The thread: A mechanism, not a material — page 6
Where a torsion model stops
A second stiffness was added because an earlier ladder named its absence as the first thing to disbelieve. It settled four things, refuted one trade explanation, and left the question it was built for exactly where it found it.
A wick reaches its ceiling in the time its cloth takes to dry
A drying cloth lifts water to a steady height and no further, and the question left was how long it takes to get there. The answer has no permeability and no surface tension in it. Where gravity is small the front climbs as the ceiling times the root of one minus a decaying exponential, and the exponential's time is the cloth's own pore water divided by the rate its faces lose water — the time the room would take to dry it. In an ordinary room that is half an hour, and the front is nine tenths of the way up in fifty-three minutes.
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 sheer's privacy is the error it multiplies
Everything a passer-by sees of a room through a sheer is the room's image plus a veil the street lights, and the veil can be known without going in. So one subtraction and one division ought to read the room's reflectance from the pavement. They do not, and the reason is the curtain's whole purpose: every error in the veil arrives in the answer multiplied by the reading over the image — sixty-four through a white voile by day, three and a half at equal light. The privacy a sheer gives and the precision it denies are one number.
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.
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.
Flattening is free and impossible
The fabric demands a flattening and the yarn has to supply it. At one end of this collection's oldest bracket the deformation costs exactly nothing; at the other it costs thirty-six times the whole bending energy of a stitch. The fabric flattens — which is the fourth everyday observation in one phase to land at the same end.
The width of a bolt is worth what its faults leave it
A fault map lets a cutter move panels along a bolt and across it, and the length was expected to matter far more than the width, because a bolt is fifty metres long and three panels wide. That is true of two kinds of fault and false of the third. Against a fault across the whole width the width is worth exactly nothing; against a scatter of points it is worth between a sixth and two fifths of what the length is; and against a missing end, which runs the whole length, the length is worth nothing and the width is worth everything.
A knitted ball's short rows have to slow down
A knitted disc needs one count to meet 2π; a sphere needs a count that follows a sine. Knitted sideways in gores, a ball's short rows must turn one stitch apart at the pole and ever further apart towards the equator — evenly spaced turns knit two flat discs joined at the rim. The pole is the disc again, so gores come in fours; the equator's row pairs have to come out whole, so only some sizes knit round; and a wash moves a four-gore ball from a ruffled pole to a round one.
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.
A figured warp pays in tension before it needs a beam
Figure and ground take up warp at different rates, and counted against a fixed slack, any difference at all — a third of a per cent — made a round figure need four beams. A real let-off holds tension, not length. Ends that consume more pull harder, and an end pulled harder gives up crimp, until every end consumes alike. For an eight-end satin figure on a five-end satin ground that costs a hundredth of a newton an end, and one beam serves. For a satin on plain it costs more crimp than the ground has, and no tension will do.
The loom hands the crimp to the weft
Bending alone gave the fixed-sett energy nothing to say: six of eight cloths fell to the end of their interval with the weft dead straight. Put the warp's tension in and the answer is not a well but a switch. The crimp changes hands across a factor of two or three in tension, at a few hundredths of a newton — and the loom holds its warp at half a newton, so on the loom every cloth's warp is as straight as its geometry allows.
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 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 proof plan has no slide in it
A threading error that a 2/2 twill hides is invisible in the cloth and still wrong on the loom, and it shows only when the loom is re-pegged. Re-weaving every silent error under eight other plans says which do the showing. The twill run the other way and plain weave never expose one. A 1/3 twill exposes 44 per cent, a broken twill 70, and a plan of eight unrelated rows all but 864 — and those 864 are not errors at all, because each is the right threading started at another end. So the plans nest: whatever a broken or a point twill hides, the 2/2 hides too, and a threading proved under a 2/2 twill has passed the weakest test there is.
A leno easer should be a light weight
A spring easer gives length when the crossing end pulls, so it cannot give it too early, which was the fault in a cam driven off the shed. The question left was its rate. The answer is that it hardly has one. Behind the harness the easer feels the back span, and two gripping eyes keep that span within fifteen per cent of its resting tension while the kink carries its load. So the spring must hold its span almost constant over a sixty-eight-millimetre stroke: at most 1.1 newtons a metre per end, a dead weight in all but name. At speed the bar's own mass is what limits it, and it falls with the square of the loom's speed: 2.3 grams an end at a hundred picks a minute, 0.6 at two hundred.
A stepped stocking should step most at the ankle
A graduated stocking asks for a girth that rises smoothly up the leg, and a knitting machine gives it one girth, then the next. Over each step the tube is one size on a stretch of leg that is not, so it presses harder at the top of the step than at the bottom, and the pressure up the leg is a saw-tooth. Each tooth is the leg's change of girth across the step divided by the girth squared — so it is largest just above the ankle, where the leg is thinnest and widening fastest. Eight equal steps leave a ring of 4.8 mmHg there; eight steps spaced by the leg's own shape leave 2.7 everywhere.
A jersey's drape does not know its loop
A woven cloth's bending length at the free bound turned out to hold neither its count nor its weight — only the fibre. A plain jersey goes further. Its stiffness per width and its weight per area are both a number of loops per millimetre times something about one loop, so the loop cancels at every stiffness the yarn could have; at the free bound the count cancels too, and what is left is the fibre and which relaxed state the fabric is in.
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.
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 spin leaves the water a fibre swelled by
A washing machine's spin is a centrifuge, and it drains a cloth in the order its pores give up water: the holes between the yarns at a few g, the channels inside the yarns only far enough from the drum's wall, and the water inside the fibre never. That last reservoir is not the regain. A soaked cotton fibre holds the volume it swelled by — 30 per cent of its dry weight, three and a half times the regain — and it is the floor under every spin speed there is.
What a contact model would have to do
This ladder has measured a fabric that does not fit and priced nothing. The repair is a different class of problem from the one this collection solves, it costs fifteen per cent of the yarn in a stitch, and it buys back four results — which is an unusually good return for a piece of modelling.
A sweating cloth wicks as high as the room can dry it
Every wicking height so far has had its foot in unlimited water. Skin is not a reservoir: it supplies sweat at a rate, and a cloth fed at a rate stands where the supply equals what its faces lose — the supply over twice the evaporation, with no pore, fibre or thickness in it. The cloth decides only when it has had enough, and it says so all at once: the holes between its yarns stay empty until the fine pores are carrying ninety-nine per cent of what they can.
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.
Stacked increases knit a ball with flat sides
A ball knitted in rounds can put its increases anywhere in each increase round. Stack them in lines from pole to pole and every stitch between two lines has a flat knit's neighbours, so the ball is made of flat panels and all its curvature sits on the lines. Flat panels with straight rows close up without stretching in exactly one way: every round a regular polygon, each pole a point. At five lines that ball is 13 per cent taller than it is wide across its ridges and 40 per cent across its flats, and to make it round the stuffing has to stretch the middle of every panel by π²/4m² — nine per cent at five lines, less than a wash moves a course at ten.
A warp breaks in a tail no tensile test reaches
A 500 mm tensile test is the weakest of about eighteen staple lengths of yarn. A warp of four thousand ends by a thousand metres is the weakest of a hundred and forty million, and an end breaks wherever one of them is weaker than the shed's tension. Three strength laws fitted to the same two tensile tests agree within five per cent at every gauge a tester can clamp, and disagree by a factor of 375,000 on how many ends a warp will break at the back shaft.
A fabric reads its own bracket four ways
A yarn's stiffness is unknown to a factor of three hundred, and no laboratory measurement has closed it. Four unrelated everyday observations — a snarl, a knot, a flattened yarn and a cloth's own thickness — all say the same thing about which end of it a yarn sits at.
An air arch pays for its thrust out of its pressure
An inflated tube bent into an arch was expected to start with its inside wall pulled differently from its outside, and to wrinkle where that difference and the load's moment combined worst. It does not: a curved tube is pulled along its length at exactly the straight tube's pr/2, all the way round. What the arch spends its pressure on instead is the thing every arch exists to make — its own thrust — which takes a fifth of the wrinkling budget at the haunch of a shelter arch under snow and more than half on a tight one.
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.
Where this collection's thread model now stands
A thread has two stiffnesses and a thickness, and this collection's model has had one stiffness and no thickness. Both were added in one phase, neither reached the question it was built for, and the accounting is worth more than either.
Wicking borrows drying area from the cloth that is not touching
A shirt is fed with sweat across the whole of the skin it touches, not at the foot of a strip. Through its own thickness the cloth could pass sweat a hundred thousand times faster than a body makes it, so a patch pressed flat never lacks capacity; what it lacks is drying area, because it can give water to the room only from its outer face. Pressed flat everywhere, it floods as soon as the sweat exceeds the room's evaporation — light work, in an ordinary room. With free cloth above the contact, wicking carries the surplus to faces that are not touching, and the sweat decides how much area it needs: three times the contact's at a run, whatever the contact's size.