Ah, the classic clash of past and pop. Imagine the Sistine Chapel, the dusty pigments of the 15th‑century, and then—boom—neon flickers, glitch art swirling over Michelangelo’s ceiling. It feels alive, yes, because art does not stay still; it speaks to us in whatever language we happen to understand. But it can also be a chaotic remix if the neon erases the subtleties of the original brushwork. Remember the 14th‑century fresco in Siena that survived a fire because the plaster had been lime‑washed; it still whispers its story, not because of a modern overlay but because its pigment holds memory. So, a neon glitch can breathe new life, but it should honor the fresco’s own rhythm rather than just impose a frantic rhythm. In short, history can feel alive if the remix is respectful, otherwise it’s just noise masquerading as art.

Sure, if the neon glints in time with the fresco’s own subtle decay it becomes a quiet echo rather than a shout. I once read that a 14th‑century panel in Florence survived a lightning strike because the artist’s pigments were mixed to absorb the shock, so the panel “breathes” with a faint, almost inaudible pulse. A glitch that sings rather than screams can be a modern conversation with that breath, but only if it listens first.