The label belongs to the colour.
The first samples in my tin had beautiful colours and almost no useful information. I remembered which afternoon I made them, but not which piece of cloth went into which bath. A yellow square might have been cotton or a blend. By the following month, even my confident memories had begun disagreeing with one another.
A journal entry about the record itself
Now I write a label before starting. It names the fabric as accurately as I can, records the date, and leaves room for preparation and timing notes. I give each experiment an ordinary descriptive name, such as “warm yellow, second attempt.” A simple name is easier to remember than a complicated numbering system that I am unlikely to maintain.
I compare samples only after they have dried fully. I lay them by the window with a piece of untreated cloth beside them, then look again in the evening. Light changes the story. When I photograph a sample for my own reference, I keep the written description too; the picture rarely reproduces exactly what is on the table.
The swatches shown here are a graphic interpretation of the tin’s warm and cool families, rather than a promise of reproducible dye colours. Actual results depend on materials and conditions. My most useful discovery has been much simpler than a formula: a disappointing result with a clear label can teach me more than a lovely square with no history.