Moire is watered silk: two lengths of ribbed cloth pressed together under heat so that the ribs of one flatten those of the other, producing the rippling, water-like figure that gives the finish its name. It is a mechanical accident turned into a luxury, and it has been used in interiors since the eighteenth century.
The design reproduces that figure and very little else. There is no motif and no ornament, only the wavering bands of light and shadow running across the surface, and the whole thing depends on how carefully those are drawn. Done badly, moire reads as a stain. Done well, as here, it reads as a material, and the wall takes on a sheen that shifts as one moves past it.
It was drawn to coordinate directly with the Sudbury damask, and that is its most useful role: a companion to a stronger pattern, hung below a dado, in an adjoining room, or on the walls where the damask itself would be too much. It hangs to a quarter drop with a 53 cm repeat on a 0.53 m roll, and it is quiet enough to sit behind pictures, mirrors and good joinery without argument. One colourway carries a metallic ground, which makes the watered figure more pronounced as the light moves.
