Pli is a folding atelier in the 11th arrondissement. We build window displays, museum commissions and impossible gifts — from single squares of paper, never cut, never glued.
Every crane ever folded is hiding inside every square ever cut. Scroll, and watch the outline make up its mind — the same twelve points, rearranged.
A two-metre horse from one uncut square of kraft. Eleven days of folding, four of arguing with the mane.
A thousand cranes for the children's ward, strung by height so the youngest can reach the lowest wish.
Commissioned to be "almost frightening." Wet-folded so the paper keeps the tension of a held breath.
Dashed. The paper bows toward you — a fold you can fall into.
Dash-dot-dash. The paper turns its back — a ridge line, read from above.
The fold that changes its mind halfway — how every beak and every tail begins.