Mature Flâneur
Paris’ Pigeons: Masters of Satire
Who doesn’t love a bird on the head of a statue?

Who doesn’t love to see a bird on the head of a statue of a king or a lord who has literally been set up on a pedestal? Urban pigeons are masters of satire: they bring the mighty low: no matter how exhalted rulers may want to appear in the eyes of the populous, to a pigeon, their statue is just another perch to poop on. This goes for anyone, whether their likenesses is cast in bronze or hewn of stone. We are all equal, from a bird’s eye view.


Here in Paris, the pigeons have brought their satirical performance art to a highly advanced state — which should come as no surprise, given that for over a thousand years they have had a multitude of statues upon with to practice and perfect their craft.
Just yesterday in the 9th Arrondissement, I witnessed a tableau so breathtaking in scope and humor, I had to document it. While usually pigeons are solo artists, what I stumbled upon yesterday was an entire flock working together as an ensemble — an artistic collaboration in which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. As an erudite member of the class Aves might put it: “Many feathers must beat together to make a wing that soars.”
The tableau in question is, on the north side of the Porte Saint-Martin (Saint Martin’s Gate). This gate was erected in 1674 on the orders of Louis XIV , to glorify his victories on the Rhine against his various Germanic enemies.
It was a cold, gray day when I traipsed past the gate: wind blowing, a light sprinkle of rain. Other citizens outdoors were few, and they were rushing around on some errand or another, heads down, huddled against the wind. I was the only fool simply out for a ramble. But this is often the best time to encounter unanticipated art.
At first, I thought the gate was nothing to look at. I’ve passed by dozens of times with barely a nod to the statues. They looked like they were covered in a dusting of snow, which is what attracted my attention. It was cold, but too warm for snow. Then I grasped that this was just the pigeons at work, setting the scene, as it were.
Fun fact: urban pigeons evolved from rock pigeons which I have seen in the wild in the clefts of limestone cliffs of southern Portugal. The blocks of seven-story buildings that make up most of Paris are made of limestone, too. To pigeons, such cities pretty well resemble their natural habitat, and then have adapted well.

Moving closer, I noticed the pigeons. A dozen or so of them were sheltering against the weather among the statues. They were so still, in fact, that they seemed like components of the tableau itself: On the left the scene shows a man and a woman begin protected by a warrior with a shield, fending off an eagle in the upper corner. On the right, two more warriors protect a seated woman with a city-like crown and a lion. Collectively, this represents the king and his forces protecting the citizens and state of France from the Germans (represented by the eagle).

Only when I zoomed in with my camera did I get the full effect of the comedy these feathered fiends had interjected into this over-wrought scene: It seems as if each statue is looking directly at a pigeon, and is interacting with them, instead of the violent drama unfolding around them.




This last statue is my favorite, for this woman with the crown — who symbolizes the vulnerable civilized nation that is being attacked — seems to be idly stroking the bird in her lap, as if it is her emotional support pigeon:

So, next time you see an urban pigeon pecking for food in the gutter, please tip your hat in respect! Who knows what devilish work of satire that creative spirit is contemplating, to bring the mighty low.
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Tim Ward is the author of Mature Flâneur: Slow Travels through Portugal, France, Italy and Norway