Every essay — page 8
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After the loom
The cloth that comes off the loom is not the cloth anybody buys. Shrinkage as the crimp coming back, the yarn flattened and swollen, the floats raised into a nap, and the fibres entangled until the weave is no longer the only thing holding the fabric together.
A calender's best cloth is the one its nip fills
A calender's lustre is a length of crown line times a width of plateau. A closer cloth has more crown line and less room to widen each thread into, and the product was expected to peak at some interior cover that would move with the weave. It does not peak at all on the cap alone — per unit of crown line it falls all the way from the most open cloth. The peak is made by the nip: a nip that flattens by f has one best cloth, the one it exactly fills, at a cover of d over the flattened width, and there the lustre is (f − 1)/f. No yarn, and no weave, moves it.
A dip dyes a depth, not a share
A yarn dyed after spinning is a cylinder the dye has to diffuse into through the liquor between its fibres, and the fibres slow it by taking dye out of the liquor as it passes. A twenty-second dip therefore dyes to a depth, some tens of micrometres, and that depth is almost the same in a fine yarn and a coarse one. So the same dip that colours two fifths of a shirting yarn's section colours a fifth of a denim warp's; eight dips deepen the shade eightfold and leave the ring where it was; and a tighter yarn rings more thinly, because packing closes the pores faster than it narrows the yarn.
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.
A slow fibre starts its ring deep
Every account of an indigo dip here lets a cotton fibre take its dye at once. Give the fibre a clock of its own and the ring does not simply run deeper, which is what the question seemed to ask. A clock of a few seconds makes the ring shallower, by nearly a fifth at most, and only past about twenty-six seconds does it run deeper than an instant fibre's. Two sections tell the accounts apart that one cannot: an instant fibre earns its ring dip by dip, from 14 to 23.5 per cent of the radius over eight dips, and a fibre with a hundred-second clock starts at 23 and ends at 26.
Knits and other structures
Loops rather than crossings. Why a knit stretches without a bias, why stockinette curls, and why a dropped stitch runs while a woven cloth frays.
The loop
A knit is one thread bent into loops, each drawn through the loop below. Nothing in it is straight, which is why it stretches in every direction while a woven cloth stretches only at an angle.
Why stockinette curls
A knitted loop is not symmetric front to back. Work every course the same way and the asymmetries add up along the edges; alternate them and they cancel. That is the whole difference between a fabric that rolls and one that lies flat.
Ravel, fray and run
Cut a woven cloth and one thread comes loose. Break one loop in a knit and every loop above it follows. The two structures fail in opposite ways, and the reason is topology rather than strength.
Warp knitting, which is a different thing entirely
Every wale has its own thread, and if the thread never leaves its wale the fabric is a set of independent cords. Whether a lapping makes cloth is decided by a coprimality condition — the satin theorem, in a knit.
Rib and interlock
A rib fabric is a plain knit folded like a concertina, and its enormous widthwise stretch is the fold opening out. Nothing in it is elastic, and the extension available is a cosine.
Why a knit recovers and a woven does not
Four fabrics get longer without a single yarn stretching, and the four mechanisms are worth wildly different amounts. Three of them are recoverable and one is very nearly not, and which is which follows from where the extension came from.
What a second guide bar is for
One warp-knit bar leaves the wales in as many independent fabrics as its shog shares factors with the width. Two bars leave the greatest common divisor of both — so a pair of shogs that each fail alone can succeed together, and a pair that share a factor cannot.
Knit, tuck and miss
A weave is a matrix over two symbols and a weft knit is a matrix over three. The site's central question survives the translation intact: a weave falls apart when its above-and-below relation is disconnected, and a knit falls apart when a needle never knits.
What a tuck costs
A knitted loop is about four wale spacings of yarn and a float across one needle is exactly one, so replacing a knit with a miss removes three quarters of a loop. That much is a count. What it does to the fabric's size is not, and this essay is careful about which is which.
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.
A second bed changes what a float is
Every float so far has been on a surface, because every knit so far has had one needle bed. Put a bed behind it and the yarn runs in the gap between them — and over the whole enumeration of two-bed structures, 1,248 floats of 1,272 lie inside the cloth, on no surface at all.
Does a double jersey hang together
Two beds knitting with nothing passing between them are two fabrics that happen to have been made at once. Of 6,561 two-bed arrays, 1,135 are fabrics and 50 of those are two fabrics — and 28 of the 50 split across the beds rather than along them, so neither half is a layer.
A fashioned edge has a quantised angle
A knitted panel is shaped by transferring loops, so its edge steps by whole wales at whole courses and its angle is the arctangent of a fraction. The available angles turn out to be the same for every plain knit there has ever been — in any yarn, at any gauge, at any loop length — because the constant they scale by cancels the loop out. There are eighteen of them, and 16.67° between the last two.
A tube can only be shaped by its loop
On a circular machine the needle count is the cylinder, so a seamless tube's circumference is its wale count times its wale spacing — and the wale spacing is the loop length over one constant. The loop is the only free quantity, the yarn bounds it at both ends, and what is left is a taper of 18.8 per cent bought at the price of a fabric half again as dense.
A knit is soft because it bends
Ask the same energy question of a woven cloth and a knitted one and the answers are not different by a factor — they are different in kind. A woven cloth's bending energy changes the moment it is extended. A knitted loop's does not change at all, exactly, over the whole of its extension, because its arcs are held to a radius by contact rather than by the fabric's dimensions.