the value of Giugiaro’s talent, he also saw the project as an opportunity to develop Mitsubishi’s own designers. Perhaps only someone like Kubo—who had left home at a young age and had always valued independence—would have made such a decision.
In the end, the Colt Galant became a major success. It swept away Mitsubishi’s long-standing reputation for conservative styling, established the bold design character that would come to define Mitsubishi cars, and helped raise the capabilities of the company’s in-house designers. Looking back, it is hard to imagine a better outcome. Had Kubo chosen Giugiaro’s design instead, those achievements would probably never have been realized. In that sense, his decision proved to be one of the most significant in Mitsubishi’s later history.
Around this time, Kubo often told his designers:
“Before you are company employees, be designers.”
Those words carried considerable weight. Even within a large corporation such as Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, he believed that professional pride and independence should come before simply being a member of the organization. Few leaders would say such a thing to their own staff. In many ways, Those words showed that Kubo never lost the mindset of an engineer.
―― A Clash with His Superior
In the late 1960s, Japan was preparing for the liberalization of automobile imports. The Ministry of International Trade and Industry (MITI) was encouraging Japan’s car makers to merge.among domestic car manufacturers, and Mitsubishi Heavy Industries was in talks with Isuzu Motors on a business alliance.
At the same time, however, Jiro Shirasu, a well-known political and business fixer, approached Executive Vice President Yoichiro Makita personally with a proposal for a major alliance with Chrysler. Makita negotiated with Chrysler on his own without informing either Kubo, then General Manager of the Automotive Division, or others within the company. As a result, he came into conflict with both President Fumihiko Kono—who had been pursuing the alliance with Isuzu and had once been Kubo’s direct superior—and Kubo himself.
Makita had joined Mitsubishi Heavy Industries from Mitsubishi Corporation, a general trading company.He was a man of extraordinary drive and determination, but he was also known for his fiery temper and frequent clashes with those he disliked. According to one well-known story, when he returned from an overseas assignment during his days at Mitsubishi Corporation, he threw the organizer of his welcome party from the second floor after an argument with him. Such behavior would of course be regarded as unacceptable workplace harassment today, but his superiors must have believed that his exceptional abilities outweighed his flaws, and he was later transferred to Mitsubishi Heavy Industries.
There, drawing on his outstanding business acumen and extensive international experience, Makita concluded a number of partnerships with foreign companies, including Caterpillar Mitsubishi. His willingness to work with overseas firms even earned him the nickname “Rashamen O-Maki,” a sarcastic reference to women who associated with foreign men in earlier times. While his ability to get things done was widely recognized, his combative personality remained unchanged. He made many enemies, but also attracted devoted supporters.
Kubo’s son, Ken Kubo, later recalled the relationship between the two in these words:
“Mr. Makita liked to surround himself with loyal followers. My father disliked that kind of relationship and simply couldn’t accept it.”
The contrast reflected the very different culture in which Kubo had been trained. Aircraft design was driven by the constant pursuit of better engineering solutions, where ideas mattered more than age or seniority, and where people worked in an open and independent atmosphere rather than within rigid personal hierarchies.
One day, Kubo quietly confided in his longtime friend from his student days, Hirotsugu Hirayama:
“Hirayama, I’m having a really hard time.”
By then, Kubo was physically and mentally exhausted, and his condition had developed into a nervous breakdown. Seeing how exhausted Kubo had become,Yukichi Mochida, (who had worked with Kubo on the three-wheeled truck project), invited him to a sushi restaurant together with one of Kubo’s close associates. They urged him to take a break and recover.
The following day, in October 1968, Kubo entered the hospital and began an extended period of leave. Within the company, rumors spread that “Makita had broken Kubo.”
―― Cancellation During His Leave
While development of the successor to the Colt 800 series mentioned earlier was reaching its peak, the project was suddenly cancelled in March 1969. According to Mochida, the decision was made by Makita, who had just been promoted to president. The reasons given were that the design would be difficult to sell in the Japanese market and other concerns. It appears that the views of Chrysler, Mitsubishi’s prospective partner, also influenced the decision.It is true that Chrysler executives in the 1960s, who were always looking for something new and exciting, may not have found this design particularly appealing.In fact, according to Hideyuki Miyakawa of Ital Styling, neither President Makita nor the Chrysler representatives had a high opinion of the car’s design.
By that stage, the project had already required a substantial investment of both money and effort, making the cancellation a major setback for Mitsubishi Heavy Industries. Nevertheless, despite the cancellation, Ital Styling received the full contractual payment as originally agreed. Miyakawa later said that this demonstrated Mitsubishi Heavy Industries’ sincerity. For the newly established Ital Styling, the payment proved to be a significant boost that helped support the company’s subsequent growth.
Incidentally, when Giugiaro’s design for the successor to the Colt 800 series was completed, Kubo instructed the team to incorporate its best elements into the Minica ’70, which was then still under development. The design had been led by Tokujirō Kaneko, a contract designer, but Kubo apparently felt that it was not yet good enough. After a major revision, the Minica ’70 emerged with a much more refined appearance, combining a light and clean Italian style. This process brings to mind Raymond Loewy’s famous phrase, “Never Leave Well Enough Alone”—never settle for something simply because it is good enough.
The Minica ’70 was launched five months before the Colt Galant. Benefiting also from being the first kei passenger car in Japan to adopt a hatchback design, it became a major success, selling 450,000 units in just three years and three months.
―― Later Years of Yoichiro Makita
Two months after Makita became president, Kubo recovered his health and returned to the head office after a seven-month absence as General Manager of the Technology Division. However, this was not a position involved in automobile development. In effect, Kubo had been removed from the car business by President Makita.
Having reached the pinnacle of his career, Makita passed away suddenly from pancreatic cancer in 1971, his second year as president. He was only 68. Makita was known as a heavy drinker and had frequently visited traditional restaurants in Shinbashi and Akasaka for more than 20 years, where he discussed various matters in private and enjoyed the company of geisha.His life was marked by demanding work and a heavy social schedule.
Makita is credited with reforming Mitsubishi Heavy Industries’ old-fashioned business culture, which had relied heavily on government orders and operated much like a privileged supplier. In the past, employees of Mitsubishi were sometimes referred to as “Mitsubishi gentlemen”, however, as Japan moved rapidly from postwar recovery into a period of high economic growth, this traditional culture was no longer suited to the changing times. What the company needed at that time was a strong leader who could transform a huge organization, even if it required a forceful approach.
The Chrysler alliance, which Makita led, was also considered by some to have contained terms unfavorable to Mitsubishi. Nevertheless, it became a major opportunity for Mitsubishi Motors to strengthen its capabilities as a car manufacturer and expand exports to North America and Australia. In that sense, the value of the partnership was considerable.
Makita was a businessman who moved organizations through his strong personality and ability to get things done. Kubo, on the other hand, was a person who set high ideals and led others by example. Before considering their differences in approach, perhaps the two men were simply personalities that were never destined to get along.
President Makita (left) and President John Ricardo (center)
New President with Passion for Design
―― Birth of Mitsubishi Motors
Looking back on Kubo’s career after the war, he first led the development of a three-wheeled truck immediately after the war. As the times changed, he took on the role of helping revive Mitsubishi’s aircraft business. Then, as the car business entered a new phase, He was put in charge of guiding the division..
Although he experienced setbacks with the Colt Sports and the successor to the Colt 800 series, he achieved major successes with the Minica ’70 and the Colt Galant that followed. His conflict with Makita forced him to take an extended leave of absence, and afterward he was assigned to the engineering division, no longer directly involved in car development.
In 1970, the car division was separated from Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, giving birth to Mitsubishi Motors. According to Mochida, this separation was a condition imposed by Chrysler when it invested in Mitsubishi and formed a partnership with the company. Three years later, Kubo became the second president of Mitsubishi Motors. By then, four years and seven months had passed since his illness forced him to step away. During that period, models such as the Colt Galant GTO, Galant Coupe FTO, first-generation Lancer, New Galant, and Minica F4 had been developed.
―― Development of Galant Sigma Begins
The story now returns to the moment when the new president, Kubo, visited the Styling Section at the First Technical Center in Okazaki and gave the designers a strong message.
He encouraged them with the words:
“From now on, I will make the design decisions. Leave the design to me.”
After that, Kubo learned that Shinichi Mitsuhashi, who had previously designed the first-generation Galant, was then overseeing interior design. He directed the head of the Styling Section to assign Mitsuhashi to the exterior design of the Galant Sigma, whose development was just about to begin. He also instructed him to commission Giorgetto Giugiaro to design the Sigma, just as he had done for the first-generation Galant.
Mitsuhashi was thirty six at the time, but he had already moved away from hands-on design work and had taken on a managerial role. While Giugiaro, who was from the same generation, was still fully active as a leading designer, this was the reality faced by many in-house designers.
Within the Styling Section, as many exterior designers as possible—about fifteen, as I recall—were asked to produce idea sketches. Through several stages of evaluation, the proposals were gradually narrowed down, and in the end Mitsuhashi’s sketch was selected to be developed into a full-scale model. His design represented a natural evolution of the Colt Galant, and I felt it was the right choice. As for my own sketch, it was eliminated at a very early stage. It made me realize just how much I still had to learn.
Later, Giugiaro’s design model arrived from Italy. It featured a sharp, crisp design, and the kick-up of the beltline near the C-pillar conveyed a sense of respect for the original Colt Galant. Meanwhile, the model based on Mitsuhashi’s sketch was also intended to be an evolution of the first-generation Galant. But, for some reason, by the time the model was completed, the sharp, sporty character of the original sketch had disappeared. Although the design elements remained essentially the same, the finished model had the presence of a luxury car, resulting in a design that was quite different in character from the original sketch.
―― Kubo Would Not Be Satisfied
As with the development of the Colt Galant, Mitsuhashi and Giugiaro once again found themselves competing against each other. This time, however, Kubo showed little interest in either proposal. The commission to Giugiaro ended there, and the project was effectively restarted from scratch. My impression was that neither design felt right to him. After that, three design teams produced a total of seven full-scale models, but Kubo rejected every one of them. His comments during this period were uncompromising:
“You people have no sense of design. Go out and study better designs.”
“A car shouldn’t look like a country geisha caked in makeup.”
“You’ll never come up with anything decent working out here in the sticks!”
Ironically, it was Kubo himself who had chosen this very place for the design studio, but no one was in a position to point that out.
Those in positions of responsibility, including Styling Section Manager Nimura, were simply at a loss. As an ordinary designer, however, I somehow found Kubo’s blunt, down-to-earth way of speaking strangely endearing. We had thought a savior of car design had finally arrived in the Styling Section, only to find ourselves facing the painful struggle of creating something worthy of his approval.
With no clear direction for the design, Kubo also offered more specific guidance:
“Mitsubishi design should be simple, bold, and sharp.”
“What I want is a sedan with the spirit of a coupe.”
Through comments like these, I could sense how determined he was to break through the impasse.
―― Kaibuchi Takes the Initiative
By this time, Kubo’s repeated rejection of the design proposals had put the project seriously behind schedule. In car development, the schedule is virtually absolute—almost as binding as law. Yet the president himself seemed unconcerned about delaying it. Those of us on the design staff could only wonder what he had in mind, but all we could do was keep working. For those in positions of responsibility, however, the pressure from the departments waiting downstream in the development process was becoming increasingly intense.
Against this backdrop, while everyone was searching for the next design direction, the veteran designer Ryu Kaibuchi began creating a tape drawing on his own initiative. Ignoring the established package layout, he dramatically lowered the roofline and gave both the windshield and rear window a much steeper rake, creating what could only be described as a coupe-like sedan.
The package layout was the three-dimensional framework established during product planning, defining the locations and dimensions of the engine, suspension, passenger compartment, luggage space, and every other major component of the vehicle. It was the fundamental premise of the entire development program, and the styling department was expected to work within those constraints. Kaibuchi, however, seemed to sense what Kubo was really looking for, and chose to step beyond them.
A graduate of Takaoka Technical High School in Toyama Prefecture, Kaibuchi was an unassuming man who always dressed plainly and never tried to draw attention to himself. He spoke little about design, quietly concentrated on his work, and had a remarkable talent for proposing bold ideas.
Several of us who watched him at work thought, “Why don’t we go this far? Let’s build an image model based on this idea.” We modified a discarded model and, in a rush, turned it into a new proposal.
When Kubo next visited the studio, he barely glanced at the proposals that followed the established package layout. Instead, he immediately spotted Kaibuchi’s model, which had been placed off to one side.
“This looks good. Why don’t we use this as the basis and move forward?”
At that moment, the direction of the design finally became clear. Everyone felt that, at last, we could see the way ahead.
Looking back years later, Mitsuhashi recalled: “At the time, I believed we had to create a sedan with the solid passenger space of competitors such as the Corona and Bluebird.”
Kubo had once told us,
“Be designers before you are company employees.”
Simply accepting the conditions handed down from above and designing within them was not what he expected of a designer. Kaibuchi was the one who answered that challenge by breaking free from conventional thinking.
―― Attention to Detail
The Sigma design program, which had originally been carried out by three teams, was eventually taken over by the team led by Takio Nakagawa. Nakagawa was responsible for the overall design, while I worked on the front end and Matsuo Katayama worked on the rear. Meanwhile, Kaibuchi, who had played a key role in the project, was assigned to the Lambda, whose development had already begun. His proposal was later selected for that model.
Until then, I had been working on the front end of a model designed by Nakagawa that was more of a luxury-car image, so I thought, “This is a completely different direction.” As I began searching for ideas, I found myself inspired by Kubo’s words:
“Mitsubishi design should be simple, bold, and sharp.”
The idea that came to me was a reverse-rake nose, with the leading edge of the hood projecting forward.The front grille flowed inward in a concave surface toward the tip of the nose, much like the underside of a breaking wave. Kaibuchi’s original proposal had featured a conventional slant nose, but the overall form of the car convinced me that a reverse-rake nose was the right solution.Looking back on it now, I believe that idea came from my strong sympathy for Kubo as a leader and from my growing understanding of what Kubo was trying to achieve.
One of the distinctive features of the design was wraparound front corner lamps that extended well onto the sides of the body. The moment Kubo saw the completed model, he exclaimed,
“Ah, wraparound!”
I was surprised that, as company president, he was so familiar with international trends in car design that he immediately recognized the feature. Later, while the front corner lamps were already being prepared for mass production by the supplier, Kubo requested a further change to the design. He wanted the transition from the front of the car to the side to flow more smoothly, and I had to admit that his suggestion made sense.
By then, however, the project was already behind schedule, and it was just before the year-end holidays. My supervisor had to visit the labor union and ask for permission to have us work through the New Year holiday. I spent the holiday revising the design drawing to reflect a change of only a few millimeters. Kubo’s involvement was less like that of a company president than of a chief designer working on the studio floor.
Years later, Kubo explained his philosophy in an interview with Car Graphic magazine:
“If the design you choose at the beginning is wrong, then tens or even hundreds of thousands of bad cars will be built. That’s why the beginning is infinitely important.”
The Galant Sigma went on to become an even greater success than the Colt Galant. Its average annual sales of 147,315 units set a new record for Mitsubishi.
―― Creation Gives Life Meaning
During the development of the Sigma, Kubo rejected a total of nine design proposals, including Giugiaro’s. That was no ordinary thing. One could simply say that the designers were not yet good enough, but most executives, when presented with four or five proposals, would probably have chosen one of them. Kubo alone was able to reject proposal after proposal because he had a clear vision of design he was seeking, and because he had refined his standards through years of experience.
Despite the demands of running the company, Kubo traveled repeatedly from the headquarters in Tokyo, to Okazaki to lead the design effort. In the end, his commitment paid off, giving rise to what could be called the golden age of Mitsubishi design. The Mitsubishi cars of this period possessed a distinctive character unlike that of any of their competitors. Kubo’s passion inspired the designers, allowing their creativity to flourish as never before. Ordinarily, this should have been the role of the chief designer or the head of the design division. One might even say that those in such positions at the time were not fully equal to the task. Kubo, however, possessed an exceptional ability to inspire the people around him.
He once said:
“What distinguishes human beings from animals is the ability to create. Our purpose is to create things that do not exist in nature. Whether in management, engineering, or administration, there is meaning in life wherever people strive to create. I have always hated the phrase, ‘Follow precedent.'”
―― Atmosphere Around President Kubo
I still remember what it was like whenever President Kubo came to visit the design studio.
As soon as it became known that he was coming, a certain tension began to build among those in responsible positions the day before. When he finally arrived from Tokyo and stepped into the Styling Section, the expressions and movements of those around him immediately became tense, and that feeling quickly spread throughout the studio.
No one could predict what Kubo would say when he examined the sketches and proposal models. His comments could be unexpectedly severe, and it was not unusual for people in the Styling Section, as well as those in related functions, to find themselves scrambling to respond.As the president, Kubo’s views were almost always final, and I can hardly recall anyone openly disagreeing with him. At times, his attention to individual design details became so intense that he paid little regard to the designer’s original intent. For that reason, some designers felt that this was not the best way to lead a creative process that should, by its very nature, encourage freedom of thought and open discussion.
On one occasion, Kubo noticed a young designer with a beard. Through one of his staff members standing nearby, he remarked sarcastically,
“Does that beard have anything to do with design?”
In the 1970s, influenced by the hippie movement that had spread from the United States, beards had become fashionable among some young people. In conservative Japanese companies, however, they were often seen as a sign of being rebellious and unwilling to fit in.The designer, however, never shaved it off. He later became Head of Design while still wearing his beard, and eventually went on to serve as president of Mitsubishi Motors Europe. Kubo probably still carried with him many of the values of the prewar generation. Even so, a new generation of designers grew and matured under his leadership.
―― After the Sigma
After the Galant Sigma came a succession of new projects, including the Lambda, Mirage, and Starion. Just as he had done during the Sigma program, Kubo repeatedly rejected proposals and demanded further improvements, pushing the designers to their limits. Yet out of that seemingly chaotic process, the strongest designs eventually emerged and were refined into finished products.
During the development of the Starion, Kubo took one look at a proposal with a slightly rounded rear end and remarked sharply,
“A car that looks like a catfish is no good!”
His judgment of a design was almost instantaneous. Behind that split-second decision, however, lay both an innate sense of design and an aesthetic judgment that had been sharpened over many years.
While the Sigma was still under development, Kubo also made a major change to the Lancer Celeste, whose basic design had already been finalized. He ordered the rear pillar to be changed from a forward-leaning to a rearward-leaning one.Although Nimura, head of the Styling Section, who had led the design up to that point, strongly opposed the change, Kubo refused to back down. Once again, his decision was made without hesitation. Kubo’s uncompromising attitude extended beyond styling alone. In an interview with Car Graphic, he said:
“Good styling alone means nothing. Styling must be supported by sound engineering.”
“Styling for the sake of styling has no value.”
“The real satisfaction in our work comes from creating forms that people find pleasing, while working within technical constraints.”
In fact, Kubo demanded equally high standards from engineering, and as a result many of Mitsubishi’s cars became successful.
In 1979, Kubo became chairman, and the Starion—then under development—was probably the last car in whose design he was deeply involved. As a sports coupe that was also to be supplied to Chrysler, it was no doubt of particular interest to him. By contrast, he had little involvement in the designs of the Tredia, Cordia, and the first-generation Pajero, which were being developed at about the same time. By then, the style of design leadership that Kubo had personally driven for so many years was beginning to give way to a new era.
In 1983, Kubo stepped down as chairman and became a senior advisor. Freed from many of the demands of executive life, he found more time for himself. He enjoyed golf, the game of Go, gardening, and travel both in Japan and abroad, while deepening his interest in nature, history, and culture. Once a year, he visited ancient historical sites around the world, including the Mausoleum of the First Qin Emperor and Dunhuang in China, the Parthenon in Greece, and Lumbini in Nepal, the birthplace of the Buddha.
According to his son, Kubo also devoted much of this period to studying religion. To learn about Christianity, he attended lectures by the cultural critic Yamamoto Shichihei, while for Buddhism he studied under the renowned scholar of religion Hajime Nakamura. He also broadened his knowledge of Zen Buddhism and Islam. His interest in Buddhism was especially deep. Together with his daughter, he traced the footsteps of the Buddha over a journey of some 1,500 km across India and Nepal. He was eighty at the time.
True to his character, Kubo explored religion thoroughly. In the end, however, he came to believe that all religions shared two essential teachings: the importance of moral conduct and the need to let go of worldly desires. At the same time, he concluded that if people were to abandon desire altogether, capitalism itself could not function. According to his son, this realization kept him from becoming more deeply involved in religion.
In 1989, Kubo underwent liver surgery. Thereafter, he was hospitalized several times. Mochida, who had shared both hardships and successes with him at Mitsubishi over many years and whose family had remained close to the Kubos, often took him for walks in the countryside.
Along the field path,
Wild chrysanthemums remain
After the rice harvest.
This was one of Kubo’s haiku.
Having completed his life’s work as a developer and finding himself gradually leaving it behind, he seems to have identified with the wild chrysanthemums left standing beside the field path after the harvest. Perhaps the poem also reflected his feelings for his wife, who had passed away two years earlier. Until I began researching Kubo’s life in depth, I had never known that he wrote haiku. I found it unexpected, and it revealed another side of him—a richness of spirit that I had not imagined.
Kubo passed away in 1990 at the age of eighty-two.
Later, in Oe Zuisō, a collection of essays published by retired Mitsubishi Heavy Industries employees, Mochida reflected on his longtime friend with these words:
“Looking back, Kubo was a man of great humanity. Everyone who came into contact with him was drawn to the depth and warmth of his character. He possessed a remarkable ability to inspire and attract people. He always pursued lofty ideals and had the rare good fortune of seeing his dreams realized. I believe he lived a truly fulfilling life.”
In 2009, in recognition of his many years of achievement, Kubo was inducted into the Japan Automotive Hall of Fame. The honor was accepted on his behalf by his son.
―― Kubo as a Family Man
Kubo’s son, Ken Kubo, became a physicist, choosing a path different from his father’s. The following glimpse of Kubo’s life at home is based on what Ken shared with me.
At home, Kubo was a devoted father who cared deeply for his family. Before the Mitsubishi 500 was introduced, the company provided him with a Volkswagen Beetle, and Ken recalls that he would often take the family on weekend drives. Believing that children should help with household chores, Kubo had Ken sweep the entrance, but beyond that he never tried to impose his own views on his children. Ken also remembered that his father disliked formality, cared little for appearances, and always valued substance over outward show. That image closely matches the Kubo I came to know.
Ken once recalled his mother saying, “Even after your father rose to an executive position, our family continued to live a modest life.” The reason, he explained, was that Kubo continued for many years to send financial support to the older brother who had looked after him and to his mother back in his hometown. Hearing this, I came to appreciate once again how faithfully Kubo honored those to whom he felt indebted.
One memory that especially reveals another side of Kubo comes from the period when he suffered a nervous breakdown brought on by work. Ken recalled, “My father was always energetic, but when he became ill, I felt I was seeing a more vulnerable side of him.” His words convey how deeply the family worried about him during that difficult time.
Of all the stories Ken shared, the one that most vividly captured Kubo’s character concerned the purchase of his daughter’s piano. Rather than buying an expensive instrument from a well-known manufacturer, Kubo found a small workshop that could build an upright piano at a more affordable price. When he visited the workshop to look at the piano before placing the order, he disliked the straight design of the legs beside the keyboard. He therefore drew a new design himself and asked the workshop to make the legs with gracefully curved instead. Even at home, his uncompromising eye for design never left him.
“In his later years, my parents enjoyed composing haiku together. He also often spoke with great affection about his hometown of Aino.” Ken’s recollections ended with this peaceful image of his father’s later life.
―― What He Left Behind
Good design, of course, requires good designers. But within a corporate organization, that alone is not enough. There must also be someone who can reject designs that are competent but ordinary, or self-indulgent designs, and bring out a designer’s ability to reach an even higher level. That was Kubo.
He had the determination to reject one proposal model after another and never give his approval until he saw a design that truly satisfied him. His approach was based on a relentless pursuit of excellence and an unwavering eye for judging design.
The models with which he was deeply involved inevitably experienced some delay in their development schedules. As a result, those responsible for the engineering, prototyping, testing, production, and other processes that followed the design stage must have faced considerable difficulties in making up for lost time. Even so, there is no doubt that these cars succeeded in the marketplace and ultimately contributed to increasing the value of the company.
Countless cars have been created throughout history, yet many may have disappeared into the marketplace because they were released without sufficiently rigorous judgment of their design quality. At the same time, a leader who is both a corporate executive and a guiding force in design may represent an ideal situation for a manufacturing company—but such individuals are extremely rare. On the other hand, when an executive without a strong sense of design intervenes in design decisions simply by virtue of authority, there is an undeniable risk of doing more harm than good.
Several years ago, I began researching the history of each Mitsubishi car design projects. Through that work, I came to realize how exceptional Kubo’s role had been in shaping the company’s designs. Looking back on his career in greater depth, I gained a renewed appreciation of the importance of his attitude toward design. To be honest, when I later found myself in a position to guide younger designers, I could not demonstrate the same level of leadership that Kubo had shown. Only now do I feel that I finally understand what he had been looking for all those years. Yet his philosophy was certainly passed on to the designers who followed him. Those who had been inspired by him took pride in his passion and in his spirit as a developer, and I believe that this mindset eventually led to the successful cars that came later.
What Kubo left behind was the spirit of a developer—the relentless pursuit of something better.
“The most interesting time is when you’re still a manager doing hands-on work. That is because you can create something in your own way. When you do that, even working overtime does not really exhaust you. If you could continue doing that throughout your life, it would be a wonderful way to live.”
Those are the words of Kubo that have stayed with me the most.
July 2026
Sources
This article is based on the following sources: previously published histories of Mitsubishi Motors and Mitsubishi Heavy Industries; writings by and about Tomio Kubo; publications on the aircraft he designed and the cars with which he was involved; works concerning people associated with him; contemporary periodicals, including Car Graphic; the author’s own research; and an interview with Mr. Ken Kubo conducted in March 2026.
(All source materials are in Japanese.)