Leaf folding — the series
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A leaf packs by corrugating
A corrugation is the cheapest fold there is — parallel creases, no interior vertex to think about — and a leaf that uses one has to taper it, because a leaf is broad in the middle. Which direction the taper is allowed to run turns out not to be a matter of taste.
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The bud chooses the pattern
Nothing in the geometry of a corrugation says how many folds it should have. The container does: too few folds is a strip too wide to fit, too many is a stack too thick to fit, and the window that fits at all is narrow and has a best point in the middle of it.
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Opening with nothing to pull
A leaf is not opened by a hand, a hinge or a motor. It opens because it keeps growing — which puts a condition on the pattern that no folder ever has to satisfy, because a person can always push.
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Twice as thick where it is thickest
A folded leaf's thickness is quoted as an area calculation: so much lamina, so much footprint, so many layers on average. The average is not what has to fit in the bud. Sampling the folded state of corrugated leaf patterns of two to five rows gives a deepest point of eight, twelve, sixteen and twenty layers against averages of 4.15, 6.23, 8.31 and 10.39 — a ratio of 1.926 that does not move at all.
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A leaf ends its pattern
A hornbeam leaf's corrugation does not stop at the margin by being cut off: the pleats narrow until there is nothing left of them, and the margin is where the pattern reaches zero rather than where it was interrupted. The same is available to a drawn pattern and costs nothing — a corrugation tapered by a factor of eighty-two across its columns folds with a Kawasaki residual of 4×10⁻¹⁶, exactly as an untapered one does, because the column widths never enter the condition.
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The taper decides nothing
A leaf's corrugation narrows toward its margin, and the taper is what the pattern is for. It has no effect whatever on how often the pattern's letters agree with themselves: four width profiles from perfectly even to strongly tapered give a hundred and seventy-four consistent letterings of two hundred, identically. What moves the number is the count of rows, and on that measure a leaf tracks a Miura rather than the corrugation it most resembles.
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The leaf's rules are the Miura's
A plicate leaf packs into a corrugation that is broad in the middle and narrow at both ends. Enumerate every repeating mountain-valley rule it admits and the table is the Miura fold's table, rule for rule, number for number — and it stays that table when the leaf is redrawn with even columns, a violent taper, taller rows or a steeper zigzag. The plant's geometry cannot reach its own letters.
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The plant's pattern is not a hard case
A hornbeam leaf packs into its bud by corrugating, and the pattern it uses gives up a consistent lettering at nine, twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty and twenty-four steps on nine, twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty and twenty-four panels. Nothing about the plant's problem is combinatorially difficult, and saying so is worth as much as finding a case that is.
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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.