Pile — the series
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Pile is a third thread system
Velvet, corduroy, plush and carpet all carry threads that are not woven into the ground in the ordinary sense. Two of the three systems make a perfectly good matrix and the third is not in it — so the encoding this whole site rests on has nothing to say about the part of the fabric a hand actually touches.
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How a tuft is held
A V-fastened tuft and a W-fastened tuft are both attached, and the integrity criterion returns the same verdict for both. One of them is specified for hotel corridors and the other sheds. What separates them is not a topological property at all — it is an angle, and it needs a coefficient somebody has to measure.
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Corduroy is a cut float
An extra weft floats over some ends, a knife runs along the cloth, and each half of the float stands up. So the pile height is exactly half the float's length — which makes corduroy the one pile fabric whose surface is decided entirely by a quantity this site has been counting since its first essay.
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Terry needs two beams
A towel's pile is not woven longer. It is fed longer — from a second warp beam let off several times faster than the first — so the loop height follows from a ratio and a pick spacing, and the float length that decides a corduroy does not appear in it anywhere.
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Velvet is cut apart
Two ground cloths are woven face to face with a pile warp shuttling between them, and while it does the whole thing is one cloth — the criterion says so, and the pile is the only reason it is true. Then a knife runs down the middle and the same criterion says two. The manufacture is the deliberate destruction of cloth integrity.
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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.
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A crushed pile is not held down by its fibres
A carpet flattened under a foot has bent its tufts through a right angle, which sounds severe and is not: the fibres in a five-millimetre pile are strained under two tenths of a per cent, an order of magnitude below the smallest strain anybody has measured a recovery at. What holds a pile down is the tufts leaning on one another.
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A tuft is set so it cannot untwist
A cut pile tuft has a free end, and at a free end the pressure holding the twist is zero. So the twist runs out over a computable length, the tuft opens, and a carpet loses its appearance long before it loses any material.
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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.
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Hair, nap and pile are one construction
There are three surfaces made of fibre standing off a cloth, and they have been arrived at from three different directions and in three different fields. They are the same object at three settings, and what separates them is not what they are but how much of them anybody decided.
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A blade leaves loose fibre in every tuft
The account of hair, nap and pile ended on a clean claim: a blade collapses a population's length to one value, so a cut pile has no tail and nothing in it reaches past the rest. The tips are one length. The fibres are not. A tuft cut from staple yarn is a length of yarn with fibre ends scattered along it, and every fibre end that lands in a leg leaves a piece between it and the blade that nothing in the draft holds — a fifth of the pieces in an ordinary wool carpet, none in a filament one.
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A cut pile sheds in two stages
Every cut tuft of staple yarn holds loose fibre pieces that nothing anchors but the twist, and at the tip the twist holds nothing: it runs out over a length the grip arithmetic already gives, five and a half millimetres in a wool carpet yarn. A loose piece lying wholly inside that run-out is free the day the carpet is laid; one reaching below it is held until walking opens the tip's twist. So the reservoir drains in two stages, and the pile height decides the split. A velvet sheds everything it will ever shed at once. A twelve-millimetre wool carpet sheds a fifth of its reservoir at once and four fifths later. A shag sheds almost nothing at first and fourteen per cent of its fibre eventually.