What Can We Learn From The Big Duck?

Field Notes is a column covering the beautiful and strange structures that decorate the New York City landscape. From playgrounds to whimsical hidden gems, the city’s finest forms of design and architecture are dissected here.

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A quintessential element of summer travel is stopping to admire the strange roadside signs, structures, or stands that unexpectedly appear in transit. As the popular phrase goes, “It’s about the journey, not the destination.” I would like to argue that some sights are worth veering off the designated path. One in particular is The Big Duck on Long Island. Is this whopping waterfowl conveniently seated on the highway to any Hamptons neighborhood? Not necessarily. Is it worth a 6-hour day trip from the city to see? For me, absolutely. During the Fourth of July Holiday weekend, I spent 6 hours on the Long Island Rail Road to see an architectural landmark I have been obsessed with for over ten years.

This duck-shaped monument has been on my list of things to see since my days as an undergraduate student. With an interest in how artists have responded to their environments, I took a few courses centered on the influence of urban planning and architecture on artists during the 19th and 20th centuries. The discussed timeline primarily focused on a handful of Western cities that underwent rapid development due to the influx of residents, precipitating the need for extensive infrastructural overhauls. Namely, how Georges-Eugène Haussmann’s overhaul of Paris, as appointed to him by Napoleon III, led to him clearing the overcrowded and dilapidated medieval structures for the wide, web-like avenues and public spaces we see today in person, in photos, and in the paintings Paris Street; Rainy Day by Gustave Caillebotte and Avenue de l’Opera by Camille Pissarro.

Not only did we look at how this subject was enacted globally, but we were lucky enough to examine the intersection of art and urban planning in our own city, Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada. A core text was the 1972 book Learning From Las Vegas by Robert Venturi, Denise Scott Brown, and Steven Izenour. This group of Yale School of Art and Architecture graduate students was fascinated by the desert oasis of a city, examining the commercialized strip of signs, parking lots, and the architectural styles that pull people off the highway and into casinos. This group of scholars developed a taxonomy to make sense of the various signs and symbols of the most famous highway in the Mojave desert, namely the “duck” and the “decorated shed.” They used the “Long Island Duckling” to illustrate an example of modern architecture that relies on its form to be both the sign and signifier of the business. In contrast, a decorated shed must be accessorized with an elaborate sign to alert passersby of their existence. In James Wines Duck Design Theory, he states that “Form follows fantasy not function, for architecture that cannot offer fantasy fails man’s need to dream.”

As I settled onto the train, I pulled out my copy of Learning from Las Vegas to refresh my memory of the key components of duck architecture. I can confidently say that I was the only person on the LIRR going to see the duck as other commuters carried bags, most likely filled with everything they do and don’t need for a revelrous weekend out east. Once I hopped off the train to Hampton Bays, I headed to the bus station to wait for the final leg of my destination. I know better than to trust both the MTA and Google Maps for their projected accuracy, yet going against my better judgment is a thrilling risk I occasionally take. These inaccurate apparatuses led me to believe I would have at least 20 minutes to spend with my beloved duck. The bus never came. I hurriedly called an Uber and controlled myself from telling them to floor it as I had a mere twelve minutes to get there.

Finally, my Uber pulled up in front of my architectural celebrity. My overwhelming stress and excitement were nearly obliterated when I approached the door to enter the fowl and saw a woman shutting the duck down. I made it right before the clock struck at the closing hour, but having a kind demeanor and a little pleading can work when the person you’re speaking to is just as passionate about the same subject.

The sweet docent, Janet, who was closing up the “duck-a-billia” shop, let me in to take in as much of the history on display in the belly of the bird. She told me many anecdotes about the duck’s history at a rapid pace, noting the portrait of the duck farmer Martin Maurer and his family, who conceived the idea to build a duck-shaped poultry shop in 1931 after having coffee during a family trip to California in a roadside building shaped like a coffee pot. To bring their vision to fruition, the Maurers hired a local carpenter named George Reeve and brothers William and Samuel Collins, who were set designers. To ensure the framework of the bird was accurate, they studied both a live duck and a cooked chicken carcass. The finishing touch was the addition of two Model-T tail lights that glowed red in the night. It has moved around Flanders a few times, but it has been a cherished monument ever since it landed in town, so much so that it is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

The interior walls were lined with archival images, newspaper clippings, magazine covers, and a plethora of merchandise emblazoned with my favorite fowl ranging from shot glasses to holiday ornaments. One object that caught my eye was an incredible graphic t-shirt that had an illustration of the duck with a single tear falling from its eye that was produced in 1987 during an effort to save the Big Duck from destruction by developers who purchased the land it roosted on.

An unexpected bonus that I did not anticipate seeing, nor was I aware of, was the former duck barn that has been converted into a museum with mounted wall texts that explain the history of the Long Island Duck Industry. Bridging the past with the present in these storied wooden walls, on display in glass vitrines, is an assortment of duck paraphernalia sent by fellow fans of this monumental water bird. After snapping a few photos and expressing my immense gratitude to Janet, I hopped in an Uber back to the train station. The three hours back to the city flew by as I basked in my afterglow, seeing the structure of my dreams and learning more about the semiotic significance of its location. I am here to say: buy the ticket, take the ride, and sometimes the unanticipated roadblocks make the journey more meaningful.