Staples: The White Tee.

Articles abound about the perfect white t-shirt, and anyone who breathes this sort of stuff will be very familiar with the formula: You won't be taught anything about what actually contributes to crafting the perfect white tee, rather you'll discover some Google map locating slightly holier-than-thou, high-street brands, and some price ranges to cover most budgets.

These tee's don't make the cut by perfection, but by accessibility; and a whole list of perfect white tees surely implies that not a single one of them is the perfect One?

An article on the perfect white tee should gesture to the incredibly narrow path that only the very discerning would bother to take, for to walk it requires an ability to leave behind everything you thought you once knew about tee shirts.

The perfect white tee DNA.

The perfect white tee is subjective in its perfection, allowing us to make our own minds up about necklines and sleeves, but what it decides for us is how those decisions show up.

Just take into consideration the Olsen twins of previous made-to-video fame. Their line The Row was born of the same pursuit for the perfect white tee, but unlike many out there The Row actually succeeded.

So what matters most?

Fabric, because fabric feeds into the drape of the garment and there are few things as exquisite as the look and feel of a perfectly draped tee. It should hit at the wider parts of the body and skim through the rest; hanging from the shoulders and bust and cascading down to the hemline.

For the perfect fit, a single seam down the centre of the spine is superior to two side seams, in that it prevents unwanted migration of the fabric. For those who look at a t-shirt and only see a t-shirt, this sort of consideration might seem over-reaching, but for one who can see that the less something has going on, the more obvious the imperfections are, the discipline it takes to make something special out of something so discreet doesn't go unnoticed.

No explanations, no apologies.

The sort of snobbery that comes with uncompromising standards can be comforting, as it calls for a kind of reverence like anything else that is pristine down to the merest millimetre. Tissue-y cotton, whose transparency doesn't deter from its ease, is almost puritanical in its casualness; its sheerness transforming the garment into something elusive and ghost-like, with its juxtaposition against the confidence of one who can wear such a waif of fabric and not care about what is, or isn't, seen from beneath.

It can't be see-through.

It can't be loud in its sheerness.

But there's a gentle strength in both the item itself and in the one who wears it that straddles the line between announcement and happenstance.

Zadig and Voltaire have crafted such a t-shirt, with its rolled edges and deep V-neck; both design elements suggesting something neither are overt about. The deep neckline doesn't boast sex or the body, and the rolled edges compliment, rather than create, its edginess.

The fabric itself is so soft it merely suggests at what it might feel like to be wearing a t-shirt at all, with the sort of drape that lies close to the body, but not on it.

And that is when a t-shirt is more than just a t-shirt.