Thirteen Ways of Looking at an Origami Bird

13 Ways of Looking at an Origami Bird

by Marcus

 

I.

I never design models like this.

I have spent so much time exploring technique, finding thinner and stronger papers, tackling complicated crease patterns, and so on. I’ve been endlessly searching for the ability to make any statement I want to in origami. But in this design, I simply make a statement, and it seems to be enough.

 

II.

The last model I designed was easily the most complicated one: Otachi, a kaiju from the movie Pacific Rim. I honestly wasn’t particularly satisfied with the model, which is probably why I haven’t tried to make anything like it since. It’s a relic of an earlier, teenage Marcus, obsessed with virtuosity to the point of neglecting artistry. This model is me rejecting that phase, like a little baby kaiju bursting out of its dead mother’s body. (Sorry for the slightly gross image. Also the spoilers.)

 

III.

I can’t help but think of another origami artist, Giang Dinh, when I look at this model. In many ways this bird is an echo of his minimalistic style. Yet it also isn’t. Where Giang Dinh molds his figures with soft curves, this bird is stark and angular. The curves that do exist are a by-product of the very precisely made straight lines. But it accomplishes mostly the same thing: it has just enough to suggest a bird, without stating it outright. Or, from another point of view, not quite enough to suggest a bird without the title stating it outright for you.

 

IV.

I think the more deliberate reference is to a model by Yoshizawa, the Puppy. I’ve written about the Puppy before, and I admire that model for its simplicity and its adaptability. Those qualities are the ones I directly tried to emulate. Where I think the Five-Crease Bird sets itself apart from both Yoshizawa and Giang Dinh is its use of partial creases and weird approximations, which I have yet to see other folders exploit in an interesting way.

 

V.

I think I’ve truly accomplished a goal I never intended to and made a model you can’t wet-fold. Now strictly speaking, that’s impossible, since wet-folding is a technique that can be applied to any model. But I think attempting to wet-fold this model would only ever make it worse. Every curve is a product of the tension between the straight lines and the uncreased regions of the paper. What can wet-folding do but disrupt those relations, and ruin the shape of the model?

 

VI.

But while you can’t wet-fold this model, you should still care about paper choice. While it is simple enough to theoretically be folded with any kind of paper, I designed it with a very specific wax paper in mind. Few papers can retain a sharp crease as well as this one; I plan to conduct some experiments on what other mediums might work for it.

 

VII.

The reverse fold that constitutes the head can be folded at an angle of less than 45° to the body. It can be folded at an angle of more than 45°. But it may never, ever, be folded at an angle of exactly 45°. If you do, it’s quite literally too square. Strangely enough, even a slight angle—in either direction—takes it so much farther expressively.

 

VIII.

And then, somehow, it’s also a flapping bird? Making this model out of a larger paper actually grants the ability to do this:

IX.

Okay, fine, one more comparison. You know what this really looks like? Samuel Randlett’s Flapping Bird, one of my favorite models. It’s simple, but in a different way from Giang Dinh or Yoshizawa. Of all the works I’ve cited as influences, the Randlett Flapping Bird is uniquely abstract and geometric, which clearly carries over into the Five-Crease Bird. In that way, it’s even simpler than Giang Dinh, who cares about simplicity but would never fold something like this. Obviously, there is a great deal of technique in creating expressive curved folds, and it's a technique that he has mastered. But it's one he clearly considers essential. That makes me think: Everyone has a kind of simplicity limit, a point past which they will not reduce their creations. So what’s Giang Dinh’s limit? What was Yoshizawa’s? And what’s mine?

 

X.

I never write about my own models like this.

For one, it kind of just feels self-indulgent. But also, with most of the things I create, there just isn’t much to think about. I guess I’m becoming a better folder? Or a better writer? Or it could be both. Or maybe all this philosophizing is nonsense and I am being self-indulgent.

 

XI.

I’ve spoken about improvisation before on this blog, and the places that it can take you when you’re folding. This model came out of a little improv session: I saw a piece of paper, fiddled with it, and before I knew it, a bird showed up. I fine-tuned the details later, but the core of this model—the soul that binds it together—is completely spontaneous, absent any conscious thought or effort to design something.

 

XII.

So maybe I can write about it because, when we really think about it, it isn’t my model. It came into being, and I happened to be there at the right time. It’s a creation not of my mind, but of the universe itself. I didn’t make this model and I don’t own it. What am I doing, then, holding this thing as if it’s so precious and talking to myself about it?

 

XIII.

In the end, I can tell you all sorts of ways to look at this origami bird, but if you really want to understand it, get up from your computer and just fold it! Here, I’ll even show you how. (I’ve never drawn diagrams before—this was a lot of fun to make.)