Colombian artist Iván Argote is behind the giant pigeon on NYC’s High Line

So, first of all, thank you for being in touch and for being interested in my work. I like the idea of a young artist because I’m maybe getting less and less young. I’m 41 years old (he smiles).

I moved to France when I was 23 with the idea of attending art school and learning French. It was my first time traveling outside Colombia. I’d say my journey probably started there—or maybe even earlier, during university in Colombia, where I studied graphic design and cinema. I worked as an assistant director in the film industry for a bit, mostly in advertising. I was very young then, just 22 or 23.

One thing that propelled this journey was when I won an art contest in Colombia for young Colombian artists, and one of the sponsors was a travel agency that awarded plane tickets to any destination. I saved up some money and used the ticket to come to Europe, already planning to pursue a master’s degree in the arts. That’s how my journey began.

Over the past 20 years or so, I’ve worked extensively in various mediums. Photography was my starting point, but I soon expanded into video, sculpture, and other art forms. My main focus has always been public space—at the core of my work. Much of my art explores the relationships we have with others in public spaces. I’ve also done many performances centered on this theme. I was deeply involved in these kinds of projects when I was younger.

Yes, I did some performance art in subways, buses, and other public spaces, trying to create reactions and connect with people through kindness, humor, and tenderness. But then, I got interested in monuments, so I began doing interventions and working with them. Actually,  I started in Madrid. I put ponchos on the statues of the kings in Madrid. I did that in Bogota, Los Angeles, and different cities where I encountered these colonial figures.

So, back in 2019, the High Line contacted me and asked me, along with other ATI artists, to propose something for this commission they called The Plinth. The Plinth is a really special location. We were ATI artists contacted by them. This is not open to everyone—they reached out to a large group of artists and professionals from different generations. They proposed that I create a kind of monumental sculpture for a space for Plinth in NY.

Honestly, it was initially difficult for me to figure out what to do. I’ve done a lot of projects where I’ve reimagined monuments—like in Venice, for instance, where I showed fallen monuments or explored different ways to present monumentality and alternative displays of history. I often feel like most monuments we see are dominated by male figures of power. It’s usually military men, statues of domination, or things tied to military history.

There’s such a lack of representation in monuments—first of women, but also other aspects of life, like art, beauty, and nature. So, for me, it was challenging at first to propose something to put on top of The Plinth because I’ve even questioned the idea of a plinth itself in the past. But then I started thinking about proposing something different, something that could represent a new kind of monument.

First, pigeons are often hated or marginalized—they’re seen almost as nuisances. So, I wanted to put this overlooked figure at the center and create a tribute to something often underappreciated. They’ve also been constant companions to us. I mean, they’re everywhere in our cities. I don’t think there’s a single day in my life when I don’t see a pigeon.

Somehow, they’re always there because we take them for granted. It’s like a monument to nature, in a way, and also to the undesirable. Can you say that?

It’s a monument to the undesirable. I also decided to make the pigeon in a gigantic proportion, and my logic was, what if I made a pigeon as big as a Tyrannosaurus Rex? Somehow, it’s also a nod to natural history museums. I was also thinking about all those fictional films where a giant beast attacks a city, like Godzilla or others. I thought that idea was both interesting and kind of funny.

Yeah, I feel the work is really about empathy—about how you can generate or question it. I know some people hate pigeons, and others have mixed feelings about them. So, creating this huge sculpture, which is well-crafted but also a bit funny, might spark questions about empathy. Can we like them or not? It touches on all these layers of our relationship with other species. Most of the time, we only make monuments to ourselves, but this is a non-human monument. The pigeon brought all these issues together in one piece. And honestly, I think it turned out to be a good work.

It was a very long process. I made the proposal in 2019, and by 2021, they had narrowed down the selection of projects. For years after that, we didn’t know if the sculpture would actually happen. It wasn’t until mid-2023 that they finally told me they would commission the piece.

During all those years, I truly believed in the work and felt it had to happen. I did extensive research on pigeons, studying their morphology and the structural aspects needed for the sculpture. I contacted many foundries because producing such a big object was complex both budget-wise and scale-wise.

In the end, we decided to do the foundry work in Mexico City. It had the capacity for large-scale projects and was more cost-effective. The sculpture is made of aluminum, and the foundry had the capability to handle the piece efficiently.

No, it’s a single object. It came on a truck—it crossed the border. The pigeon crossed the border, which I think is kind of cool. A Mexican pigeon! In a way, for me, that sculpture is a bit like a migrant. It could represent a migrant because pigeons themselves migrated—they were brought from Europe to the United States. So, I feel like it’s a fitting monument for New Yorkers.

We produced the sculpture in Mexico as one single piece. Then, it traveled across the border on a truck. We didn’t plan anything special, but it went viral on TikTok at some point because people spotted it on the highway. I’m not sure where exactly, but it got some attention. After that, it was shipped to New Jersey, where the painting process took place. That part took about two months in an incredible studio near Trenton in southern New Jersey.

The entire process took five years, but the actual production—the hard part—took about a year and a half.

Yeah, of course. My heritage influences my work a lot. I grew up in Colombia and feel more Colombian than anything else. My family has always been very involved in politics—militants, unionists—and my sister is currently a congresswoman. So, I grew up with a strong awareness of our history, and I think that comes through in my work.

I don’t think I necessarily speak from a purely Colombian perspective, but some of my work explores what it means to be a migrant. It doesn’t always reflect my personal journey, but it often touches on the differences and power dynamics between the Global North and South. In some way, I guess the pigeon ties into that as well.

I think there’s something beautiful about being a migrant. We have this deep knowledge of our own country and culture, but we also develop a broad understanding of the cultures and countries we’ve migrated to. We carry these double, triple, or even multiple layers of mixed cultures—whether through literature, music, or history. That shapes who we are and gives us a broader, more balanced view of the world. I don’t think it’s necessarily better, but it offers a different perspective on what it means to live in the world today.

Paris feels significant to me because I moved here to attend art school and ended up starting my career here. It was also my first long trip, so it holds a special place in my journey.

I had never left Colombia before, so I never really considered living in another city or somewhere like New York. I didn’t have the means or capacity to consider that. I just came here and tried to build a life in Paris. Through a lot of hard work and struggle, I eventually managed to make a living from my art.

Exactly. In my first 10 years here as a migrant, I was just trying to survive. Over time, I managed to build a career and make a living from my work. I’ve built my structure here in Paris. My studio and life here became a natural fit.  

Now, it’s more about infrastructure and family. I have a one-year-old baby, so I think about where I want them to grow up. As a migrant, you can probably imagine how challenging that decision is. I feel they should have the experience of being in Latin America, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to move back to Colombia yet. 

Yeah, I’d say it has. The projects I’ve been working on this year, like the Biennial and the commission for the High Line, were things I started years ago—before I even knew I’d become a dad. I think it’s in my future work that this change will become more noticeable. I already feel a shift in how I relate to my work and what I want to achieve through it.

It is, yeah. I’ve always tried to include a bit of tenderness in my work, even as a kind of revolutionary gesture. When we approach critical issues, there’s often an atmosphere of confrontation or even aggression—violent language and a confrontational tone. While confrontation is sometimes necessary, I think we also need other strategies to invite people into these discussions and make them feel connected.

Often, when we talk about decolonial perspectives or rethinking history, people either don’t care or react defensively. So, I see it as more of a pedagogical challenge than one of directly opposing someone or something—like whiteness or European narratives. It’s about offering new perspectives, the kind of perspectives we bring as people from other countries.

And tenderness and affection can help with that. They’re tools to encourage people to step into someone else’s shoes to see things differently without feeling attacked. And now that I’m a father, I feel that tenderness and affection has grown even stronger in my work.

Yeah. Wildflower is a series of sculptures where I recreate replicas of existing monuments and reimagine how they can be presented while also encouraging reflection on the historical figures they represent. For instance, I previously worked with a statue of George Washington for a show I did in New York.

A couple of years ago, I lived in Rome and spent a lot of time researching the history of obelisks—specifically, why so many were brought from Egypt to Europe and by whom. The first person to do this was Emperor Augustus of Rome. This research really delves into the question of why we have the monuments we do and what they represent.

I started wondering what would happen to these objects in the future. In 2022, there was a lot of debate about monuments, which I found fascinating because I’ve been working on these themes for more than 15 years. It was interesting to see how the broader conversation fit into my work.

At that time, I thought a lot about the controversy surrounding monuments—whether to keep, move, or even destroy them. It made me wonder what will happen to these statues thousands of years from now. When you’re in Rome, you’re surrounded by ruins from different layers of power—Roman, imperial—and it gets you thinking about the impermanence of these symbols.

I started thinking that nature might eventually reclaim these monuments, with nature taking its place. That idea led me to imagine something between a futuristic concept and a reinterpretation of these objects. What if I transform them into planters? Instead of destroying or erasing them, I could repurpose them into something more domestic and relatable—like the plants you have behind you.

What if these objects, which symbolize power and male dominance, could be reimagined in a softer, more approachable way? By doing so, we can gently mock their traditional meaning while offering a more honest reflection of life. Life isn’t just about presidents, leaders, and powerful men who leave their mark on history—it’s also about the small, everyday things, like the plants we nurture at home or the daily lives we lead.

This work transforms that imaginary of power into something softer, a container of life. For instance, the statue of Augustus is a canonical form that influenced later monuments, from statues of Napoleon to contemporary works. It was interesting to dissolve that power and turn it into something meaningful that holds life.

I also love the idea of opening up a sculpture’s hidden, internal part, which we usually focus on only from the outside and using it for something meaningful. It’s very symbolic and beautiful. It’s much better than just putting a statue on a pedestal, staring down at you.

These are my ideas, but I see them as honest proposals—things I genuinely think we could do. I don’t think it’s crazy to imagine something like this. I think it would be really interesting.

Yeah, because we don’t have to destroy history. Instead, we can reimagine, adapt, and start a new conversation around it.

If I had to give advice, I’d say it’s really a mix of trusting yourself and putting a lot of energy into your work. It demands effort on many levels—doing research, creating new works, and even learning how to communicate about your work effectively.

It’s also important to actively seek opportunities. When I was younger, I always looked for scholarships, residencies, and ways to grow. I put in a lot of effort, sometimes instinctively and without many strategies, but it was about traveling, experiencing different places, and developing my work in those contexts. That openness to explore and persist is key.

All that effort really paid off over time because it helped me build a network that isn’t limited to my city or immediate connections. I’ve collaborated a lot with young creators who are in important institutions today. Many of us have known each other for 15 or 20 years, and we started doing independent projects together.

One of the key things was saying yes to most, if not all, of the invitations I received. I was always willing to participate. I’m still flattered when someone invites me to show my work. Even today, I sometimes participate in shows organized by art students or independent spaces. I’ve done it since I was younger and continue to do it because I never forget where I come from.

I also make an effort to stay connected with my home country and its art scene. I think that’s really important, especially when you’re living abroad.

I think it’s about intensity—living it with passion and finding a way to enjoy the process. It’s never easy. It wasn’t easy before, and it’s not easy now. Even though we now have a larger studio, a team, and more ambitious projects, it still demands a lot of effort. Sometimes, I wonder if it will ever get easier.

Even with recognition, there are struggles. This work can still be economically challenging and incredibly demanding. The only way it works is if you find joy in it; otherwise, it can feel like a burden. Invitations don’t come all the time, and the journey isn’t smooth. There are highs and lows, even when you’re consistent.

I’ve seen this in friends from older generations who had varying levels of success. It’s a long-term career; part of that is accepting that it’s always a mix of challenges and rewards.