Picture this: You’re an artist who finally took the plunge last year. You inscribed a delicate watercolor series onto Bitcoin — not because you wanted to “store data,” but because the permanence felt right. The sats are now little time capsules carrying your work. Or maybe you’re a collector who bought a few pieces from someone who did exactly that. You like knowing the art lives on the same chain as the hardest money ever invented.

Then the headlines start rolling in again. Another Bitcoin Improvement Proposal — this one called BIP-110 — is supposedly coming to “fix” the chain by limiting how much arbitrary stuff people can put on it. The usual suspects are calling inscriptions “spam.” Other people are calling the proposal itself dangerous overreach. Twitter (sorry, X) is doing what it does best: turning a nuanced technical debate into a shouting match about the soul of Bitcoin.

If you’re an artist who has already inscribed something, or someone thinking about doing it for the first time...

If you’ve already put art on Bitcoin, BIP-110 (even if it somehow activated) would not touch it. The proposal includes a permanent exemption for anything created before it goes live. Your inscriptions stay exactly where they are — immutable, viewable, transferable. The sats carrying your work can still be moved whenever you want. No deadline. No “move it or lose it.”

This is the part that often gets lost in the noise. The drama is almost entirely about new inscriptions, not the ones already sitting there quietly doing their thing.

BIP-110 is a temporary soft fork proposal that would, for about a year, make it harder to stuff large amounts of data into new Bitcoin transactions the way many current inscriptions do. Think smaller data “pushes,” restrictions on certain Taproot patterns that big files like to use, and tighter limits on things like OP_RETURN.

The stated goal is to reduce what some people see as bloat and refocus the chain on being money. The satirical part? A proposal with roughly 1% miner support (as of mid-July 2026) is being treated in some corners like it’s already rewriting the rules of the universe. In reality, it’s struggling to get even basic signaling. Major mining pools have stayed away. Prominent voices have come out against turning a content dispute into a consensus fight.

Bitcoin has always been stubborn about changes that lack broad agreement. That stubbornness is usually a feature, not a bug.

Here’s where things get practical beyond the theoretical.

If BIP-110 somehow squeaked through on the main chain (and the current numbers make that look unlikely), the classic “one giant file in one inscription” method would become more difficult for a while. But the Ordinals community has already built workarounds — splitting larger pieces into smaller compliant chunks and using updated inscription formats. Art on Bitcoin doesn’t have to disappear; it just might need to arrive in slightly different packaging.

More importantly, most artists aren’t trying to inscribe 4-megabyte interactive experiences that fill entire blocks. Most of us are making normal-sized images, text pieces, small animations, or simple HTML experiments. Those would be far less affected even in a worst-case scenario.

And the bigger picture? After the one-year period, the restrictions (if they ever exist) would automatically expire anyway.

If you’re an artist who hasn’t inscribed yet, or you want to make more, the process in 2026 is genuinely approachable for normal-sized work.

The friendliest option for most people right now is still Gamma.io. It’s basically the “I just want to put my art on Bitcoin without learning command-line sorcery” choice. You connect a wallet (Xverse or Unisat work great), drag and drop your file, pick a fee, and sign. It handles the technical commit-and-reveal dance behind the scenes.

Unisat Wallet’s built-in inscriber is another excellent, very popular option — especially if you like having the tool inside the same browser extension you use for everything else. It even has batch options and occasional fee promotions.

Magic Eden also has a clean inscription tool if you’re already hanging out in their ecosystem.

None of these require you to run a full Bitcoin node. They’re non-custodial (you keep control of your keys), and they’re built for exactly the kind of art most creators actually make.

Pro tip from people who’ve done this a few times: smaller files are dramatically cheaper. A well-optimized image or thoughtful piece of pixel art can cost very little in fees if it's inscribed at the right time (when fees are low).

The endless debate about whether Bitcoin “should” allow art is starting to feel like two people arguing over whether a really good restaurant should only serve steak or whether it’s allowed to also have a nice dessert menu. Meanwhile, the restaurant keeps seating people who are happy to pay for whatever they order.

Bitcoin’s fee market has already shown it can price data usage appropriately. When people want to inscribe things and are willing to pay the fees, miners include the transactions. When they don’t, they don’t. It’s not elegant philosophy — it’s just how the incentives work.

For collectors and artists who aren’t trying to win the “biggest file on the chain” contest, the sky is not falling. Your existing pieces remain exactly as permanent as they were the day they were inscribed. And if you want to make new ones, the tools are simpler and more accessible than they’ve ever been.

The real story isn’t whether some proposal with minimal support will temporarily inconvenience the maximalist data crowd. It’s that thousands of artists and collectors have already decided Bitcoin is interesting enough to put meaningful creative work on it — and they’re still doing it.

Your watercolor series, your weird little pixel experiments, your carefully chosen text pieces… they’re not spam. They’re just another way people are choosing to use the most secure, decentralized database humanity has built so far.

And right now, in the middle of all the BIP-110 drama, that still feels like a pretty interesting thing to do.

Cover and Art by Maxximillian
See more from this artist at her online experience
Pepavaggio.art ---> visit and subscribe!

This series explores a new frontier of digital expression through interactive generative art that exists as a real-time digital artwork, continuously forming through code rather than fixed composition. Each piece operates as a code-based art installation—a living digital artwork that unfolds over time, offering a time-based abstract art experience that is never static, never repeated. Created for a new generation of fine art collectors, this body of work bridges contemporary practice with emerging formats in onchain art and crypto art, redefining what it means to engage with a digital art collection. These works are designed not only to be experienced, but to be owned—inviting audiences to collect generative art as limited edition art that lives, evolves, and holds its place within the future of art collecting.

Every wise beginning calls for a base with stakes deeper than the foundation of whatever's to become.

Not because the vision is weak, but because it is new. Because what is just coming into form carries enormous potential, and potential requires preparation before it can fully expand.

Abstractia III Initiative lives in that precise moment: the early stage of becoming, when energy is gathering, movement is beginning, and the future is already present in fragile form.

This work reflects the truth that a beginning is rarely seamless. It arrives with uncertainty, with necessary adjustment, with the delicate work of finding balance. And yet, within that first unsettled phase, something essential is being built.

A base.
A rhythm.
A structure strong enough to hold what comes next.

The wisdom here is not to force growth before its time. It is to nurture what is emerging with patience, to give it support, to allow it to organize itself into strength. What matters most in the beginning is not speed, but stability. Not immediate scale, but sound footing.

There is a quiet power in that kind of patience. A faith in process. An understanding that what is carefully formed at the start can carry much more as it develops.

This piece honors that threshold: the tender intelligence of a beginning that is preparing to last.

There is a sacred intelligence in the beginning of things.

Not in sudden expansion, but in the careful formation of what must first be made strong enough to hold. 3 Abstractia III reflects that early passage of becoming: when form is still new, potential is immense, and the first task is not to accelerate, but to ground.

Here, the beginning is understood as a living foundation. Something is arriving, but it must be supported, organized, and given time. The energy to grow is already there. The question is whether the structure beneath it is ready to carry what follows.

This work honors patience as an act of vision. It honors preparation as part of creation. It reminds us that what is nurtured at the start can open into lasting form, and that the strongest expansion begins with what is carefully built, quietly, at the beginning.

All works of Abstracita are works of generative art that breathes in sync with your local time.

The work exists in multiple primary states, among them: Waves, Lines, Sauce and Being. At the threshold, the viewer is greeted by a shifting "Get Abstract" portal, where ephemeral bubbles rise to meet your cursor, signaling a transition from the static to the fluid. Once you dive in, the background evolves through distinct chromatic identities. The Dawn Palette (3:33 AM – 6:59 AM) is a standout feature; it randomizes its sequence of pinks, mauves, and teals every morning, ensuring that no two sunrises within Abstractia are ever identical.

The visual depth is achieved through layered expressions: Mountain Silhouettes on Sauce mode (S) provide a place of perspective, while the Undulating Waves and Lines mode represent the currents of potential. When the interactive menu (I) or Developer Card (D) are called, they manifest as ethereal overlays. It is an experience designed to be both an interactive and highly scalable meditative experience for any surface, and space.

About this series
This series explores the edge Recognition of what digital art can become—an evolving body of interactive generative art that exists not as a fixed image, but as a real-time digital artwork. Each piece functions as a code-based art installation, continuously generating itself in the moment, never repeating, never settling into a final state. As a living digital artwork, it responds through time, unfolding as a time-based abstract art experience rather than a static composition. The result is something you don’t simply view, but enter—an active system of form, rhythm, and emergence. For those drawn to the future of the medium, this is an invitation to experience and collect generative art in its most immediate, alive state.

So according to my sources, there are primarily two ways most kinfolk are using Claude right now:

• One is like giving it the keys to your studio

• The other is like giving it a bunch of VIP passes to other buildings

Same brain. Different access.

Let’s make this real for a playah. Imagine you’re building something—doesn’t matter if it’s a music tool, a creative platform, or some wild AI-powered system you dreamed up at 2am. You open your terminal and tell Claude, “Scan my codebase, fix the upload flow, and connect it to Supabase.” What happens next is not theoretical. Claude opens your files, reads through your logic, edits what’s broken, runs commands, and debugs the situation in real time. It’s not advising you—it’s working with you. That’s CLI energy. That’s hands-on, sleeves rolled up, right there in the room.

Now flip the scene. You say, “Pull my GitHub repo, check my database, and show recent user activity.” This time Claude isn’t digging through your local files or executing commands in your environment. Instead, it reaches outward. It connects to GitHub through MCP, taps into your database through MCP, and brings back structured information. It’s not inside your workspace—it’s orchestrating across systems. It’s coordinating, not constructing.

That’s the core difference, and once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

Here’s the honest part—the part people don’t dress up. A lot of builders are leaning toward CLI right now because it moves. There’s no waiting on integrations to behave, no permission hoops slowing you down, no weird context limits from external APIs cutting your momentum in half. You tell it what to do, and it gets to work. It’s raw, direct, and powerful in a way that feels closer to actual creation than anything else. If you’ve ever been in a flow state where you just want the thing built now, not after five layers of configuration, CLI feels like oxygen.

But here’s where it gets interesting—this isn’t a rivalry. It’s a stack.

The real move isn’t choosing one over the other. It’s understanding what each one is for. CLI is where you build. It’s where you shape the thing, test it, break it, fix it, refine it. MCP is how that thing reaches beyond itself. It’s how your system starts talking to other systems, pulling in data, pushing out actions, becoming part of a larger network. One is creation. The other is connection.

That’s how you go from something that feels like a clever tool to something that behaves like infrastructure.

So when you’re deciding how to move, there are a few natural directions. You can go all-in on CLI and stay in pure build mode, using tools like Claude Code or Cursor to develop locally and move at full speed without friction. You can layer in MCP when you’re ready for your system to interact with the outside world—connecting to repositories, databases, APIs, and everything else that turns a standalone build into something alive. Or you can take it a step further and design your own bridge layer, where your agent becomes the connector itself and you control how everything talks to everything else. That’s where things start to feel less like using tools and more like defining systems.

At the end of the day, the simplest way to think about it is this. CLI is being in the lab, cooking with your hands on every ingredient. MCP is having connections in every city, able to reach out and pull in whatever you need. And the people who are really moving right now aren’t choosing between those roles—they’re operating in both at once, building like they own the kitchen and connecting like they run the supply chain.

You open your terminal… and now Claude is sitting right there with you, looking at your whole project.

You can say things like:

• “Fix this broken script”

• “Refactor my whole project”

• “Run this command and tell me what happens”

• “Search my files and explain how this works”

And it can actually:

• Read your local files

• Run commands (like npm install, git, etc.)

• Modify your code directly

👉 This is hands-on, in-your-space AI

It’s like inviting a super-genius collaborator into your studio who:

• can touch your gear

• open your files

• tweak your DAW session

• and press buttons

Now MCP (Model Context Protocol) is a different vibe.

This is not about being in your terminal.

This is about giving Claude connections to other systems.

• GitHub

• databases

• browsers

• APIs

• tools like Jira, Slack, etc.

But here’s the key:

👉 Claude itself doesn’t “do” those things directly
👉 MCP servers act like translators / bridges

This is like giving your assistant:

• your Dropbox access

• your email login

• your Notion workspace

• your Spotify account

They’re not physically in your studio…
but they can reach everywhere else.

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@maxximillian

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9:12 PM • Mar 10, 2026