Do NFTs Mean the Death of ‘Real’ Art?

They said NFTs would save art, but no one asked if art even wanted saving.

Fez – There’s this question I’ve been hearing everywhere. At art galleries, on social media, even during random coffee talks. Everyone wants to know, are NFTs killing real art?

Let’s stop for a second. Let’s breathe because this question itself feels like a punch in the stomach. What even is real art?

Is it the painting that makes you cry in the middle of a silent museum? Is it the street graffiti you pass by every day but only really see when your heart feels heavy? Is it the clay pot shaped by hands that trembled from both fear and passion?

NFTs came into our world loud and proud. They promised artists freedom, money, fame all at once. They turned digital art into treasures with price tags that left everyone dizzy.

Suddenly, your laptop screen held paintings that sold for millions. No gallery. No middleman. Just you, your art, and a buyer somewhere across the world. It sounded magical. But magic comes with a price.

In this NFT chaos, something started to crack. People stopped asking about the story behind the art. They started asking about the blockchain, the contract, the resale value.

Art became a product with a ‘flip’ potential, like sneakers or stocks. And that’s where it hurts the most.

Art was never supposed to be a product. Art was supposed to be a scream, a whisper, a secret shared between the artist and the person who feels it.

Art was supposed to sit with you in silence and hold your hand when you have no words. Art was not supposed to be a QR code.

Does that mean NFTs killed real art? No. Because real art can’t die. Real art doesn’t live in markets, auctions, or Ethereum wallets.

Real art lives in the cracks of your heart, in the silence between your sobs, in the shiver down your spine when you hear a voice or see a color that understands you better than any human ever could.

NFTs didn’t kill art. They confused it. They made some people forget what art really is. But art itself? It’s still here.

It’s in the streets, in the hands of a potter, in the voice of a child singing to no one. It’s in you, in me, in all of us who feel too much. Real art was never just a file. It was a heartbeat. And heartbeats never stop.