Designing a base

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.

Packing is the hard part

Once a subject is a set of circles, designing the model is fitting them into a square. That step has no general algorithm, no known optimum, and it is where every remaining difficulty in origami design now sits.

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.

How much paper is wasted

The efficiency of a design is the fraction of the sheet its flaps can claim, and for almost every number of flaps nobody knows the best possible value. The bars in these figures are the best a search could find, which is not the same thing.

Designing on a grid

Box pleating gives up the efficiency of a free packing and buys creases that land where they are supposed to. For a design with hundreds of folds that is not a compromise — it is the only thing that makes it foldable.

Every flap on one axis

The tree method does not design a shape. It designs a base whose flaps all lie along a single line — and that restriction, which is almost never stated aloud, is what makes the circle argument true.

From a packing to a crease pattern

The circles say where the flaps are. They do not say where to fold, and the step in between is a construction rather than a search — two families of crease, both determined by the packing, neither of them visible in the picture of the discs.

The last free parameter

Once the packing is fixed, one number is left in the whole design: how far a leftover polygon can be shrunk before it stops being a polygon. Everything else about the crease pattern has already been decided.

The molecule that does not exist

The universal molecule fills any convex polygon, always, which is what makes it the part of the tree method with no special cases. Hand it a reflex corner and it does not produce a worse pattern — it produces nothing, and the difficulty moves backwards to whoever chose the polygons.

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.

When symmetry costs

Design software and designers both reach for symmetry, and for a good reason: it makes the search enormously easier. It is a heuristic and not a theorem, and how much it gives away can be measured — including the case where the optimum is symmetric about an axis nobody imposed.

The square is a choice

Every packing on this site has been into a square, because origami paper is sold square. Hold the area fixed and vary the shape instead and the efficiency turns out to be spiky rather than smooth — with the same peak value at every proportion that is a ratio of two factors of the flap count, and nowhere else.

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.

The corner is worth four times the middle

A flap consumes every point of paper within its own length of its tip — but only the paper that is actually there. On an edge of the sheet that is half a disc, and in a corner a quarter, so the same flap costs four different prices depending on where it stands and the boundary is the cheapest paper on the sheet.

What the grid settles

Box pleating is usually defended as a trade: give up efficiency, buy creases that land where they should. There is a second thing it buys and nobody quotes it — on a lattice the best possible packing is a finite question with an answer, while off the lattice nobody knows the best packing of six circles in a square and probably never will.

The flap nobody holds

An optimal packing is presented as an answer: here are the circles, here is where they go. For some numbers of flaps that is not what it is. The best arrangement of seven discs in a square leaves one of them free to wander over an eleventh of the sheet without changing the answer at all — and the algorithm reports one point of that region and stops.

Spelling a tree on a grid

Box pleating asks every limb of a design to be a whole number of grid squares, which sounds like rounding and is not. Rounding each limb to its own nearest whole number is one way to choose the numbers, and at most resolutions it is not the best way — the best whole-number version of a subject is often a coarser one, with fewer squares and a shape twice as close.

The skeleton changes its mind

The universal molecule fills any convex polygon, always, which is what makes it the part of the tree method with no special cases. It does not fill it continuously. Slide one corner along its edge and the number of creases in the molecule sits at six, jumps, and sits at seven — so two designs a hairsbreadth apart have crease patterns that are not small variations on one another.

The whole alphabet of a grid

Box pleating is defended as a trade — give up packing efficiency, buy creases that land where they should. There is a third thing it buys and it is much stronger than either: on a forty-five degree grid there are exactly six kinds of interior vertex a flat-foldable design can contain, ever. On a thirty degree grid there are thirty.

The second term

A feature grafted into a finished design costs exactly the paper slid in for it, and the bill has one term. Add a second feature across the first and it has two: the rectangle where the strips cross is paper both features are charged for and neither uses. At a strip a fifth of the sheet wide it is nine per cent of the bill; at four fifths it is nearly a third.

Decided before the design

A colour change brings the reverse side of the paper to the front, and the usual account is that the two-colouring of the panels decides which panels are available. Measured on the site's own printed patterns, availability is not the constraint: both sides lie over more than ninety-nine per cent of most folded footprints. The other side is not scarce. It is under eight layers of paper.

The shapes the optimum has

Requiring a circle packing to be its own mirror image halves the number of coordinates a search has to find, so the same effort covers a much smaller space. Whether that helps depends on something the search cannot know in advance — whether the best packing was symmetric — and measured flap count by flap count the answer alternates without a pattern anybody could use.

The other grid

Box pleating is drawn at forty-five degrees, and the twenty-two-and-a-half-degree grid is usually described as the same thing done finer. It is not a refinement, it is a different alphabet: five kinds of vertex become fifty-six, and the share of letterings whose decision needs a search falls from 60 per cent to 22. A finer grid is a larger vocabulary and a less ambiguous one.

Two packings, one radius

A packing search reports a number, and the number is not the design. What a crease pattern is built from is the graph of which discs touch which — and at five and six flaps, runs of the same search that agree about the best radius to four decimal places come back with contact graphs that are provably not the same graph. The answer an optimiser gives has not determined the pattern it is supposed to have found.

The symmetry the letters cannot keep

Every pattern in this subject is drawn symmetric and the symmetry is always quoted of the drawing. A folded object is a drawing and a lettering together, so a symmetry survives only if the letters keep it — and the preliminary base loses every rotation while the square twist, drawn with the same eight, loses the other half.

A hole is cheap paper

A flap claims every point of paper within its own length of its tip, but only the paper that is actually there — so an edge is half price and a corner a quarter. A hole in the middle of the sheet is more edge, and holding the area fixed, a square with a hole in it is cheaper paper than a solid square at every flap length measured.

Which side arrives

A colour change is described as a choice: bring the reverse of the sheet to the front where the design wants it. On a pattern whose panels can be ordered, nobody chooses. The preliminary base shows the side that started face up over one part in a thousand of its own footprint, and two of its eight panels are the only ones in view at all.

Spending the cheap paper

A hole makes a sheet cheaper by the square inch, because a flap against its rim claims only half a disc. Whether a design can spend that was left open, because no packing search here could express a region that is not paper. It can now, and the mechanism turns out not to be the discount at all: across a hole, two flaps may overlap, and two tips three fifths of a sheet apart carry flaps of 0.500 rather than 0.300.

The corner that splits the shrink

The universal molecule fills a convex polygon by shrinking it, and at a corner that turns back the shrink does something no convex polygon does: the region breaks in two. That event can now be computed — the skeleton of a non-convex outline is available here for the first time, and it is what lets one straight cut reach a star. It does not give the molecule back, because a molecule needs the shrinking region to stay one piece and a split is exactly the moment it stops.

A notch is not a hole

Remove the same rectangle of paper from the middle of a square and from its edge, and the two sheets are not worth the same. The hole is cheaper paper at every flap length measured — 4.71% cheaper than a plain square of equal area against the notch's 2.58% — because what a cut is worth is rim with paper on both sides of it, and a notch spends one of its four sides on an edge the sheet already had.

A tree cannot argue

A molecule fills a polygon with creases taken from its straight skeleton, and a straight skeleton is a tree. So a molecule's panels have almost no closed chains for its letters to contradict themselves round — one to three, against thirty-six on the smallest tessellation patch. Two hundred and eighty independent letterings across seven outlines, including an L and a five-pointed star, and not one of them disagrees with itself.

What a grid costs in circuits

Box-pleating puts every crease on a square grid, and a square grid is the shape with the most short circuits per panel that this collection draws. On the sixteen-by-sixteen grid a designer actually works on, one mountain-valley labelling in a hundred agrees with itself. A search still finds one in two hundred and sixty-one steps.

Ninety-nine in a hundred pass

A designer checks a box-pleated pattern the way every text teaches: vertex by vertex, counting mountains and valleys, watching the smallest sector. At sixteen divisions that check passes a hundred letterings in a hundred, and one of them folds. The check that separates them costs a single sweep over the crease list and is in no recipe anywhere.

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.

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.

The designer's grid is the dearest thing here

Two hundred and fifty-six panels of box-pleating grid take two hundred and fifty-six search steps to letter — exactly one per panel, at every size from two divisions to sixteen, with not one decision withdrawn. That is the most any pattern in this collection costs per panel of paper. A twist tessellation costs half of it, and a tilted corrugation a quarter.

A sheet with two edges

Design in this subject starts from a square, and the square's four edges are where every flap ends and every construction begins. A cylinder has two edges instead of four, and what a designer loses turns out to be measurable in the same letters a search counts — and what they gain is that the sheet is what gets manufactured.

The corner premium, with no corners

A square's corners are its most valuable paper: a flap placed there is claimed by a quarter-disc rather than a whole one, so the corner goes four times as far as the middle. A closed sheet has no corners at all, and the accounting that ranks sheet shapes by their corners has nothing left to rank.

A base needs an edge to point at

Every flap of a uniaxial base ends in a point, and every point is made of paper that came from the sheet's boundary. A sheet with no boundary has nowhere for a point to come from, and a sheet with half a boundary can only have points at the half it has left.

A grid glued

Box pleating is the designer's grid: every crease on a line, every angle a right angle or forty-five degrees, and a whole design method built on the convenience of it. Roll the grid into a tube and half the column counts stop folding, on a pattern whose whole selling point is that it always works.

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.

A graft needs a square line

A strip can be slid into a finished crease pattern only along a line every crossed crease meets square, because only such a crease continues across the strip as itself. Tried on every line between the vertex columns and rows of eight printed patterns, four take no strip in either direction and three take one in a single direction. The eighth, the fold-and-cut triangle, appears to take strips both ways, and every line it admits runs through blank margin. No printed pattern takes a strip across its creases in both directions — and one diagonal crease in a plain grid removes exactly the row and the column it sits in.

Every pair, not every circle

A uniaxial base is designed by packing a circle for each flap, and the circles are not the condition. The condition is that every pair of the subject's extremities be separated on the sheet by the distance between them through the tree — which for two flaps meeting at one point is the sum of their lengths, and for two flaps across a body is more. Circles are the case with no body in it, so a design read off circles alone is promised a base sixteen to thirty per cent larger than the sheet can give.

What the condition does not decide

A tree of seven leaves imposes twenty-one separations and eight of them bind. The rest are slack, the eight pin six of the seven leaves against the sheet's own edges, and the seventh can be moved half a per cent of the sheet for nothing. The requirement that looks quadratic is doing linear work, and what it leaves undecided is the part a designer is actually choosing.

The price of a limb is not its length

Lengthening an edge of a subject's tree costs the design some of its scale, and the amount can be measured by re-solving the arrangement. It is not proportional to the edge, and it is not the body that is dearest. On a bird whose wings are twice its legs, the head — nine tenths of a unit against the wings' one and six — costs three times what a wing costs, and two edges of a lizard cost nothing at all.

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.

A design that keeps its lines clear

A strip can be slid in only along a line every crossed crease meets square, so a diagonal crease spends the lines it crosses — and the census of eight printed patterns found four taking no strip in either direction. What decides how fast a design spends them is not how many diagonals it has but which rows and columns they sit in: six diagonals on a six-by-six grid leave twelve clear lines when they share a row and none at all when no two do, from the same six creases and the same amount of paper.

The width is charged in grid

A grafted strip may be any width at all and the bill in paper is exactly width times length, with no second term — which is what the first of these essays established, and is a statement about area. The grid is a different property of the same pattern and it is not conserved: a strip whose width is not a whole number of spacings puts every vertex past the cut onto a finer grid, and a width four per cent away from a spacing divides the grid by twenty-five where a width half a spacing away divides it by two. A width nearly right costs far more than one plainly wrong.

A price holds until the arrangement moves

Every edge of a subject's tree has a price — the scale lost per unit of extra length — and the obvious use of a price list is to spend a fixed total of limb where it is cheapest. Done a tenth of a unit at a time, re-pricing at every step, it works and then stops: the bird's scale rises 6.3 per cent in four steps and no further. But the prices do not hold while it happens. The bird's free tail stops being free after the first tenth, and its legs nearly treble in price without being touched. The lizard's prices hold for four steps, because its arrangement keeps the same three pairs at their limit for four steps. A price is a statement about which pairs are at or near their limit, and it lasts as long as they stay there.

Rounding in the cheap direction

A tree spelled on a grid has every limb rounded to a whole number of units, and the rounding is chosen to keep the subject's proportions. Each rounding is also a small move of length between edges, and the edges have prices. Rounding the bird's dearer edges down and its cheaper ones up gives the largest model of every rounding tried, on grids of four, six and eight units — 2 to 6 per cent larger than rounding to the nearest unit, and larger than the unrounded bird itself on all three. The proportions pay for it, by five points of error on eight units and by thirty-four on six, which is the trade the grid had been making silently in whichever direction the arithmetic happened to fall.

One sheet down

A colour change has been priced by how deep the pile is — eight layers over every point of the preliminary base, six on a small Miura. Ordered, the piles say something else: wherever the other side of the paper lies under a point, it is the next sheet down on every pattern with one folded state, and never more than two down on any. And relettering the same creases cannot reach it. Of 112 letterings of the preliminary base that fold, every one shows either the printed face or the whole face turned the other colour; the square twist's eight only turn its face round.