I’ve spent the entirety of my career as an origamist copying the works of masters, and hence have always hesitated to describe myself as an artist. This experience is far from uncommon among the somewhat niche community of paper-folders.

Indeed, progression through the discipline is also a progression through history. Since opening my father’s ancient cloth-bound origami book, a decade of paper-folding has flung me through a century of the art. From timelessly iconic traditional designs such as the crane and butterfly, through the progressive works of Akira Yoshizawa (the so-called ‘Grandmaster of Origami’), I’ve finally found myself exploring origami’s diverse modernist landscape.

Yoshizawa popularised the current ruleset: a single square, no cuts. The artists of today create pieces which are utterly alien in comparison to the paper crane, truly pushing the topologically infinite bounds of what is possible with a square of paper. Models such as Satoshi Kamiya’s Ryujin seem impossible to fold, let alone design. But with the rise of social media and mathematical advancements (e.g., Robert Lang’s TreeMaker programme), accessing design tools and models has never been easier.

“The artists of today truly push the topologically infinite bounds of what is possible with a square of paper”

Unfortunately, the struggles of a mathematics degree leave me with little time to pursue this passion. When a single model can easily take 20-or-more hours of work, it’s difficult to rationalise sacrificing this time to connect with the art during the academic year. However, Cambridge generously offers us three months of summer holiday in which we can forget about essays, example sheets, and exams.

This summer, a prudently saved student loan allowed me to spend a couple of weeks in Japan with my siblings. Among a hundred other activities on a packed itinerary was a visit to Ochanomizu Origami Kaikan: six floors of workshops, exhibits, and paper. After getting to see the Kaikan director Kobayashi Kazuo excitedly show off his own work, I returned home with invigorated enthusiasm and a bulk purchase of beautiful, handcrafted papers. A crease pattern was chosen, and a few days were set aside.

One night, a week after returning from Asia, I was sitting at the dinner table with a close friend and my mum. My mother is a skilled landscape artist, who has spent the last year studying abstract art in college. We discussed a particular landscape which we agreed was a standout among her other pieces and yet hadn’t sold in recent exhibitions, while other paintings had.

“There’s something terrifying about taking your emotions and channelling them into something tangible”

My friend – an arts student – pointed out that the painting lacked emotion, encouraging her to step out of her comfort zone and create art which communicates a personal message. For an artwork to be brilliant, it must both be technically genius and genuinely expressive. She certainly has the skills, but hasn’t applied those ideas to exhibition pieces, preferring to stick to what feels safe. She maybe worries others wouldn’t enjoy a more expressive artwork. But a piece will never mean anything to anyone if it doesn’t mean something to someone. That someone may as well be you.

After some introspection, I realised I was in the exact same position: wielding enough ability to create something which was my own, but lacking the bravery to try. There’s something terrifying about taking your emotions and channelling them into something tangible, which can be judged by others. So, in the days scheduled for paper-folding, I threw away my plans of copycatting, and spent thirty hours bringing to life my own vision. Inspired by my personal search for peace in a demanding and unforgiving world, as well as symbolism encountered during my visit to the memorial in Hiroshima, I designed and folded a model which I feel truly proud of.

A square of paper, and a little bravery, has given me the most rewarding artistic experience of my life so far. It has imbued me with the confidence and the freedom to turn my discipline into art, which is authentically and unapologetically my own.