Abrasion — where it appears
Named by 23 essays across 7 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
The float decides
How far a thread runs on the face before it goes under is one number, and it sits behind lustre, drape, snagging, abrasion, tear strength and how densely the cloth can be set. Almost nothing else in the subject has that reach.
Balance, and what an unbalanced cloth does
How much of the surface each thread system takes is the mean of the weave matrix, and it is one of the very few quantities in this subject that can be read straight off. Almost nothing that follows from it can.
Floats and abrasion
A satin is said to wear badly. It does not wear quickly — its flat face spreads the rubbing over more thread than a plain weave's crowns do. What it does is fail badly, and those are different quantities moving in opposite directions.
The float in a knit
Five rungs of this anchor have taken the float to be a length of thread on the surface with nothing holding it down. A knit has one too, and it behaves the same way in the light and the opposite way in the hand — because a woven float lengthens its thread and a knitted one shortens its fabric.
Raising spends the cloth's strength
Fibre standing up on the surface is fibre no longer in the load path. A nap is warmth bought with tensile strength, and the exchange rate runs along the same axis as everything else the float decides — which means a fabric cannot be optimised for both ends of it.
The back shaft works hardest
How hard the loom is on a warp end is the product of two numbers from different worlds — how often its column changes sides, which is a property of a binary matrix with no millimetre in it, and the strain of the shaft it happens to be on, which is a property of a machine with no weave in it. Neither knows about the other, and the threading that joins them is a decision nobody makes on structural grounds.
What holds a tuft in, in newtons
The pile ladder computed a tuft's anchorage as a capstan ratio and said, correctly, that a ratio was all it could offer. A ratio multiplies a tension and there was no tension anywhere on this site. There is one now — and the answer, put beside what a carpet is actually specified at, falls short by a factor of three.
A pile is the only surface with no crowns
Every other fabric touches on the tops of curved threads, so its contact vanishes as the load goes to zero and the pressure on what is touching rises without limit. A cut pile touches on flat ends left in one plane by a blade — so its contact is finite at no load at all, its pressure concentration is bounded, and it is the only fabric whose abrasion mass loss is an honest measure of its damage.
A sewing thread is a different animal
It is folded, balanced, lubricated and finished, and every one of those is an answer to a requirement no weaving yarn has. The lubricant is the interesting one: it makes the thread sewable by lowering the friction that was holding its own fibres together.
A cloth loses its strength before its mass
Rub a fabric and it sheds material from all over its surface, but it sheds it from every thread at the same place — and a thread breaks at its thinnest place. So the strength gone is always several times the mass gone, the ratio is computable from the bearing curve, and it is worst for the weave whose crowns are points.
A seam stands proud and wears first
A seam allowance is three plies where the garment is one, so it stands three quarters of a millimetre above a cloth whose own surface has a few micrometres of contact in it. Anything flat rubbed across the garment touches the seam and nothing else — all of the wear on two or three per cent of the area, until a whole thickness of fabric has been crushed.
A hair layer is a balance, not a stock
Singeing takes under one per cent of a cloth's mass and changes its lustre, its friction, its printability and its pilling. It also does not stay done, because rubbing frees fibre ends as fast as it breaks them off, and a flame changes the stock while leaving the balance exactly where it was.
Abrasion takes the hairs first
An abrasion test reports milligrams lost against cycles, and the first milligrams off any fabric are not fabric. On a bare cloth that stage is over in a few thousand cycles. On a napped one it is not over by the end of the test, so a Martindale on a fleece never measures the fleece.
A pill is anchored, not made
Every account of pilling starts with how a ball of fibre forms and stops there, which explains why fabrics pill and not why some of them stay pilled. A pill is not a thing that happens; it is a standing population, and the number on a fabric at any moment is a generation rate times a lifetime.
Where a knot breaks
It breaks at the entry, before the knot has done any gripping at all. Two quantities run along a knot's path and only one of them rises; the other falls from the first millimetre; and their sum is largest where the thread arrives.
A bouclé wears from the loops down
A cloth loses its strength before its mass, because a woven cloth's crowns are the very threads that carry the tension. A bouclé inverts it exactly. Its surface is its loops, its loops hang off a core that carries everything, and 61 per cent of its yarn is on no load path at all — so a rub takes three tenths of a millimetre of thread that does nothing before it reaches anything that does, and the cloth is ruined to look at while it is still as strong as it was woven.
The second binder buys half of everything
A bouclé's loops are held by their binder, and a snag drags thread from one loop to the next until the thread breaks. The essay before it left that reach at seven binder points on one binder and said a second would square the grip. It does — and because the grip is exponential in the wrap and the reach is a logarithm of it, the reach is exactly inverse in the binder count: 7.43 points, then 3.72, then 2.48. Half of everything any number of binders can buy is bought by the second one, which is how many the trade uses.
A ring-dyed yarn whitens all at once
Rub a yarn that is dyed in a ring, and for a while nothing shows. The abrader takes off blue fibre, the cut face is blue, and the yarn looks as it did. Then the cut reaches the undyed core, and the white arrives with a vertical tangent, as the square root of the wear past the ring: one per cent of the radius more and an eighth of the width is white. A ring a fifth of the radius deep hides the first five per cent of the yarn's loss and shows half its width white by thirteen. A yarn dyed through never shows white at all. Denim's high-contrast fading is that threshold, drawn over a cloth.
A float fades late and hard, a crossing early and soft
Wear a ring-dyed face flat and the white arrives where the cut first passes the ring at a crown, which is the same depth for every weave. What differs is how much cloth has gone by then and how fast the white spreads after. A plain weave's crowns are points, cut through by almost nothing: it shows white after a fifth of a per cent of its thread and never shows much. A twill's floats are lines, cut along their length: a 3/1 twill shows nothing until more than one per cent has gone, then whitens faster than any plain weave can, 39 per cent of its face by a tenth worn against plain's 24. Denim's high-contrast fade is a float's; chambray's soft one is a crossing's.
A crease across a twill fades in dashes
A garment is not worn flat. It is worn along its folds, where the ridge of a crease stands out and is rubbed first, so the fade follows the crease. On a ring-dyed 3/1 twill a crease running along the warp bares the cores of the floats that lie under its ridge, float by float, and reads as a white line broken only where each float dives: at fifty micrometres of wear, 83 per cent of its length is white, in runs of 1.7 millimetres. The same crease across the warp meets every float at one point and reads as a row of dots, 31 per cent white in dashes of 0.15 millimetres, one end wide. It bares much the same core. A plain weave's creases are dashes whichever way they run.
A crease along the twill fades as one line
A crease along the warp of a ring-dyed 3/1 twill fades as broken lines a float long, and across it as dashes one end wide. Turn the crease to the twill's own diagonal and it fades as a single white line with no break in it at all: the fold meets the crown of one end's float, then the next end's one pick along, then the next, and every crown it meets is at the same place in its float. It is the one direction in which the weave and the crease line up — and two degrees off it the line breaks into strokes whose length is a vernier's.
A fibre that fills dyes deeper with every dip
Dipped eight times, a ring-dyed yarn is darker than after one dip but no deeper — if its fibres have room for all the dye they are offered. They do not: every dip's dye occupies some of the fibre's room, the next dip meets less affinity near the surface, and dye that is taken up less travels further before it is taken. How much further depends on one number the dip arithmetic never needed — the share of an empty fibre's room one dip fills — and eight dips turn that number into a ring 1.15 times deeper at five per cent and 1.68 times deeper at twenty.
Indigo is too little to close the pores it dyes through
Each dip of a fibre that fills carries its dye deeper, because the dye already fixed near the surface leaves less room there. But indigo is fixed as a solid, and some of it sits in the pores the next dip has to travel through, so a heavily dyed skin should also hold the next dip back. The two pull opposite ways, and which wins is decided by how much pigment there is. A dark denim's indigo, every grain of it placed in the pores, fills at most a fifth of them at the surface and takes back about a seventh of the ring's deepening — under two micrometres. The surface fills at the same rate whatever the pores do, so two cross-sections still tell the two effects apart.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
FloatDenimBearing curveCrown lineRing dyeingCapstanDamageDye affinityFrictionHair balanceHair layerPilling