ISSUE 15: Soft Power
On cotton’s contradictions.
There’s something suspiciously perfect about cotton. Too reliable, too ubiquitous, too familiar to be interesting. And yet—there’s a reason it shows up everywhere, from luxury shirting to gas station tees to sterile gauze wrapping a broken wrist. It’s one of those materials that disappears in plain sight. Cotton is everywhere, and because of that, we forget to notice it.
But if you really pay attention, cotton is kind of magic. It’s crisp and breezy, like a pressed white button-down on a summer morning. It’s soft and worn-in, like a baby blanket or a thrifted T-shirt that’s been through a hundred wash cycles. It’s also tough and utilitarian—durable enough for workwear, duct tape, military uniforms. It doesn’t scream. It serves.
Part of what makes cotton so interesting is this tension between luxury and utility. Between softness and structure. Between effortlessness and precision. Louise Bourgeois once said, “Clothing is...an exercise of memory,” and cotton holds memory better than almost any material I know. It creases where you fold it. It thins out where it’s loved. It fades unevenly in the sun. It keeps a record.
In art and fashion history, cotton has always been the people’s fabric. The painter Agnes Martin wore the same cotton dress nearly every day—soft, pale, no adornment—because she didn’t want her clothes to distract her from the act of seeing. For her, cotton was neutrality. In contrast, look at Rei Kawakubo’s early work for Comme des Garçons: deconstructed cotton garments cut into surreal, misshapen forms, proving that even the humblest textile can be radical.
And then there’s denim, which gets its own universe (and its own issue). But even outside of denim, cotton performs an impressive range. It drapes. It stiffens. It breathes. It accepts dye beautifully but also looks beautiful left alone.
There’s something deeply human about cotton. It’s imperfect. Organic. It responds to use, to time, to care. Unlike polyester or synthetics, it doesn’t try to be invincible. It lets you wear it down. It’s honest.
And even when it’s cheap, even when it’s everywhere, it has the potential to feel sublime. A crisp cotton napkin. A hand-sewn quilt. A pair of perfectly pressed trousers. These things don’t need to be fancy to be beautiful—they just need to be right.
In an age where everything is engineered to perform, cotton stays quiet. It listens. It absorbs. It shapes itself to your body and your life. It’s not trying to be impressive. It’s just trying to be good.
This week’s goodies: pressed cottons, utilitarian tailoring, summer shirting, and pieces that strike the elusive balance between crisp and soft. Nothing showy—just things that feel right.
Next week: we kick off a new series of conversations with people who have that elusive quality: good taste. First up, a Berlin-based designer making her own rules.
