Why these are sculptures

A model reproduces. It starts from a box, from moulded parts, from plans to be followed, and it aims at resemblance with a ship that exists. Its purpose is accuracy.

None of that applies here. Not a single element is bought, no part is ordered from a catalogue, nothing is assembled from a kit. The hull, the cranes, the hatch covers, the containers, the rigging, the gangways, the anchors, the ropes: everything is shaped by hand, piece by piece, in the workshop, from wood, resin-charged plaster, brass, linen and cord.

None of these ships reproduces an existing vessel. Welissa was born from hundreds of photographs of a cargo ship abandoned in the port of Sète, analysed and then adapted to a 1955 plan: the resulting ship has never existed. Yet it is so exact that nobody guesses it.

Then comes what changes everything. A museum piece shows a ship on its first day, brand new from the yard. Olivier Maynard does the opposite: he shows what the sea does to ships. Salt, grease, eaten metal, cargo stains, rust running down to the waterline. On a container ship, every container is weathered individually, with a sponge, dented and faded, as though it had circled the globe ten times. This wear is not a flaw to be tolerated: it is the raw material of the work, and it takes more hours than the building itself.

One of Olivier Maynard's ships takes between 300 and 450 hours of work. It is close to two metres long. It is signed, unique, and it will never exist in a second copy.

These ships are hyper-realistic sculptures that look as though they have sailed.