Bird Bath by Rick Boland
Captured on a crisp final day of autumn in a Melbourne duck park, this image features a Moor-hen caught in a moment of quiet grooming. The photographer was drawn to this specific bird amidst a larger flock, noting how the surrounding lake provided a rich, vibrant frame for the scene. A subtle yet rewarding detail emerged in the final image: the clear visibility of the bird's feet beneath the water's surface. By timing the shutter release precisely as the bird began to bathe, the photographer successfully transformed a common wildlife encounter into an award-worthy study of natural behavior and serene atmosphere.
Exposure 1/60sec @ f/8.0 | ISO 100 | Focal Length 165mm
Rick Boland
Based on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria, Australia, Rick Boland transitioned from landscape photography to find his true creative voice in portrait and street photography. He is dedicated to crafting narrative-driven imagery, often emphasizing the interplay of natural light to reveal the character of his subjects. Beyond his still photography, Boland has expanded his artistic practice to include cinematography and film, consistently seeking new ways to tell compelling stories through his lens.
Resonance Score Breakdown
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Expert Photography Reviews · 7
The Weight of Water
There is a stillness that precedes the movement of water. A bird dips its head, and for a second, the surface is not a boundary but a mirror of intentions. We spend our lives trying to keep our feet dry, forgetting that we are mostly water ourselves.
Read the reflection →The Geometry of Stillness
There is a quiet, rhythmic labor to the way we prepare ourselves for the day. We wash, we smooth our clothes, we check the mirror to ensure the edges of our existence are tucked in neatly.
Read the reflection →Reviews & Comments
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1/60sec at f/8.0, 165mm. A risky shutter speed for a handheld telephoto shot. It’s a gamble that paid off. The depth of field at f/8.0 keeps the moor-hen sharp while the water’s surface remains controlled. I’m genuinely impressed the motion blur didn’t ruin the feet. Boland’s choice to stop down provided the necessary clarity for the submerged details. It’s a technically sound execution. He didn’t rely on shallow glass to hide a messy background.
The water’s surface, a bruised, melancholic slate reminiscent of a Morandi still life, cradles the Moor-hen in an exquisite, liquid suspension. It’s the way the light catches those submerged, coral-pink feet—a startling, visceral shock against the murky depths—that truly moves me, making my breath hitch in the quiet gallery air. One finds here a chromatic tension, a delicate, shivering harmony where the bird’s obsidian plumage dissolves into the cool, tidal shadows of a Melbourne autumn.
We watch this Moor-hen, caught in a private ritual of grooming. It’s not just a bird; it’s a character with a story written in the ripples. When we notice those feet suspended beneath the surface, we feel the stillness of that Melbourne autumn day. I’m struck by how Rick listened to the water’s rhythm before clicking the shutter. It’s a quiet, honest portrait of a life lived in the margins. It’s a photograph that asks to be returned to.
It’s a shame the shutter speed wasn’t dragged further. At 1/60th, we’re stuck in a purgatory between crisp documentation and genuine motion. I’m genuinely frustrated by the missed potential here; why resolve the Moor-hen’s feathers so sharply when the water’s surface offers such kinetic promise? It’s closer to a field guide than Hiroshi Sugimoto’s long-exposure theatres. I’d have traded that clarity for a blur that actually felt like the bird’s frantic, splashing energy.
You waited for the water to settle, and it shows. Most people would have snapped a dozen frames of the flock, but you picked the one bird that mattered. Seeing those feet beneath the surface makes me feel like I’m kneeling right there in the mud beside you. It’s a quiet, honest bit of patience. And that’s the hardest thing to capture. You didn’t just take a picture of a bird; you caught a moment of peace.
The water holds the bird. It’s a stillness I haven’t felt in a long time. The ripples don’t disturb the peace; they define it. Beneath the surface, the feet remain visible. A grounding weight. Nothing here is accidental. The empty corner is not empty. It’s a breath held in the middle of a Melbourne park. I’d stay here, watching the grooming, until the light fades. It’s enough. Just the bird, the water, and the quiet.
The water ripples, a soft, rhythmic edit. It’s a quiet scene, but the tension is all in the submerged feet. I love that detail; it’s the anchor that keeps the frame from floating away. At 1/60th, Boland caught the exact beat before the splash. It’s a perfect, frozen cut. Most would’ve rushed the shutter, but he held the rhythm. I’m genuinely moved by how still this bird feels. It’s a film that refused to move.
Thank you. Honoured to receive this award.