Colour, here, is the last thing to happen.
Most clothing is dyed as cloth — flat yardage steeped before it is ever cut. We work the other way. The garment is built first, in its raw, undyed state, and only then submerged whole and dyed as a finished object. It is a slower, less forgiving way to make a thing.
Because the piece enters the bath already sewn, the dye finds it unevenly. Seams drink more deeply. Hardware resists. Panels of different fibre take the same pigment at different rates, so tone pools in the folds and thins across the points of tension — a topography of how the garment was made, drawn in colour.
Nothing about it repeats. Two identical cuts, dyed side by side in the same vat, come out as different objects. What you receive is not a colourway but a single event, fixed — worn, from the first day, with the memory of its own making.
Object-dyed. Never twice the same.