Paper as substrate — the series
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The paper had to arrive first
A model with sixty-four layers at its thickest point, folded in ordinary copier paper, is six and a half millimetres of stack. The layer count a design can reach is fixed by the substrate, not by the folder — so the elaborate tradition is downstream of a manufacturing achievement with its own dates.
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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.
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Which ceiling is binding
Two constraints hold a design's layer count down and both are ceilings on the same number. The stack gets better as the paper thins; the grid gets better as the sheet grows, because piling layers needs divisions and a division cannot be finer than a folder can place it. They cross at a sheet size that rises as the paper thins — so on the papers a classical folder had, the substrate really is the limit, and only at tissue weights does the hand take over.
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A sheet is as large as two arms
A model's finished size is its sheet divided by the square root of its layer count, so a sixty-four-layer model at a hand's width wants more than a metre of paper. A hand-made sheet is formed on a mould somebody lifts out of a vat and shakes, and what that bounds is an area rather than a thickness: over the whole plausible range of mould weights and what arms can do repeatedly, the largest square sheet runs from about half a metre to about two. The demand and the bound are the same sizes, which is the one thing about them nobody has to know the constants to see.
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The paper that will not hold a crease
Every constraint these essays have found improves as the paper gets thinner: the stack, the size, the layer count. A crease does not. A crease is a plastic hinge in the fibres at the fold, and a sheet one fibre thick has nothing through its thickness to hinge — so there is a floor under the thickness that no manufacturing skill moves, because the fibre diameter is a constant of the plant. The papers a tradition folds sit between one and a half fibres and four, and the two below that in this collection's own shelf are tissues, which are backed with foil before anybody creases them.
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Eighty layers and the sheet decides the rest
Five of these essays each bound one thing and none of them bounds a design. Put together they close. The crease floor fixes the thinnest usable paper at about a fibre and a half; that paper's stack runs out at eighty layers; the largest sheet two arms can make falls away as the square of the finished size. The region under both is every model anybody can fold, and it has a ceiling at eighty layers and a corner at about a hand's width — above which the paper is no longer the limit and the vat is.
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The deepest point pays for the paper
A folded design uses its sheet according to its mean layer count and its paper according to its deepest point, and the ratio of the two is a property of the crease pattern. Measured on every printed pattern it runs from exactly one to nearly six — and it does not split tessellations from bases, as expected. It splits patterns whose every panel lies over every point from patterns that keep a footprint with structure in it. The ratio moves the corner of the substrate map by its square root, so the fold-and-cut triangle can reach the paper's eighty layers at 326 millimetres where the preliminary base must stop at 134.