COTTON

*Cotton* is a contradiction. Soft, but with weight. Relaxed, but never shapeless. It carries memory in its creases. Cotton blends. With *wool*, for drape. With synthetics, for stretch. But in its pure form, it resists change. Matte. Tactile. Honest.  

Among the oldest fabrics in the world, it began in ancient India, Egypt, and Peru—spun by hand, dyed with plants, worn by laborers and royals alike. Cotton arrived in Europe through conquest and trade. By the 12th century, it reached Italy—by the 15th, Venice, Antwerp, and Haarlem were trading hubs. The spinning wheel followed, around 1350, speeding production. First it was used for workwear. And then, it became tailored.  

In the early 20th century, men needed less structure in summer. Wool was too heavy. *Linen* too loose. Cotton found the balance. White suits, patch pockets, natural shoulders. It marked a shift—from the office to the terrace, from stiffness to ease. The sack suit made sense in cotton. No darts, no drama. By the 1960s, it was Ivy League uniform. Worn by Southern lawyers, New England professors, British architects. It didn’t try too hard. It didn’t need to. 

Seersucker, another cotton fabric with a puckered weave, was made for heat. Gregory Peck wore it in To Kill a Mockingbird. So did Hoffman in The Graduate. The texture was quiet rebellion: less starch, more air. Cotton *gabardine* has a tight twill weave, with its characteristic thin diagonals, and above all it is extremely soft, with a slight velvety feel. 

Cotton resists polish. It doesn’t drape like wool or fall like linen—it holds. It creases, and keeps those creases. Neapolitans stripped it down: no *lining*, no padding. Just shape and cloth. On screen, Paul Newman wore it with ease. Off screen, the fabric aged well—mattifying, softening, earning patina.