Conservation — where it appears
Named by 19 essays across 8 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
A flap costs a circle
A flap of a given length uses up every point of the sheet within that distance of it. Two flaps whose circles overlap are asking for the same paper twice — and that one observation turned origami design from an art into an algorithm.
What joins the flaps
Circles are the rule for flaps that all hang from the same point. As soon as two groups of flaps hang from different places, the paper between them has to be paid for too — and the payment is a strip whose width is the distance between them.
The machine that may choose
Three restricted machines lose patterns that fold perfectly well. Give one of them a choice — any block of layers, top or bottom — and the loss vanishes: over a hundred and seventeen spacings, every flat folding of every strip became reachable. Being forced was the whole problem.
How many times can it be halved
The folklore says seven, and the folklore is a statement about one sheet of paper. What actually binds is arithmetic: every halving doubles the layers and the paper spent at the closed end grows as the square of the layer count, so the length needed for twelve folds is nearly a kilometre.
The paper is all still there
A folded sheet is smaller than it was and none of it has gone anywhere. How much smaller it is and how many layers deep it is are not two properties of a pattern — they are one number, and their product is the sheet.
Bringing the other side to the front
Paper has two sides and most models show one. A colour change shows the other, and it is not a crease problem — which panels can show the reverse is settled by the pattern's two-colouring, and what it costs is twice what it shows.
Paying in paper
A feature added to a finished design costs exactly the paper inserted for it. Cut the crease pattern along a line, slide in a strip, and every existing crease continues across it unchanged — so the bill is the strip's width times the length of the cut, and there is no second term.
Every facet is a layer
Fold a sheet at random as many times as patience allows, then count three things: the creases it carries, the facets they cut it into, and the layers in the stack. The last two are the same number, always, and it is one more than the first — so how deep a crumpled sheet folds can be read off the flattened pattern without folding anything.
The outline is mostly crease
The edge of a folded model is what a reader looks at, and almost none of it is the edge of the paper. Measured across five patterns, the sheet's own boundary accounts for between nothing and a third of the exposed edge; the rest is fold, and on a waterbomb tessellation the raw edge does not reach the outside at all.
The pile, not the panel
Every technique for building a fold out of panels with depth is drawn, described and priced at one crease between two panels. A folded model has two layers nowhere except at its last fold: the printed patterns here reach eight, sixteen, thirty-two and sixty, and the length a thick panel has to find at those creases is not the published allowance but fifty-nine times it.
Four finders, one option
Four unrelated lineages arriving at the same corrugation is read as evidence that the corrugation is good. It is at least as much evidence that there was nothing else to arrive at: how far a folded sheet shrinks is exactly its average layer count, so a lineage choosing a packing ratio is choosing a number of layers and nothing else — and the quantity that is genuinely free turns out to be almost uncorrelated with it.
The census returns one
The rung below this one asked for a census: every pattern reaching a stated packing ratio while opening from a single input, with its crease density. The census is makeable for the corrugations and it comes back with one member. A corrugation piles its panels over a footprint as wide as its longest panel, so its ratio is the total length divided by that longest one — and that equals the panel count only when every panel is the same.
Two surfaces in one box
A body folds several surfaces into one volume and each of them does a different job. Dividing the depth between them looks like a fair split costing nothing overall, and it is not: the area a single surface can reach goes as the square of the depth it has, so m surfaces sharing a depth reach a total of exactly one m-th of what one of them would have reached alone.
A sheet has a size as well
The layer count a design reaches is fixed by how thin the paper is. What size the finished thing comes out at is fixed by how large the sheet is, through a factor the pattern decides: the folded footprint times the mean layer count is the area of the paper, so the linear shrink is the square root of the layer count and a sixty-four-layer model finished at a hand's width wants more than a metre of sheet.
A nest pays four a level
A corrugation folded inside the panels of another looks like the arrangement that multiplies surface rather than dividing it. It multiplies the factors and divides the depths, and the depths cancel: a packed level can hold at most its depth over four times what it folds, the thing it folds is as thick as the depth the level below was given, and so a nest of L levels reaches at most the box over 4ᴸ sheet thicknesses. One level with the whole box beats any nest of two by exactly four.
A tuck keeps what a gore cuts
A flat disc gathered into a spherical cap has more circumference than the cap, and a gore removes the excess while wet-folding stretches it away. A tuck folds it under, which keeps the sheet whole and turns the excess into thickness. At the rim of a gathered cap the paper is α ⁄ sin α sheets thick on average — π⁄2 for a hemisphere — and a simple tuck is three, so single tucks reach a cap of 130.6° before they run into one another. And because a sphere's circles fall short of a plane's as the cube of the radius, a tuck that follows the sphere widens as the cube too: its edges are curves.
Standing up beats lying down by eight
A level that fills its clearance with plies lying flat makes every ply share the clearance, and the sharing costs a factor of four. A level that fills the same clearance with walls standing on the base gives every member the whole height and charges them only for footing. The ratio is exactly eight, at every clearance and every thickness — and it is the difference between a cost charged against depth and a cost charged against the space beside it.
Six rectangles and one term
Two grafted strips crossing leave one rectangle both features are charged for and neither uses. Three strips crossing two leave six, and the obvious budget adds them up. It does not have to: the six rectangles sum to the product of the two families' total widths, exactly, so a design with any number of features is priced by two numbers rather than by a double sum — and a family of strips in one direction alone carries no crossing term at all, however many of them there are.
The direction that gets longer
A shrink factor below one is a direction in which the folded sheet is bigger than the flat one, and the leaf corrugation has one. The cause is not the taper and not the angle: a corrugation's folded extent across its own creases is a constant of the cell, the same number at two rows and at ten, so the cross factor is the sheet's height divided by a fixed length — a straight line through the origin that crosses one at a definite row count.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
Packing ratioThicknessLayer orderingIdealisationLayer countFolded stateFootprintScalingSurface in a volumeTrade-offUniaxial baseCircle packing