Omigami

At some point in my childhood, Origami (the art of japanese paper folding) became the cool thing to do. We were all suddenly swept up in a wave of brightly colored square paper, cranes, boxes, frogs and even more ambitious objects. Those of us with less innate folding skills fingers were relegated to the production of origami balls and simple birds. Of course, when other people in our classes would come to school with flocks of delicate interlinked cranes, my pals and I knew that it was time to get serious. Getting serious meant buying origami books. Origami books meant that we were introduced to the bewildering world of origami instructions. I am convinced that there is some unspoken rule among Origami instruction authors that the diagrams be as obtuse and frustrating as possible. I suspect that such authors are sadists and psychopaths. Anyway, the instructions always start out with the square of paper that looks comfortingly like the paper that you would have in front of you. Then there would be a series of increasingly complex intermediates, and at some point (usually quite soon), you would realize that your little crumpled ball of paper with the odd pointy crease did not look anything like the instructions. You would dutifully unfold, refold and if you were lucky get one step further. All the while your gaze would be drawn to the final product. Sometimes it was the only image rendered in full color. It would be there taunting you.

Why do I bring this up? Zoe and Alex recently received some beautiful origami paper, and my job is to fold them into "Omigami", as Zoe calls them. As I have become more ambitious in my folds, I have re-experienced the frustration and inadequate finger dexterity of my youth. It's like Proust's madeline, but I'm not eating anything, and with frustration. How can I refuse though, when Alex comes trundling into the room shaking a beautiful gold and red print origami paper at me with expectant eyes, asking for a oiseau.