Over time, I’ve come to see the world of NFT, digital, or crypto art not as a single ecosystem but as a set of structurally different camps that operate under very different assumptions. Some artists follow a franchise model—repeating a single character or schema thousands of times—where the artwork functions as brand IP and financial instrument more than as an individual piece. Others, myself included for a while, enter the space thinking primarily in terms of becoming a “digital artist,” trusting platforms to act as neutral galleries, archives, and validators. Generative artists often assume that code itself guarantees autonomy, only to discover that platform ownership and visibility controls still define the terms of engagement. These paths are not inherently wrong, but they are often entered without a clear understanding of where power actually resides.

What unsettled me was not market volatility or speculative behavior, but the realization that many platforms do not uphold their side of the implicit exchange. I never objected to platforms benefiting from my work; mutual value creation is part of the deal. What became unacceptable was discovering that platforms often own the smart contract, control visibility, and then fail to provide even basic reliability or accountability. When something breaks—when work becomes orphaned, invisible, or duplicated—the burden quietly shifts back to the artist. At that point, the relationship stops feeling collaborative and starts feeling extractive. The problem is not that platforms exist, but that their failures are normalized while their authority remains unquestioned.

This clarity was sharpened by an ethical boundary I couldn’t ignore. When market participation turns into explicit coordination—reciprocal buying to inflate prices, strategic signaling disguised as support—it crosses from patronage into manipulation. Even if such behavior is common, it doesn’t align with how I want my work to exist in the world. That moment made it clear that the real divide in this space isn’t figurative versus generative, or Ethereum versus Tezos, or NFT versus digital art. The real divide is who owns the rules of the work: the artist or the platform.

Where I’ve landed is not outside the ecosystem but at its structural edge. I’m increasingly committed to creating HTML-based artworks built from my own code, governed by internal DNA—rules, time, evolution, and constraint that exist independently of any marketplace. In this model, the artwork exists before the platform, not because of it. Smart contracts become adapters rather than containers, and platforms become temporary distribution surfaces rather than owners. This isn’t a rejection of what I’ve learned or who I’ve met along the way; it’s a recognition that the scaffolding I needed early on no longer matches the work I’m making now. What feels like anger is really boundary formation—and a reclaiming of authorship at the level where it actually matters.

892 (disks), Mark Walhimer, December 2025

Over time, I’ve come to see the world of NFT, digital, or crypto art not as a single ecosystem but as a set of structurally different camps that operate under very different assumptions. Some artists follow a franchise model—repeating a single character or schema thousands of times—where the artwork functions as brand IP and financial instrument more than as an individual piece. Others, myself included for a while, enter the space thinking primarily in terms of becoming a “digital artist,” trusting platforms to act as neutral galleries, archives, and validators. Generative artists often assume that code itself guarantees autonomy, only to discover that platform ownership and visibility controls still define the terms of engagement. These paths are not inherently wrong, but they are often entered without a clear understanding of where power actually resides.

What unsettled me was not market volatility or speculative behavior, but the realization that many platforms do not uphold their side of the implicit exchange. I never objected to platforms benefiting from my work; mutual value creation is part of the deal. What became unacceptable was discovering that platforms often own the smart contract, control visibility, and then fail to provide even basic reliability or accountability. When something breaks—when work becomes orphaned, invisible, or duplicated—the burden quietly shifts back to the artist. At that point, the relationship stops feeling collaborative and starts feeling extractive. The problem is not that platforms exist, but that their failures are normalized while their authority remains unquestioned.

This clarity was sharpened by an ethical boundary I couldn’t ignore. When market participation turns into explicit coordination—reciprocal buying to inflate prices, strategic signaling disguised as support—it crosses from patronage into manipulation. Even if such behavior is common, it doesn’t align with how I want my work to exist in the world. That moment made it clear that the real divide in this space isn’t figurative versus generative, or Ethereum versus Tezos, or NFT versus digital art. The real divide is who owns the rules of the work: the artist or the platform.

Where I’ve landed is not outside the ecosystem but at its structural edge. I’m increasingly committed to creating HTML-based artworks built from my own code, governed by internal DNA—rules, time, evolution, and constraint that exist independently of any marketplace. In this model, the artwork exists before the platform, not because of it. Smart contracts become adapters rather than containers, and platforms become temporary distribution surfaces rather than owners. This isn’t a rejection of what I’ve learned or who I’ve met along the way; it’s a recognition that the scaffolding I needed early on no longer matches the work I’m making now. What feels like anger is really boundary formation—and a reclaiming of authorship at the level where it actually matters.

892 (disks), Mark Walhimer, December 2025