Specular reflection — where it appears
Named by 13 essays across 5 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
Why satin shines
Lustre is usually filed under fibre, and silk gets the credit. It is a property of the weave: a cylinder reflects a line rather than a point, so the highlight a cloth returns is exactly as long as its longest float.
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.
Twist and the twill line
The oldest rule of thumb in weaving says to weave a Z twill from S-twist warp for a bold line and from Z-twist warp for a subdued one. Both halves of it are geometry: the twill's angle comes from the two setts, the fibres' angle comes from the twist factor, and the rule is their difference.
A float reflects into a line
A cylinder cannot return a beam to a point. Its normals sweep the whole half-turn across it and nothing at all along it, so a straight thread throws light into a fan — seen as a highlight lying along the thread, exactly as long as the length of thread that is straight. The lobe of a satin is twice as narrow along the thread as across it; the lobe of a plain weave is exactly round.
Turn the cloth and the shine changes hands
A warp crown's normals all lie in the plane across the warp and have no component along it, so a warp float can only mirror light that arrives from across the warp. Turn the cloth a quarter turn and the weft takes over. That is the whole of shot silk — a geometric effect with no dye that changes and no interference in it.
No cloth shines under a sky
Every specular figure on this account is drawn at a tolerance of two degrees, which is a stand-in for how wide the source is. Sweeping it says something the account has not: the contrast between a floated weave and a plain one is inversely proportional to the source's angular size, exactly, because a float keeps a crown line as the source narrows and a plain weave has only turns. A satin outshines a plain weave by 177 under the sun's disc, by 22 under a small lamp, and by exactly nothing at sixty degrees.
A room lights a satin at the harmonic mean of its lamps
A satin outshines a plain weave by a factor inversely proportional to the width of the light, which is a clean law for one source and says nothing about a room. A room has a lamp and a window at once. Sum each source's highlight and the average falls out by itself: the room behaves as a single source whose width is the harmonic mean of its sources' widths, weighted by the power each supplies. The harmonic mean is ruled by the narrowest source, so a small lamp carrying a tenth of the light more than doubles the contrast a large window gives.
A lamp off the mirror lights a satin only across its floats
Every source in the account of a room was a source the viewer sees mirrored in the cloth. A lamp off to one side lights the cloth too, and which facets it reaches depends on which way it is off. Displaced across a satin's floats it is caught by the float's own curve and adds contrast like any lamp on the mirror; displaced along them by more than twice its own width it reaches only the turns, and the satin comes out a quarter as bright as plain weave.
A satin mirrors the top of the sky
A uniform source sixty degrees wide leaves every weave reflecting the same share of its face, and that was read as saying no cloth shines under a sky. A real sky is not uniform. An overcast one is three times as bright overhead as at the horizon, and it stands over a ground darker than itself. Every facet of a cloth mirrors one direction, and a satin's facets mirror the top of the dome while a plain weave's mirror the horizon and the ground — so seen from above, under cloud, an eight-end satin still sends back a third more sky.
Glass hides a black net and not a white voile
A window pane in front of a curtain mirrors the street, and a mirror is a veil with no thread in it. It also dims the street's light on the cloth. For a white voile the two nearly cancel, and straight on the dimming wins, so the voile is slightly easier to read through glass than without it. For a black net the mirror is most of what a passer-by sees: its multiplier goes from 2 to 5 head-on and to 25 from along the pavement. The glass makes the net private, not the voile. The angle at which it stops helping does not depend on the time of day, and a polarising filter at Brewster's angle takes the mirror out altogether.
A figure woven on one beam shows its columns off the mirror
A figured warp shares one beam by letting the columns that want more yarn pull tighter until every column consumes alike. With the figure allowed to give crimp as well as the ground, the tightest column of a satin disc on a twill needs 0.013 to 0.042 newtons, under a tenth of the working tension. Its warp lies tens of micrometres lower, a relief too small to see. At the mirror it shines exactly as a slack column does. A few degrees off the mirror, along the warp, its crossings stop reflecting before a slack column's do, and the figure's own columns appear as bands in the ground. Only a damask has none.
An upper pane mirrors a sky no curtain can afford
A pane in front of a sheer helps a reading only while what it mirrors is dim: for a white voile, below about half the brightness of a white wall lit like the window. A street-level pane mirrors the terrace across the road and stays under that. An upper pane, seen from the pavement below, mirrors the sky, and an overcast horizon — the darkest sky there is — is already twice the limit. Whether a first-floor pane shows sky depends on how far out from the façade the passer-by stands and on nothing else, so the same window is harder to see into from close up than from across the street.
A pane leaned forward loses the sky and finds no darker mirror
A pane tilted by some angle sends a passer-by's line of sight off at twice that angle more, and the passer-by's place along the street still drops out. Tilted back about twenty degrees, a street-level pane mirrors sky from everywhere in the street and nearly doubles what a white voile hides. Leaned forward ten degrees, a first-floor pane stops mirroring sky from three metres out, and the voile behind it reads better through glass than bare. Leaning further finds nothing darker: under an overcast sky the road is a brighter mirror than the terrace opposite, by a seventh.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
LustreCrown lineFloatSatinFloat lengthOpacityOpen areaSpecular areaTransmittanceVeilWeave angleAnisotropy