I often meet people who struggle to see 3D printed work 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 with 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.
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 a “less 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 educating people about the process and revealing the creative potential within it.
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 work.
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.
3D printing typically involves three stages:
> Modeling – whether through CAD software (Fusion360, Shapr3D, Plasticity, etc.), digital sculpting (ZBrush, Nomad Sculpt, Blender…), 3D scanning, or even AI-assisted generation.
> Slicing – converting it into layer-by-layer instructions for the printer. I personally use Prusa Slicer.
> Assembly – which, if the piece is larger than your printer’s capacity, means gluing, clipping, welding, or screwing together multiple parts.
The second step—slicing—is often treated as purely technical. But I see it as a core part of the creative process.
The slicer is where the digital meets the physical. It determines not just how the piece is built, but how it looks, how it reflects light, and how it communicates texture and rhythm.
Let me give just a few examples:
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—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 their magic.
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.
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 printers colors don’t blend like traditional pigments—but the range is growing, and so is the creative freedom.
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: 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.