D'Ieteren: Belgian firm founded in 1805 survived through four reinventions
D'Ieteren, founded in Brussels in 1805 by 14-year-old orphan Jean-Joseph D'Ieteren, evolved from making wheels to carriages, custom car bodies, American car imports, exclusive Belgian distribution of Volkswagen, and world leadership in automotive glass repair. The company's longevity challenges Clayton Christensen's "innovator's dilemma" theory, which predicts that incumbents are doomed by disruptive change. Its secret was proactively abandoning old business models before circumstances forced the issue.
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We love telling the story of how horse-and-buggy makers were wiped out by the automobile. It’s a clean, dramatic tale that confirms everything we already believe about disruption, hubris, and the inevitability of change. Clayton Christensen turned this phenomenon — disruptive innovation — into one of the most influential business theories of the past century: the innovator’s dilemma.
There’s just one problem: The story is not entirely true.
Meet Jean-Joseph D’Ieteren.
In 1805, the 14-year-old orphan took over a small workshop in Brussels and started making wheels. Over the next 220 years, the company D’Ieteren founded became a carriage maker, then a builder of custom car bodies, then an importer of American automobiles, then the exclusive Belgian distributor of Volkswagen, then the world leader in automotive glass repair, and then — in a move that raised eyebrows across Europe — the owner of Moleskine, the Italian notebook brand.
Today, the D’Ieteren Group operates in more than 40 countries, employs over 32,000 people, and generates annual revenues exceeding $8.2 billion. The D’Ieteren family is, by many measures, the wealthiest family in Belgium.
This particular carriage maker didn’t get wiped out by the automobile. It became one of the most successful car businesses in European history. How?
And what might its story offer the rest of us — who are all, in one way or another, trying to figure out what to hold onto and what to let go?
Not long ago, I booked a trip to Brussels to find out.
A depiction of 18th-century wheelwrights.
The D’Ieteren family maintains a private museum tucked inside an ordinary working building on the Rue du Mail — roughly 5,000 square feet that most people in Brussels don’t know exists. There’s no sign outside. You call ahead, state your reason for visiting, and wait to hear if you’ve been accepted. If you are, you walk up a ramp, down a long corridor, and through a large sliding door. Then the city disappears.
Inside, I counted rows of antique cars: Bugattis, Porsches, Bentleys. All of them, I was told, still run. There are lacquered carriages with paintwork so pristine you’d swear they were finished last week. Glass-plate photographs line the walls, showing men bent over wooden frames, applying leather by hand and fitting glass with the patience of surgeons.
In the center of the room sits a 1920s Transformable, the ancestor of the modern convertible, its entire upper section retractable, as if it just rolled off the factory floor. The collection is so irreplaceable that the family doesn’t insure it piece by piece. If it burns, it burns.
I spent the afternoon there with the company’s archivist and historian. As we moved through the collection, something about the photographs caught my attention. There were as many pictures of workers — craftsmen at their benches, apprentices watching masters, foremen with their hands on wooden frames — as of finished products. The family had insisted on it, the archivist explained. They wanted anyone who came to the museum to understand that the story was never theirs alone. It belonged to everyone who had shown up, generation after generation, to do the work.
I thought about that for a moment. The company had walked away from its core business four times, yet it had preserved, with extraordinary care, a museum’s worth of carriages, photographs, and tools. It wasn’t the behavior of a company that had escaped its past. It was the behavior of a company that understood its past so precisely that it knew exactly what to keep and what to release.
That’s when I started to think the conventional story had it completely backward.
Alfred and Emile D’Ieteren (1878)
For most of the 19th century, D’Ieteren was a carriage maker of growing renown. It won medals at international exhibitions, earned the title of Supplier to the Royal Court, and built some of the most celebrated horse-drawn vehicles in Europe.
But the family was always watching for what would come next.
In 1898, while still producing horse-drawn carriages, they built bodywork for 12 electric vehicles commissioned by Camille Jenatzy, the Belgian race car driver who would soon become the first person to break the 62 mph (100 km/h) land speed record.
The transition to automobiles wasn’t particularly sudden. As demand for horse-drawn vehicles faded, the D’Ieterens turned the workshops toward luxury car bodies, building custom coachwork for some of the era’s most prestigious automotive brands.
After a fire destroyed the old workshops around 1903, the family rebuilt with modernized facilities capable of handling the new work on a greater scale. For the next two decades, horse-drawn and automotive production coexisted — in many cases with the same craftsmen serving the same clients, who often owned both kinds of vehicles.
Gradually, the balance shifted. By the time Lucien D’Ieteren took the helm, carriages had become a footnote. The company’s reputation rested entirely on the automobile bodies leaving its workshops — custom coachwork for Bugatti, Hispano-Suiza, Rolls-Royce, Mercedes, and more than a hundred other prestigious brands.
The craft that had made Lucien D’Ieteren’s family famous was pointed at a clientele that history was dissolving.
On the eve of the 1929 stock market crash, D’Ieteren employed nearly 500 craftsmen and was exporting 65% of its production to Argentina, Egypt, Spain, and the United States. A single car would cost approximately $468,700 in today’s dollars.
But Lucien had also spent 15 years sitting with an uncomfortable truth.
During World War I, while assigned to a military vehicle depot in Le Havre, he had watched American cars roll through by the thousands: Studebakers, Packards, Fords. Standardized, efficiently built, priced for ordinary people. He came home understanding that the future was volume, not bespoke cars. The craft that had made his family famous was pointed at a clientele that history was dissolving.
But the business was still good. The craftsmen were proud. So he waited, turning that knowledge over in his mind for 15 years — until the crash of 1929 forced his hand.
In 1931, D’Ieteren began phasing out its car body manufacturing and pivoted to importing American automobiles, first as the Belgian representative for Studebaker, Pierce-Arrow, Auburn, and Rockne. It was considered, at the time, one of the most consequential decisions the family had ever made.
Lucien’s brother Albert faced the same crossroads and made the opposite choice. He believed in what they had built. He stayed the course, doubled down, and kept faith in the craft. His company, which operated under the name Carrosserie Albert D’Ieteren, survived for decades on that faith. But eventually, his son Daniel was forced to close it.
What the crash did for Lucien — what crisis so often does — was to remove the social and psychological costs of changing. The reputation, the pride, the loyalty to craftsmen: all of it was real, and all of it had kept him from acting on what he already knew. The crash stripped that away. It clarified, in the most brutal way, what actually mattered and what merely served as its current container. Crisis has a way of burning off the unnecessary, leaving behind only what has always been true.
One of the most commonly asked questions is, “What do you do?”
It’s the default opener at cocktail parties, and the first question any investor asks an entrepreneur across a conference table. What we do is so deeply emblazoned in our minds that we rarely stop to question it.
But I think it’s a trap.
The better question — the harder question — is not what we do, but who we are .
Consider D’Ieteren.
Custom Pipe automobile designed by D’Ieteren for Belgian architect Victor Horta (1912)
In a narrow technical sense, they were a carriage maker, then a carmaker, then a glass repair company. If you’d asked them in 1850 what they did, they’d have said carriages. But that wasn’t really who they were. Who they were was a tight-knit family obsessed with quality, committed to the long view, and devoted to finding better ways for people to move through the world. The carriage was just the expression of that deeper question at the time.
Here’s what Christensen’s theory missed: The innovator’s dilemma isn’t really about change. Change is the easy part. Companies pivot all the time. They launch new products, enter new markets, and kill old ones. That’s just management.
The harder problem — the one that actually destroys companies — is an identity problem. It’s what happens when an organization has spent so long doing one thing that it mistakes the thing for itself. The product becomes the purpose. The method becomes the mission. And when the product eventually dies, as all products do, there’s nothing underneath it.
Think of it this way. If someone asked you to describe yourself, and your only answer was your job title, you’d be in trouble the moment that job disappeared. The same is true for companies. When the carriage became obsolete, the coachbuilders who had confused their craft with their identity had nothing left. The product was gone, and so were they.
Figure out who you are — with real precision, not the mission-statement version — and what to do next tends to follow.
But D’Ieteren wasn’t in the carriage business. It just thought of carriages as the current answer to a much older question. When carriages stopped being the right answer, it found a new one.
Here are a few questions worth considering: If everything you currently make or sell becomes obsolete tomorrow, what would still be true about you? Who would still seek you out, and why? What is the thing underneath the thing? Perhaps most importantly, what are you protecting right now that might actually be worth letting go?
This is the hardest question, because what made you successful is usually the thing you’re most reluctant to release. We get so fluent in what we do that continuing to do it starts to feel like integrity or even identity. That’s the trap.
The good news is that the sequence works in your favor if you get it right. You don’t need to figure out what to do next. Figure out who you are — with real precision, not the mission-statement version — and what to do next tends to follow.
All of this feels especially urgent now, as artificial intelligence forces a reckoning with what we actually have to offer and what we’ve been hiding behind.
For instance, a lawyer who writes contracts is vulnerable to automation, but one who helps people navigate the most consequential decisions of their lives is not. The job description is almost beside the point. The question is what you’re actually doing — and whether you know the difference.
D’Ieteren is 221 years old. It started with a teenage orphan making wheels in Brussels when Napoleon was still emperor. It now owns a notebook company. The thread connecting those two facts isn’t strategy, luck, or even family discipline — though all of those matter. It’s that every generation understood, without having to be told, what the company was for: It was always about quality and helping people move through the world. That’s it. And because the D’Ieterens knew that, they could let go of everything else without losing themselves.
The carriages changed. The commitment behind them never did.
This article The 221-year-old company that reinvented itself — 4 times is featured on Big Think .
Can traditional companies successfully reinvent themselves without changing ownership?
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