Two threads only — red for life, black for keeping.
No pink, no maroon, no rusted brown. The dye-pot held krapp-root crimson and iron-soot black, and nothing crept in beside them.
Count the squares — never round the corner.
Every motif is built one warp-and-weft intersection at a time. A curve in vyshyvanka is a confession that the stitcher gave up counting.
Read it like a sentence: shoulder, sleeve, cuff, hem.
A border at the collar guards the throat; at the cuff, the hand. The grammar is older than the alphabet — and stricter.
Mirror everything — what enters left, leaves right.
Borders are read across the body, not down it. Symmetry isn't decoration here; it's how a shirt holds its wearer together.