Before there was a collection, there was debris.

For a brief moment, almost anything the internet touched became an NFT. Images became assets. Jokes became tokens. Pixels became property. Wallets multiplied, marketplaces appeared overnight, and somewhere between speculation, metadata and collective delirium, a great amount of digital matter turned into shit.

When the dust began to settle, something was moving underneath it.

Small creatures were found scattered through the remains of abandoned collections, broken promises and forgotten wallets. Some appeared almost intact. Others seemed to have mutated from whatever had been left behind.

Among the recurring forms are distant relatives of Kin no Unko, Dr. Slurp, and the Ice-Emoji. Shapes migrate, details disappear, designs get recycled.

The poop emoji, after all, is just the ice-cream emoji without the cone.

Across 128 images, the same visual DNA keeps mutating until nobody quite remembers where it came from.

Colours drifted. Eyes changed. Accessories accumulated. Backgrounds mutated. Attempts at classification were unsuccessful.

They resemble one another to be family, and differ just enough to cause trouble.

Eventually, 128 specimens were recovered. Each received a hexadecimal identity from 0x0001 to 0x0080.

No ranking. No rarity chart. No chosen hero. Just 128 small lives recovered from the dust of an NFT nightmare.

The recovered instructions refer to the physical works with a wonderfully overconfident name: TGP — The Genuine Print.

One creature. One 20 × 20 cm physical original. One hexadecimal identity. Instead of signing the front with a pencil, the system built an unnecessarily elaborate bridge between the object and the network.

The diagram below is not a reconstruction. It survived with the project.

2021-GENUINE-PRINT.JPG / ORIGINAL PROJECT RELICOPEN FULL SIZE +

Part instruction manual. Part proof. Part promise from a future that arrived differently.

The technology is very serious. The subject matter is under no obligation to be.

Every recovered TGP contains two territories: PUBLIC META and SECRET KEY. One was built to be seen. The other was built to remain with the object.

The four visible words do not open the wallet. That would be a terrible feature.

They act instead as a small recognition ritual: four fragments from the object allow the archive to identify the specimen and wake its private fortune.

The remaining twenty words stay sealed with the work. Some doors are better when they remain doors.

Ask The Oracle →

Every CRTSHT appears to have developed a second body: a mooncake. In older records it is also called 金のうんこ — Kin no unko.

No surviving document explains why the creature needed another body. It only shows that the system insisted on one.

The physical TGP carries the creature. The NFT points to the cake. The cake carries the identity back through hashes, addresses and references until the same specimen appears on both sides of the network.

A hash points to an image carrying the signs of another hash, attached to a physical print whose fingerprint lives in the metadata.

Not quite a certificate. More like an amulet with too much metadata.

Among the recovered files was a plan for a wall.

The creatures had been generated, printed, hashed and given identities, but the planned encounter never happened. For five years the family remained dispersed across folders, wallets and storage.

Together before we disperse.

In September 2026, all 128 physical originals finally occupied the wall that had already been drawn for them. The complete installation existed only temporarily.

On 25 September the first draw began the dispersal. On 17 October the second draw continued it. The final draw is scheduled for 31 October, the last night of ENDSAFTER. Each work that leaves is replaced by a small 3D-printed relief plaque carrying its hexadecimal identity. The wall therefore does not simply become empty. It changes from a collection into a record of where the collection used to be.

EXHIBITION-PLAN / ORIGINAL PROJECT FILE / CLICK TO ENLARGE

128 originals. One wall. Three draws. Each work that leaves is replaced by a relief plaque carrying its identity. The installation is slowly becoming an image of its own absence.

The complete archive is public. Which work becomes yours remains unknown until the draw.

Every valid ticket receives one CRTSHT. Chance decides which identity leaves the wall with it. Afterward, that dispersal becomes part of the public record. Nobody gets to rescue the prettiest specimen first.

Two draws have taken place. The wall is already incomplete in one sense and more complete in another: each missing work leaves a numbered relief plaque in its place. On 31 October, the final draw also marks the end of ENDSAFTER as an artist-run space. The archive does not close with the room. It keeps the 128 identities together even as the physical works move apart.

Enter the final draw →

The blockchain is part of the record, but it is not the whole record.

In 2021 the network looked like the destination. In 2026 it reads more like a paper trail: provenance, timestamp and residue.

There is the fingerprint of the print, the public wallet, the token history, the IPFS files, the sealed words, the physical object, the box, the empty position on the wall and the work's movement into private hands.

None of these layers is sufficient on its own. Together they describe how one image travelled from an algorithm into an object, from an object into a network, and from a complete wall into somebody else's room.

The blockchain did not become the artwork. It became part of the paperwork.

The internet may forget. The record remains.