Autumn in Utah by Sergiy Kadulin
Captured during an October road trip between Bryce National Park and Zion, this image showcases the breathtaking transition of the American West. The photographer was struck by the striking contrast between vibrant green fields, the early golden hues of autumn foliage, and the imposing, rugged mountain backdrop. By utilizing a telephoto lens, the photographer compressed the landscape, effectively emphasizing the immense scale and towering height of the rock formations. This thoughtful composition transforms a fleeting roadside observation into a timeless study of seasonal color and geological grandeur, earning recognition for its masterful balance of natural elements.
Exposure 1/320sec @ f/11 | ISO 200 | Focal Length 95mm
Sergiy Kadulin
Born in Kyiv, Ukraine, in 1967, Sergiy Kadulin balances a distinguished career in the information technology sector with a profound dedication to the art of photography. His creative journey, which began with his grandfather’s vintage camera, has evolved through extensive formal education at the Kyiv School of Photography and the New York Institute of Photography. Specializing in travel and landscape imagery, Kadulin seeks to capture the warmth of the natural world, using his lens as a medium for personal expression and a deep, empathetic connection to the environment.
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Most landscape submissions this year relied on wide-angle distortion to fake grandeur. Kadulin’s choice of a 95mm focal length is what saved this. By compressing the distance between the golden foliage and those jagged, unforgiving cliffs, he’s forced a tension that feels almost claustrophobic. It’s a rare, honest look at the Utah terrain. I’ve stared at this for ten minutes, and I still feel the chill of that October air. It’s going to endure.
The air in Utah holds a specific, thin silence in October. Kadulin didn’t just capture these peaks; he waited for the light to soften against the stone. I’ve stood in that same cooling hour, feeling the compression of the 95mm lens pull the mountains closer to the trembling autumn leaves. It’s a quiet, holy geometry. Looking at those golden hues against the rugged rock, I feel a sudden, sharp ache for the stillness of that high desert.
The compression of the lens pulls the mountain forward. It’s a wall of stone. Below, the green field holds its breath. I find myself wanting to step into that sliver of shadow between the rock and the grass. It’s quiet there. The scale doesn’t overwhelm; it invites. Nothing here is accidental. The empty corner is not empty. It’s a pause. I’ve spent minutes just watching the light settle on the ridge. It’s enough.
The telephoto compression forces a rigid stratification of the picture plane. The foreground foliage doesn’t merely sit; it anchors the base, providing a necessary counterweight to the verticality of the rock face. It’s a disciplined arrangement of mass. I’m genuinely unsettled by how the mountain’s jagged edge slices the sky, refusing to let the eye wander. The spatial tension holds. It’s a rare instance where the frame doesn’t collapse under the weight of its own geography.
The ochre of these Utah cliffs, reminiscent of a Morandi still life, bleeds into the verdant valley with a tension that makes my heart ache. It’s a chromatic collision where the sun-drenched limestone, burning like Turner’s embers, refuses to reconcile with the cool, shadowed greens below. One finds it’s not merely a landscape, but a visceral, discordant symphony of geological heat that lingers in the eye long after the gaze has drifted elsewhere.
A roadside observation, the curator claims. One suspects the shutter was clicked between sips of lukewarm coffee. It’s a competent compression of Utah’s geology, certainly, but it lacks the grit of a long vigil. I’ve spent enough shivering mornings in the high desert to know when a scene has been truly earned. This one feels like a lucky encounter rather than a conquest. It’s pretty, but it didn’t cost the photographer a thing.
Before the eye identifies the jagged Utah peaks, something in the chest tightens. The compression of that telephoto lens forces a claustrophobic intimacy, making the golden aspens feel like a sudden, sharp intake of breath. I’ve spent years returning to this frame, and it still triggers a phantom chill in my lungs. It’s not just a landscape; it’s the quiet, heavy weight of a season ending, a memory of cold air caught in a frame.