After two years, I stepped into the paint booth once again. Yet when my son asked me, “Did you paint the silver Big Apple?”, I simply replied: I did everything related to painting — except the painting itself.
I am a paint apprentice whose graduation has been delayed for many years. Four years ago, I had already painted Persian Kitty entirely on my own, yet I still do not consider myself fully qualified — perhaps I never will. It is not inability that stops me, but the reluctance to take that final step.
For to me, painting is unlike other forms of work that merely appear repetitive. It carries a deeper meaning. I may grow weary of rebuilding axles or engines, but in painting there is always something new to learn, and something new to discover within oneself. Why should I farewell to such process which I have gained so much?
Returning to an Old Trade
After finishing the paintwork on Persian Kitty in 2022, a strange thought lingered quietly within me: perhaps that would be the last car I would ever paint. That is simply the kind of man I am — one of many men forever drawn toward the new and impatient with repetition. Once I have mastered a skill, I often stop doing it, or at least stop doing it myself. In theory, that makes me one of countless moral outcast. Anyway, immediately after bedroom affairs, we always make grand promises to ourselves — that we will do it ninety-nine more times, and do it better. Yet fortunately for men, unfaithful seems condemned only within the family; elsewhere, society is strangely forgiving.
Still, I was never entirely satisfied with the preparation work on Persian Kitty’s paint job. So in May 2024, during Nonna‘s restoration, I took responsibility for all paint preparation work myself, including the sanding. I must admit that Nonna — a car carrying the warmth and affection of my grandma — treated me kindly. Aside from two tiny swirl marks on the hood caused by over-sanding, the paintwork has remained nearly impossible to fault to this day. Of course, I shamelessly avoided the most critical part. I was afraid of ruining the fine metallic particles within Brilliant Silver, so the basecoat was sprayed by our painter instead of me. I admit this openly.
In June and July of 2025, we completed the sheet metal work on Big Apple. After polishing and PDR, the body appeared flawless, but I knew that could not possibly be true. What we had done was unusual by industry standards, yet I took no pride in that fact. On the contrary, I began to worry that I might lose control because of tirement, so I forced myself to stop before crossing the edge. We sprayed a liter of etch primer merely to preserve the bare sheet panel, then paused the project until my hands hurt less. In May 2025, I returned to the piano again. I could not play both the piano and the sander at the same time.
Time marched on mercilessly, until April of 2026 arrived. I don’t know how we ultimately found ourselves cornered by this particular moment in time, but with a quiet sadness I began to realize that this car might miss my sons’ graduation ceremony this summer. And yet, step by step, we had already overcome nearly every obstacle before us: the unexpected relocation, the rebuilding of the paint booth, the endless interruptions of life itself. Meanwhile, like an unfaithful man betraying his own vows, I once again abandoned my promise to myself — that 2026 would finally be a relaxed year. Originally, Big Apple’s deadline had already been postponed to September. But somehow, I proved far too efficient at clearing away every other obstacle in my path, and in doing so, foolishly dragged the project forward once again into a dangerously tight schedule.
Since the beginning of 2026, I have often sat on the sofa holding a can of Coke Zero, pretending to rest while listening to Bizet. Yet the illusion usually lasts no more than three minutes. Ah, dear Coke — it fills the stomach just enough to save the time otherwise wasted on lunch. But there are simply too many things waiting for me to do, including writing down all of these foolish reflections. Time is never sufficient. My wife tells me that men are greedy, forever wanting to do too many things at once. People often say that men want all the beautiful women in the world, while women only want the entirety of one man. In truth, I am perhaps more like a woman. I desire only one thing in its entirety: all the wisdom of the W140.
In order to complete the paintwork before the oppressive heat of June 2026 arrived, we finished relocationing the paint booth in April — relocating it from Bau 1 to Bau 3. During last winter’s move, there had simply not been enough time to pour the concrete foundation before the ground froze, so the work was postponed until a more forgiving season. The booth itself is an old giant of rather unapologetic proportions — ten meters by five — a relic from another era, yet remarkably pleasant to work in. This time, we also installed a lift beneath it, something that will prove invaluable when painting undersides in the future. The new paint booth would lose its virginity to Big Apple.
After 10 months sitting, the pale yellow etch primer had already become contaminated by dirt and age. As fate would have it, the coating itself had been sprayed far too thinly — in some areas measuring only 5 μm — making it unlikely to survive the sanding required before applying the HS primer filler. So I decided to repaint it once again. Sanding the etch primer with 320-grit paper became the perfect opportunity to reacquaint myself with the project I had nearly forgotten. For the first time, I finally obtained a proper map of the bodywork. Unexpectedly, even on surfaces that already appeared perfectly flat, there were still countless highs and lows hidden beneath the eye. In thicker areas, the etch primer reached perhaps 15 μm, yet even that was nowhere near enough to fill those depressions.
I decided to begin blocking from the very start, using Linear’s products throughout the process. Compared with pneumatic rotary tools, blocking is far better suited to a body as smooth and wide as the W140. Although Brilliant Silver is not especially sensitive to long-distance reflection distortion in the way darker colors are, I had already convinced myself that every project should surpass the one before it. And so, the ambition behind this project gradually evolved. Despite involving extensive sheet metal work, hammering, and cutting, the final surface was meant to achieve a level of smoothness superior to anything we had accomplished on previous restorations.
W140 may resemble a soapbox at first glance, yet in reality it possesses very few truly long flat surfaces. Its entire body is composed of subtle curves and transitions, so I prepared three different blocking boards of varying lengths for the work. I sanded the etch primer down with almost ruthless restraint, reducing it to the thinnest possible remaining layer so the map beneath could reveal itself in maximum detail. I documented the critical areas on every panel carefully, because once the next layer of etch primer was covered, those traces would disappear again. Later, when spraying the HS primer filler, that map would become necessary once more. And speaking of documentation — memory is never as reliable as a camera.
I estimated that some of the low spots might reach depths of nearly 100 μm, and with that realization, I finally abandoned the project’s original naïve ambition: achieving a factory-like paint thickness between 100 to 120 μm, that should be the my last innocent time regard this topic. That ideal was precisely why the earlier etch primer had been sprayed so thinly in the first place. But now it became clear that only two choices truly existed: paint that was thin, uniform, but uneven — or flat, but uneven and inevitably thicker. In truth, sheet metal is almost a disposable product. Only under plant conditions can paint be sprayed directly onto fresh panel while still achieving a surface that is merely relatively flat. So I stopped obsessing over paint thickness. Including the remaining work on the reverse sides of the repaired panels, I prepared nearly four liters of etch primer for this round alone.
This time, the etch primer application proved highly successful. We achieved a coating thickness of roughly 15 to 30 μm — though this included remnants of paint still residing within the previous low spots, meaning the surface was inherently uneven. Within the idealized pursuit of factory-original paint thickness, this was already a failed beginning. But the logic behind it is simple. To build a stable wall, mortar must exist between the bricks. Without that filling and cushioning, the structure may appear precise at first, yet before long it will begin to lean and collapse. Paintwork is much the same. If one obsessively pursues perfectly minimal thickness while refusing to fill anything beneath the surface, instability merely hides itself under a thinner disguise. And so, the etch primer was once again dry-sanded with 320 grit in preparation for the application of the HS primer filler.
This second sanding of the etch primer was no longer carried out with blocking boards. During the previous two days of reacquainting myself with the process, I had already realized how exaggerated some of the low spots truly were. Blocking away merely 15 μm of high spots would likely expose bare metal once again — forcing the entire process to begin anew. So instead, I used only 320-grit sanding sponges by hand, with the lightest possible touch. The pressure was meant to feel like a hand gliding across a woman’s body — careful not to hurt Big Apple, him. Because this was our debut of the etch primer, both the sanding method and abrasive selection followed the TDS precisely, even though dry sanding inevitably contaminated the paint booth.
Chisel Away the Superfluous
In order to control material shrinkage, my intention was to limit the amount of material used while extending the curing time, so that beneath the basecoat there would be only etch primer and HS primer filler, avoiding body filler as much as possible. Though, in truth, isn’t primer filler another form of filler? Its weakness lies in its limited flexibility. Apply too much of it, and sooner or later it may crack. I sprayed roughly three and a half liters using a low-reduction mixture. Before applying, I carefully reviewed the body map once again, concentrating additional layers around the low spots and panel edges. In those critical areas, the thickness was doubled. The standard surfaces received approximately 100 μm of HS primer filler, while the key areas accumulated closer to 200.
Before beginning, I marked and documented the thickness readings across every panel. After that came the seemingly endless process of blocking. For metallic silver paint, the surface ideally needs to be refined to 800 grit. I began from 320 — slow, but safe. Had I been an old veteran, I would have opened fire directly with 180 grit and rapidly cut through an entire layer in one assault. But I am merely a virgin who has already lost his virginity — a four-year-old spring chick whose hands still cannot always make objects comfortable. I could not risk cutting through the primer. And for that very reason, I had already prepared a condom for myself: beneath the surface still lay a reasonably thick layer of etch primer, about 15 μm away from bare metal. The moment I saw yellow, I would still have time to stop — instead of discovering too late that I had already gone straight through.
I began by blocking the flat surfaces first. Before doing so, I protected all edges and corners with masking tape, knowing full well that my amateur blocking could easily injure those fragile areas and cut straight through the primer. The edges would instead be sanded later by hand, using gentler abrasives such as 600 grit. I started with the trunk lid — the single most important panel on the car. It is the horizontal surface closest to the human eye, and also the one most frequently seen during daily use. Over the years, it had accumulated the greatest number of pressure dents from hands leaning against it. During the earlier blocking of the etch primer, I had already become familiar with the behavior of 320 grit. Now I understood the importance of gentleness.
Perhaps 200 μm beneath the basecoat sounds a lot. To certain used car connoisseurs, paint thickness matters far more than surface smoothness. But HS primer filler is destined to be sanded down. The only question is: down to what extent? The answer is simple — until the lowest low spot has finally been reached. And at that point, the decision no longer belongs to me. If the center of a low spot lies 100 μm beneath the surrounding surface, then the entire panel must effectively lose 100 μm during blocking. The ordinary flat areas may ultimately retain only 50 or so. In an ideal outcome, most of the HS primer filler will be sacrificed and cut away.
Soon, the trunk lid revealed three low spots that had not been filled sufficiently. The yellow condom was already close to being pierced, yet the centers of those low still could not be reached by sanding. There were two possible choices: apply a small amount of body filler, or spray additional HS primer filler. I preferred the latter, especially since the 320-grit surface was already ideal for further application. In fact, this became the strategy for the entire body. After the first broad blocking pass, the purpose was simply to identify the areas that still required refinement and prepare them for localized respraying. 320 grit is slow — but slow is better than making mistakes.
I found myself thinking of something attributed to Michelangelo:“The sculpture is already complete within the marble block, before I start my work. It is already there, I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.” Arrogantly enough, blocking a car began to feel governed by the same philosophy — removing the excess primer until the right shape finally emerged. Fortunately, sculpture is merciless: glory and ruin are inseparable, and once a mistake is carved into stone, there is no path backward. Automotive restoration is kinder. The only thing that can truly be lost forever is time. And indeed, I did make mistakes. Even with 320 grit, I still managed to cut through several edges. But unlike marble, those wounds could later be repaired with more primer.
The endless days of blocking became almost suffocating. I consider myself a patient person, but it became painfully obvious that a gulf exists between my mind and my hands — and another between my mind and my heart. The devotion within my heart is absolute and without reservation. But the mind cannot always invent a methodology without loss. And my poor hands — disobedient young recruits — have not yet mastered the craft. They do not naturally do the correct thing on their own. I must stare them constantly, supervising every movement, while silently counting in my head how many passes they have made across each section of the body.
What discouraged me most was the realization that this entire process would need to be repeated three more times — through 400 grit, 600, and finally 800. In between, there would also be cleaning, re-masking, and respraying whenever necessary. Every single task had to be done by my own hands, and the end of it all felt impossibly distant. After gripping blocking tools for countless hours, my fingers gradually became stiff. And in doing so, this work began to destroy another project of mine: the piano. I had already underestimated how much time sanding would consume, then the stiffness in my fingers caused my daily piano practice to regress as well. During that period, the amount of work only seemed to multiply endlessly. I was tense. Brief moments of rest could not change the fact that I was trapped inside a long cycle of anxiety.
It was during this very period that my mentor — our painter — walked in and spoke with me. He asked me whether there was truly any meaning in refusing help and insisting on doing every task myself, especially when certain things, such as masking and cleaning, hardly needed to be done alone. After all, ordinary owners would never personally involve themselves in any aspect of paintwork to begin with. It was a good question. Quietly, I asked myself the same thing — and answered it. Straight forward, by insisting on doing such boring work myself instead of hiring others, what I really save each day is merely labor cost. And yet the psychology of it is strangely amusing. When we employ someone else, the daily expense feels substantial. But when we do the work ourselves, the money saved suddenly feels insignificant. So perhaps the more generous we are toward others in ordinary life, the greater the financial reward appears when we finally choose to work for ourselves.
I remembered that Michelangelo, too, was said to dislike relying on assistants — I was not entirely certain — so I pulled out the biography written by Romain Rolland. Michelangelo was not truly a solitary man. He had workers, apprentices, and students throughout his life. Although in the end, he trusted or admired none of them. When he was young, he insisted on doing everything with his own hands. In particular, he disapproved of Raphael’s habit of touching only the crucial passages while leaving the remainder to assistants. But when faced with the immense scale of the Sistine Chapel ceiling, even Michelangelo was forced to rely on help. Eventually, however, he grew disappointed with his assistants, dismissed them, and repainted himself. And in the end, age defeated even him. He no longer possessed the strength to execute every task personally. All he could do was constantly supervise those working under him — and grow furious with them.
In short, if Michelangelo believed — like certain wealthy kids do — that every task could simply be handed to someone else for money, the works we admire today would never have existed. And yet, after finishing his biography, I realized that I should not allow myself to become tragic in the same way he did. He was a man so utterly devoted to his work that he almost ceased to exist as a person outside it. He had no time even to bathe, to remove his boots. His own life was in disarray, and during his lifetime he was not granted the reverence later generations would bestow upon him. He desired too much. Too many projects remained unfinished, suspended halfway between ambition and exhaustion.
Peace with Desires
How terrible it would be — there is still tons of unfinished projects waiting in my yard as well. And if not me, then who would complete it? But standing at such a threshold, I suddenly found myself less obsessed with personally doing everything. In the years ahead, my time ought to belong more to my family, and to pursuits of greater meaning. And so, in May of 2026, what may have become an important turning point in my life finally arrived: making peace with myself. I was forced to admit that the work would never truly end. Once I accepted that fact, I was finally able to relax a little further, abandoning all remaining deadlines and schedules. From then on, I limited myself to no more than four hours of sanding each day — roughly two panels, no more.
I had to acknowledge the influence that both physical and psychological condition exert upon the quality of work. And precisely at such moments, one must resist the urge to rush. During a small technical discussion with our painter, there were areas he considered insignificant, I insisted on correcting them. In total, four sections required additional refinement: two on the hood, one on the trunk lid, and one on the right rear door. At most, they would cost another day of work. But if ignored, they might leave imperfections that would remain visible forever. And since I had already decided to be kinder to myself, there was no longer any reason to hurry simply so my sons could pose beside the car during their kindergarten graduation ceremony.
During the 400- and 600-grit stages, I invited our painter to work alongside me, and it was genuinely a relief. These stages were far less dangerous than the brutal uncertainty of 320 grit, yet they remained essential for refining the surface. Without them, sanding marks could easily remain trapped beneath the final paint. Ironically, the flaws now revealing themselves in the HS primer filler were themselves the consequence of my obsession with controlling every detail. Because I was working alone and rigidly attempting to control the time budget, I mixed hardener and reducer into the entire batch of primer at once. According to the TDS, the material should have been used within 30 minutes after mixing. Instead, the spraying process stretched beyond 90 minutes. By the end, the primer emerging from the gun no longer behaved like liquid paint, but almost like sand, leaving behind countless tiny pinholes across the surface.
Sanding and filling those countless tiny pinholes consumed an enormous amount of unnecessary time. Brilliant Silver metallic paint is simply too unforgiving. It tolerates no careless sanding, no neglected imperfection. Had the car been painted black instead, many of those tiny pores would scarcely have mattered at all. For the 600- and 800-grit stages, we switched to wet sanding — a decision made by my mentor. As for the preparation work itself, my mentor, who usually communicates through sarcasm and mockery rather than praise, finally remarked that it surpassed ninety-nine percent of repair shops. Well, that was only natural. We were always meant to become the one percent.
From the very first sanding of the etch primer to the completion of the final 800-grit stage, the entire process consumed approximately 98 hours. Fun fact, after watching our footage, one internet specialist declared that he would never believe such work could require that amount of time unless it were livestreamed in real time. According to him, the entire job should have taken no more than 10 to 12 hours. Well then — even Jesus Christ required three days to rise again. Is there some one greater than Jesus? In fact, if calculated strictly by an 8-hour workday, the process did not amount to so many days after all. Yet while living through it, the experience felt almost eternal.
And thus came the first real decision that followed: To invite a true pro to paint base and clear coat for Big Apple in my place.