Fold and Unfold

This article is part of the Claritas fall 2023 issue, Stages. Read the full print release here.

By: Kailyn Liu

Begin with a square sheet of paper.

The book promises that I can transform flat pieces of paper into birds, butterflies, frogs, and flowers. It seems easy enough to do. My love of birds compels me to fold the flying crane first. With a square paper in one hand and newfound determination in the other, I begin my journey. 

Fold in half.

I fold four creases with care and precision, every line of symmetry on the square—two lines lengthwise on the colored side, two lines diagonally on the white side. 

Unfold.

I wonder why I am being told to unfold so soon. Shouldn’t origami begin with folding, not unfolding? 

Collapse on existing creases.

Step 3 confuses me. The paper doesn’t collapse like it should, but my determination does. I keep trying and failing until I give up and hand it to my father. 

Preliminary base. 

He shows me what it meant to collapse the paper into the “preliminary base.” I only know how to fold in half; this fold is three-dimensional, going in eight directions instead of one. I now understand why I have to unfold.

I keep trying, asking my father, and trying again until I have my first origami crane, a model I can enjoy. That could be good enough.

Pull out the wings. The completed Crane.

I fold other models, some simple and some beyond my understanding. I mangle a sheet (or a few) of quality paper trying to understand a step. Pinholes of light peer through the paper, as if taunting me: “You’re not good enough for this.”

After that, my father and my cousin both taught me how to make practice squares from scrap paper. I find the process inconvenient because I would make more progress by getting what I want on the first try. But by having the humility to practice beforehand, I find I can both avoid costly mistakes and focus on the story unfolding (and folding) through each instruction.

Shape as you desire.

The idea of designing my own models is an attractive one. There are so many wonderful creatures in this world that I want to fold. I can easily create a new drawing or LEGO model, but with origami I don’t know where to start. 

I improvise on diagrams I already know: a dragonfly from a crane, a slightly different butterfly (or “moth,” as I call it) from a butterfly. While these small modifications are adequate, I still wonder whether they are good.

My first origami book includes photographs of exceptional models: a lifelike beetle with six legs, elytra, and wings; an ornate Chinese dragon with countless scales. The caption surprises me: “...from a single sheet of paper.” How could anyone create so much with nothing but four corners and four edges? It must be a talent I do not have, so I fold only from instructions.

Fold and unfold… unfold… Fold and unfold.

I memorize a few designs: the crane, the swan, the butterfly, the jumping frog. I discover even more origami diagrams online, and as I fold them I see how those before me used the relationships between creases to make something new. I understand where to unfold before I can fold so that parts of the paper pull on each other to form reverse folds, petal folds, rabbit-ear folds, and more. 

I am comfortable with media like LEGO and clay, because I can freely attach or remove anything. But a piece of paper is one body; no part is independent of the other. I once found this frustrating, but I now find it beautiful.

Fold and unfold, be careful to only crease as shown.

Some origami instructions required much time and many attempts before I could understand them. Those designed by mathematicians in particular require me to read carefully, laying lines in ratios that have been determined by an intellect above my own. If I misplaced these creases, the whole process would make no sense. But even when I think I’ve had enough, it is still worthwhile to come back and prove those little holes in the paper wrong before they could get to me. With persistence and care, I follow the instruction behind the instructions: Imitate me as I imitate an eagle.

The completed Eagle.

At some points, I get tired of origami as my interests and priorities change. It could last years, but something keeps drawing me back to those square pieces of paper. There is always more to try, more to make, more to learn, more to delight in.

To do this fold, much of the model must be unfolded.

It was an article about chopstick wrapper origami in Japan that inspired me to start folding again. As I made little birds and other creatures, I experimented with combining folds until I felt like I was really making new designs. Before, I strived to justify my creativity by forcing the paper into shape with overwrought, small modifications. Now, as I fold I discover treasures in the paper itself. Anytime I see a paper, square or not, what I really see is potential.

Repeat.

My first origami book has an anecdote of an origami master in Japan. He only gave the highest marks to those who folded the models from his instructions exactly, without making any stylistic changes. I think it’s ridiculous–if everyone just copies and copies and copies, innovation will never take place. 

Fold on existing creases.

Now, I understand that story better. Before I created any original designs, I had to learn from instructions. By copying the work of others, I understood how to crease and collapse, how folds and angles behave, and ultimately how to apply the folds I know in new ways. What I assumed was an innate talent was really a learned skill, a matter of obedience. 

But joy, not obedience, motivates me to continue folding. I used to be afraid of anything that I was not already good at. Origami was the exception because the delight of having a crane, eagle, or dragon encouraged me to keep folding correctly. I enjoyed it so much that it grew into a discipline. It is a wondrous thing to be motivated by love.

Why do I enjoy origami so much? I think it is a love given by the God who has filled the earth with His creatures and rejoices over us with singing, who knitted us together and formed us intricately. That mysterious phrase, that He made us “in His own image,” means the joy we find in making little things is only a fraction of the greater joy He has in creating everything, most of all in creating us.

Be careful when folding to make sure the mountain and valley folds are placed correctly. Then the final move will be almost “natural” for the paper.

There is an advanced type of origami called the “crease pattern.” What makes this method special is that before any permanent folds take place, mountain and valley creases are folded and unfolded to mark them in their proper places. Then, when everything is done correctly, the paper should collapse into shape so the intended form can be completed.

In the past, I folded the paper of  my life wherever I wished, but nothing new or interesting came out of it. Then, my Father in Heaven gave me a crease pattern He designed. Not knowing the final result, I go through mountain and valley folds. I don’t always understand the steps, so I need to stop and ask Him for help. Many times I still misplace a crease thinking I know better, but out of the pinholes I made comes no condemnation, only the gracious light of Jesus. I know that His instructions are good, and I seek to simply take Him at His word. Only later may I be able to understand how the lines have fallen for me in pleasant places.

This article appeared in Claritas’ fall 2023 Stages Issue

Source for instructions in bold (and my first origami book):

Gardiner, Matthew. Everything Origami. Hinkler Books, 2008.