This week’s featured collector is Rubot

Rubot has large collection of pfps. Check it out at lazy.com/rubot

Last week’s poll was basically a referendum on what you think blockchain is for. The top two choices tied: a single artwork (33%) and a living generative artwork (33%)—which says a lot. Half of you want to preserve a masterpiece, the other half wants to preserve a machine that keeps making masterpieces. That’s a pretty perfect split between “art as object” and “art as system,” and it’s exactly the tension that makes onchain culture different from the traditional art world.

What surprised us most was the 0% for a full provenance trail. For a technology that loves to sell itself on provenance, nobody chose the receipts. Instead, you picked the thing the receipts are supposed to serve: the work itself, and the living process behind it. Even “the culture itself” (22%) outranked provenance—memes, Discord lore, and communal mythmaking beat transactional history.

And then there’s creator intent (11%), the sleeper pick. It’s the closest answer to a “Rosetta Stone”: if someone opens the time capsule in 2126, the artifact they’ll struggle to recover isn’t the JPEG—it’s why it mattered at the time. This poll basically says: preserve the magic, preserve the engine, preserve the vibe… and let the spreadsheets rot.

NFT 2.0: The Comeback

NFTs have become one of those cultural punchlines that everyone thinks they already understands. The story is tidy: absurd hype, JPEGs with price tags that felt like satire, and then a crash that made the whole thing look like a fever dream we collectively snapped out of. In that version of events, NFTs are a dead trend—interesting only as a lesson in how fast online attention can inflate and evaporate.

But there’s another reading that’s harder to compress into a meme: what if the hype cycle was just the loudest, messiest on-ramp to a technology that keeps trying to find its real use?

That’s the provocation behind the “NFT 2.0” framing making the rounds again: not a promise that the old mania returns, but an argument that the underlying concept—verifiable ownership of unique digital items—never actually went away. It just lost its most visible wrapper. The question isn’t whether profile pictures will moon again. The question is whether NFTs were ever mainly about collectibles in the first place, or whether collectibles were simply the easiest, fastest, most internet-native way to test a new ownership primitive at scale.

In the first wave, NFTs were mostly static objects. Their value depended heavily on social momentum, scarcity narratives, and the micro-economies of attention that form around online tribes. That made them culturally powerful but financially brittle. Once novelty wore off, the system’s weak points became obvious: oversupply, copycats, scams, market manipulation, and an overall dependence on constant new demand. When demand dipped, prices didn’t just drift down—they collapsed, leaving a long tail of disillusionment that still defines how most people hear the word “NFT.”

The thoughtpiece by Stephanie Bouserhal is worth considering because it argues that this might be exactly what early infrastructure always looks like: chaotic, over-financialized, and culturally ahead of its safety rails. In other words, NFT 1.0 may have been less a failed product and more a failed first draft—an experiment where the market rushed ahead of the technology, and speculation substituted for utility because utility wasn’t ready yet.

The “2.0” version tries to flip that. Instead of NFTs as tradable collectibles, the claim is NFTs as a more general tool for ownership, verification, and transaction workflow—especially when paired with improvements in blockchain infrastructure. The piece that sparked this reflection points to developments like Layer 2 scaling as a key enabler: when transactions become cheaper and faster, “onchain proof” becomes more realistic for everyday uses. And when “onchain proof” becomes realistic, you start seeing experiments that don’t look like NFT culture at all—tokenized deeds, supply chain records, identity credentials, membership passes, and other systems where “unique digital object with verifiable ownership” is a feature, not the whole product.

That’s why you’ll see names like BlackRock and JPMorgan show up in these discussions. It’s not that they’re nostalgic for 2021. It’s that the underlying idea—programmable ownership records—could reduce friction in how assets are issued, transferred, and settled. Real estate is the most common example because it’s easy to grasp: tokenize a deed, record ownership changes transparently, make transfers more efficient. Whether any given implementation works is a separate question. The bigger point is the direction: NFTs being repositioned as infrastructure rather than a collectible trend.

For NFT collectors and creators, this can feel both validating and unsettling. Validating because it suggests the “NFT” idea wasn’t pure nonsense—there’s something here that keeps reappearing in serious contexts. Unsettling because if NFTs get their second life through back-office tokenization, the cultural energy that originally drew many of us in may not be the main driver. The future might be quieter, more enterprise-shaped, and less fun.

And yet, there’s a potential upside hidden in that boringness. If NFTs become less dependent on hype, the space has room to become more intentional. Collecting could shift from “flip culture” to fundamentals: creator track record, contract design, provenance integrity, rights clarity, and long-term distribution. Building could shift from “mint and pray” to products where tokens have real function—access, identity, interoperability, patronage, or participation.

None of this is a clean redemption arc. NFTs are still volatile, and “utility” is often marketing-speak until it survives contact with real users. The scars of 2021–2023 are real, and skepticism is healthy. But the “NFT 2.0” argument is useful precisely because it reframes the conversation away from nostalgia and toward design: what would it take for NFTs to earn trust again, not through hype, but through usefulness and credibility?

That’s why Stephanie Bouserhal’s editorial is worth reading in full. Even if you disagree with parts of it, it captures a shift that matters: the center of gravity moving from collectibles-as-casino to NFTs-as-infrastructure. If you want the full version of the argument—and the examples it uses to make the case—go read the original and decide whether “NFT 2.0” feels like a real evolution, a rebrand, or a bit of both.

Poll: One year from now, what would make you say “NFT art is back”?

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This week’s featured collector is Dinotomic

Dinotomic has been a full time artist for 16 years and has close to 1,000,000 followers on Instagram. View artwork at lazy.com/dinotomic

Last week’s poll drew a pretty clear roadmap for what you’d need to see before giving NFT art real attention again in 2026. The top two answers tied: Real cultural validation (30%) and New onchain mechanics (30%). Right behind them was Better distribution (20%), while Better market structure (10%) and Stronger art (10%) trailed far back.

The interesting part is what didn’t win. Only 10% chose “better market structure,” even though market plumbing (launches, liquidity, manipulation) dominated the last cycle. That suggests a lot of you have moved past expecting “fixes” to make the scene feel alive again. Instead, you want either a genuine cultural upgrade (criticism, museums, books, canon) or a genuine technical upgrade (mechanics that make onchain art feel new, not repetitive). And the fact that distribution landed at 20% is a reminder that discovery might be the real bottleneck: better screens, better platforms, and better ways to encounter work could matter more than another marketplace tweak.

Overall, the vibe is: the next wave won’t be powered by hype—it’ll be powered by meaning (validation) and novelty (mechanics), with better distribution as the bridge between the two.

NFT Paris 2026 is canceled — and it’s a loud signal for where NFTs are (and aren’t) right now

One of the biggest annual crypto events built around NFTs just disappeared from the calendar. NFT Paris 2026 has been canceled with roughly a month’s notice, and the team’s message on X was blunt: “After four editions bringing together the global Web3 community in Paris, we have to face reality: NFT Paris 2026 will not happen… The market collapse hit us hard. Despite drastic cost cuts and months of trying to make it work, we couldn’t pull it off this year.”

If you’ve been through multiple cycles, this is the kind of headline that lands as more than “one event got canceled.” NFT Paris wasn’t a small meetup—it was one of the few recurring, internationally visible gatherings that tried to bridge creators, collectors, marketplaces, brands, and builders in one place. When a tentpole can’t make the economics work, it’s a signal about where the NFT market is in 2026: thinner budgets, less certainty, and fewer “default” institutions holding everything together.

The timing also highlights the decoupling we’ve been watching since 2023. There were spikes of NFT trading activity in 2025, but the category still hasn’t returned to its pandemic-era peak, even as fungible tokens rebounded. Reportedly, NFT marketplace volumes are down around 95% from 2021 highs, and once-premium collections like BAYC and CryptoPunks have seen major valuation drawdowns. That gap—crypto feeling alive again while NFTs struggle to regain cultural and financial momentum—has become the backdrop for almost every strategic decision in the space.

It’s also telling that OpenSea, one of the earliest and most active NFT venues, is reportedly pivoting toward becoming a general crypto aggregation platform. Whether you view that as a smart evolution or a quiet retreat, it’s another indicator that “NFTs as a standalone center of gravity” isn’t as secure as it once seemed. When the biggest marketplace starts broadening beyond NFTs, conferences built around NFTs alone face the same pressure.

What makes the NFT Paris cancellation more puzzling is that, publicly at least, the event didn’t look like it was bracing for a shutdown. Previously published promotional material suggested organizers expected around 20,000 attendees, alongside hundreds of presenters and side events. The February 5–6 dates at the Grande Halle de la Villette were also framed as a hub for parallel summits like RWA Paris (real-world assets), Ordinals Paris (Bitcoin-based collectibles), and XYZ Paris (AI, DePIN, and other web3 themes). In other words, it wasn’t “NFTs only”—it was trying to broaden the tent into narratives that still have momentum. The fact that even that umbrella couldn’t carry the event this year suggests the issue may not be interest alone, but the hard math of production costs, sponsorship, and risk appetite in a down market.

On refunds, the organizers said all tickets will be refunded within 15 days, and reporting cited ticket prices of roughly $231 for general admission and $1,161 for VIP. That’s the clean part. The less clean part is sponsorship. Some would-be sponsors say they likely won’t see reimbursement. Serc, the artist behind the Silhouettes generative art collection, claimed to have received an email saying NFT Paris is “unfortunately unable to offer a refund” due to budget constraints, citing an agreement clause about non-refundable costs exceeding sponsorship contributions. If that’s accurate, it’s a reminder that in a tighter cycle, counterparty risk shows up in places people don’t always model—events, deposits, production, and marketing spend.

For NFT collectors, the broader implication is that the ecosystem is consolidating. When major events falter, the “conference circuit” that once gave the space constant momentum gets quieter, and attention concentrates around fewer, stronger cultural moments. That doesn’t mean NFT art disappears, but it can change how discovery happens, which voices get amplified, and where new narratives form.

For creators and builders, it’s a practical warning: the cost of visibility has a different risk profile now. Sponsorships, booths, travel, and production are harder to justify when market liquidity is thin—and if refunds aren’t guaranteed, the downside becomes real. It also suggests a likely shift in how the space gathers: fewer massive conventions, more targeted weekends, smaller salons, gallery-first programming, and hybrid events that aren’t dependent on one category or one cycle to survive.

NFT Paris canceling isn’t a verdict on whether NFTs “matter.” But it is a sharp snapshot of the current era: in 2026, infrastructure has to justify itself, not just ride the momentum of a bull market. And right now, even one of the most recognizable NFT banners in Europe couldn’t make the numbers work.

Read more at The Block.

Poll: If you could “time capsule” one thing onchain for 100 years, what would you choose?

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This week’s featured collector is UprightVenture

UprightVenture is a “builder of things.” View their wild collection at lazy.com/uprightventure

Last week’s poll was a good reality check on what Lazy collectors actually mean by “onchain magic.” Market dynamics took the lead with 50%, while process & craft and context & legacy split the rest at 25% each. What’s most surprising is what got zero: conceptual mechanics (the “code is the art” stuff).

The insight here is that most of you aren’t undecided—you’re just focused. The “magic” you feel most strongly isn’t the abstract cleverness of a smart contract; it’s either (a) the game theory of auctions, scarcity, and price discovery, or (b) the human layer: how the work is made and how it enters culture. In other words, the center of gravity is shifting from novelty to execution: how projects land in the market, how they’re produced, and how they’ll be remembered.

Flow’s Dec. 27 exploit created a new kind of NFT lending risk: “you can’t repay even if you want to”

The Dec. 27 exploit on the Flow blockchain is turning into a cautionary tale for NFT finance: not because users lost balances (Flow Foundation says they didn’t), but because a network pause can force defaults even when borrowers want to repay.

After the exploit, Flow paused its Cadence execution environment—halting onchain activity until the morning of Dec. 29. That pause didn’t just stop trading and transfers; it interrupted time-sensitive contracts. If you had an NFT-backed loan coming due during the freeze, you couldn’t transact, move tokens, or repay.

The sharpest impact showed up on Flowty, a Flow-based NFT lending platform. Flowty says 11 loans matured during the pause, when borrowers were unable to take any actions. Once the chain came back, those loans resolved in a way that highlights the mismatch between “smart contract rules” and “real-world conditions”: 1 loan was repaid via autopay, 8 defaulted, and 2 failed to settle because one or both accounts were restricted due to suspected links to the exploit. Put simply: some borrowers defaulted not because they chose not to repay, but because they couldn’t.

Even after Cadence resumed, the ecosystem didn’t snap back to normal. Flowty notes that token swapping is still largely unavailable, leaving many users unable to acquire the assets they need to repay. That’s the second-order risk most NFT collectors don’t think about: loan repayment often depends on a functioning swap layer. If you can’t swap into the repayment token, you can’t repay—even if the chain is technically “up.”

To avoid more infrastructure-driven defaults, Flowty took an unusual step. As of 2:15 p.m. ET on Dec. 30, it paused settlement on all loans. Any loan that matures during this period won’t settle or default; instead it remains outstanding in what Flowty calls “limbo.” Flowty says it plans to open a defined repayment window once broader ecosystem functionality stabilizes, but there’s no timeline yet, because there’s no clear timeline for swaps and other DeFi functionality to fully return.

This approach freezes both sides. Lenders won’t accrue additional interest on paused loans, which is a real downside. Meanwhile borrowers who already have the funds can’t repay early and reclaim their NFTs because settlement is paused across the board. Flowty acknowledges the tradeoff, but argues it’s preferable to forced defaults that could cause borrowers to lose unique or irreplaceable NFTs due to conditions outside their control.

Flowty also moved to limit further exposure: it disabled new loan listings and removed existing listings from its marketplace while the ecosystem remains unstable.

Meanwhile, the broader market impact is visible. FLOW fell roughly 40% immediately after the incident and then dropped another 17% to about $0.086. Price aside, the bigger point is confidence: when core rails like swaps and lending are impaired, “technical incident” quickly becomes an ecosystem event.

The lesson for NFT collectors and creators is bigger than Flow: NFT-backed lending isn’t only about collateral and code—it’s about uptime, liquidity, and execution guarantees.

Read more at The Block.

Poll: What would make NFT art feel worth paying attention to again in 2026?

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This week’s featured collector is Endeji

Endeji is a fan of pfps, especially cute ones. Check it out at lazy.com/endeji

Last week’s poll split the room into two dominant camps. The top answers were “Cycles within cycles” (33%) and “Post-token era” (33%), suggesting many of you expect NFT art to continue—but not in a single, clean “comeback” narrative. One group sees the future as recurring micro-waves (new formats, new platforms, new aesthetics) rather than one big cycle; the other expects the art to survive while the NFT wrapper fades into the background.

Meanwhile, “Mutation, not comeback” (17%) and “Something else” (17%) picked up a meaningful minority, and “Underground → institutional → underground” got 0%—a surprising vote of no confidence in the idea that the scene will keep relocating as it gets gatekept. The overall vibe: fewer people are betting on a single storyline, and more are expecting messy evolution.

Animating Quines for Larva Labs: a behind-the-scenes look at “code that makes art that makes code”

If you like NFTs for the mechanics—not just the market—there’s a genuinely fun behind-the-scenes blog post you should read: “Animating Quines for Larva Labs.” It’s written by the animator/developer Larva Labs pulled in right before they announced Quine, and it’s the rare kind of post that’s both technically juicy and actually readable. The setup is classic crypto serendipity: the author bumps into John Watkinson (half of Larva Labs, alongside Matt Hall) while planning to go independent again, mentions freelancing, and John has an instant “perfect timing” reaction. Turns out Larva Labs is weeks away from launching a new project and needs someone to animate it. There’s also a gut-punch aside that will make any collector wince: the author sat next to Matt and John when they were first building CryptoPunks, got offered some, and declined because they were too busy. An all-time “pain” moment, delivered very casually.

The best part is the way the post explains what Quine actually is without getting lost in the weeds. In Larva Labs’ words, it’s “a generative art project that blurs the line between its code and the art it produces.” On the surface it looks like beautiful, procedurally-generated pixel art—but if you look closer, each piece literally contains embedded code. Extract the code, run it, and it generates the next image in that Quine’s sequence. Then it gets even more collector-brained: every Quine has a “quinity” (3-Quine, 5-Quine, 7-Quine, etc.), which determines how many generations it takes before the sequence loops back to the start. A 3-Quine loops after the third generation, a 5-Quine after the fifth, and so on. And there are two rare types that feel designed to light up anyone who loves onchain lore: Perfect-Quines, which only ever recreate themselves, and Pseudo-Quines, which can generate an effectively infinite sequence without looping. The author admits they went from “intrigued” to “hooked,” which honestly tracks.

Where the story really gets interesting—especially if you’re a creator—is the communication problem Larva Labs is trying to solve. Quine is clever, but clever doesn’t always read in a scroll. Matt and John wanted an animation that could make the generation process instantly legible: show the artwork being “printed,” show the embedded code being “scanned,” show that scanning the code produces the next generation. The author’s day job experience (they’ve animated a lot of SVGs, including at Stripe) makes them a good fit, but the Quines themselves are technical monsters. Each piece is a JavaScript program that outputs an SVG, and those SVGs can be huge—up to 14,400 little square elements plus thousands of text elements for the code inside. If you’ve ever tried to animate heavy SVGs, you know where this is going. They quickly pivot to using HTML canvas for performance, then run a bunch of tests to see what’s feasible: animating every shape individually, animating text transforms, animating grouped layers, testing layered passes. The surprise is that even the “worst case” tests aren’t catastrophic, but you can feel the author choosing the approach that won’t melt laptops.

The creative decisions are the most satisfying part. To explain something abstract, they lean into physical metaphors—printing like an inkjet, or screen-printing with separate color passes. They try a few variations (linear vs eased, single direction vs bidirectional sweeps) and land on a slow, mechanical feel because it builds anticipation and makes the process obvious. Then they realize an important storytelling issue: printing the code and the pixel layers at the same time makes them feel equal, and the code is the whole point. So they change the sequence: print the code first so you can’t miss it, then layer the squares on top, even letting the code invert as the image resolves. It’s a small move that dramatically clarifies what’s special about Quine: there’s real, meaningful code inside the artwork—not decorative “code aesthetic.”

After that comes the “scan” animation, which is basically a clever UI trick. People understand code better when they see it in a familiar environment, so the author introduces a faux code editor and a scanning line that passes over the quine, pulling the embedded code into that editor. It’s simple, but it communicates the key idea: the code is legible, extractable, and actually drives the next output. And when they combine the two sequences—print, scan, generate—the whole thing snaps into place: print the quine, scan the quine, scanning prints the quine. Suddenly a concept that sounds like a math joke becomes visually obvious.

There’s also real-world context that collectors will care about. Larva Labs announced Quine on Art Blocks and auctioned 477 of the 497 pieces, with the sale closing at 7.56 ETH (about $31,000) per Quine. After the auction, Larva Labs came back for an “expanded” version of the animation for Art Basel Miami, where Quine was shown in a gallery format: framed prints, a giant table grid showing all Quines, and a 4K TV playing an eight-and-a-half-minute loop that runs through whole sequences (with quinities ranging from 3 to 11), moves to the next Quine, and loops back to the start. The most delightful nerd detail: the author’s animation system literally extracts the Quine’s embedded code and uses it to generate the next sequence in the animation. It’s not just illustrating recursion—it’s running it. A generator of generators.

If you collect Larva Labs or care about onchain-native generative work, the post will deepen your appreciation for Quine beyond “cool pixels.” If you’re a creator, it’s basically a case study in how to explain a complex mechanism without dumbing it down—use metaphors, make the critical detail impossible to miss, and let the visuals do the teaching. Either way, it’s one of those rare reads that makes you feel the old “early internet” excitement again, minus the noise. I’d recommend reading the original for the performance and animation breakdowns alone—plus, you’ll probably laugh (and wince) at the CryptoPunks anecdote.

Read the full behind-the-scenes blog at Destroy Today.

Poll: What’s your favorite kind of “onchain magic” in NFT art?

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This week’s featured collector is Creativebloch

Creativebloch is a Brooklyn-based artist who channels the raw energy of New York City into layered acrylic paintings that capture grit, history, and humanity. Check it out at lazy.com/creativebloch

Last week’s poll landed in a dead heat: 43% of you said NFT art is “in transition,” and 43% said it’s “mostly over.” Only 14% think we’re still early. The interesting part is that even the split isn’t really about whether NFT art exists—it’s about whether the post-2021 reset is a messy middle chapter or the closing credits. Same facts, two readings: one group sees a medium rebuilding its norms (distribution, curation, royalties, institutions), the other sees the hype-era proving the ceiling. Either way, optimism is no longer default—and that’s probably a sign the space is maturing.

From NFT collector to builder of onchain cultural infrastructure

If you’ve been around NFTs since the first wave, you already know the name Vignesh Sundaresan—better known as Metakovan, the collector behind Beeple’s Everydays: The First 5000 Days. That purchase wasn’t just a trophy moment; it was one of the clearest signals that NFTs had opened a new lane for digital art: global distribution, digital-native ownership, and a cultural market that didn’t need permission from the usual gatekeepers.

Now Sundaresan is pushing the story forward in a way that should interest anyone who cares about NFTs as more than collectibles: he’s building infrastructure.

In Singapore, he’s founded Padimai Art & Tech Studio, a space where commissioning, exhibition, and technical research converge—and where blockchain is used for something most NFT platforms talk about but rarely deliver: durable cultural memory. “Padimai is a Tamil word that means thought or philosophy — the solidifying of an idea into something,” he says. In NFT terms, it reads like a shift from buying a piece to building the rails that keep digital art alive.

Padimai opens with a commission that’s basically a thesis statement: Olafur Eliasson’s Your view matter, a VR work made up of six virtual environments based on the five Platonic solids plus a sphere. The forms are perfectly symmetrical, but the experience isn’t. In VR, the space “locks in” only through your movement—how you turn, how fast you go, where you look. Eliasson describes VR as simply another studio tool now, but one that heightens awareness of mobility: you’re not escaping into a world so much as noticing how your body navigates it.

Here’s where it gets very NFT-relevant: Padimai records each visitor’s trajectory through the work.

Every session becomes its own file in a growing archive—a plural record of perception that treats the artwork as something that renders differently for each person. If NFTs introduced the idea of a public ledger for provenance, Padimai extends that logic to experience: not just “who owns what,” but “how was it encountered, and how did it unfold in time?”

Sundaresan’s way of getting there is also notable. Instead of using blockchain as a financial rail, he stripped it down. “I took blockchain software, stripped out the monetary parts, and used it as an archiving machine — a time-logging machine,” he explains. Think of it as onchain provenance for the viewing experience, built for longevity rather than liquidity. The artist can decide how (or whether) to incorporate that data into the work, but the archive remains—timestamped, persistent, and designed to outlast any single platform.

That’s a subtle but meaningful evolution of the NFT idea. The first era was about minting and marketplaces. Padimai is about cultural infrastructure: how you preserve works that depend on code, devices, and evolving formats—especially VR, where the “object” is inseparable from hardware, software, and interaction. Sundaresan describes his role as working at the boundary of the artwork: the artist makes the art, and he focuses on the technical housing—storage, access, durability, and what happens as technology ages.

Eliasson describes the collaboration as built on trust. “Honesty comes with a risk,” he says, and that risk creates the conditions for trust—an important reminder that the best NFT-adjacent projects aren’t just technical innovations, they’re relationship-driven. Even without fully understanding every technical layer, Eliasson recognized the intent.

Padimai’s setting reinforces the point. It’s located in Tanjong Pagar Distripark, an industrial zone that’s become a cultural hub—where storage, logistics, and exhibition live side by side. That’s basically the physical-world version of what digital art needs: not just display, but preservation systems that don’t collapse when platforms change.

And Singapore is a fitting place to test this model. It’s a society built on connectivity—smartphones and digital services mediate daily life, and digital literacy is widespread. People still ask, “What do I do with digital art?” Sundaresan says, but they’re excited to try. That matters, because digital art infrastructure only becomes “real” when it’s used by the public, not just talked about by insiders.

Sundaresan also addresses the sustainability question in a way that will sound familiar to anyone who has had the energy debate for the 100th time. Early blockchains were energy intensive, yes—but protocols evolved. The question now is about efficiency and whether the energy use is warranted. In Padimai’s case, the goal is lightweight persistence: he points out that blockchains can now be so lean that “two servers are enough.”

That last idea might be the most forward-looking NFT angle here. Instead of betting everything on a few giant platforms (marketplaces, social networks, private clouds), Padimai imagines many small, resilient cultural institutions running in parallel—independent nodes that preserve digital experiences outside private infrastructure. That’s web3’s decentralization thesis, applied not to finance, but to culture.

For NFT collectors, the takeaway is simple: the first wave proved digital art could be minted, owned, and traded. The next wave is about whether it can be commissioned, experienced, and preserved with the same confidence—without relying on a single company’s servers or a single platform’s incentives.

Padimai is one concrete attempt to answer that. It treats the viewer not as an afterthought, but as part of the work’s record—and it uses blockchain not for speculation, but for what it’s best at when you remove the casino: timestamped, durable, shared history.

If NFTs are going to mature into a true cultural medium, projects like this—where collectors become infrastructure builders—may end up being as important as any headline sale.

Read the full interview at Lampoon magazine.

Poll: Which future for NFT art feels most plausible?

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This week’s featured collector is MoneyMansi

MoneyMansi has a curious collection of wide range of NFTs. Lots of stuff we’ve never seen before. Check it out at lazy.com/mansi

Last week’s poll came back strongly optimistic: 78% of you said yes, this first generation of digital-native collectors will permanently move digital art into the art-world mainstream, while 22% said no. What’s interesting isn’t just the confidence—it’s the word permanently. That suggests many of you see this as more than a cycle of hype; you’re betting on infrastructure and habit change (screens at fairs, digital frames at home, onchain provenance, online-first discovery) becoming normal—whether or not “NFTs” stays the label the art world uses.

The Identity Crisis of NFT Art—and Why It’s Not Over

Isabelle Castro’s essay “The end of the beginning of NFT art” (in Utopia in Beta) is a useful read if you’ve felt the mood shift from 2021 mania to something quieter—and you’re trying to figure out what, if anything, actually changed in the art world because of NFTs.

She frames the current moment as an identity crisis: the wider art industry often treats NFTs as a punchline, even as the 2021 boom arguably did something lasting—pulling art buying and selling deeper into online culture, widening access for creators and collectors, and introducing a mainstream mechanism for authenticity and ownership in digital work. Castro opens with a scene from Art Basel Miami where Beeple’s robotic dogs “poop” paper NFTs that random onlookers can take home and claim online. It’s imperfect, she notes (you still have to be physically present and lucky), but it spotlights the contrast between a gatekept market where single works sell for millions and a model where witnessing can be rewarded—some of those NFTs later trading for tens of thousands.

From there, the piece zooms out into a short history that’s especially helpful for collectors who want more than the usual “NFTs started in 2021” timeline. Castro connects NFTs to earlier conceptual and computer art threads (think instructions-as-art and art-as-currency), then traces early on-chain experiments like Bitcoin’s embedded messages, Rhea Myers’s MYSOUL (2014), and Sarah Meyohas’s Bitchcoin (2015). She flags Kevin McCoy’s Quantum as a watershed: blockchain as a way for digital work to be widely shared while still being ownable with provenance.

One of the essay’s strongest sections is where she names the contradictions that collectors live with every day: prices of “blue chips” falling hard while crypto markets roar; artists who once rejected institutions now returning to them for auctions and promotion; mass accessibility existing alongside ultra-expensive drops; and the breakdown of creator royalties (she cites OpenSea dropping enforced royalties under fee pressure). She also offers a sharp lens on what replaced the old “aura” of originality: in NFT culture, reproducibility becomes an advantage, and “buzz” (likes, retweets, clout) becomes a form of consensus—until price intimacy starts to dominate everything.

Castro is at her most convincing when she gets specific about how NFTs expanded the map of who gets seen. She uses the example of Nigerian artist Osinachi, who made work in Microsoft Word at internet cafes and was dismissed by galleries—then found collectors by uploading NFTs to OpenSea, effectively routing around traditional gatekeepers. She also highlights how on-chain mechanics shaped new forms of art-making, like Pak’s Merge, where the smart contract rules and collective behavior become part of the artwork itself, and how collector DAOs attempted (with mixed results) to broaden participation and reduce curatorial blind spots.

But she doesn’t romanticize it. A recurring point is that gatekeeping didn’t disappear—it multiplied and shifted. Platforms that began open moved toward curation, allowlists, and invite systems (SuperRare is one example), which can improve quality and sales while also drifting away from the original “anyone, anywhere” promise. Her closing argument is basically: even if the hype doesn’t return, the medium may still be in its early chapters. Digital art has been legitimizing itself since the 1960s; NFTs added an immutable authenticity layer and a programmable substrate that can reflect networked interaction. The way forward, she suggests, is continued building—where critique takes the form of creation, and the infrastructure improves through collaboration between artists and technologists.

If you’ve been treating the post-2021 era as a comedown, this essay is a better frame: not the end, but the end of the beginning. It’s worth reading the original for the historical through-line, the concrete examples, and the way it holds both optimism and skepticism without slipping into either hype or dismissal.

Read the full article here:

Utopia in Beta

The end of the beginning of NFT art

Back from Miami Art Basel and part-way through my write up, I thought it was relevant to resurface an article I wrote for Digital Frontier a while back on the beginnings of NFT Art, based on the book “On NFTs” edited by artist Robert Alice. You can find the original article…

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2 days ago · 2 likes · 1 comment · Isabelle Castro

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