The singularity of a black hole is the point with infinite mass and zero volume. It’s everything and absolutely nothing. The work that I’ve done over two years could be considered the most important part of my life, but reduced down to a single pixel width column, a piece of art has very nearly zero value. Redacting a piece then becomes a process of harm, of depreciating its worth. Combined however, and these pixels become something new. They tell a story of time through color and patterns within the pixels themselves and when stretched out, they become a symbol of the whole. This piece, in the most listeral sense, is my singularity.