I find myself yet again faced with another move, and am naturally contemplating once more the physical things in my life. Every single move results in fewer and fewer things making the journey. I suspect that after this one I’ll have almost nothing left. I’ve been a minimalist for a long time, and I grow only more resolute in my leanings every time I have to hoist another box and lug it across town.
The item I’m struggling with most right now is my 3D printer. I purchased a 3D printer back in 2020, right at the beginning of the pandemic. While some people set their attention on sour dough starters (okay, I’ll admit, I dipped my toe in that water as well), I spent more of my free time and energy exploring the world of 3D printing.
On the tin, 3D printing should be something I love. Conceptually, I find it beautiful: the idea that physical objects, much like their digital counterparts, can be dreamed up by anyone with the right set of tools and personal know-how, transmitted instantaneously and shared with everyone on the planet, free of charge, and that the person on the other end of the screen can will something into existence with the press of just a few buttons.
It is genuinely magical and liberating.
But if I put on my curmudgeon hat and view my printing history over the past four years, I must confront a difficult fact: I haven’t really printed anything useful, nor anything that has really stood the test of time.
The truth is, at least from where I’m standing, consumer 3D printers aren’t all that useful at spitting out truly helpful, long-lasting things. Most of what they generate is just cheap plastic, something that will break quickly, or be tossed out. They’re great for making trinkets and tchotchkes, but I don’t need any more of those. I really don’t need any all all, come to think of it.
And 3D printers can be a massive ballache. Bed leveling issues, filament issues, build plate issues, poor adhesion, wrong temperatures for the given material, stringing, you name it — the list goes on and on. I’m constantly watching, adjusting, tweaking, fiddling, and correcting it seems. But I can’t deny the joy of prying off a really great print from the bed.
And my wife, very much not of the minimalist persuasion, adores when I print things for her. That alone makes the decision more difficult, and I suspect may sway the final vote in a different direction than it otherwise might go were I a single man.
So ultimately, I’m not sure if my 3D printer will make the move with me. Its fate is as of yet undecided. But every day I look at it, whimpering in the corner, with contempt and derision, plotting how I might offload it onto some unsuspecting budding hobbyist.