When we visited designer Paolo Martin for a retrospective on his extraordinary body of work, one particular shape in his archive stood apart from everything else—low, razor-sharp, almost extraterrestrial in its geometry. More than fifty years after its debut, the Ferrari Modulo still looks like something plucked from the future. And in many ways, it was.
This was no ordinary concept car, and Martin no ordinary stylist. The Modulo was the physical manifestation of an idea so radical that even the company that eventually built it did so almost by accident—and very nearly against its own will.
At Carrozzieri-Italiani.com, we’ve explored dozens of prototypes and one-offs that have come and gone with the tides of fashion and technology. But the Modulo stands alone. It wasn’t built to move people. It wasn’t built to sell anything. It was built to push boundaries—and, in its designer’s view, it should never have moved at all.
An Orphaned Ferrari
The Modulo’s genesis begins with an unlikely origin: two unused chassis from the Ferrari 512 S, a sports prototype built for homologation in 1968. Ferrari had constructed 25 units to meet the FIA’s Group 5 regulations, but two were surplus. Instead of scrapping them, Ferrari shipped the orphaned frames to Pininfarina in Turin to be used for experimental design studies.
The chassis were assigned separately. One went to Filippo Sapino, who penned a streamlined, production-feasible grand tourer. The other was entrusted to Paolo Martin, then a young designer with a reputation for thinking far beyond the page.
Martin’s initial sketch was minimalist—just an A3 sheet, scrawled with an extreme wedge shape and covered wheels, looking more like a lunar lander than a road-going Ferrari. It was conceptually elegant, graphically driven, and unlike anything the company had ever seen.
Management passed over it without much discussion. Sapino’s design was selected. Martin’s proposal, they said, was simply too strange.
Building the Future in Silence
In August of 1969, while the studio emptied out for summer holidays, Martin stayed behind.
Alone, and without formal approval, he ordered eight square meters of polystyrene, brought it into a quiet section of the workshop, and began carving. With saws and scrapers, he transformed his two-dimensional sketch into a full-scale three-dimensional model—done entirely by hand. No staff. No briefing. No budget.
When Sergio Pininfarina and engineer Renzo Carli returned after the break, the model sat under a dust-covered cloth. Their reaction was immediate: confusion, skepticism, maybe even annoyance. According to internal studio recollections, they asked, “What planet are you on?”
The model was covered again and hidden from view. It remained untouched for nearly six months.
But then, as the 1970 Geneva Motor Show loomed, panic crept in. There was no bold concept ready for display—nothing dramatic enough to reflect Pininfarina’s reputation for innovation. And so, at the eleventh hour, the decision was made: build Martin’s forgotten car.
Design Without Precedent
Contrary to popular myth, the Ferrari Modulo was not inspired by NASA, jets, or space capsules. The Space Shuttle didn’t exist when the design was conceived. In fact, there was no direct inspiration at all. Martin’s creation was purely abstract—born from a desire to explore geometry, symmetry, and graphic purity in three-dimensional form.
It was a design born from drawing, not engineering.
The car’s extreme wedge shape, canopy roof, fully enclosed wheels, and arrow-sleek profile were all manifestations of a graphic logic. Every element had to serve the concept of modularity—hence the name Modulo. Even the interior controls, housed in perfectly spherical pods, were symmetrical. When workshop staff couldn’t produce perfect spheres on the lathe, Martin improvised by molding them from a bowling ball.
It wasn’t about practicality. It was about proportion, balance, and formal rigor.
The car’s original color, a subtle pearl blue, was changed just before Geneva. Leonardo Fioravanti, sensing it needed more presence under the show lights, had it repainted white with black accents. The result was dazzling.
The Car They Didn’t Want to Build
The Modulo’s reception at Geneva in March 1970 was electric. Crowds formed immediately. The press didn’t just admire it—they obsessed over it. Its ultra-low profile (just 93.5 cm high), canopy entry, and alien silhouette stole the show.
Ironically, it was also the only car Sergio Pininfarina ever opposed internally. Fearing ridicule and misunderstanding, he had resisted it until the very last minute. After its success, he reportedly sent Martin a telegram of apology.
Even famed designer Gio Ponti, who was invited to offer a critical perspective, found the car extraordinary. His only complaint was about the circular air vents cut into the rear deck. They looked static, he said, against the dynamic shape of the car. But even he couldn’t deny its impact.
Not Made to Move
The Ferrari Modulo was never designed to function. It was a rolling sculpture, a styling exercise in its purest form. The engine bay was sealed. The interior, while real, was never meant to be ergonomic. The rear window dispute, between Martin and Carli, became a humorous tug-of-war. Carli insisted on Plexiglas with vents; Martin would secretly reinstall his metal panel overnight. The two went back and forth until Carli gave in: “Do what you like.”
As Martin left Pininfarina in 1972, the Modulo stayed behind—admired, revered, and preserved as a singular vision.
Until someone tried to make it drive.
Restoration or Violation?
Years later, the Modulo was sold into private hands. Its current owner, James Glickenhaus, undertook a painstaking project to make it roadworthy. That meant installing cooling systems for the 5.0-liter V12 engine, adding side mirrors, modifying the rear for airflow, and adapting the canopy for functional use. In 2019 the ex-movie producer toke it for a drive on the mountain roads outside of Monaco when its exhaust system caught fire. Fortunately for Glickenhaus, the car had an onboard fire suppression system which he activated, killing the flames and damaging only the bodywork around the muffler at the rear and a section of the right rear fender.
Photo courtesy of twitter.com/Glickenhaus
From a technical perspective, the effort is impressive. But from a design perspective, it’s controversial
For Martin, the modifications cross a line. The purity of the proportions—the sealed silhouette, the conceptual stillness—was the essence of the car. Turning the Modulo into a usable machine, he believes, compromises its very identity.
A Statement Frozen in Time – And Reimagined for Today
The Ferrari Modulo was never unfinished. It was complete by design—a car that didn’t chase performance or practicality but redefined the boundaries of automotive form. It stood apart not because it drove, but precisely because it didn’t need to. Its power lay in its silence, its presence, its refusal to explain itself.
And yet, over 50 years later, the Modulo continues to inspire.
In 2024, Automobili Pininfarina unveiled a stunning one-off Battista commissioned by a private collector, finished in a bespoke white-and-black livery—a direct homage to the Ferrari Modulo. The tribute was subtle but unmistakable: a modern hypercar echoing the visual language of one of the most daring concepts in design history. Though mechanically worlds apart, the Battista Modulo homage served as a quiet salute to Paolo Martin’s original vision—preserving its DNA in a car that can move, but chooses to do so with reverence.
And even today, in an era of hyper-technology and digital renders, it’s still impossible to look at the Modulo without stopping, staring, and wondering: what if cars never had to grow up at all?
