Grayhound Sailing Art Residency
- 11th June 2025 to 13th June 2025
- Douarnenez, Brittany, France
Grayhound Art Residency 2025
Grayhound is a 5/6th replica 3 masted UK customs lugger. I will be onboard in June 2025 as Artist in residence learning to sail her and enjoying this unique views of the Brittany coastline from an historic vessel.
The resulting paintings will be shown at The Royal Society of Marine Artists later in the year.
Arrival
The morning unfolds in hushed tones, the kind that belong to roads before sunrise. My headlights carve a soft tunnel through the mist, revealing fleeting glimpses of the French countryside: wet earth, low-lying fog pooling in fields, the occasional silhouette of a tree standing motionless against the dawn. There’s a quiet solitude in the drive, a rhythm to the tyres on damp tarmac, a moment suspended between departure and arrival.
At Port Rosmeur, the scent of salt mingles with the faint trace of diesel and the wood of weathered boats. There she is, the Grayhound Lugger, resting at anchor just outside the harbour wall. She is a study in contrasts: elegant yet rugged, her sails furled like wings, her hull black. I have time before sailing hours to breathe in this place. A café beckons. I settle myself at a worn wooden table on the edge of the harbour with strong coffee and a view of Grayhound at anchor, perfect. The first sip cuts through the remnants of sleep and focuses my mind on drawing the ship from a distance. It swings very little on its mooring so I can learn as I sketch: the height of the mast compared to the length of the hull; the angle of the sails. How much will my drawings change once I’ve sailed in her, and that hands on knowledge informs the pencil? I capture impressions in swift strokes - the rigging’s tangled geometry and the mass and bulk off the hull, the way the ship sits in the water. No pressure today, just observation and learning. Just settling in. This is the beginning of a creative exploration, of rhythm found in wind, sail and wave. Now, to translating experience into paint.
Afternoon Sailing
First time aboard: today is about learning the rigging - the pull of ropes and the resistance of sails catching wind. Three of us haul, the Captain calling out the fine corrections needed to balance tension across the canvas. I find myself watching the sails as light shifts across them. The boat moves about a lot, and I am glad to be part of it, to keep my mind busy. Ben, the deckhand, is the bridge between language and knowledge. Fluent in English after two years sailing in Australia, he hands me the vocabulary in ‘Franglish’- the names of the sails in both languages. I follow, learning through the body, the stance - feet toward the sea when pulling, leaning into the work rather than against it. The boat speaks in gestures as much as words.
At the helm, my first time steering, first watching the compass then setting my sights on a distant town. The sheer joy of sailing - a sense of movement shaped by awareness: small corrections, learning how the boat responds, how the water translates weight and direction. Grayhound is smooth and steady once underway, and I can relax and take in the experience. Later, as the sails are pulled in and speed bleeds away, the small engine hums to bring us to our anchorage. Finally, the sea calls us to swim, a welcome relief after bursts of intense work. Cool water, green-blue depths, and the quiet satisfaction of plunging in after a hot day. It has been months since I swam in the sea, and it feels like a reset. We climb aboard, only to dive once more into the shifting light of Breton’s waters.
A berth awaits tonight, small but welcoming. Chef Jo, in the galley, speaks of tomato pie, a creation that sparks debate over what constitutes a true pie lid, a conversation in layers of French, laughter, and contradiction. After dinner the boat is dry, so we head ashore for a beer in the harbour. We talk of ships, tides, and tomorrow’s challenge - a delicate manoeuvre into another part of the harbour, accessible only at high tide.
We barely make it back before the call comes in: squalls approaching. The second Captain warns of strong winds, rain, thunder. The present Captain wastes no time - orders are given, preparation is underway - battening down hatches, tying off lines, securing the deck before the night turns unpredictable. Through it all, I sketch: the crew, hands moving through tasks, their positioning on deck within the boat’s structure, the negative space between movement and vessel. Form and function, captured in ink, in a moment suspended before the storm arrives.
Up since 4:30am, now heading to my bunk at 10pm. First night aboard. Another day of sailing ahead if the weather allows. Wish me luck.
The Storm
A deep sleep, rocked gently by the hull. At 2am the sky erupts, lightning in the darkness, thunder rolling across the sea. We climb from our bunks, drawn to the spectacle, watching from the wheelhouse as the storm dances across the horizon. Then, as suddenly as it has come, the energy softens and we return to bed, lulled back to sleep by the sound of rain on deck. Morning arrives with fresh provisions: Ben, ever reliable, brings breakfast aboard from shore. Strong coffee, warm croissants, and with that the plimsoll line needs recalibrating, marking the weight and waterline under load.
Stepping out of a routine can shake your natural rhythm, and it’s interesting to discover how painting serves as a kind of meditation for me, a structured way to anchor the mind without the constant questioning of what is next. The act itself becomes the answer. It makes sense that being in a new environment, especially one like Grayhound, shifts my process. I am suddenly absorbing a different kind of stimulus, the movement of people, the rigging, the interplay of space and light, all without the usual grounding of familiar surroundings. Meditation helps bridge that gap, but so does the act of sketching - not necessarily searching for a subject, but allowing observation to lead the way. What is unfolding around me - the working gestures of the crew, the curve of the boat, the changing light on the water - could be just the right way to reconnect with focus. It is more like letting the story of the moment reveal itself through your brush or pen.
Evening Reflections
This afternoon’s sail felt like a deepening of yesterday’s experience, a chance to learn a greater understanding of the boat and her. It is windy today so only the jib and the fore lug sail are needed. The beauty and simplicity of the sails means that with the jib giving us manoeuvrability we are underway in minutes. The fore lug gives us all the power we need. We sail up the coast line this time towards Poullan-sur-Mer and make a jive to head back to Douarnenez. The swell is larger today. I have a brief glimpse into life on the water, a separation from land, a different rhythm entirely. The crew exists in this space, returning ashore only for necessities, their presence shaped more by the sea than the streets. It’s like an unspoken choice - bare feet on deck, a statement that lingers when stepping onto solid ground - making for a life lived differently. Like the festival scene in the UK, separate and outside of society somehow, it carries that same feeling of belonging to another tribe, one of shared purpose rather than convention. Is it escape? Or simply the pursuit of something clearer, simpler, tethered to the elements rather than the constructs of routine?
I wait, to understand the boats busy and quiet times, before attempting a painting. At 5pm I paint for two hours, which flies by as I overcome the challenges of setting up and mark making, as well as being aware of the wind and swell. It’s a tricky thing to paint on the rise and fall of a ship, but it’s worth embracing. The ship swings on its anchor, the swell weaving into the brushwork, demanding a different approach. I adjust my timing, learning when to let the boat settle, when to steady my hand before making a mark. The rhythm of the sea dictates the pace, forcing patience, making every stroke deliberate. The problem solving feels inventive, rather than restrictive: finding ways to brace for finer details, allowing the movement to inform rather than disrupt.
Soon it is time to eat. It’s a relief as I have pushed my sea legs far enough. As I pack up, I lose balance and receive a reminder that, as the Captain told me, I need ‘one hand for me and another for the boat’. A simple rule and I follow it, and have a rather painful lower arm. At least it’s my left arm, not my painting arm.
Later, we go ashore. A drink for the crew, a small thanks for their generosity, for making space for me to observe, sketch, and exist among them. The town itself feels alive with artists and sailors, a place where both seem to thrive, side by side. There’s an energy here, a kind of unspoken camaraderie, built on shared understanding of wind, tide, and craft.
Now back onboard, I write from my bunk. Ropes have left my hands sore, paint sits under my nails, salt lingers in my hair. It feels good. Tomorrow we are up early to move Grayhound to the harbour, where she is a guest of the historic port, along with several French boats.