Duck Rodeo
23.05.2024         Jordan Rochfort

Photographs of Lismore taken by Miica


Every day is a duck rodeo. Good thing I love ducks--Lismore pedestrian.

When I heard the squeal from the street, I was unsurprised to find the large Muscovy duck mounting a Jehovah’s Witness’ leg. Its muscular neck reached high into her skirt, and, with hard flapping wings, the duck held on tightly.

The ducks had been using my street for some weeks now and were growing in confidence. This seemed to bother no one except the visitors, godly or otherwise.

It was summertime and I spent most of my time sitting in the yard drinking soda water and waiting for the mail. Throughout the day I would hear the flapping, the grunting, the general unrest from the street and go out with my broom to intimidate the flock’s resplendent leader.

I suppose it was my proximity to the action and apparent idleness that the responsibility of reprimanding the ducks was assumed to me over my other neighbours. To begin with, I was confused and frightened of the lustful duck. The snapping and hissing was fast and unpredictable. The way of using his webbed claws to climb my trousers rendered the broom useless. The only thing to do was to grab the long neck and peel him off–what at first was a horrible thought, soon became a pleasant solution. With my hands securely wrapped he would relax. In those moments everything would be still and I could inspect and admire the hard bill, the small black eyes and the overlapping feathers fanning out flat over the smooth head. Those were moments of connection. The idle man and scandalous duck. After being lowered to the grass he would gather his followers and waddle up the street and under a bush.




In Lismore CBD, there are no ducks. However, there are idle men (or at least one who always thought he was). For years I enjoyed a pleasant nothingness that contrary to common belief does carry its own stresses. And then you hit a certain age and something must be done, anything must be done. This decision is usually a brash error of judgement or a rogue purchase.

Mine is an art gallery, Flying Arch, 161 Keen St, Lismore. Although yet to be proven in my case, starting a commercial art gallery could be classified as both brash and rogue and ultimately, completely, unnecessary.

But can’t all of pleasure be as such? Creating art itself, enjoying art, discussing art, buying art, hanging art, hating and disposing of art–all have their place. One could also replace the concept of acquirable ‘art’ with anything relative to their own life and the questions would remain. Why do anything at all? Why wrangle the duck? Where are the ducks coming from and where do they go? Why my street and why me? All questions that, asked frequently enough, will drive any thirty-three year old towards action and potential financial ruin. I figure I am young enough, and have passion enough for the act of creating, that I can withstand some relatively minor financial ruin and ensuing breakdowns. I can always become a security guard or work at Woolies stacking shelves with all the other English majors. Besides, life doesn't have webbed claws, and a broom is as handy a tool as any to sweep up the pieces of a former-self.

Although I may not have instilled confidence in my artists (present and prospective) with this article, I can assure any left reading that regardless of business experience or general outlook on life, I admire good work and the people who create it like a newborn baby. To facilitate and behold the excitement it brings an artist to see their ideas and toil standing before them, solid under lights, must be one of the human condition’s finest delights.



With this feeling in mind, Flying Arch will open its doors on the twenty-ninth of June to welcome painter and ceramicist Rebecca Cunningham.

Bec and her work live in a distinctive place: at once simplified, refined and classic, but also unique and so deep. She finds subjects in the people and places around her and reflects them back with such clarity. I can only imagine how pleasant it must be to see yourself in a painting dancing with a Brogla or riding a dog. Bec is a woman who knows how to deal with ducks, but also recognises when there are too many to handle, when to let them be as they are. Her work and her charisma, I admire very much.

As for me and my Flying Arch, I suppose I just have to believe that people actually like the arts as much as they say, or, hope the duck can stay relaxed for as long as I'm holding it by the neck. See you all at 161 Keen street on the twenty-ninth of June to the twentieth of July for Quiet Movement by Rebecca Cunningham.