It was pouring. I had taken shelter under the overpass near Grand Central Station—the one that stretches across Park Avenue. At first, I wasn’t thinking about taking pictures. My camera was in my hand, but the rain was drifting in under the structure, and I was more focused on staying dry than composing shots.

I wasn’t alone, though. I was with another photographer—new to the craft—and he started taking photos, just inspired by the moment. That’s what got me going. I lifted my camera and started capturing what was right in front of me: people running through the storm, umbrellas barely holding up, cars maneuvering around them. It was the everyday motion of New York, but soaked, raw, and unfiltered.

As I looked through the viewfinder, I started to notice something—the way the dark figures moved against the wet, glowing sky. The sky was gray, yes, but still somehow lit from behind. The sun was there… just hidden. And that tension—the brightness we couldn’t see but still felt—set the tone for every frame.

I wasn’t concerned about faces. It wasn’t about identity. It was about the movement, the weather, the emotion. It was the water dripping from hands, the umbrellas fighting wind, the red brake lights bouncing off wet pavement, the outlines of people cutting through light and shadow. I didn’t plan for these images to become art. I just followed what fascinated me.

That’s ParkAve Rains—a series born not from control, but from surrendering to the storm.