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Cloth doing a job
What happens when a fabric has to meet a specification rather than merely be described. A reinforcement that must hold fibre and still admit resin, a filter that must retain the soil and still pass water, a seam that must grip harder than the load without perforating the cloth, a pattern cut for a shape it does not yet have. Every requirement here is a pair of inequalities on quantities the earlier fields compute — and the useful answer is sometimes that no fabric satisfies both.
A windproof cloth is at its yarn's limit
Windproof is a threshold on air permeability, and it is the only fabric specification on this site that the construction cannot settle. No weavable sett of an ordinary shirting yarn gets within two hundred times of it, layering the cloth barely helps because the resistance is inertial rather than viscous, and the floor set by the yarn's own porosity lands on the same order as the threshold with a fivefold bracket around it.
The wind takes the air and not the cloth
A shirting's own thermal resistance is eight per cent of what a person wearing it has; the other ninety-two is a still-air layer half a millimetre thick clinging to its outside. Wind destroys both, and it destroys the larger one first and by a mechanism that has nothing to do with the fabric — so a windproof layer works by keeping air still rather than by resisting heat.
A tear asks fewer threads than a pull
A strip test averages a hundred threads and a tear interrogates four. That difference alone accounts for the two things everybody knows about tear testing — that it reads low, and that it scatters — without anything about the cloth being different between the two tests.
A missing end is a fault the length of the piece
A broken end and a mispick are the same size of accident — one thread — and they condemn areas that differ by a factor of thirty. The ratio is the aspect ratio of the piece and nothing else, which makes it a fact about how cloth is made rather than about what went wrong.
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.
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.
The strong fibre is the one that pills
A pill survives while any one of its anchors holds, which is a maximum over a small sample rather than an average — and a maximum behaves nothing like an average. A fifth of a strong fibre in a blend buys four fifths of the pure strong fibre's pill life while leaving the whole of the weak fibre's fuzz supply in place.
Prickle is a buckling load
The wool trade specifies comfort against skin by the percentage of fibres coarser than thirty micrometres, and the thirty is a measured boundary with no derivation attached. It is a column formula: solve for the diameter at which a protruding fibre end stops bending away and starts standing its ground, and thirty micrometres falls out.
A woven filter beats its own rating
A filter cloth's rating comes from the largest channel through it, and by geometry it stops nothing smaller. It stops a few per cent of particles ten times smaller anyway, on the fibre ends standing in its holes — and a few per cent is not filtration. It is exactly enough to start a cake, and after that the cloth is not filtering.
The knitted pilling criterion gets its number
Knitwear pills and shirting does not, and the standing explanation here has been that a knit presents more exposed yarn under less pressure between its threads. The second half had no number. It has one now, and it is bigger than the argument needed: the grip on a buried fibre is thirty times weaker in a knit than in a woven cloth of the same yarn.
A run is a race between two energies
A dropped stitch travels when a loop can be pulled out of the loop below it, and there are two candidate drivers: the energy the loop releases by unravelling, and the load the garment is under. One of them turns out to be negligible, and knowing which changes what a knitter can do about it.
A seam must give what the knit gives
A knitted seam fails because it is too short, not because it is too weak: the thread in it is nearly two thousand times stronger than the load it carries. What decides whether it survives is one line of geometry — the extension a seam can reach is twice the fabric's thickness times the stitches per unit length.
A knit is warm because of where its yarn is not
Warmth is a thickness of still air, and until a knitted fabric had a thickness there was nothing to compute. It has one now, and the answer is that a rib's warmth is a machine setting: opening the beds from two diameters to five nearly trebles the fabric's resistance without changing a gram of yarn.
What a cuff presses with
A rib cuff holds a sleeve on a wrist, so it must be pressing. Divide its own recovery force by the radius it is wrapped round and the pressure comes out at eight tenths of a millimetre of mercury — a fiftieth of the lightest medical compression, and two orders below what the same fabric resists being squashed with.
A run cannot cross a bed
A dropped stitch unroves because its neighbour above can pull it out along a path that costs almost nothing. In a rib the neighbour above is on the other bed, and the path goes through the gap — so a run in a two-bed fabric has to pay for a climb before it can take a single loop.
A knot is nothing but contact
A knot has no fastening in it. Nothing is glued, hooked, sewn or threaded through a hole: a thread is bent round itself until the friction where it presses on itself is more than the load. That makes a knot the purest contact problem in the subject, and the place to look first for what contact does.
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 knot halves a yarn and says why
The rule is quoted for every rope and every knot and derived nowhere. It comes out at forty-six per cent for a cotton — but only if the yarn's fibres bend individually. A yarn bending as a solid section has already spent five times its breaking strain before any load arrives, so it could not be knotted at all.
Which yarns knot well
A knot's efficiency depends on three things and only one of them is the knot. The other two are the fibre's fineness and its breaking strain, and across this collection's own table those give efficiencies from six per cent to eighty-three at exactly the same bend.
A tube of one size presses the calf harder than the ankle
A band presses a limb with its tension over the limb's radius, so it is easy to conclude that a band grips hardest where the limb is thinnest. That is true of a band held at one tension, and no knitted tube is. A tube knitted to one size is stretched further wherever the leg is thicker, and its tension rises faster than the radius does: an elastic tube pressing an ankle at twenty millimetres of mercury presses the calf at thirty-nine, and a cotton jersey tube presses its calf three and a half times as hard as its ankle. A stocking graduated the other way has to pull hardest where it presses less.
An inflated beam wrinkles at a moment with no cloth in it
An air-filled tube can be used as a beam because the pressure pulls its cloth taut along its length, and a cloth that cannot carry a push can carry a bending moment for exactly as long as that pull outweighs it. The inside of the bend goes slack at πpr³/2 and the tube folds at πpr³ — seventy-nine and a hundred and fifty-seven newton metres for a tube a fifth of a metre across at half a bar — and there is no property of the cloth in either. The cloth decides how far the beam bends on the way, and how much pressure it can be pumped to.