 A foolish idea came to me this morning. A “comparison between art and Bitcoin”, especially in how each relies heavily on perceived value rather than intrinsic, production-based value. Both art and Bitcoin indeed share qualities that set them apart from tangible goods priced on production costs or inherent utility. Here’s a breakdown of why this assumption has a basis. Artists came first Estimating the number of artists compared to the global population is tricky, especially because defining who counts as an "artist" is subjective some might say it's anyone who creates art, while others might consider only those pursuing art professionally. However, let’s try to form a rough estimate. According to various studies and reports from organizations like UNESCO and arts councils, around 1–3% of the global workforce might be involved in creative fields, which would encompass all kinds of artists, visual artists, musicians, writers, performers, etc. Given a world population of about 8 billion, this could suggest anywhere from 80 million to 240 million people might identify as artists or work creatively in some capacity. If we narrow this further to fine arts (visual artists, sculptors, painters), it could be closer to 0.1–0.5% of the population, which would mean around 8–40 million people globally. Of course, these numbers are very approximate, as they vary by culture, access to resources, and how each society defines and supports artistic work. Still, this range gives a sense of the rarity and diversity of artistic voices relative to the global population. Then came Bitcoin Created in 2009 by an anonymous individual or group known as Satoshi Nakamoto, Bitcoin is the world’s first decentralized digital currency. It operates without a central authority, relying instead on a peer-to-peer network and blockchain technology to manage transactions. Bitcoin’s blockchain is an immutable, transparent ledger that records all transactions, making it secure, tamper-proof, and resistant to censorship. Unlike traditional currencies, Bitcoin has a limited supply of 21 million coins, which adds scarcity and can increase its value over time. Bitcoin’s value is primarily influenced by demand, market sentiment, and its scarcity, making it highly volatile. Yet, its appeal lies in its potential as a store of value, an alternative to fiat currencies, and a hedge against inflation. Additionally, Bitcoin has sparked the broader adoption of cryptocurrencies and blockchain technology across various industries, from finance to supply chains. Over the years, Bitcoin has grown from a niche interest to a mainstream investment, with institutions and governments increasingly acknowledging its relevance. Its decentralized nature and disruptive potential continue to fuel debates about the future of money, privacy, and financial sovereignty, as Bitcoin challenges traditional systems and empowers individuals globally. 1. Value Perception and Demand
Bitcoin indeed have a strict limit—21 million coins—that makes it rarer, in a purely numerical sense, than artists. And its value is uniquely tied to market forces, demand, and scarcity. Unlike artworks, which are valued for their uniqueness, vision, or emotional impact, Bitcoin’s value is more abstract, often appealing to a desire for security, autonomy, and alternative assets. Art, on the other hand, is abundant in a more flexible way. There are countless unique works, each one distinct and with emotional or cultural significance that can’t be precisely quantified. However, art’s abundance in creativity doesn’t mean it’s universally valued—while everyone can feel emotions, the appreciation of art is deeply personal and subjective, and not everyone values it in monetary terms. Bitcoin’s fixed supply, combined with its appeal to people’s emotions, like the desire for freedom from traditional financial systems gives it a kind of universality that contemporary art often struggles to achieve. In this light, Bitcoin becomes almost like an emotional artifact itself, shaped by taste and desire for an alternate form of security, which, as you say, gives it an edge in global perception. Both art and Bitcoin are valued by perceived worth rather than any intrinsic production cost, leading to their volatility and speculative nature. However, each may still have different forms of “real” value. Art in its cultural or emotional impact and Bitcoin in its potential utility as a digital asset. So, we see that there are more artists than Bitcoins in the world, which means crypto is scarcer than creativity! But while art asks us to feel, Bitcoin asks us to hold, maybe that’s why one hangs on our walls and the other hides in our wallets. So next time you're wondering where to invest, remember, art might fill your soul, but Bitcoin could fill your portfolio… unless you end up buying art with Bitcoin, in which case, congrats—you’ve achieved peak modernity!
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 Every year, for reasons no one can exactly pinpoint, a growing number of artists decide to get better acquainted with a particular muse—one who doesn’t need a coffee invitation to show up. Instead, this muse has a reputation for showing up when you drink a suspicious-looking tea or munch on a handful of mushrooms. And she’s not a conventional muse, either. Let’s just call her "The Spirit of Psychedelia."
So, imagine an artist named Leo. Leo had a bit of a dry spell lately. His paintings look like someone left a latte out too long, all brown tones and boring blots. “You need inspiration,” says his friend Amelia, her eyes gleaming with the secret knowledge of someone who’s “been there, done that” with a side of vision quests. And before Leo knows it, he’s signed up for an Ayahuasca retreat held in a log cabin that smells vaguely of sage and patchouli. The first rule of this psychedelic retreat: Leave your ego at the door. The second rule? Don’t ask too many questions, because no one really knows what’s going on. It’s the mystery that counts. Leo, however, has lots of questions. Will he be able to paint a masterpiece? Will he see the universe? Will he see himself? Will he be able to find his shoes afterward? The retreat kicks off with a circle, everyone gazing into the fire, awaiting the magical brew. When Leo finally drinks it, it tastes somewhere between muddy water and regret. Not exactly the most inspiring flavor, but as the hours pass, things start to shift. Colors bloom from the fire’s embers, stretching and melting like neon taffy. The universe breathes in and out, and Leo suddenly feels that he’s got it all figured out. The forest around the cabin now feels like a wise old friend, and then it hits him: trees are alive. The trees know things. Maybe even some important things, like how to get rid of art block. He decides to ask one. “What should I do to create art people will remember?” he whispers to a giant oak. The oak considers him, at least he’s pretty sure it does, and answers, “Have you considered painting in green?” “Green?” Leo thinks, wondering if this ancient oak might be onto something. Or maybe it’s just a tree. Either way, he’s convinced, and he immediately files away the advice. Meanwhile, his friend Amelia, who's practically a pro, is off in her own world, having an intense conversation with a turtle. It’s enlightening stuff. "So you’re telling me that time…is a pond?" she murmurs, writing down the turtle’s wisdom. Leo takes notes as well, partly out of jealousy but mostly because he’s learned to trust talking animals under these circumstances. Hours later, the session ends, and Leo feels like he’s finally tapped into some sort of cosmic inspiration. He rushes back to his studio, all charged up with the power of the universe, and starts painting a grand, sweeping landscape, heavy on the green. For days, he can barely sleep, barely eat—he’s just painting, utterly convinced he’s capturing the world’s greatest truth. When he finally stands back, Leo realizes that his masterpiece looks suspiciously like a giant bowl of salad. Lots of green, yes. Very avant-garde. But not quite what he was hoping for. The spirit of psychedelia isn’t done with him yet, though. A week later, he decides to give the "Magic Mushrooms in the Forest" thing a go. This time he doesn’t want to paint salad greens; he wants real inspiration. So he heads to the woods with Amelia again, who’s now armed with an extensive philosophy about turtle-time. As soon as he takes the mushrooms, things get weird. And by weird, I mean an odd mix of amazing and slightly terrifying. He watches as a passing squirrel morphs into a tiny wise man who gives him a thumbs-up. Every branch and leaf hums with energy, vibrating in kaleidoscopic waves. He has visions—vivid, grandiose, ridiculous visions. He sees himself, Leonardo Da Vinci-style, standing on top of a mountain with paintbrushes raised to the heavens, demanding the universe to show him the secret to art. The clouds part, and out steps…an enormous mushroom, who speaks in riddles and smells faintly of parmesan. The Mushroom Muse is surprisingly direct. “What is art?” it booms. “Er…beautiful pictures?” Leo guesses, taken aback by the talking fungus. The mushroom rolls its eyes—yes, mushrooms have eyes here. “No, you fool. Art is a portal to infinity. It’s not about painting a tree. It’s about painting the spirit of a tree. Do you get it?” Leo nods solemnly, though he’s not sure if he really does. “So… less salad, more spirit?” The mushroom sighs but seems satisfied. “Fine. Let’s go with that. Now go, and paint like you’ve never painted before.” When Leo returns to his studio, he’s pumped. He starts painting again, this time without any plan or fear. He uses bold colors, paints with his fingers, even hurls some paint across the room in fits of passion. When he’s finally done, he has a sprawling, psychedelic masterpiece that feels less like a bowl of salad and more like the inner workings of his mind exploded onto the canvas. Friends come by, look at the painting, and nod in approval. “It’s… intense,” they say. After a few weeks, the painting makes it to his gallery. Critics and collectors gather around, each interpreting the piece in their own way. They whisper about the hidden meanings, the “soul of nature” they see in it. Someone even suggests that it’s a modern-day masterpiece, whatever that means. Leo, meanwhile, just chuckles. Because as much as he’d like to claim the painting is a cosmic revelation, the truth is: it was inspired by a talking mushroom with attitude and a bunch of bizarre visions. But hey, if the world sees enlightenment, who is he to argue? And as for Amelia? She’s found new inspiration as well, creating an entire series called Pond-Time, a set of surrealist paintings depicting wise turtles philosophizing about the universe. It’s…an acquired taste. But she swears by it. So, the moral of the story? Sometimes, the secret to great art is to stop taking it so seriously. Add a bit of magic, a pinch of humor, and maybe just a dash of mushroom wisdom, and let the universe fill in the rest. After all, as Leo discovered, you never know when a snarky mushroom will lead you to the masterpiece of a lifetime. Evolution of an idea by Elizabeth Hefty Khoury: from metaphorical landscape to snapshots of memory.
This blog stems from a shift I have experienced in my own work, moving from abstraction to a semblance of realism, from metaphor to the tangible. Our art is a deeply personal expression, the visual representation of our thoughts, feelings, observations, and experiences, distilled into a medium that, we hope, speaks to others. However, like any form of self-expression, an artist's journey is not static. Over time, our style, direction, and even our choice of materials may shift, evolve, and transform. For many artists, this change is not only natural but also essential to their personal growth and development. The Nature of Evolution in Art We can think of individual artists´ journeys as microcosms of history of art as a whole. From the earliest cave paintings to the contemporary works we see in galleries today, art has always been in a state of flux. As artists, we continuously absorb influences, encounter new ideas, and face challenges that force us to reconsider our approach. What begins as a form of exploration and experimentation often becomes a deeper, more refined expression of our inner world. Consider the path of an artist like Picasso who is known for his constant reinvention, moving from his Blue and Rose periods to Cubism, Surrealism, and beyond. Each shift in his work mirrored a shift in his own understanding of the world and himself. Likewise, the abstract expressionism of Jackson Pollock emerged not just as a break from traditional artistic forms, but as an act of personal liberation—an expression of his internal struggles, desires, and impulses. Artistic evolution, therefore, is not just about changing one’s visual language; it’s about the artist growing and evolving as a human being. Art as a Reflection of the Self One of the most compelling reasons artists shift their style is because they themselves are changing. Human beings are not static; our views, emotions, and even our senses of self evolve over time. The artist’s life is no different. A change in personal circumstances—whether a move to a new city, a shift in a relationship, or a new encounter with an idea or philosophy—can lead to a profound change in the way an artist creates. An artist who has spent years focusing on representational work might suddenly feel compelled to explore abstraction. This shift could be due to a new perspective on life, an interest in pushing the boundaries of visual language, or a reaction to broader cultural movements. It could also reflect the artist’s desire to express emotions or concepts that can’t be captured through traditional forms. As we grow and mature, so does our understanding of the world and ourselves—and art becomes the channel through which these new insights are communicated. Breaking Through Creative Blocks Many artists reach a point where we encounter creative blocks. These periods of stagnation are often seen as frustrating and discouraging, but they are also critical moments in the artistic journey. In fact, creative blocks can be powerful catalysts for change. When we hit a wall, it can force us to look inward, re-examine our work, and ultimately push us to explore new techniques, materials, and styles. What often begins as frustration or uncertainty can result in breakthroughs that lead to entirely new directions in our art. This process of trial, error, and discovery is not only vital to the development of new work but also to our sense of self. Each change in direction is a reflection of the artist’s willingness to let go of the past, embrace the unknown, and risk failure in order to discover something new. The Risk and Reward of Change Changing direction can be a risky endeavor for any artist. A shift in style might alienate old fans, spark criticism, or challenge the artist’s identity. After all, our signature style becomes synonymous with our brand and reputation. But despite the risks, many artists find that the reward far outweighs the fear of failure or backlash. Embracing change means pushing beyond the limits of comfort and familiarity. It’s about challenging one’s own boundaries and allowing new influences and ideas to enter the creative process. Even if the new work doesn’t resonate immediately with audiences, the very act of experimentation and self-discovery strengthens the artist’s voice. Ultimately, it’s the artist’s commitment to authenticity—no matter how our work may evolve—that sustains our journey. Art is a lifelong exploration, and an artist who remains true to their personal evolution will always create work that resonates on a deeper, more genuine level. Conclusion: Art as a Journey, Not a Destination The evolution of an artist’s style is not just a technical or aesthetic shift—it’s a reflection of our growth as a human being. Each change in style marks a new chapter in our personal journey, one that deepens our connection to our work and to the world around us. While some may fear the loss of our "signature" style, the most powerful art is often that which comes from a place of exploration, risk, and change. For an artist, evolving is not just an option; it is an imperative. It is through change that we continue to discover who we are, who we might become, and how we can engage with the world in new and meaningful ways. Ultimately, it’s not the consistency of an artist’s style that defines our legacy, but our willingness to evolve and embrace the unexpected turns in our creative path. "Genesis and Apocalypse"
Since time immemorial, humanity has obsessed over two main narratives: Genesis, where everything begins, and Apocalypse, where it all goes downhill fast. Somewhere between these two plot points, a few other events may take place, but why get lost in the weeds of daily life when you can focus on The Beginning and The End? Sure, the grocery store run isn’t as exciting as a fiery prophecy, but you’d think that by now, we’d be better at embracing the in-between. Yet here we are. Humans have a knack for seeing every little blip, odd sunset, or out-of-season frost as a sign of impending doom. And it’s not just ancient history, this habit runs through modern culture like caffeine through a Monday morning coffee. Living for the Ends: Genesis and Apocalypse Let’s break down why Genesis and Apocalypse have such a hold on our imaginations. Genesis stories give us a comforting sense of purpose—“In the beginning, there was light” has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? But the problem is, if there’s a beginning, there’s probably an ending too. And wouldn’t you know it, the concept of apocalypse shows up in just about every culture around the globe. From Viking Ragnarok to the Mayan Calendar, humanity has always been a little obsessed with the idea that everything could suddenly fall apart. But the truth is, nature doesn’t really follow this script. We like to imagine it as a neat cycle, with seasons that roll around predictably and tides that go in and out. Yet, when you look a little closer, you realize nature’s more of a continuum—an unpredictable mix of the regular and irregular. Monsoons may show up every year, but earthquakes and tsunamis certainly don’t, and hurricanes seem to be on a schedule only they understand. Humans vs. Nature: The Need to Find Patterns Our ancestors had it rough. Between dodging saber-toothed tigers and trying to figure out what plants wouldn’t kill them, it’s no surprise they got really good at paying attention to patterns. If you didn’t notice that the wind always picked up before a storm, you might not survive the winter. Over time, humans got even better at spotting these patterns and, let’s face it, making up a few when they couldn’t find any. Fast forward a few thousand years, and we’re still at it. Did you know that if you break a mirror, it’s seven years of bad luck? Or that spilling salt is a bad omen unless you throw a pinch over your shoulder? These beliefs might seem silly, but they’re all part of the same pattern-seeking behavior that kept our ancestors alive. Somewhere along the line, though, we decided that some of these patterns meant the end was near. A weird solar eclipse? Definitely the beginning of the apocalypse. A string of bad weather? For sure the work of a vengeful god. Modern Signs of the Apocalypse: Is it the End or Just Tuesday? Let’s bring this obsession with signs and omens into the present day. Every so often, a new “sign of the apocalypse” sweeps the internet, and before you know it, people are panic-buying canned beans and toilet paper. Take, for instance, “blood moons” those eerie red lunar events. According to some, they’re harbingers of doom. In reality, it’s just the Earth getting in the way of the Sun’s light, causing a cool visual effect, but try telling that to the internet. Or how about El Niño and La Niña? Weather patterns that shift every few years, causing unusually warm or cool temperatures and some dramatic weather. Now, to a meteorologist, this is Mother Nature doing her thing. But leave it to some people to declare it as a sure sign of the world ending. Because why wouldn’t it be? This brings us to hurricanes, earthquakes, and other natural disasters. Despite the advances in science that allow us to predict storms and tremors, there’s still a sense of dread each time one of these events happens. People say, “This hurricane is a sign we’re doomed!”—never mind that hurricanes have been happening for as long as we can remember. And as for earthquakes, well, they’re just a friendly reminder from the Earth that sometimes things shift. It’s nothing personal. The Continuum vs. The Cycle So why can’t we just chill out and accept nature as a continuum instead of a predictable cycle? If life’s a continuum, then things can happen at any time, in any order. This means that while some things happen with regularity (the sun rising every day, for instance), other things are totally random. A storm may hit in April this year and August next year. But for whatever reason, our minds struggle with this concept. We like things to be neat, predictable, and most importantly, manageable. Cycles make us feel like we’re in control. This brings us to the problem: humans are creatures of habit, but nature isn’t. It’s a bit like having a roommate who never cleans up after themselves or sticks to a schedule. You’d think after thousands of years, we’d be used to it by now, but somehow, we’re still surprised every time a thunderstorm shows up unannounced. Maybe it’s because, deep down, we like a good mystery. The unknown keeps us on our toes, and it gives us something to talk about. The Art of Not Worrying About the Apocalypse Here’s the real kicker: after thousands of years of predictions, doomsday cults, and blood moon prophecies, the world just keeps on spinning. The sun rises every day, birds chirp (well, most days), and life goes on. If there’s anything to be learned here, it’s that life’s too short to spend worrying about signs of the apocalypse. Most of the time, what we’re seeing is just a random blip on the radar of existence. So, the next time you see an odd pattern in the clouds or hear an earthquake rumbling somewhere far away, maybe take it as just that—a reminder that nature is doing its thing. Instead of seeing it as a sign of the end, maybe it’s a sign to appreciate the little, unpredictable things that make life interesting. After all, if everything happened on a schedule, wouldn’t life be a little boring? |
