A star collapses in upon itself, producing an event horizon periphery, within which creation, singularity, voice, is blacked out, compressed, seemingly silenced. Black holes seem ancient, absolute, but are not. It is quite possible that, as I write this, a black hole at the center of the universe, formed in relatively recent time, has itself died, gushing forth as a white hole all the light and life thought obliterated, lost. It is good to remember that what was is, and is can be nothing, something, anything. What artists do may be a microcosmic processing of this recurring, and overwhelming, renaissance, their recording of things and thoughts a series of overspill cachements.
