Her mother held a sharp disdain for man-made patterns, whether they be Modernist black and white octagons on linen or Victorian pink tea roses on chintz.
They make my eyes go funny. The shapes start to dance in front of me and I wonder where the lines end and start to question reality a bit too much.
She insisted any fabric in her home remain solid, and therefore static. No threat of atoms quaking and wobbling, eventually losing their footing and shattering at her feet.