For our international friends — the English version is just below.
Zima 2015/2016. nije bila samo hladna — bila je prelomna. Dok su se ulice Beograda smrzavale, u meni je ključala odluka: da zakoračim u nepoznato — u svet 3D štampe. Već sam bio otac Lenke i Miloša, a te zime saznao sam da čekamo i treće dete — Marka. Ipak, ništa me nije moglo zaustaviti. Od prvog trenutka kada sam video 3D štampu, znao sam da je to više od tehnologije. To je bila ljubav. Jer 3D štampa vraća stvari iz digitalnog u analogni svet — iz ideje u opipljivu stvarnost.
U tom trenutku, oko mene su bili ljudi bez kojih ova priča ne bi ni postojala. Jedan od njih bio je Nenad Duduković — Duduk. Prijatelj koji me voli iskreno i bez zadrške — i ja njega. On je imao onu ulogu koju svaki suludi startap mora da ima: fool friend. Onaj koji ne postavlja previše pitanja, ali uvek veruje. Onaj koji ti da pare kad zapneš u ćorsokaku — ne zato što zna da ćeš uspeti, već zato što zna da moraš da pokušaš. I to je neprocenjivo.
U to vreme poznavao sam i Davida Dakovića — čoveka koji mi je svojim vođenjem u razvoju biznisa pomogao da shvatim: moram da pokrenem 3D Republiku. Jer 3D štampa nije samo alat — to je novi način proizvodnje, jedini koji omogućava stvaranje po meri čoveka. A neko je morao da ide okolo i objašnjava šta to uopšte znači.
U februaru 2016. godine, seo sam u auto i krenuo put Sofije. U povratku, u gepeku je bio moj prvi Ultimaker 2+ Extended — ali to nije bila obična vožnja. Prešao sam bugarsku granicu na civilnom prelazu, umesto na teretnom. Tako sam završio u međucarinskoj zoni — osam sati, bez izlaza, bez nazad. Dodelili su mi čoveka da me nadgleda dok ne stignem do carinskog terminala u Beogradu. Sve to jer sam želeo da sve bude legalno — ali tada još nisam znao kako se to zapravo radi.
„Dok sam sedeo osam sati u međucarinskoj zoni, pitao sam se: ‘Da li sam normalan?’ A onda sam pogledao u kutiju i pomislio: ‘Ako ovo uspe, biće vredno svake sekunde.’“
U to vreme još sam radio u štampariji mog oca. Ideja je bila da firmu transformišem u svetlu novih tehnologija, ali odnos otac-sin je složen. Moj otac je predugo radio na jedan način i bilo je teško menjati navike. Nije bilo sukoba, ali bilo je prepreka. On je bio simbol tradicije, a ja sam pokušavao da uvedem budućnost.
Ključni trenutak došao je kada me je Filip Jovanović, moj prijatelj, pozvao da mu se pridružim u njegovoj maloj kancelariji. Otvorio je digitalnu dentalnu tehniku i pozvao me da zajedno gradimo nešto novo. Kancelarija je bila mala, ali puna entuzijazma, podrške — i rizika. Obojica smo tada preuzeli velike obaveze, ali zajedno je bilo lakše. Filip je bio stub podrške i zajedničkog rizika.
U toj atmosferi pojavio se i moj drugar Veljko Miletić — Mileta, s kojim sam često vozio bicikl. Veljko je diplomirani vajar, i bilo je prirodno da s njim razgovaram o logotipu. Prvo smo pričali o „glupostima“ — ciljna grupa, boje, doživljaj. Hteli smo nešto jako, crno-žuto, ali to nas je previše podsećalo na mračne motive prošlosti.
I onda je Veljko uradio ono što samo umetnik može. Nije crtao logo — vodio nas je kroz doživljaj. Logo nije bio samo znak. Bio je to manifest.
„3D Republika nikada nije bila samo o meni. Bila je o ljudima koji su verovali da mogu da stvaraju. O onima koji su prvi put uzeli čekić — digitalni ili pravi — i rekli: ‘Hajde da probamo.’“
The Story of 3D Republic: From Idea to Symbol
The winter of 2015/2016 wasn’t just cold — it was a turning point. While the streets of Belgrade froze, something was boiling inside me: a decision to step into the unknown — the world of 3D printing. I was already a father to Lenka and Miloš, and that winter, I found out we were expecting our third child — Marko. Still, nothing could stop me. From the moment I saw 3D printing, I knew it was more than just technology. It was love. Because 3D printing brings things back from the digital into the analog world — from idea to tangible reality.
At that moment, I was surrounded by people without whom this story wouldn’t even exist. One of them was Nenad Duduković — Duduk. A friend who loves me unconditionally — and I him. He played the role every crazy startup needs: the fool friend. The one who doesn’t ask too many questions but always believes. The one who gives you money when you’re stuck in a dead end — not because he knows you’ll succeed, but because he knows you have to try. And that’s priceless.
I also knew David Daković back then — a man whose guidance in business development helped me realize: I had to start 3D Republic. Because 3D printing isn’t just a tool — it’s a new way of manufacturing, the only one that allows for human-centered creation. And someone had to go out there and explain what that even means.
In February 2016, I got in my car and drove to Sofia. On the way back, in the trunk was my first Ultimaker 2+ Extended — but this wasn’t just a drive. I crossed the Bulgarian border at a civilian checkpoint instead of a commercial one. That’s how I ended up in a customs limbo — eight hours, no way out, no turning back. They assigned a man to watch over me until I reached the customs terminal in Belgrade. All because I wanted to do everything legally — but I didn’t yet know how.
“As I sat for eight hours in that customs zone, I asked myself: ‘Am I crazy?’ Then I looked at the box and thought: ‘If this works, it’ll be worth every second.’”
At the time, I was still working at my father’s print shop. The idea was to transform the business in light of new technologies, but the father-son dynamic is complex. My father had worked one way for too long, and changing habits was hard. There was no conflict, but there were obstacles. He was a symbol of tradition; I was trying to bring in the future.
The key moment came when my friend Filip Jovanović invited me to join him in his small office. He had just opened a digital dental lab and asked me to build something new with him. The office was tiny, but full of enthusiasm, support — and risk. We both took on big responsibilities, but together it was easier. Filip was a pillar of support and shared risk.
In that atmosphere, my friend Veljko Miletić — Mileta — also entered the picture. We often rode bikes together. Veljko is a sculptor by training, so it was natural to talk to him about the logo. At first, we talked about “nonsense” — target audience, colors, impressions. We wanted something bold, black and yellow, but it reminded us too much of dark symbols from the past.
Then Veljko did what only an artist can do. He didn’t just draw a logo — he led us through an experience. The logo wasn’t just a mark. It was a manifesto.
“3D Republic was never just about me. It was about people who believed they could create. About those who picked up a hammer — digital or real — and said: ‘Let’s give it a try.’”