The monolith phenomenon hit during a unique cultural moment. Locked down by COVID-19, people were primed for a shared mystery that felt harmless and fun. ARTnews described the monolith as "the only kind of public art the entire planet can experience collectively, a wholesome, or at least joyfully absurd, moment of connection" during the physical isolation of quarantine8.

The art world took the monoliths seriously as an event. Postmasters gallerist Magda Sawon initially suggested the Utah piece might be the work of prankster-artist Maurizio Cattelan8. The David Zwirner gallery floated the John McCracken connection8. Whether intentional or not, the monoliths raised real questions about anonymous public art, land use, and the internet's ability to turn any object into a shared cultural event.

Media coverage was massive and global. The Utah DPS Instagram post, the KSL TV news segment, the New York Post, the New York Times, the BBC, and dozens of international outlets all covered the story10212. The Romanian, British, and Dutch installations got their own national press cycles9.

The QAnon-linked destruction of the California monolith drew specific concern, with the New York Times covering the livestreamed removal and its "at times racist and homophobic" content2.

The monolith craze unfolded at an absurd pace during one of the strangest years in recent memory. What started as a routine wildlife survey in the Utah backcountry turned into a global art event, conspiracy theory generator, and meme factory all at once.

The original Utah monolith was carefully installed, with a hole drilled into the sandstone bedrock to anchor it8. Though it had been sitting there since at least 2016, it only entered public consciousness when the DPS Aero Bureau posted their discovery on November 18, 2020. Early speculation about the creator ranged from aliens to the late Minimalist sculptor John McCracken, who was known for making polished metal slabs. David Zwirner gallery, which represents McCracken's estate, initially floated the idea, and McCracken's son Patrick recalled his father saying he wanted to install work "in remote places to be discovered later"8. That theory faded when the structure turned out to be hollow sheets of metal over plywood8.

Art world speculation aside, the internet had already claimed the monolith. Twitter exploded with *2001: A Space Odyssey* references, alien theories, and jokes about 2020 delivering one final bizarre plot twist7. The timing was perfect: deep into pandemic fatigue, with people stuck at home and starved for something weird and fun. The monoliths became a rare moment of collective joy and absurdity during an exhausting year. As one meme format put it, people were photoshopping monoliths into living rooms, kitchens, and parking lots, treating any vaguely rectangular object as a potential monolith sighting7.

The rapid removal of each monolith only fueled the mystery. When the Utah monolith vanished on November 27, the Bureau of Land Management confirmed an "unknown person or group" had removed it but offered no leads4. The MrSlackline removal video, uploaded December 1, racked up 790,000 views within six months and drew heavy criticism in the comments4.

The destruction of the California monolith on December 3 took a much darker tone. The men who removed it livestreamed the act with racist and homophobic commentary, according to the San Luis Obispo Tribune. One claimed they were acting "on direct orders of QAnon and President Trump himself," while over 600 people watched the stream2. The incident injected culture war ugliness into what had been a relatively lighthearted phenomenon.

On December 3, 2020, artists collective The Most Famous Artist, led by Matty Mo, stepped forward to claim credit for the US monoliths6. Mo told Mashable: "What better way to end this fucked up year than let the world briefly think aliens made contact only to be disappointed that it's just The Most Famous Artist playing tricks again"3. The collective was known for attention-grabbing stunts, including a pink house installation and a member's transformation of the Hollywood sign to read "Hollyweed"3. Mo remained cagey about specifics, citing "legalities of the original installation," but the group quickly began selling monolith replicas for $45,000 through what they called "monoliths-as-a-service"3.

Whether The Most Famous Artist was genuinely behind all the installations or simply capitalizing on the moment stayed ambiguous. The Romanian monolith was visibly different in quality. When asked about the Isle of Wight monolith, Mo wrote on Facebook: "The monolith is out of my control at this point. Godspeed to all the aliens working hard around the globe to propagate the myth"7. This effectively acknowledged that copycats had taken over.

And take over they did. Wikipedia's list of monolith sightings documents over 200 similar installations worldwide, spanning India, Iran, Turkey, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Morocco, Austria, Belgium, Finland, France, and many more5. Some were promotional stunts. The Pittsburgh monoliths were placed by local businesses. One in Zenata, Morocco turned out to be a marketing campaign for a robotics company5. Others were genuine art pieces: a monolith in Göbekli Tepe, Turkey carried text in Old Turkic script reading "If you want to see the moon, look up to sky"5. A monolith in Kinshasa, DRC was burned down by alarmed locals5.

The Register ran a headline on December 8 reading "PSA: The 2020 monolith is a dead meme. You can stop putting them up now. Please," describing the whole episode as "crop circles for the coronavirus age"9. That article noted the Isle of Wight version was of "far higher quality" than the American ones, "really reflective" with origins still unknown9.