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INTRODUCTION

I’ve been planning and thinking about this book for quite a while. That’s why my ’52 Chevy has been driving around in spotted-in factory original paint with some chrome strips missing for so long.

But finally sitting down to write this has given me pause. The one thing I have never really considered is: Where did I learn to paint cars?

There weren’t any books like this around at the time. The closest thing to it were George Barris’s little “Spotlite Books” and his frequent articles in the various car magazines showing how to make a scoop, French an aerial, roll a pan, and so on. I read and absorbed all that stuff. But it told more about how to cut, weld, grind, hammer, and dolly sheetmetal (and round rod) than how to spray paint. Teaching how to spray paint in printed words and photos is quite difficult. You learn much more by actually doing it. That’s what I did. And that’s what you will do.

I learned about welding, grinding, and metal fabrication as a young teen in metal shop classes in school, and got further experience when my father bought an acetylene welding outfit for use on the family ranch, and made me the primary welder. Again, you learn by doing—burning and cutting your fingers as well as burning holes in metal.

However—and this is a theme repeated throughout this book—I was learning these things at a point of major transition in the entire bodywork/welding/painting industry. For generations, bodywork was done with hammers and dollies, welding was done with torches, filling was done with lead, and painting was done with lacquer. That’s the way it was done from the 1920s through the early 1960s. Those are the methods Barris showed readers in his how-to articles.

But paddling lead was way beyond me (and most) young beginners. On the other hand, resin-based “plastic” fillers, which were just coming on the market at that time, afforded an alternative. Unfortunately, typical of pioneering products, many weren’t quite perfected, nor were their methods of application. This gave plastic fillers a bad name they definitely no longer deserve, but still find hard to shake. The real problem with plastic fillers is the same today as it was then—and it’s a fault in technique, not the product. Filler is very easy to apply, with no special tools or talents, and was and is therefore often spread too thickly over poorly prepared surfaces. The latter was also true of lead; it just took a bit more training and equipment to do it.

We’re getting ahead of ourselves, but let me give you one example from my early experience that gives a hint of dealing with changing technology. Brazing is simpler, faster, and causes less warpage than gas welding sheetmetal. It’s not as strong or permanent as welding for joining pieces of metal, but it’s great for things like filling holes. It’s also perfectly compatible with lead. Most of those early articles showing Barris, Starbird, and others doing custom bodywork showed them brazing on sheetmetal, and then covering it with lead. It’s what Barris said to do. So that’s what I did in several cases, but then I covered it with filler instead of lead. But filler, no matter how good, is not compatible with brazing. I don’t know the chemical specifics, but they just won’t stick to each other. I learned this the hard way, after my carefully sanded, primed, and painted bodywork produced bulges or bubbles wherever I had brazed the surface and filled over it. The only way to fix it was to cut out the brazed area, weld in sheetmetal patches, and start over. Today, as I am finding lots of small brazed areas from long-ago bodymen as I prepare my original ’32 Ford body for paint, I am glad to learn that certain high-adhesion sealers (such as PPG DP40, or similar) can be applied over brazing and then coated with sanding primers or even plastic fillers.

Continuing the theme of early experience and changing technology, spray paint cans didn’t become prevalent until the early ’60s. So when I wanted to customize my first bicycle (riser handlebars, bobbed rear fender, and so on), I took it all apart, carefully hand-sanded the frame and other parts, then brush-painted them with some sort of gloss enamel—purple, I believe. About the same time (the late ’50s), my friends and I switched from model airplanes to model cars, which we also customized (this soon became a national fad). These we also brush painted, painstakingly, to get them as smooth and glossy as possible. But we also spent considerable time prepping the plastic bodies: sanding down mold lines, filling depressions (or customizing the body) with putties, priming, and then doing lots more sanding with increasingly fine grits of paper, before we thinned down the “enamel for plastics” paint and flowed it on with carefully chosen brushes. Then, especially as the kits became more complete, we learned to use different and realistic colors to hand-paint engines, chassis parts, chrome trim, and so on. What this early model building taught us was careful and thorough preparation, color selection, detailing, and patience. These are all requisites of a good paint job on a real car.

Then came spray paint. This wasn’t an entirely new learning curve, because the prep, patience, detailing, and so on didn’t change. But we had to learn a new technique that wasn’t easy, at first, to master. It took a lot of practice and experimentation: making jigs or props to hold the various parts, getting all the dust off, spraying tack coats, warming the paint under hot water in the sink, then trying to keep all dust, dirt, or bugs off until it dried. But the real talent was learning how to wield that spray can so you could get an even—and the glossiest possible—coat in that seemingly very narrow window between orange peel and runs. We also learned that switching from one type of paint to another (enamel to lacquer, for instance), or even changing brands, usually required some testing and adjustment. Moving from spray cans to spray guns was a bigger step, but it still takes the same talent and the same feel. The best way—the only way, really—to learn how to paint with a spray gun is to do it. Spray cans are an excellent (and cheap) place to start. But whether you are painting model cars, the kids’ bikes, or the back porch furniture, go out and paint stuff. Start practicing. Right now.

Most of my friends were older and got cars before I did. They were also smarter, and got cars that didn’t need any real bodywork, just new, better, sharper or cooler paints jobs. In our small town, there were only a couple of “paint shops.” One guy built a cinder-block spray booth in his backyard and the other had an old building downtown that I’m not sure even had a booth. But both were glad to spray cars for a minimal fee if we did all the prep and bought the materials. See, if you know how to spray paint—and if you do it regularly—that’s the easiest part of the job, by far. And we were young and eager (especially me), so doing the grunt work not only saved money, it was even fun. The only cost was several sheets of wet-or-dry sandpaper and rolls of masking tape. Disassembling the cars (removing bumpers, lights, emblems, and so on) was intuitive. Removing things like doors handles and certain chrome trim was more mysterious. We either figured it out, or left them on and masked them. Sometimes getting them back on was more difficult.

Again, I don’t know how we learned to start wet-sanding with 220 paper, how to fold it, how to featheredge chips, how not to use our fingertips, and how to finish with 360 or 400 grit—probably from the magazines. But there was also some sort of common knowledge among us teens who worked on our cars, which we all shared. In fact, I remember a few “paint parties,” wherein the car owner would buy the beer and invite everybody over to sand the car in an afternoon. You wouldn’t always get the best quality, but you’d get the grunt work done, and you could touch up the rough spots later. I also remember some bloody fingers.

For my own first car I wasn’t nearly so smart. I inherited a sound, but exceedingly beat-up old Chevy sedan. It needed a whole lot of bodywork, and about all I knew was beating out big dents with a heavy rubber mallet that my dad used for similar purposes. Using blocks of wood as dollies, I tried doing what it showed in the magazines, but of course it wasn’t nearly was as easy as it looked (and I didn’t have the proper equipment). Finally I figured out I could remove the fenders, lay them on the driveway, and beat them flat against the pavement. I don’t recommend this today, but “whatever works” is still a rule of bodywork in my garage. Fortunately, by pure luck, I happened across a $10 dead identical parts car that had excellent sheetmetal that I could simply swap for my bent and broken parts. Thus I learned a new lesson in bodywork: It’s often much easier and ultimately cheaper to bolt on a new, decent fender (or other body part) than it is to try to straighten out a mashed one.

When it came to body and paint, my first car gave me plenty to learn. But I couldn’t hurt it. The good part was that it didn’t have any rust. But it was really beat up and abandoned in a field when I got it. In this photo, I’d already been working on it six months, including taking the fenders off and pounding them flat against the ground. Of course I got the car for free.

I found a parts car for $10 with good sheetmetal and swapped the fenders, trunk, and other parts. I sanded the car down and removed most trim in preparation for paint, but that’s as far as I got, so I drove it like this through high school.

During my first summer home from college I rented a small sprayer and primed, re-sanded, and masked the car. Then I bought three quarts of enamel (’62 Corvette Fawn Beige and Cordovan Brown), one of sealer, and got a local painter to spray it in his backyard booth for $25. This was the next day, mostly reassembled (the front bumper was at the chrome shop).

After several years of daily driving with this first enamel paint, the car had some dings and dents. I fixed those and started refurbishing it in preparation for a better lacquer paint job.

However, my old bomb was 2-tone to start, and the replacement fenders and trunk were a third color, all of which I eagerly sanded down. But I had no painting equipment (nor money to pay someone else to paint it), so I touched up a few bare spots with spray-can primer and drove this laughable coat-of-many-colors all through high school. It wasn’t until about a year later that I rented a cheap little compressor and gun, primed the car in my dad’s garage (got in trouble for that), bought two shades of metallic enamel (and a quart of “aircraft sealer” that the painter wisely recommended), and got one of the local guys to spray it in his backyard booth for $25. Wow, what a difference! I waxed it about once a week through college to keep it that way (dorms didn’t have garages and car covers were unheard of). But I finally started wearing through the enamel, and tiring of people asking me “Did you paint that yourself?” and having to reply, “No.” What I really wanted was a “custom” lacquer finish, anyway.

I should admit right now that I obviously have a hot rod/custom car bent that derives partly from my generation, but probably more so from a personal and financial do-it-yourself mentality. For me, hot rodding is 70% about fixing up old cars—taking something cheap that no one else wants and making it look good, then using some traditional tricks and my own ingenuity or creativity to make it look better than good (that’s the other 30% of rodding and customizing). But this book is not about “custom painting.” Plenty of books talk about that already. We won’t even talk much about custom paints or products, because they are changing constantly. We talk about the basics of stripping down, straightening out, fixing up, prepping, and repainting any vehicle that you think (1) needs it, or (2) will look better in a different color. We also proceed on the premise that you want to do this because (a) you don’t want to pay thousands of dollars for someone else to do it, or (b) you think you can do the job better yourself, without paying someone else thousands of dollars to do it less well. Just being of that mind makes you something of a hot rodder in my book (and a bit of a rebel, at that). But no matter. This book is for anyone who wants to repaint a car at home, for whatever reason. An added bonus is that once you have the equipment and know how to use it, you can paint all sorts of things.

That paint job didn’t happen, as other projects took precedence (family, job, pickup, etc.). But by then I had a garage to paint in, my own compressor, and so on. Since it basically only had one paint job over factory paint, I never stripped any of it. Nor did I fully disassemble it. I just sanded it thoroughly, sprayed it with lacquer primer, sanded some more, then sprayed it in the same colors in lacquer (no clear), and hand-rubbed it out, as seen here in 1981.

Since this car had finally been promoted from daily driver to fun car (not show car), I decided it was time to detail the underside, as well. Other than the gas tank, which was painted with leftover lacquer from the body, the rest of this was done with spray cans (and one piece of chrome). This cost virtually nothing other than cleaning and sanding time, and was surprisingly easy to maintain.

Here’s the same car, same paint, in 2005. People say straight lacquer won’t last that long, but it will if you take care of it. A garage, a car cover, and plenty of careful wax jobs help.

Since I’m talking about my own experience and self-teaching here, before we get to yours, let me give you a couple more instructive examples.

Somehow I acquired a ’49 Chevy pickup, late on a dark night, for free. I wanted it because it had the five-window cab. When I saw it the next morning in daylight, I knew I was nuts. But I kept it and started fixing it up. First I transplanted everything possible (from driveline to gauges, radio, wiring, radiator, etc.) from a beat-up but good-running ’62 Chevy 4-door I had. I found a new bed, rear fenders, and running boards. Somebody gave me some seats. It took a couple years before it was ready for paint. The single-car garage at the triplex we were living in then wasn’t big enough to paint a car in (besides, my first Chevy was stored in it), so I did it in the open driveway. I decided to paint it black lacquer, and got the proper materials from a nearby auto paint store. A friend loaned me a good spray gun, and I rented a decent-size 110-volt compressor that kept blowing the circuit breaker during the job. But it didn’t matter because straight-color (non-metallic) lacquer is really easy to spray. You can start and stop. If something screws up or a bug lands in it, wait 15 minutes, scuff it down, and spray that part again. I never stripped this truck to bare metal, and I can’t remember if I ever primed the whole thing, but whatever (little) paint was still on it was old enough that nothing lifted or wrinkled. I was lucky.

While a starving student (with no garage to work in), I came across this ’47 Chevy pickup abandoned in a very dark canyon one night. I’d always wanted a “fat cab” Chevy, especially the “5-window” version. The property owner said I could have it if I hauled it out right then. When I saw it in bright light the next morning, I realized how foolish I was. Free is free, but find something better than this to start with. It obviously had no driveline, but I had a running 6-cylinder, 3-speed ’62 sedan that donated engine, transmission, wiring/electricals/radiator, and so on.

Since these old Chevy pickups are (still) quite plentiful, I swapped much of the sheetmetal, including the entire bed, but still did a lot of hammer/dolly/filler bodywork, before spraying (with rented/borrowed equipment, in my driveway) my first full paint job, in black lacquer. It’s truly easy to paint and maintain. Got some chips? Spot it in and rub some more. A daily driver, it had made several cross-country trips when these photos were taken. The camper was metallic silver catalyzed enamel, color sanded and buffed out (my first try at that). Ed “Big Daddy” Roth added the pinstriping (red on the camper, blue on the body).

But here’s the funny part—nobody told me anything about color sanding. And I didn’t have any kind of buffer. Besides, I’d always heard that “hand-rubbed” lacquer was best. So I rubbed out that whole paint job, with paste compound and rags, by hand, until it had that deep gloss that only black lacquer can have. It took a couple of days. My hands were blistered. But it was beautiful! What did I know? With a little camper on the back, my wife and I drove that truck all over the country, several times. When the paint got chipped or dinged I just spotted it in and rubbed it out some more. Black lacquer is probably the easiest-to-maintain paint there is (or was; I can’t get it where I live any longer). You don’t have to color-match it. It doesn’t need clear. Simple.

About this time catalyzed paints were coming on the scene. Trickier ones, like Imron (or urethanes, or whatever they were calling them) really needed to be sprayed in a booth, and were very susceptible to fisheyeing, running, and other problems. But there were also new catalysts that could be added to regular automotive enamels, so I tried some of that on the truck’s camper—silver metallic. The first thing I learned is that if you got runs or sags, you could sand them out the next morning and respray them. I also learned, somehow, about color sanding. But no amount of hand rubbing would bring it up to its as-sprayed high gloss. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered that these catalyzed enamels (or urethanes, acrylics, or whatever they’re calling “two-part” paints) need to be power-buffed with proper cutting pads and compounds, and then re-buffed with glazing compound to get a gloss anywhere near as good as old hand-rubbed lacquer.

There were a lot of misguided trends during the ’70s, one being a brief flirtation with “un-Ford” street rods. The main attraction? They were cheap! I got this Olds-powered, orange, ex-drag ’32 Chevy for $500 with a busted Hydromatic transmission.

This was my first metallic lacquer paint job. I should have stripped the existing paint, but fortunately it was old enough that I could just sand it down, spray several coats of lacquer primer over it, and block sand. I also should have sprayed some clear coats, especially over the lighter blue, before rubbing it out, but I didn’t know about that yet.

By then I had a one-car garage to work in—not big enough for painting, though. After the Olds Tri-Power caught fire, I decided to put a hot little Chevy six in it and paint it two-tone metallic blue (two-tone “resto rods” were another ’70s fad). Here I’d prepped and painted the firewall before installing the new engine.

After more than a decade, I made a few minor changes. But the only parts I repainted were the front fenders. That old lacquer paint job held up pretty well.

One further example: Given that these new catalyzed paints went on really smooth and glossy, without rub out, I decided to try a new catalyzed clear coat over a Porsche light green metallic lacquer on a VW bug for a friend. I figured it would be simple and quick, and these clears were compatible over lacquer (most of today’s aren’t). Everything went fine as I finished laying on a good, wet, glossy coat of the clear. It looked beautiful until it suddenly broke out in a case of fisheyes worse than any teenager’s zits—all over the whole car. I called my paint store to ask what might have gone wrong, and he called the Ditzler regional rep, who actually came over to my house to see. His first question was, “Did you wait 20 minutes and spray a second coat of clear, as the label says?” Of course I didn’t. I sprayed it like I’d always sprayed enamels—a light tack coat followed by a heavy gloss coat a few minutes later. It flowed out great, and I wasn’t planning to color-sand or rub it, so I didn’t want to push my luck spraying it again. Plus the thing about “second coat after 20 minutes” was buried in the fine print on the label, and I never saw it. After asking lots of questions about my prep, and looking at my equipment, he couldn’t come up with any reason why it fisheyed; but he assured me that, since I hadn’t added the second coat after a 20-minute interval as the directions said, the whole thing would wrinkle up if I added a second coat now. Something about “chemical cross-linking.” My only recourse was to very carefully color-sand the clear down until the fisheyes just disappeared, and then buff it out, both without going through the clear coat. It was very painstaking and time consuming, but in the end my friend thought it was a beautiful paint job (which it was) and got lots of compliments. But it was way more work than I had planned

When my wife and I got married we bought a near-new ’69 VW Bug that mechanically self-destructed. So we found this cherry, one-owner ’65 on a car lot going for something like $600 because it had faded red paint and a couple primer spots. All it needed was a good paint job. VWs have lots of painted metal inside. Since this car was red to start with, I sanded down the outside and sprayed it with Porsche India (or Guards—same color) Red in lacquer, rubbed out. In subsequent years I painted it twice more; same color, but in single-stage urethane, which didn’t need rubbing.

I can’t remember how we figured out the problem, but it took a while. I think someone suggested I double-check my old compressor, which I had bought used. Sure enough, it was worn out, just like a smoking engine, and was pumping minute amounts of oil from its crankcase, with the air. While it doesn’t affect lacquer, any oil, either on the surface to be painted or in the air supply, causes fisheyes—or worse—with modern two-part paints. I rebuilt the compressor with new rings to solve the problem. Further, someone who knew told me to also get a new hose, because my old one was contaminated with oil (the same problem occurs if you have ever used an oil-vaporizer on your compressor to lubricate air tools). Clean air and an oil-free hose are musts for painting.

While the red VW became Anna’s driver, I picked up this ’60 for $100 and started fixing it up for mine. In its first form, as seen here, I painted it inside and out (under hood, under deck, interior) in lacquer in Porsche Metallic Salmon. Still no clear. But as I drove it over 15 years, I kept repainting parts that needed it, finally using a lacquer-compatible clear urethane on the fenders and hood. One point I’m hopefully making here is that if you take care of your car, use a cover if it sits outside, and maintain the paint, it will last for years—even decades. And if you painted it yourself in the first place, you can touch it up when it needs it, right?

It may be typical of do-it-yourselfers, but I’m a slow learner. This was my lesson in “paint cars only for yourself.” I bought this ’40 Ford sedan, with a non-running Olds engine and blown (out the bottom) early Ford trans, at a swap meet for $1,200. I figured I’d do the bodywork, get it running, paint it black lacquer, and sell it for a tidy profit. Being a California car, it was sounder than it looked, with no body rot and only minor dents. The part I didn’t figure was that someone had sanded much of the body (including the whole roof and one side) to bare metal with a grinder, then let it sit out 14 years. The surface rust was impenetrable, and I didn’t dare grind the metal any further. So I finally resorted to some icky, yellow, spray-on “rust converter” that chemically changes rust into…something else.

After getting the engine running, installing a new trans, doing other mechanical work, killing the rust, hammer-and-dollying, filling, block sanding, and lacquer priming, the car didn’t look much better, but it was progressing. A cheap repro grille, lights, and bumpers helped.

Once the mechanicals were redone, the body and paint were really the easy part. But when it came to all new upholstery, interior/dash trim, new glass, running boards, wheels/tires, and so on, it got to be a losing proposition in a hurry. I forget what I sold it for, but it wasn’t nearly enough to cover my costs and labor. That’s the last time I tried that.

Okay, this introduction is getting lengthy, but I hope instructive. Besides the lessons already taught, I just want to stress that whatever else I have to teach in this book, I have learned by doing, making mistakes, and asking lots of questions.

Many books of this type are written by (or with) professional painters or shops that have perfected a specific system that works for them. That doesn’t help much if something goes wrong, and it’s very hard to preach one system in today’s ever-changing world of paint products and equipment. This is especially true if you’re painting at home in your garage, not in professional shop conditions. On the other hand, some books are written by people who work for, or are “sponsored by,” a particular paint (or polish) company, and therefore push a single brand of products. Not only are such books skewed, but today they are out of date as quickly as they are printed. More on this later, but I avoid specifying products by name and number in this book because (1) as soon as I named them, they’d be superceeded, and (2) I’m not sponsored by anybody.

This one was pure fun. About the time nostalgia drag racing got started, I found this old Altered sitting ignored in someone’s backyard. The owner obviously didn’t want it, letting me have what you see here for $300. Honest.

Other than adding an extra hoop to the roll cage and rebuilding the brakes, I didn’t have to do anything but clean and paint it. I used “Urethane Black” spray cans on the frame, which were excellent (but no longer available), and sprayed things like the axle, spring, and radius rods with a Mercedes silver. Several other parts I had cad plated, which is really cheap.

The fiberglass body and grille shell had never been painted, so I sanded off mold lines, primed them, and sprayed them Corvette Yellow in single stage, glossy, catalyzed enamel. No rub out needed.

The injected Chrysler Hemi was an extra $500 and needed a couple of new parts. The very talented Steve Stanford added the turned gold-leaf “Low Buck Special” and “Pure Purgatory” lettering, along with painted-on teardrop taillights and license reading “Cheap.” And, no, that’s not me in the driver’s seat. I like the building part, not the scary part.

Let’s end with this ’53 Chevy, which became my most involved car project. I wanted to promote ’50s rods at Rod & Custom magazine, and my cousin’s inherited coupe looked like a cherry-pie prospect—until we stripped it down and bead-blasted it to bare metal. Since it was a magazine project, I got some expert help repairing the worst sheetmetal and filling/peaking the hood.

I still did the vast majority of the car in my own garage. I didn’t remove the doors because they fit well and the bead blasting cleaned the jambs thoroughly. But the entire interior was stripped, all glass but the rear window was removed, and all the front sheet metal came off (a few times). With some bodywork and custom modifications, here is the car coated in PPG K200 (an excellent high-fill primer that is no longer available), prior to a lot of block and board sanding.

I painted the dash and window frames charcoal gray to match the upholstery. But note the quality of paint and detailing in the doorjambs. It was easy to paint these when all the interior and glass were out of the car. But this sort of detail is what makes the difference between a regular and really high-quality paint job. It just takes time and effort.

Since it was a magazine project car, that meant it was the first time I didn’t have to work within my own personal budget, so it’s, by far, the nicest car I’ve built. I just had to do most of the work myself, which included filling, smoothing, and painting the firewall, inner fender panels, under the hood, splash aprons, and lots of other parts, all in the 3-stage pearl with clear.

This paint color sort of came about as a mistake, or a compromise. This was the ’80s period when pastels were briefly popular on street rods. I would have painted the car competition orange (or black), but we went for a custom mix somewhere between cantaloupe and watermelon—just a solid-color lacquer (non-metallic). But after I painted the car this color, it looked like an atomic-reactive pumpkin. It glowed in the dark. So I decided to soften and tone it down with a lighter pearl coat, which became known as “Peach Pearl.” It might not be the color I’d choose today (I’d go with the black), but I have to say it’s probably the best paint job I’ve done. And it’s the first pearl I did on a big, full-size vehicle. Nobody told me to spray it like a candy, so I’m lucky it came out even.

I’m not a professional painter. I’ve never done a paint job for money. But I have painted all or parts of every car I’ve ever owned, as well as plenty for friends and relatives, since my early teens. I’m sure I haven’t discovered all mistakes yet, but I’ve made—and figured out how to correct—plenty. I have done paint jobs that have won awards and made magazine covers—all from my garage at home. That’s how I learned. And that’s what I am passing along in this book. Best of luck to you.

In the first chapter I ask why you want to paint your own car, and point out that it’s a lot of hard work, which I think this photo exemplifies. I have just sprayed the final clear coat on some front-end sheetmetal, and I look a little tired. But the real point of this photo—and this whole introduction—is to show that I painted this car, and the others shown here, by myself, in my garage (or driveway), with regular home equipment and no training. You can do the same. Reading this book gives you many pointers. Doing it—trying it—teaches you how.