" Paint Academy " is a project close to my heart. Perhaps that’s precisely why I find it difficult to describe it simply as a course, continuing education program, or training course. Of course, it will be about paintwork—surfaces, materials, processes and mistakes, and all the experience accumulated over decades. But the more I think about it, the clearer it becomes to me: That’s just the visible surface. Beneath it lies something that’s at least as important to me today as the craft itself—the question of how we want to work, how we treat one another, and what we’d like to pass on someday.

Throughout my life, I’ve learned a lot, built things up, discarded them, started over, and kept going. Over the years, that changes your perspective on success. Things that used to seem big become smaller. And some things that seemed obvious suddenly take on a whole new value. A promise kept. A handshake. A person who shows up when they say they will. Someone who admits a mistake, even though they could have hidden it. Someone who helps, even though there’s nothing in it for them. Maybe that sounds unspectacular. For me, it hasn’t been that way for a long time.

Our era has developed an astonishing ability to turn almost anything into a calculation. Time is supposed to pay off. Knowledge is supposed to pay off. Relationships are supposed to be useful. A business is supposed to grow, a person is supposed to become more productive, and the next year is supposed to be more successful than the one before. As soon as something works, the next question is: How can we get even more out of it? These days, I prefer to ask myself a different question: When is enough enough? Not out of laziness, and not because I no longer have goals. But because I believe that moderation has something to do with freedom. Not every opportunity needs to be exhausted simply because it exists. We don’t have to squeeze the maximum out of every person. And a cow doesn’t become more valuable if you milk her until she collapses.

Perhaps one of the greatest freedoms of all is no longer feeling the need to have everything you could possibly have. To me, therefore, modesty doesn’t mean belittling myself. I know the value of my work. I know what decades of experience mean. I know how much time, mistakes, doubts, and repetition go into truly mastering something. But those who know their own worth don’t have to constantly prove it. They don’t have to look on enviously at someone else’s success. They don’t have to own everything just because someone else owns more. They can rejoice in what’s good without immediately asking why it doesn’t belong to them.

I also believe in helping someone when you can. Sharing an experience. Making a connection. Answering a question. Sparing someone a mistake you once had to make yourself. Not as a strategy, and not with some hidden agenda in mind. Simply because it’s the right thing to do. Maybe one day something will come back to you. Maybe never. Even so, it wasn’t in vain. Not everything good needs something in return to have value.

That doesn’t mean good work has to be free. Even Paint Academy will cost money. My time is limited, my experience has been built up over decades, and I, too, have to make a living from my work. I don’t see any contradiction there. To me, there’s a world of difference between a fair exchange and greed. Good work deserves a fair price. What matters is whether both sides ultimately feel they’ve treated each other honestly and fairly. If money weren’t a factor, I’d probably just pass on a lot of what I know. Not out of selflessness, but because it brings me joy to see someone grow. But as long as we make a living from our work, knowledge is allowed to have value. That said, my values are still not for sale.

At the Paint Academy, I will share what I have learnt about paintwork, surfaces and processes. I can explain how the individual elements interact, identify mistakes, pass on my experience and perhaps spare others some of the detours that took me years to overcome. But there is one thing I cannot give anyone: their own drive for excellence. That must already be there. If an award-winning chef gives an apprentice their best recipe, that alone does not make the apprentice an exceptional chef. The recipe may be perfect, and the mentor may explain every step and demonstrate every nuance. Yet eventually, the apprentice must stand alone before the finished dish. At that point, the recipe no longer decides the outcome. What matters is whether they recognise for themselves that something is not quite right—and whether it matters enough to them to start again.

A mentor can show where the bar is set. The student must have the desire to reach it on their own. For me , that is precisely one of the most important prerequisites of “ Paint Academy.” I don’t want to lend my energy to anyone just so they’ll be motivated for a few days. I don’t want to drag along anyone who doesn’t really want to run. I’m looking for people who already have something within them: curiosity, discipline, backbone, and their own standards of quality—the desire to truly understand things, not just imitate them.

To me, perfection doesn’t mean being flawless. No one is flawless. I certainly am not. To me, high standards are much more about being willing to acknowledge a mistake. It’s about not settling for “that’ll do” when you know deep down that it could be better. It’s about redoing a piece of work even though no one has complained. Not because a client is pressuring you. Not because a teacher is standing over your shoulder. But because your own standards tell you: I don’t want to turn this in like this.

That’s why “ Paint Academy ” won’t just work with a simple booking button. I want to get to know people first. Not because I want to decide who’s “good enough” as a person. That would be presumptuous. But my time and my experience are too valuable to me to distribute them completely at random. I’m not primarily interested in what title is on a business card, how big a company is, or what kind of car is parked out front. I’m interested in the person. Can they listen? Can they disagree without being disrespectful? Can they admit a mistake? Do they allow others to enjoy their success? Do they keep their word even when it gets uncomfortable? And after many years in the profession, do they still have the humility to say, “I don’t know. Show me.”

I don’t want to create copies of myself. On the contrary. I want people who think for themselves—people who take my knowledge, examine it, question it, and eventually, perhaps, do something better than I do. If one day someone comes up with a solution I never would have thought of myself, then I haven’t lost anything. Then something has been achieved. Knowledge hasn’t served its purpose if it stays with the teacher. It has served its purpose when someone else uses it to move forward.

Perhaps that is the very kind of growth I still believe in. Not always bigger. Not always faster. Not always more. But deeper. From person to person. An experience is passed on, changes, evolves, and may eventually reach someone I’ll never even meet myself. Maybe years later, one of my students will stand next to a young painter and simply say, “Come here. I’ll show you something.” Not because he has to. Not because he expects anything in return. But because someone once did the same thing for him.

I don’t claim to be able to save society. Perhaps that very claim is part of our problem. I’ve come to believe much more strongly in the small things—in a few people who can trust one another. In a promise that’s kept. In work you can stand behind. In economic success without having to exploit another person. In knowledge that’s shared. In help that doesn’t automatically require something in return. In enough humility to know that none of us has finished learning.

Maybe we don’t need to convince millions of people. Maybe it’s enough to create a small corner of the world where things work again the way we believe they should. Honestly. Reliably. Humanely. With high standards, but without greed. With success, but without envy. With strength, but without arrogance.

That’s exactly how I want the “ Paint Academy ” to be. Of course, it should be a place where exceptional craftsmanship is created—finishes that inspire, processes that are understood, and knowledge that would otherwise take years to acquire. But if someone leaves the “ Paint Academy ” and can simply paint better, that would almost be too little for me. I hope that they have a clearer sense of their own standards. That they know how they want to work. That they have the courage to say no when something doesn’t align with their values. That they correct a mistake even if no one else noticed it. That they honestly tell a customer what makes sense, even if they could make more money doing something else.

Then the message will have come through.

It’s not just about technique.

Attitude.

Preserve craftsmanship. Pass on knowledge. Instill a sense of integrity. Uphold quality.

And if, at some point, only a single thought of mine were to remain, this is the one I would wish for:

“We don’t have to get everything out of life. Perhaps its true greatness lies in contributing something that will live on even after we’re long gone.”
— Jörg Egger

To me, that's the Paint Academy.

Paint Academy is currently under construction. More information on content, schedule, and participation will follow.