I got an email last week from someone in Grey Lynn. The kind of email you don’t expect but secretly hope for. No complaints. No customer service drama. Just a photo.
A photo of one of my first-ever street birds.
Still clinging to the same old lamppost where I hammered it up over fifteen years ago.
It’s a Huia, wings mid-flutter, cut from raw steel and stuck onto the urban furniture of Auckland like it belonged there.
It’s softened with time. The surface has developed a protective patina... that warm layer of surface rust that seals and protects the bird, not eats it away. You can still see the shape of it... a bird in flight, frozen and free at the same time.
I sat there staring at that photo for ages. It’s funny how one little image can yank you backwards through time faster than any official milestone.
Back to Where It Started
I never meant to start a business. If you’ve ever met me, you’ll know that “entrepreneur” isn’t exactly the first word people would use. I’m more of a backyard tinkerer. A bloke with a grinder in the shed and too many half-finished projects.
But back in the day, I was doing a lot of thinking about public space. How cities can feel cold and transactional. How we get stuck in routines... same streets, same shops, same head down, earbuds in, don’t make eye contact.
So I started putting birds up.
Not in galleries. On the streets. On poles. In parks. Quiet little steel interventions. The idea was simple: stop people in their tracks. Make them look up. Make them feel something.
Maybe curiosity. Maybe delight. Maybe just a break from the noise in their own heads.
The First Flight
I didn’t tell anyone at first. Just me and a cordless drill, sneaking around Auckland at dawn.
The first bird went up in Grey Lynn. I remember the exact spot... just down from the dairy, near a scrappy little park where the kererū hang out.
I cut the bird from mild steel, no fancy coatings. Just raw material, ready to weather.
I liked the idea that it would change with time. Form a protective patina, soften, blend into the urban wild. A living artwork, in a way... not because it moved, but because time would move it.
The Long Flight
Fast forward fifteen years.
That same bird is still there. Patina-covered now, a bit battered by Auckland weather, but still there.
It’s funny, isn’t it? We spend so much of our lives chasing new things. New gadgets, new trends, new ways to keep busy. But there’s something about old things that hits you in the heart.
An old bird, still holding on, says something. About resilience. About memory. About the quiet power of sticking around.
Why Patina Matters
People sometimes ask me why I don’t make Metalbirds from stainless steel. Why not keep them shiny forever?
Simple answer: because that’s not life.
We all get a bit weathered. We change colour. We soften at the edges.
That Grey Lynn bird has seen fifteen winters and summers. It’s stood through school runs, joggers, late-night wanderers, breakups, make-ups, births, deaths, pandemics, and ordinary Tuesdays.
It’s part of the landscape now. Like an old scar or a favourite pair of jeans.
From Street Art to Global Flock
Of course, back when I was hammering birds to poles, I didn’t know Metalbird would become what it is today.
Now there are Metalbirds in backyards all over the world. From Christchurch to Copenhagen, people have sent me photos of birds silhouetted against every kind of sky.
We’ve made birds as memorials. Birds as wedding gifts. Birds to mark new beginnings. We’ve even done collaborations for conservation, like helping raise money for endangered species.
Some people plant trees to mark a moment. We plant steel birds. Same idea, really.
But every time someone sends me a photo like that Grey Lynn one, I get this little jolt back to the start. Back to the moment when it wasn’t about business. It was just about meaning. About putting something unexpected into the world.
What I Didn't See Coming
I never planned for Metalbird to become a community project. But that’s what it is now. It’s not just me with a drill anymore... it’s thousands of people creating their own stories with birds.
I’ve seen Metalbirds used to mark the passing of a loved one. As symbols of hope after tough years. As quiet gestures of love between people who aren’t good at saying the words out loud.
They get a beautiful patina, sure. But they also get woven in. Into gardens, into grief, into growth.
Why We Keep Going
So why do I still do this?
Because the world needs small surprises.
Because people need reminders to look up.
Because art isn’t just something you hang in a gallery... it’s something you stumble across when you’re least expecting it.
And because patina is beautiful. It tells a story. It’s surface rust that protects, not destroys. It’s a finish that evolves with the seasons but never falls apart.
Share Your Bird Story
If you’ve got a Metalbird that’s aged with you... whether it’s in your backyard or on the old macrocarpa fence at the bach... send me a photo.
I’d love to see it.
And if you’re thinking about starting your own little legacy in steel, you can find your bird here.
Here’s to making things that last. Things that weather. Things that fly, even when they stand still.