The Man Who Gave Japan Its Soul Car

There are car designers who build machines. And then there are the ones who shape culture. Tsutomu "Tom" Matano was the latter. With nothing more than a pencil and a refusal to conform, he helped rewrite the definition of what a Japanese sportscar could be. In a world obsessed with numbers and Nürburgring lap times, Matano-san's MX-5 Miata spoke of something far more powerful: joy.

The Anti-Supercar Supercar

The 1980s were a loud decade. Turbo badges were slapped onto anything that moved. Supercars were developing a love affair wings and slats, and egos to match. Japan was in the thick of this arms race too - Nissan with its GT-Rs, Toyota with its Supras, Honda readying the NSX. But then along came the Mazda MX-5 in 1989, smiling like it had absolutely no business being that happy.

Advertisement

It didn't have 300 horsepower. It wasn't chasing Ferraris or hunting Porsches. It was light, rear-driven, had perfect 50:50 weight balance, a proper manual gearbox, and pop-up headlights that winked like it knew something the rest didn't.

While others chased lap times, the Miata chased corners. And if you were lucky, it chased your blues away too.

Tom Matano: The Man Behind the Smile

Matano san did more than just sketching a roadster. He drew an attitude. A car that didn't need to shout. A car that reminded the world that driver engagement wasn't a feature you ticked on a brochure - it was a philosophy.

Before the MX-5, Japanese sportscars were largely engineering showcases - clinical, brilliant, but a little cold. Matano's design humanised the machine. The MX-5 looked like it was happy to see you. And once you drove it, you were happy to see it too.

He followed that up with the third-gen RX-7 - the FD. Still one of the most seductive shapes to ever come out of Japan. It looked like it was melting even when it was standing still. Both cars, in very different ways, proved that beauty and emotion had a place in the Japanese carmaker's rulebook - if someone dared to rewrite it.

The Little Giant Killer

What the MX-5 did was borderline subversive. It was a David, not because it beat Goliaths in outright speed, but because it exposed them. It showed that you didn't need carbon-fibre tubs and 500bhp to feel alive. You just needed the right geometry, the right weight, and a car that became an extension of your limbs.

It became a cult classic, outselling every other sportscar, winning more hearts than horsepower awards. It spawned racing leagues, weekend rituals, and a generation of enthusiasts who believed that less truly was more.

And all of this from a company that had to fight tooth and nail to get the project approved in the first place. Matano, along with Bob Hall and a tight-knit team, didn't just design a car - they fought for an idea. The idea that fun mattered. That driving didn't have to be expensive. That Japan could build something with soul.

More Than Metal

Tom Matano's passing isn't just the loss of a designer. It's the loss of a philosophy. A reminder that in a world overrun with SUVs pretending to be sportscars, and sportscars pretending to be computers, we once had machines that made us feel something raw and honest.

The MX-5 didn't just sit in the corner of the Japanese sportscar showroom. It stood apart. It stood for something.

And that's Tom's legacy. Not just the lines he drew, but the smiles they caused.

Rest in peace, Matano-san. You didn't just change cars. You changed the way we felt about them.