THE ART OF FERME:

ferme: an abode, residing place, housing the persona, the place.

The ridge of the range appears...

The purity of the ridge, from distance of place and mind appears as naked skin bathed in salty drenched sunlight and mist.  The eye traces the rippled landscape of tree and earth, of leaf and land.  The firmament seems...stiff, hard...like unto a stone.  The firmament resists.  It runs jagged an torn, and a deep cavern shows the soaked flesh of the broken stone.  The forest reaches up, its arms and hands wave in the glory of the sunlight.  Its hands clasp the breath of the earth.  It breathes in...out...in...out.  The gasps fill the leaves turning up to feel the rain.

Remember the skin?  It is now pierced...

Shafts and shards of gleaming mineral converge to the cool grayness of clouded rain...the sun and salt are washed away...water mixes and the aroma of flora fills the drops of rain and the perfume runs down, down, touches earth...the earth relinquishes and relaxes.  Cracked earth now becomes soft and pliable.

What is God?

Is God of architecture...light...mass?  Is he dwelling within the heart of space and void to be realized in textured mass?  The God of light has revealed the only purity of man...

                                                  ...the making of form...

The form reaches, clasps only thin, delicate air...the breath of a god-like presence.  The landscape knows its roughness...when realized, planes of fir slide into gaps in the telluric.  The thrust of rotated line, and skewed perception prick at the soul as form reaches its hand to shake the hand of heaven.

At the moment of transcendence the eternal spirit comes to kiss the temple made of hand.

- Derek Hudson