I like reading all sorts of things. Somewhere along the way, I stumbled across various Wikipedia articles about art per se. I enjoy looking at artwork, going to museums, trying to understand what’s going on inside the artist’s head. Sometimes I find patterns, and sometimes I just get bored. That’s what they call expression—the idea that you’re free to interpret the art however you like. But in reality, it’s always been structured by the powers that be. Today, it’s structured in 12 interest-free installments.1
Although those opening lines come from my nostalgic, older self, don’t get me wrong, dear reader—this isn’t a TBT. This is an attempt to understand how we went from cathedral frescoes meant to glorify a divine being to artists posting 15-second stories that vanish in 24 hours.
Radio killed the passion star
Jaime Altozano is one of my favorite YouTubers. He made a video telling the history of music, and it helped me understand a lot. Back in the 1920s and 30s, for example, artists used to travel from city to city. Some were solo acts with a guitar. Others were troupes of 20–30 people including artists and assistants—a sort of traveling circus. But then something came along in the 1930s and changed everything: the radio.
Radio changed it all. Live shows started being broadcast, which on the surface seemed like a great shift. But it came with a catch: time. Radio couldn’t play full symphonies—it needed short songs, 2 to 4 minutes long. Artists began to adapt to this programming logic. Music was no longer about inspiration or art. Musicians no longer followed their instincts—they followed the broadcast schedule.
Then came records. Producers would say, “Just include whatever fits on one side of the vinyl.” That’s when record labels brought the Industrial Revolution to music. It became a product: cover art, track length, audience strategy for radio penetration, public relations... What was once a work of art became a cultural commodity.
That doesn’t mean all artists conformed. Take Freddie Mercury, for example—he did whatever he wanted, putting out seven-minute songs against label standards. But he was the exception. For radio, your life as an artist lasted 3 minutes and 30 seconds, and that logic is now embedded in the industry. Today, to go viral, your song needs a hook that lasts at least six seconds. There’s no room for contemplation or emotional development. You have to grab attention—and money.
So what happened?
The Coachellafication of the soul
Marty Bent wrote in one of his columns about how Coachella did the unthinkable: over 50% of festival attendees financed their tickets in installments. Yes, you read that right: installments. Can you imagine the hippies at Woodstock in ’69 saying, “Hey man, pass me the joint, but first I’ve got to pay my third installment for the festival”?
Today’s artist is a businessperson, content creator, and PR agent—all in one. It’s no longer enough to have something to say—you have to train the algorithm. You have to know how to market to your target, because if your music doesn’t fit Spotify’s mold or isn’t trending on TikTok, you miss your shot. And if it doesn’t reach anyone, you’re screwed. To be clear: I’m all for artists getting paid (and paid well).
What I’m saying is that the fiat system has fallen into such discredit that now, an artist’s funding depends on debt, marketing, and closed-algorithm platforms—completely devoid of creative spirit. Artists have become machines that need to produce.
But were artists ever truly free?
To understand how we got here, we need to look to the past. In the Middle Ages, art was funded almost exclusively by the Church. Cathedrals didn’t paint themselves. Frescoes, stained glass, sculptures—all were paid for by tithes, offerings, and church funds. In a way, the artist “worked for God,” or at least for His earthly representatives.
During the Renaissance, that changed. Noble families like the Medici became patrons. They funded artists not just for religious devotion, but for prestige, power, and beauty. Having a Botticelli in your home was like owning a Bugatti today.
In the Baroque period, patronage became more aristocratic. Art was used as propaganda. Louis XIV, for example, used it to portray himself as the “Sun King.” Music, painting, and architecture all served one ideology: to show greatness.
During the Enlightenment and Neoclassicism, the bourgeoisie and nobility funded art for educational and rational purposes. Knowledge, science, and harmonious aesthetics were valued. Art wasn’t just decorative—it served progress.
But in the 19th century, with the fall of the aristocratic system and the rise of modern capitalism, artists began to “sell themselves”. Galleries emerged. Art markets. Private collectors. It seemed like emancipation, but it also meant precarity. The artist lost institutional support and became dependent on the market—with all the implications that brings.
The industrial revolution of music
With the arrival of radio, television, and later, the internet, art became mass-produced. And while that sounds good (because everyone has access), it also means that art has to follow the rules of the mass market: short length, predictable structure, commercial aesthetics. All of that fits perfectly on Spotify, but not necessarily in the soul.
More recently, the algorithm has become the new patron. But this patron is blind, deaf, and emotionally dead. It only measures clicks, views, and retention. It doesn’t give a damn if your song took three years of your life or if you made it in an afternoon. The algorithm rewards what’s viral, not what’s valuable.
And of course, Bitcoin can fix this.
The decentralized future
Bitcoin proposes value for value: if something moves you, you support it directly. No commissions. No middlemen. No soul-selling. If a song hits your heart, you throw satoshis at it. If a work of art leaves you stunned, you pay what you want—without a gallery taking 50%.
I also believe in non-fungible tokens (NFTs). Yes, I know—they have a bad reputation, and deservedly so. But the concept is much more powerful: a song or poem, audited in real time, with programmed royalties and access to a community. The ability to fund yourself without anyone’s permission.
As I’ve said in other editions, non-fungible tokens represent something bigger for art than we currently understand2. Art becomes yours again. It can live in your community, your tribe—something you love, killing off what works and exploring the soul again.
Of course, it won’t be enough
I’m not talking about magical solutions—but about tools that give us the chance to talk about art with authenticity again, without filtering it through some executive’s Excel spreadsheet looking for ROI. That’s the thing—today’s artist doesn’t exist anymore. They’re like commodities, squeezed to produce a viral, optimized, productive outcome. The content or impact doesn’t matter—what matters is that you’ve made your payment… to watch art die.
Let me be clear again—this is not a TBT. I’m not saying we should hand power back to the Catholic Church. I’m saying we need to reclaim art as a human expression, as a soulful connection—not as something that lives through a point-of-sale system. Through the philosophy of value-for-value, Bitcoin offers a new sense of optimism. And it’s not just the technology—it’s the monetary system itself that’s broken beyond repair. 3
Conclusion
Next time you read something you like—or even if you made it this far—ask yourself: What can I do to help this person keep creating the content I enjoy? Whatever it is, that’s the answer. Like, repost, share it with a friend, send satoshis. Whatever you do, let it be because it’s a genuine act of appreciation.
The idea with Bitcoin is to return to the essence. In a world full of content, everything feels empty of meaning.
Buy satoshis. Support your favorite content creator or artist.