The thread: Structure before fibre — page 5
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 knitted disc is flat at one shape of loop
A disc lies flat only if its circumference grows by exactly 2π per unit of radius, and a knitted disc's growth is a count of loops in one direction over a count in the other. So it is flat at one value of the loop's aspect and no other. Knitted sideways in wedges of short rows the growth falls as the loop gets wider; knitted outward in rounds it rises. Four wedges and ten increases every two rounds are each flat at an aspect inside the range plain knit moves through when it is washed — and they cross it in opposite directions.
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 knit's weight nearly names its yarn
A woven cloth's weight is one equation in four unknowns, and a hundred and fifty grams can be woven from anything between twenty tex and two hundred. A plain jersey's weight has the loop in it and nothing else to spare, and the loop is bounded by the yarn it is knitted from. Put the two together and the loop cancels: the weight is a constant times the tightness times the root of the count, so at one weight the count is fixed to within half again — and in each relaxed state it is fixed to a different half.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
The section that changes both stiffnesses
A thread's two rigidities are in the ratio 2G/E, and that is a fact about a circular section: a circle's polar second moment is exactly twice its flexural one. A yarn in cloth is not circular, so a yarn in cloth has three constants rather than two — and the ratio a whole ladder rests on is a lower bound.
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 ball knitted in rounds washes the other way
A ball can be knitted sideways in gores or outward from one pole in rounds, and both have to follow the same sine. But a gore counts its meridian in stitches and its circumference in rows, and a round counts them the other way, so the loop's aspect sits underneath one construction and on top of the other. A wash raises the aspect — and closes a gored ball's ruffled poles while it opens a round-knitted ball'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 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.
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 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.
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.