180 Seconds
Every night in New York City, for three fleeting minutes, artwork surrounds Times Square. The screens radiate creativity, a brief moment of individuality. Yet, for the remaining 86,400 seconds of the day, what we see is not individuality—it is the illusion of it, stripped of creativity and sold back to us. Creativity is being killed in real time and we are allowing it to happen.
Across a full day, we are given only 180 seconds for art, for expression, for the representation of who we are. And even within that small time frame, the hand in power refuses to relinquish control. The companies image stands proud among the very art it seeks to destroy. Almost disguising itself, convincing us that it is a form of expression. But in reality it is only exploitation.
Creativity is only allowed to be shown when most of the population is sleeping. The rest of our time is held hostage by advertisements, reminding us of what we lack, whispering that we are not enough. The makeup we need to feel better, the clothes that promise to make us more ourselves, the possessions that supposedly define our identity. These screens have consumed our lives—not just the towering billboards of Times Square but the small glowing rectangles in our pockets. We have become programmed, like the very devices we carry, conditioned to be told what to feel, what to want, who to be.
The arts have been pushed to the margins of a society that thrives on neglect and moral vacancy. We are taught not to love, not to create, but to consume—to own, to want, to envy, to resent. And I fear that those who rise to the top, those who conquer this system, do not escape it but instead become its greatest victims. For one cannot ascend to the peak of corruption without being corrupt themselves.
Perhaps that is why, for those brief three minutes when art reclaims the city, the so-called conquerors are nowhere to be found. And those who still carry a love for life, for beauty, for meaning—what becomes of them? Burdened by the loneliness of their appreciation, they find themselves paralyzed, unwilling to participate in a system that demands the repression of the self. Not because they believe they cannot rise within it, but because, in their hearts, they know it would be wrong if they did.
In a world built on profit, on stepping over others to get ahead, the arts fade into nothingness. Cities lose their beauty. The world becomes boxes—void of wonder, void of meaning. Architecture loses its artistry and becomes nothing more than walls, enclosed spaces with no soul. Art, which once served to express, to celebrate, to critique a broken world, now stands as a testament to society’s failure.
Ladies and gentlemen, I fear that the art we see today is no longer a celebration of humanity but a reflection of its decay. A society in decline, filled with men and women too afraid to think, too afraid to question, marching in step as the world crumbles around them.
To the younger generations, I ask you: Do you not fear for the children you may one day have? For your brothers and sisters who grow up in a world that no longer fosters community and joy but instead strips them away? A world where those who are seen, those who succeed, are often those most willing to conform?
Do you wish for your future generations to grow up as slaves?
Because we are already living in servitude. The only question is, whether we realize it. But the day will come when men and women no longer realize they are slaves—when they will take pleasure in their subjugation. That disease is already spreading. But like any plague, with the right measures, the healthy can survive, and they can fight back.
So I ask you: What are you doing that has meaning? Not what society tells you to do. Not what you have been conditioned to chase. But what you truly desire, devoid of external influence. Because that is the only pursuit that will ever fulfill you.
Until we tear down these screens, until we rebel against a world devoid of creativity and inspiration, we will never live.
In today's world, happiness is either an act of naivety—or a willful ignorance born in complicity. Art has always been rebellion and creativity has always been the resistance.
-Noa Nocciola