Tessellation — where it appears
Named by 51 essays across 8 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
One vertex, repeated
Take a single flat-foldable vertex and tile the plane with it. The sheet stops being a sheet and becomes a material — with a stiffness, a packing behaviour and a Poisson's ratio that the paper never had.
Where the paper stops
Every flat-folding theorem is a statement about a full turn of paper, so a vertex at the edge of the sheet is subject to none of them. Cutting a patch out of a pattern removes conditions rather than preserving them, and a small enough patch has almost none left.
The base that tiles
The waterbomb base is the first thing most people fold and the last thing they think about. Repeat it across a sheet and it becomes a tessellation with two kinds of vertex, an assignment that has to be searched for rather than remembered, and a folded state thirty-two times smaller than the paper.
A unit that folds is not a tessellation
Of the 512 repeating rules for the waterbomb tessellation, 56 pass every condition on a two-by-two patch and 32 pass on every larger one. The twenty-four that die were never foldable — the small patch simply contained one of the four kinds of vertex the pattern makes, and the failures were at the other three.
Any tiling makes a twist
A twist tessellation is usually drawn, admired and copied. It can be derived instead: hand the construction any tiling of the plane and it returns a crease pattern that folds flat, with the twist polygons' shapes forced by the tiling's own angles and nothing left to choose but how large and how turned.
Where two twists share a pleat
Every twist tessellation the tradition draws has one size of twist, because every tiling it is drawn on has one kind of vertex. Hand the construction a tiling with two, and the pleat between a large twist and a small one turns out to fix their sizes exactly — three to one, and nothing else folds.
Fenced at both ends
The twist angle of a tessellation looks like a free dial, and it is fenced twice. Turn too far and the pleats have no paper left. Turn too little and something stranger happens: every angle condition in the subject goes on holding and the pattern loses its mountain-valley assignment entirely.
The corrugation that curves
A Miura is a flat sheet that becomes a flat slab. Open its straight creases into a fan and the same construction gives a corrugation that wraps a cone — exactly a cone, with every straight crease passing through one point to fifteen decimal places, at every moment of the fold, with the apex travelling as the sheet closes.
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.
Thirty-two rules, one object
Five hundred and twelve repeating rules for the waterbomb tessellation, fifty-six that pass on a small patch, thirty-two that pass on one containing every kind of vertex. Fold all thirty-two and compare their panels: the same panels, in the same places, with the same areas, every time. The rules are thirty-two labels on one object, and a count of them has counted the labels.
Four ways to draw a pattern
Every sentence here of the form over some crease patterns is a statement about a construction nobody declared, and it is worse than the same problem at a vertex because a pattern has a shape as well as angles. Four ways of producing a pattern that satisfies every condition disagree about how far it shrinks by a factor of twelve, about how much creasing it costs by a factor of six, and about how much of it is edge by a factor of two.
Thirty-two rules, thirty-two pieces
The waterbomb tessellation's surviving repeating rules fold to one object — same panels, same places, same areas. Put them in the space of letterings the patch admits and they occupy thirty-two different pieces of a quarter of a million, so no two of them can be reached from one another without unfolding the sheet.
A proof in one pass
Deciding whether a crease pattern has a flat folded state is hard, and the search that decides it gives up at twenty-four panels. One line of the same machinery does not search at all: each crease says which of the two panels it joins lies above the other, and a circle in what those statements demand is a proof that no folded state exists. It costs one pass over the crease list, and on a tessellation patch of a hundred and fifty-seven panels it answers in milliseconds.
The loop is not the tangle
A search that finds a contradiction in a pattern's letters reports the first circle it meets, and on a tessellation patch that is eight to twelve panels of forty-nine. It reads as a local fault. Decompose the same arrows a second way and the set of panels that lie on some circle is thirty-five of forty-nine on the square patch and ninety-nine of a hundred and fifty-seven on the rhombille — which is why the smallest available repair does not reach it, and cannot be tried on most of the creases at all.
Letters that agree get rarer
Two hundred letterings drawn independently from a square twist tessellation patch, and twenty-six of them have letters that do not contradict themselves. On the next patch up it is five, then two, then none, then none. What the share falls with is not the size of the patch and not the angle of its twist: it is the number of independent closed chains its panels form, which is Euler's relation on the drawing and is fixed before a single letter is chosen.
A corrugation agrees with itself
A Miura fold of forty-eight panels and a twist tessellation patch of forty-nine have almost exactly the same number of independent closed chains for their letters to contradict themselves round — thirty-five against thirty-six. Sixty-four per cent of the Miura's drawn letterings are consistent and thirteen per cent of the patch's. A Yoshimura at thirty-three chains manages ninety-three. The room to fail sets the scale; the construction decides where in it a pattern lands.
The rule that breaks the count
The waterbomb tessellation has five hundred and twelve repeating rules for its letters and thirty-two of them fold. A hundred and twenty of the other four hundred and eighty send four panels round in a circle — the shortest circle a crease pattern can have — and every single one of those hundred and twenty has broken Maekawa's count at the very vertex the circle goes round. The theorem that closes the shortest circle, caught doing it, a hundred and twenty times.
The crease the drawing cannot show
Twelve creases on a printed crease pattern are eight millionths of a sheet long. They are in every count the collection takes of that patch, they pass every theorem, and no printer resolves them and no hand folds them. They are also the only thing holding the folded sheet together.
A patch on a knife edge
The tessellation patch this collection prints has twelve creases nobody can see. Move the pitch of its tiling by five thousandths and they are gone — and so is a whole ring of twists. The patch sits exactly on the moment a ring of the pattern passes through the edge of the sheet, and the blemish is what that moment looks like.
A region with no lettering
One turn angle at which a tessellation patch has no consistent lettering was found by sweeping a dial. Sweeping two dials finds nine patches with none, across three tilings, filling a corner of the parameter space — and never touching the square tiling, whose sectors have no sixty degrees to cross.
A population nobody chose
Five crease patterns were measured over and over because somebody had drawn five. Ninety-six drawn from a stated grid of tiling, turn and pleat width say something the five could not: nine of them have no consistent lettering at all, and the phenomenon the collection had spent so long measuring belongs to the one tiling the grid leaves out.
The dial and the tiling that is not alike
Four of the five tilings a twist tessellation can be built on behave identically under every dial the construction has. The fifth has two kinds of vertex, and everything about it is different: it is the only one whose search has a tail, the only one whose shallow patches take minutes to draw, and the only one where a distance has to be solved rather than assumed.
The shortest crease is not a crease
A crease pattern's density is usually quoted as total crease length over sheet area, which treats a metre of folding as a metre whether it arrives as one long line or ten thousand short ones. Reading the lengths individually instead finds twelve creases on a printed patch that are shorter than a wavelength of light.
The edge is what makes it hard
Grids, crumples, leaves, corrugations and fold-and-cut patterns all give up a consistent lettering at one step per panel with no wrong guess anywhere. The one family that does not is a tessellation clipped to a square, and what separates it from the others is not disorder, not size and not irregularity. It is having a rim.
What the rim was doing
One rectangle of a twist tessellation, cut out of the plane in the ordinary way, gives up a consistent lettering in forty-eight steps. Join its opposite edges so that no crease is divided and the same drawing, at the same vertices, under the same conditions, takes fifty-six thousand seven hundred and seventy-two. The edge of the paper was never the difficulty. It was the slack.
A loop that goes somewhere
Every crease says which of its two panels lies above the other, and a loop in those statements is a proof that the pattern has no flat folded state. On a sheet with no edge that sentence is false. The loops of a periodic pattern carry a lattice step each, and a loop that ends one cell to the right is not a contradiction — it is a stack of paper with no bottom layer.
The lettering that was proved impossible
A search closed its whole tree on a glued square tessellation and reported that no mountain-and-valley assignment of it is consistent. Written onto ordinary patches of one, four and nine periods and handed to the four vertex theorems and a folded sheet rebuilt from scratch, the assignment it says cannot exist passes every check, on four tilings, up to fifteen hundred creases.
A sheet with no edge
A twist tessellation repeats, so a rectangle of it is a description of the whole plane rather than a piece of paper. Joining the rectangle's opposite sides makes that explicit and produces an object every gate in this collection can read: twenty-five drawn panels become sixteen, forty crease pieces become thirty-two, sixteen vertices are all interior, and the three counts add to nothing.
The rim is four letters a cell
Cut a rectangle out of a tessellation and it asks exactly the vertices the tessellation asks, exactly the same questions. What it adds is four free letters for every period of edge — the creases the cut divides, which become two independently answerable creases instead of one. Eight letters on a two-period square, sixteen on a four-period one, and nothing else about the two objects differs at all.
The bottom layer is at the rim
A hundred and sixty-nine panels of folded tessellation, and three of them have nothing underneath. All three touch the paper's edge, and the same is true on every tiling at every size measured. Which panel is at the bottom of a stack turns out to be a fact about where the sheet was cut rather than about the pattern, and the pattern itself has no bottom at all.
Pruning on proofs alone
A search that discards a branch it cannot prove wrong is not a search. Deciding whether a periodic pattern's layer relations really contradict themselves is far dearer than the disc's one-pass test, so the cheap test is asked first — it is sufficient, so it settles almost everything — and the expensive one runs only on what the cheap one rejects. Five of nine steps on a small cell, fifty thousand of fifty-seven on a large one.
The cost of proving something false
A search closing its whole tree is the strongest result this collection can produce, and on a glued tessellation it produces one that is wrong. What it costs to reach is three steps at one period, thirty-five at four, three thousand four hundred and fifty-five at nine, and more than two hundred thousand at sixteen — growing far faster than the cost of finding the lettering it says does not exist.
Where you cut hardly matters
Slide the same rectangle across one whole period of the same tessellation and every position gives a different patch: different creases divided, different half-panels round the edge, panel counts from forty-nine to sixty-one. The cost of lettering them runs from twenty-five steps to thirty-three. Whether a cut is made changes the answer by three orders of magnitude; where it falls changes it by a third.
The most decided vertex here
Sixteen ways to letter four creases; Maekawa allows eight; the big-little-big lemma allows four. A twist polygon's corner is one of the few vertices in this collection where the second cut applies, so it keeps four labellings where a grid, a leaf, a Miura and a crumple all keep eight — and the family the collection long called difficult turns out to be the one whose conditions decide the most.
Folding it flat is one similarity
Where a cell of paper goes when a twist tessellation collapses is a scale and a turn: multiply the plane's lattice by 0.410373441 and rotate it by 36.62°. That is the answer on the square grid, the triangular grid, the honeycomb, the elongated triangular tiling and the rhombille alike, agreeing to eight figures — while the collection's other answer to how much smaller it gets gives those five tilings five different numbers.
The edge was not what made it hard
Five families of pattern searched at one step per panel and a tessellation patch did not, and the property left standing after four alternatives were killed was having a rim. Measured under a fixed letter order the patches cost between a half and two-thirds of a step per panel, at every tiling and every size — below the line rather than above it, and the rim is why.
A count is not a length
Cut a rectangle out of a tessellation and it reports fifty per cent more creases than the pattern has, then twenty-five, then seventeen — converging on the truth from above and never reaching it. The crease length per unit area it reports is exact at every size, because the two halves of a divided crease add back up. One measurement survives the cut and the other does not.
An order with no least element
Enumerating every way a folded pattern can be stacked works by building upward from a panel with nothing below it. The smallest square twist patch has exactly one such stacking and takes eleven thousand steps to find it. The pattern that patch was cut from has no panel with nothing below it at all, so the enumeration has nothing to start from — and the sheet is perfectly well stacked anyway.
A test imported without its hypothesis
The rule that a loop in a folded sheet's layer relations proves the pattern cannot fold arrives from the layer-ordering literature, where the sheet is a disc and the panels are finitely many. This collection took the rule and not the sentence that says which sheets it is about, then applied it for years to patterns whose whole interest is that they repeat.
Nothing grown was cut out of anything
A leaf's corrugation costs twelve steps on twelve panels, sixteen on sixteen, twenty on twenty, twenty-four on twenty-four — exactly one per panel at every geometry, which is the most any pattern here costs. A tessellation patch costs half that, and the reason is that somebody cut it out of something. A leaf's creases stop at the margin because the plant stopped there.
The period nobody measured
Every repeating pattern in this collection has its drawn period recorded, because a drawing cannot be generated without one. Its folded period is recorded nowhere, and on one of the families measured the two differ by a factor of three — which means the number that has always been quoted is the wrong one for anything about the folded object.
A tessellation on a cylinder
A twist tessellation has been drawn here as a patch and as a torus, and never as anything in between. Gluing one pair of a cell's edges gives the family its first sheet with exactly two edges — the shape every folded tube actually has, and the only object in the collection that can say whether the rim's cost is linear in how much rim there is.
The seam that is not a symmetry
Gluing a cell's edges looks like a symmetry of the drawing and is not. It is an instruction about which points of the paper are the same point, the drawing has to agree with it along the whole of a glued edge, and a rectangle that is not a period of the pattern does not glue at all — which turns out to be the only real restriction on which cylinders exist.
A metamaterial with no edge
A folded metamaterial's properties are quoted per unit cell, because a material is supposed to be the same everywhere and a cell is supposed to stand for the whole of it. Every cell this collection has measured has been cut out of a patch, with a rim round it — and a rim is the one place a repeating material is not like itself.
The symmetry a gluing adds
A patch of a tessellation has whatever symmetry its outline allows — a few reflections, a rotation or two. Glue its edges and it acquires translations, and a lettering of the glued sheet has to be invariant under them. That is a much stronger requirement than a lettering of the patch, and it is why one answer covers every patch at once.
Closing the loops is not folding
The twist construction propagates one equation along every edge of a tiling, and it can only work where the equations agree round every loop. Asked which irregular tilings pass, a linear map gives a clean answer: the square grid, the triangular grid and the honeycomb pass under every shear and stretch tried, because each edge has a half-turn symmetry that makes its equation exactly one at both ends, and a half-turn survives any linear map. The rhombille passes only as drawn. But passing is not folding. On every one of those images — including the ones whose loops close exactly — the construction produces a pattern that fails the angle condition at every turn tried. The loops were a necessary condition all along, and the construction needs something the tilings' images do not give it.
One number where the corners wanted four
The twist construction gives a vertex a single side distance, and every account of these patterns does the same — it is what rotate-and-shrink means. The conditions never asked for it. Written out, the corner condition is one linear equation per pleat crease in the distances taken one per edge, so a degree-four vertex carries four unknowns against two independent equations. Given them back, the twelve sheared and stretched tilings that refused to fold all fold.
Every twist writes an equilibrium
Divide each side of a twist polygon by the length of the edge it faces. The polygon closing says those numbers, weighted onto the edges, balance at the vertex; the pleat matching says the two ends of an edge agree on the number. Together they are a positive equilibrium stress — the thing a tiling has when it is the plan of a spider web — and the construction has been writing one at every vertex without being asked for it.
The sheet draws in crooked
Every twist tessellation measured here has collapsed by a similarity: the folded sheet is the flat one scaled and turned, the same way in every direction. The patterns that exist on sheared and stretched tilings do not. Ten of the fifteen images fold by a map with two different principal factors, up to five and a third to one — and the prediction that said which ten, made from the weights the pattern writes on its edges, is wrong in both directions.
The plane the five points were in
Five corrugations measured at one setting each gave five points, and the space between them was left as an open question: forbidden, or merely unvisited. Every one of those patterns has a dial nobody turned. Turned, they trace curves — the accordion's is a line with integers on it, the square twist's is the diagonal and nothing else, and the Miura's turns round on itself, so a steeper slant stops buying a smaller sheet.
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.
PeriodicityAssignmentPanelTwistBoundaryInterior vertexUnit cellCrease patternLayer orderingTilingBoundary vertexConstraint