Materials and their personalities

I like clothes that continue to move when I stop.

In fact, that's often something I look at when choosing an item of clothing. I look at its cut, but also how it feels when I walk.

Some fabrics stay put. Others are restless. Muslin that still billows after you turn around. Silk that slips down a leg. A veil that lifts for absolutely no apparent reason.

It serves no purpose. But I find it beautiful. It's already part of the garment's personality.

I don't choose a garment solely for its shape. I also choose it for what it will do once I'm wearing it.

For the way it catches the light. For the feeling it will have against my skin.

Because a garment placed on a hanger, we ultimately don't know much about it.

It starts when you put it on.

A muslin, for example, doesn't exactly follow the body's contours. It's independent. It arrives slightly after the body. Slower, more ethereal, it has a life of its own. A little elusive, it takes everything lightly. As if its mind were always elsewhere, and that, in any case, nothing was worth weighing itself down. A beautiful presence, but not necessarily the material one would rely on during a move.

Thick flannel does the opposite. It contains more movement, giving the silhouette more density. Stable, reassuring, warm. Unlike chiffon, which takes on a life of its own, flannel, if it says it's going to stay, it will.

And there's also the light that plays a role.

The suede seems to absorb it. A brown suede coat becomes more muted, more earthy. For me, it has something animalistic and tender about it. Tactile, warm, sensory. But it takes everything personally. A certain sensitivity. One drop of water and it's a disaster. It easily retains traces. It's much more sensitive than it would have us believe.

The same brown coat on fine leather is something else entirely. More stubborn. At first, he's the one who decides. Resilient and a bit aloof. You have to earn his trust. But the more you live with him, the more he softens and adapts to your habits. He ends up adopting you and can stay with you for decades. A difficult character, but very loyal. With him, I feel like you see things through to the end.

Light travels across silk. It appears on one fold, disappears on the next, and returns when you move. Sometimes, it seems as if it's not the fabric that's moving, but the color itself. She appears very self-assured. Almost haughty, and a little touchy too. Extremely reactive to everything that happens to her. She likes to be impeccable, and yet, at the slightest movement, she wrinkles, she changes. Refined, yes. But much less impassive than she would have you believe.

Lace, on the other hand, is complex. Delicate from afar. But upon closer inspection, one discovers something more structured, an intelligence that other materials don't necessarily display. I also see something secretive in it. It reveals and conceals simultaneously. A little provocative, in fact. But all in a gentle way.

Cashmere would be reserved. Not shy. Reserved. It doesn't need to make a big show of itself. Light, quiet, warm. It's the taciturn one. It doesn't talk much, but everyone notices its presence when they approach. It's just a little demanding. It knows what it wants. And especially what it doesn't want.

Linen, on the other hand, is all about outspokenness. If it gets wrinkled, it's absolutely impossible for it to pretend everything is beautiful and smooth. In fact, no matter what you do, linen gets wrinkled. And it doesn't care. It even feels quite comfortable being wrinkled.

Satin, on the other hand, wants to shine like a diamond in the sky. And since credit must be given where credit is due—satin isn't a fiber but apparently a weaving technique. Here are thirty seconds of seriousness. It would be the seducer. It knows very well what light does to it and it takes advantage of it. More demonstrative than silk, less discreet. Satin knows very well that it's being watched. And it doesn't mind it at all.

Velvet, finally, can change simply by running your hand over it. Black in one direction, gray in another, then almost luminous, even shimmering. A bit capricious, really. One moment dark, the next bright. Sometimes even theatrical. Slightly excessive. Velvet enters a room and quite likes to be noticed.

Eventually, I ended up attributing characteristics to the materials.

At this point, I could probably start assigning them astrological signs. Muslin would be Libra, leather Capricorn, lace Scorpio… Aquarius would obviously be an alternative to leather made from pineapple leaves. It certainly couldn't be like everyone else.

And there you have it. My octopus brain has just gone off in another direction again.

Now I want to know the astrological sign for each material. And probably its ascendant. I'll stop there before this article turns into a textile astrological chart. But I think I've just found the topic for a possible future post. Probably completely WTF, like the one I'm writing right now.

But hey, what can you do? I warned you, everything that ends up being written on this blog has, at one point or another, crossed my brain.

Ultimately, our materials already have their qualities, their flaws, and their little neuroses even before we delve into them. And that's where it gets interesting.

Because then they encounter ours.

Sixtine