There I was, in Paris.

The Eiffel Tower gleamed in the distance. The Seine shimmered beneath centuries-old bridges. Every corner whispered art history — from the Musée d'Orsay to Montmartre, it was all right there: elegance, culture, refinement.

And what caught my eye?

Pigeons.

Yes, those damn pigeons.

I remember chuckling to myself — a full-on eye-roll moment. I was surrounded by some of the most iconic, romantic, and revered art and architecture in the world, and somehow I couldn’t stop watching the pigeons. I even made fun of myself for it. Surely, I thought, I came here to be inspired by Notre-Dame, not birds waddling across cobblestones.

But something about them lingered in my mind — and in my lens.

Months later, I found myself in New York City, camera in hand again. Different city, same damn birds. Only this time, I wasn't laughing. I was leaning in. Noticing. Capturing. And that’s when it really started to take shape.

The pigeons in Paris had moved with calm elegance, like they belonged among the wrought iron and limestone. But the pigeons in New York felt different — ruffled, wary, almost anxious. Their energy echoed the chaos of their surroundings. It hit me then: they were shaped by the city, just like people.

And I started to remember something I’d read — that pigeons weren’t always dismissed or disregarded. In fact, they were once revered. Pigeons carried royal correspondence. They were war heroes, delivering messages across enemy lines when no one else could. Ancient civilizations worshipped them as symbols of love and devotion. For centuries, pigeons were respected — even cherished.

Somewhere along the way, that changed.

They became “nuisances.” Street clutter. Unwelcome guests. We stopped seeing their value — not because they changed, but because we did.

That realization deepened the parallels I was starting to notice — not just between pigeons and their cities, but between them and the people who move through those same streets. Especially those who are most often overlooked — the unhoused, the unseen, the misunderstood.

That was the turning point.

This work didn’t happen in a moment. It evolved over years. What started as a lighthearted observation became a quiet insistence — a feeling I couldn’t ignore. I believe the universe often speaks in those small nudges, and when something keeps tugging at your attention, there’s usually a reason.

The title Those Damn Pigeons! remains, because sometimes it takes a little humor to open the door. But what’s inside is sincere. This work is about seeing with more care. It’s about challenging the reflex to look away. It’s about how art can shift our perspective — not by shouting, but by gently asking us to pause.

This collection is a reminder: dignity exists in places we overlook. Stories live in what we call ordinary. And when we take time to really see, we start to understand how much connects us.

You’re invited to experience this work for yourself, now on display at Behn Gallery. My hope is that these photographs do what all good art should do: make you feel something, question something, and carry a little more empathy into your next encounter — whether it’s with a person or a pigeon.

Because sometimes the smallest subjects have the most to say.