Crows Again by Ilyas Yilmaz
Captured during a summer holiday in Side, Antalya, this photograph documents an intimate moment between two crows. The photographer, struck by the birds' proximity and behavior, found in this encounter a poignant symbol of innocence and affection. By utilizing a 50mm lens at a high shutter speed, the image freezes the interaction with clarity, highlighting the raw, natural connection between the subjects. The photograph is award-worthy for its ability to transform a fleeting, everyday observation into a compelling narrative on the universality of love found within the animal kingdom.
Ilyas Yilmaz
Ilyas Yilmaz is a dedicated educator and photographer based in Gaziantep, Turkey. Balancing his professional life as a teacher with a deep passion for the visual arts, he utilizes a versatile kit including the Canon 250D to document the world around him. His work is defined by a commitment to storytelling, as he consistently seeks to capture evocative moments that resonate with emotional depth and artistic sincerity.
Resonance Score Breakdown
Transparency Note: The resonance score (7.8/20) is calculated based on social engagement metrics collected before the award announcement.
Expert Photography Reviews · 6
The Language of Wings
A conversation happens without sound. Two bodies lean into the void, closing the distance that language usually fails to bridge. It is not a matter of what is said, but of the space occupied between two breaths.
Read the reflection →The Language of Shadows
There is a persistent myth that language requires words, that we must articulate our intentions to be understood. Yet, if you sit long enough in a garden or on a quiet stone wall, you begin to notice the conversations that happen in the margins.
Read the reflection →Reviews & Comments
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The heat in Side is heavy, yet here, the light feels suspended. Ilyas caught these two crows in a quiet, silvered moment, far from the tourist rush. I’ve spent enough dawns waiting for birds to settle to know he held his breath, becoming part of the landscape itself. It’s a tender, fleeting intimacy. Looking at them, I feel a sudden, sharp ache for the simplicity of their connection. It’s a beautiful, patient stillness he’s found.
Crows are notoriously wary, yet here they’re huddled in a way that suggests either a lucky break or a baited setup. Using a 50mm lens in a tourist hub like Side implies the photographer was right on top of them. I’ve spent weeks in blinds to capture such intimacy; it’s hard to believe this wasn’t forced. It’s a pretty frame, but I can’t help but feel a bit cynical about how it was actually obtained.
Before the eye identifies the crows, a sudden stillness settles in the chest. It’s the weight of their proximity, that sharp, ink-black intimacy against the bleached light of Side. I find my own breath hitching, mirroring the tension of their beaks. It’s not just a bird study; it’s a quiet ache of recognition. When I return to this frame a year from now, I suspect I’ll still feel that strange, hollow pull of shared, unspoken devotion.
The stark, high-contrast geometry here echoes the brutalist simplicity of Bill Brandt’s early work, yet it lacks his psychological tension. While the 50mm framing captures the crows’ intimacy, it feels derivative of mid-century nature studies. I’ve seen this avian motif a thousand times, but the way the light catches their feathers at f/6.3 actually made me pause. It’s a quiet, honest moment, even if it doesn’t quite push the medium into new, uncharted territory.
At f/6.3, the Youngnuo’s focal plane renders the crows’ plumage with a crispness that defies the limitations of the human retina. I’m genuinely moved by the micro-contrast here; it’s sharp enough to reveal the structural iridescence of their feathers, a detail usually lost to the eye. The diffraction limit hasn’t softened the edges, keeping the interaction intimate. It’s a rare, precise capture where the optics don’t just record the subjects—they elevate their quiet, avian affection.
The charcoal plumage of these crows, set against the parched, sun-bleached ochre of the Side earth, evokes a Morandi-esque stillness that I find deeply moving. It’s the way the light catches those iridescent, oil-slick feathers—a bruised violet shimmering amidst the heat—that truly captures my heart. One doesn’t merely see these birds; one feels the heavy, dusty air of the Turkish summer pressing against them, turning a fleeting encounter into a haunting, chromatic meditation.