Philosophising Hands

A garage somewhere in Bavaria. Concrete floor; the wooden doors are open, letting plenty of light in. Outside, birds are chirping; inside, there’s a focused calm. It smells of paint, metal and a hint of petrol. In one corner: paintbrushes, masking tape, markers, tracing paper. Next to them, a black Porsche 911 S/T – the ‘special request’ sticker in the triangular window, and already two small stone chips on the front bumper. A driver’s car, then. Marvellous.

Neil Meillard is standing next to him. Shorts, trainers, hoodie. A man who looks as though he knows exactly what he’s doing, but whom you simply can’t imagine in a suit and tie. Distinctive features, hands showing signs of hard work, and that look – direct, open, friendly. Someone who looks at you and is fully present. No artist’s mask, no grandstanding.

The wind gently stirs the tracing paper on the floor. No noise, no pressure, no filter. A man drawing lines. Sometimes he speaks – or rather, tells a story. Then he falls silent again and draws a line. It takes a moment to realise that you’re already in the middle of the interview …

Neil, you’re using a white marker here – what exactly is it?

It’s a water-based marker. I use it to make very fine marks on the varnish – simply to get a feel for where I’ll be going with the brush later on.

And how do you manage to mirror the lines so precisely – from one side to the other?

I work with tracing paper. I place it over the side where the design is already finished and mark small reference points along the edge of the tape. Then I trace the shape very carefully with my fingernail – this leaves a slight indentation. I then transfer these lines to the other side using a pencil and go over them again with a graphite pencil. This creates a mirrored template.

So basically a manual mirroring process?

Exactly. Maybe a millimetre off, but that’s perfectly fine. The owner of this car wanted a classic pinstripe from an old 911 – applied by hand to a new model. No tape, no plotter. 98 per cent accurate, but 100 per cent handmade. Something like that (laughs).

How often do you still use this traditional method?

Quite regularly. I work on cars from all eras. If a 1975 Rolls-Royce Corniche turned up tomorrow, I’d do it exactly the same way. It always depends on what’s required: masking tape for modern cars, freehand for the classics.

Drag racing? In the UK?

Yes, it was on TV in the 70s. Loud, colourful, crazy – I was ten years old and instantly fascinated. It was the design in particular that captivated me: the lines, colours and lettering. I read magazines like Hot Rod, Car Craft and Custom Car. And today I’m restoring one of the cars from my childhood – the ‘Pinball Wizard’, a legendary show car.

So how did your professional breakthrough come about?

Basically the same way it happens for many creative people: you just start doing it, people see it and ask, ‘Can you do mine too?’ For me, it started with small racing cars on a track in Wimbledon. I just gave it a go. I wasn’t particularly good at first – but I got better. Eventually, the first enquiries came from Formula 1. That was around 1992, when the McLaren F1 was launched. I did the very first pinstripe for a prominent owner. Then more followed.

And Formula 1 itself?

It really took off in the late 90s. Lots of teams are based here in the UK – that’s given my work a massive boost. I can’t name names, but the mindset of the people there and the pressure you work under – that really shapes you. You know the saying: ‘Step out of your comfort zone’? With a Formula 1 team, you do just that the moment you walk through the gate onto the factory premises.

Did you teach yourself everything?

Yes, step by step. And once you’re working in Formula 1, precision is everything – down to a tenth of a millimetre. It’s an incredible learning experience – in a tough, direct, honest way. Today I work with fantastic clients on exceptional cars. I know just how lucky I am.

Did you never feel the urge to do something completely different?

Never. I’m not an academic. I’m a painter who loves cars. And here I am today, standing here with a beautiful 911, talking to you. That’s brilliant, isn’t it?

And the hard times?

Of course there were. I used to paint lorries in the snow; I could barely feel my fingers. But I had to earn a living – I had children. Those years shape you. And today I appreciate my work all the more.

How many children do you have?

Three. Two sons in their thirties and a daughter – she’s 27. And I already have a granddaughter – she’s 16. Time flies by at breakneck speed. I’d give anything to relive those years – the chaos, the sleepless nights, the toys strewn all over the living room. That’s true happiness. Later on, you find yourself wondering where it all went.

Have you experienced this yourself?

All the time. I’ve just come through a period of non-stop commissions. I keep telling myself: don’t do this anymore. But then a good client or friend rings – and I say yes. Not for the money, but because I don’t want to let anyone down.

You mentioned earlier that you work on racing cars to unwind?

Yes. My mate Kev and I tinker with his old Ford, which has a two-litre Opel turbo engine. It runs on methanol, has insane boost pressure and shifts at 9,700 revs. Loud, messy, technical – I love it. The other day we stripped the engine at a race, then spent 60 hours over three days rebuilding it. Absolute madness! But that’s my other passion.

It almost sounds like a different life.

And it is. Pinstriping is quiet, focused, controlled. Racing is chaos, technology, adrenaline. But both give me something. When the engine runs perfectly and everything fits together – it really does feel a bit like the perfect pinstripe.