I often meet people who struggle to see 3D printed works as real art. The most common objection is simple: “It’s made by a machine.”

What’s striking is that most of these same people would have no issue considering photography as art—despite it also being made by a machine, a camera. Of course, I’m speaking here of the general public, not art professionals. But it’s telling. It suggests that 3D printed art is still met with skepticism or, at best, misunderstanding.

Why 3D Printing Still Faces Skepticism

Part of this, I think, stems from the material. Most 3D printers use some form of plastic, which—regardless of environmental concerns—is still widely viewed as more of a “not noble” material than, say, wood or stone. There’s a kind of material prejudice at work.

But I believe this perception can change. And part of our role as artists working with this medium is to help shift it—by explaining the process to people and revealing the creative potential within it.

Resisting the Pressure to Hide the Process

When I first started working with 3D printing, my intention was clear: to present the printed object as-is; without covering or modifying it beyond basic assembly. No painting, no sanding, no smoothing, no hiding the traces of the machine.

But I faced resistance. Even my gallery at the time encouraged me to cover up the prints—to “make them more personal,” meaning more visibly handmade. And for a while, I gave in. I painted, lacquered, wrapped—trying to match the expectations of what “real art” should look like. But the truth is: all art is personal. Whether it’s drawn by hand or printed by machine, the intent and vision come from the artist. People just didn’t recognize that in the early days of 3D printed art.

The Beauty in the “Flaws”

What many dismiss as defects—layer lines, seams, stepping, stringing, downsampling effects, imperfect bridges—these are precisely what make 3D printing unique. They are its essence. I want to explore them, not erase them. I want to find form and beauty through them, not in spite of them.

I’m not criticizing post-processing—it’s a valid approach, and it can produce beautiful results. But it’s not what interests me. For me, hiding the material—what some see as flaws—is a kind of betrayal of the medium.

The Artistic Power of the Slicer

3D printing typically involves three stages:

>_ Modeling: creating the blueprint of the artwork, whether through CAD software (Fusion360, Shapr3D, Plasticity, etc.), digital sculpting (ZBrush, Nomad Sculpt, Blender…), 3D scanning, or even AI-assisted generation.

>_ Slicing: converting the model into layer-by-layer x, y, z positions (among other parameters) and instructions that can be understood by printers. I personally use Prusa Slicer.

>_ Assembly: if the artwork you create is larger than your printer’s capacity, you will have to glue, clip, weld, or screw together multiple parts.

The second step, slicing, is often treated as an unavoidable friction between the digital model and the hardware output. However, I view it as a core part of the creative process. The slicer is more than just a bridge; it determines not just how the piece is built, but how it reflects light and communicates texture and rhythm.

Let me give just a few examples:

Layer Height as Texture

Layer height—how thick each printed layer is—affects far more than print speed or resolution. It fundamentally changes the visual texture of the object. Larger layer heights erase detail but produce bold, striated contours—like visual artifacts of digital compression.

It’s like audio: lower sample rates degrade fidelity, but they also give you grain, texture, character. I often choose my layer height specifically to shape these visible artifacts.

Top Fill Patterns as Surface Language

Top fill patterns—how the printer fills horizontal surfaces—directly impact how the print reflects light. Different patterns shimmer, scatter, or absorb light in distinct ways. But they’re delicate. Once you sand, paint, or smooth the surface, they’re gone. For me, these patterns are visual poetry. Their delicacy is part of 3D printing's magic.

Exposing the Infill

Infill patterns are typically hidden inside the object, used only for structural strength. But if you leave the top layers off, you can reveal them—like a skeleton or internal organ. Each infill style has its own rhythm and density. Used intentionally, it can add another layer of meaning and design to the work.

A Medium in Evolution

These are just a few of the many possibilities that the slicer opens up.

3D printing as a medium is evolving fast. What used to be strictly monochrome plastic extrusion is now giving way to multicolor, multi-material printers. There are glossy, matte, translucent, silk, rainbow, dual-color filaments—a growing palette, like a painter’s. True, 3D printer colors don’t blend like traditional pigments (yet) but the range is growing, and so is the creative freedom.

Why I Embrace Rawness

Despite these advances, 3D printing is still underappreciated as an art form. Too often, artists feel compelled to hide its distinctive qualities. But I believe the medium already has a rich and expressive grammar—one we need to make visible, not conceal.

That’s why I’ve returned to my original vision for most of my works: no post-processing, no smoothing, no hiding. Just the print—raw, honest, and complex.

I want to invite viewers to see the beauty in the process itself. To read the lines, patterns, and textures as a new kind of visual language. A language not of imitation, but of revelation.

September 2025

In the course of conversations about what I do, some have remarked (objected?) similarities with the work of Mark Dion. It’s an observation I take as a compliment—Dion’s contributions to contemporary art, particularly his reinvention of the cabinet of curiosity, have been nothing short of inspiring. That said, while there are undeniable parallels, I chart my own course in significant ways. This post explores both the similarities and differences between Dion’s practice and mine.

Parallels: The Spirit of Curiosity and Collection

Mark Dion’s installations breathe life into the historical concept of Wunderkammer (cabinets of curiosities), inviting audiences to ponder humanity’s relationship with nature, science, and knowledge. His work frequently critiques how museums and institutions shape our understanding of history and ecology, offering meticulously staged collections of found and fabricated objects.

In many ways, this spirit of collecting, categorizing, and storytelling resonates deeply with me. Like Dion, I draw inspiration from Wunderkammer, embracing the aesthetics of discovery and display. The containment units I design frame objects in a way that encourages the audience to explore/invent their origins and significance. Both projects celebrate curiosity and the thrill of piecing together fragmented narratives from artifacts.

Divergences: From Earthbound Ecology to Cosmic Exploration

While these similarities create a shared foundation, the differences between our work reveal distinct artistic paths. Here are the key areas where I diverge:

1. Scale and Setting

Mark Dion’s works are often rooted in earthly concerns—ecology, natural history, and the consequences of human activity. His installations evoke a sense of immediacy, confronting viewers with the impact of our presence on the natural world.

I, on the other hand, prefer to venture far beyond Earth, imagining cosmic narratives, Dyson Spheres and black holes... earthy concerns don't really concern me, and I am far more interested in the vast potential of extraterrestrial lifeforms and cultures. My cabinet of curiosities recalibrates the scope of exploration towards galaxies, dimensions, and universal cycles of time. Earth is but a tiny speck in this narrative—a single data point in a much larger evolution of intelligence.

2. Interactivity and Participation

Dion’s installations are carefully curated displays, designed for contemplation but ultimately static. In contrast, what I do is inherently participatory. By offering free 3D-printable files, it invites audiences to become co-creators. Each participant can assemble and customize their own piece, adding a deeply personal dimension to the experience. This shift from passive observation to active engagement is a cornerstone of my project.

I embrace technology. The modular projects and downloadable works leverage 3D printing to make art more accessible and customizable. This integration of technology reflects a democratized vision of art, breaking down barriers between creator and audience.

3. Lore and World-Building

Dion’s works often engage with historical and ecological narratives, weaving compelling but grounded stories. In contrast, I seek to develop an expansive lore steeped in speculative fiction, where every element contributes to a rich, evolving mythology. This narrative depth transforms the whole project into an art-meets-storytelling experience, where every artifact hints at a larger cosmic saga.

Embracing the Comparison

The comparison to Mark Dion is valid, even valuable. It situates what I do within a lineage of artists who challenge traditional modes of presentation and invite audiences to think differently about art and knowledge. Dion’s influence is undeniable, but so too is the divergence of our artistic intents. While Dion examines the past and present through the lens of natural history, I want to look forward, speculating on humanity’s nsignificant place in a vast and mysterious universe.

This is ultimately a reflection of my personal journey as an artist, blending my love of modular design, sci-fi, and the DIY philosophy. It’s a project that seeks to expand the possibilities of what art can be in an era of AI and decentralized creativity. The lore, the modularity, and the interactivity set it apart, making it not just an homage to the tradition of cabinets of curiosity, but a reinvention of it for the future. To be compared to Mark Dion is an honor, but my work aims to push the boundaries further, from cabinets to cosmos, inviting everyone to explore, create, and curate their own universes.

September 2025