Ask the pilot

Name games: After his stint as airline logo consultant, the pilot jumps into a semantic mud pit.

By Patrick Smith

Jul 22, 2005 | "My goodness," writes a reader from California in response to our recent look at airline logos and liveries. "An aviation expert writing about corporate identity. How about we hire a graphic designer to critique your next landing."

The majority of you took no offense, however. "Workmanlike," commented one person. "Brilliant," offered another. That's good enough for me, so let's keep going:

I'll begin by drawing yet another strange parallel between aviation and baseball: At a Red Sox game not long ago, I was astounded and dismayed by the endless variations of Major League Baseball-sanctioned souvenir shirts and caps -- none of them representing the actual team colors. Last I checked, the players wear dark navy caps and a white uniform (a light gray for away games and red on certain home dates). But over in the gift shops you can purchase a Red Sox cap in yellow, orange or pink; a Curt Schilling shirt in Kelly green. All across the league it's the same story.

In much the way Major League Baseball has cheapened itself by promoting the sale of merchandise in "unofficial" colors, the airlines have done the same through a flurry of capricious new liveries and promotional paint jobs. Years ago, a plane-spotter at Kennedy Airport could identify the tails of 50 different carriers from as many countries with a quick scan of the tarmac. Today he needs a field guide. It's all flashy, quirky and cool, but the designs are so varied, and they change so quickly, that the end result is a great cluster of anonymity. What airline is that?

Those powder pink Red Sox caps are decipherable through the embedded "B" logo. If nothing else, at least the team's signature symbol remains sacred and unchanged. The "B" has endured, though elsewhere it's another story. Have you seen what happened to the Toronto blue jay or, to switch sports for a moment, how about that iconic New England patriot turned Hollywood alien monster? As we saw last week, many classic airline logos have, for better or worse, survived with minimal change -- Air Canada, Aeroflot and Lufthansa for example. Others -- the UPS shield and Northwest's outstanding "NW" compass -- have evolved drastically.

Now, having gotten this far, I'm aware that a number of you probably consider the fetishizing of logos and liveries to be wasteful and misguided. "Although it makes for interesting reading," writes reader Shaukat Khan, "how many folks really care what the logos mean or what they convey? How many fliers choose a particular airline because they like the logo? Most people simply go for the cheapest fare."

Khan is correct on both counts: The majority of passengers indeed will opt for the cheapest ticket, no matter what beautiful or offensive design lurks on the tail. And it does make for interesting reading. The whole point of this critique is to underscore a facet of the industry seldom considered by the millions of people who fly daily. When challenged to present an example of how, in this era of unbearable hassle and discomfort, a person can possibly savor even a minute of the typical air travel experience, this is one of my choice nuggets: Look around and check out the paint schemes. They're colorful, curious and often meaningful in ways you wouldn't expect.

Khan's argument makes sense on a certain level, but it's too simplistic. For an airline, like any commercial entity vying for customers and their cash, not cultivating an identity is simply not an option. In rawest form, Khan's logic would dictate that airlines merely identify themselves by number and post a list of fares.

Though considering many of the names chosen by upstart carriers of late, that might not be a bad idea. Truth is, all the graphic design genius in the world will go straight into the lav when offset by a poorly chosen moniker. It's not only about colors and abstract impressions but about the raw impact -- the sound -- of an airline's name.

In months past we managed to clear up the controversy surrounding the world's most famous nonexistent airline, "China Air," and once examined a list of Russian aviation tongue twisters. Welcome aboard Aviaobshchemash. No airline should be named after the sound a person makes when gargling aquarium gravel, but better a string of unpronounceable syllables than something outright goofy or stupid. Just as it's hard for me to take a singer seriously if he calls himself Prince or Sting, I'd have a hard time patronizing an airline called Wizz Air.

Needless to say, there are millions of fans who, through their lousy taste in music, have already invalidated that particular comparison, but you get the point. I'm all for a name that adheres to the staples of aeroculture thus far in the 21st century -- sleekness, affordability, a break with convention -- but there needs to be a line drawn somewhere. Song, for example, Delta's leisure market spinoff, is a great concept with a host of marketing segues at its disposal. Same thing for JetBlue. At the other extreme we have -- and you thought I was kidding -- Wizz Air, a growing, low-cost entrant from Hungary.

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