Meet the Makers
Orangeba isn't made in a factory. It's made in a studio, by hand, by three people who obsess over details most brands ignore. Their names are Lia, Tun, and Maya. They're the reason deadstock fabric becomes something beautiful.
Lia: The Pattern Maker
Lia learned pattern-making from her mother, who made custom clothing in Bangkok. She spent five years in fashion school in Bangkok, then another five years working for mid-market brands, designing pieces for production lines that churned out hundreds per day.
She got bored with repetition. She wanted to design with constraints—limited fabric, unusual yardages, imperfect cuts—and see what emerged. When we brought her deadstock fabric, she saw possibility instead of limitation.
"Most designers design pieces, then find fabric," Lia says. "I design with the fabric. This linen, this weight, this colour—it's not a constraint. It's the starting point. The design emerges from the material, not imposed on it."
She works alone in a small studio in the Ari neighbourhood. Two dress forms, pattern paper everywhere, a wall of her own sketches. She designs by hand—pencil and paper—then cuts patterns from tissue. Every piece is drafted specifically for that deadstock lot, taking its yardage and characteristics into account.
She's designed approximately 40 different pieces for Orangeba. None are repeats. Each one is unique to the fabric it was designed for.
Tun: The Quality Keeper
Tun worked for 12 years in factory quality control before leaving to help Orangeba. He was burned out on speed—checking 100 pieces per hour for defects, passing 95% through quickly to meet quotas. He wanted to actually care about what he was inspecting.
At Orangeba, he inspects approximately 30 pieces per day. He spends 15-20 minutes on each one. Seams get checked for tension and evenness. Fabric is inspected for flaws that might be hidden. Zips are tested dozens of times. Hems are measured to the millimetre.
"Quality isn't complicated," he says. "You just have to care enough to slow down. Most factories have quotas that make that impossible. Here, the only quota is 'perfect.' If something isn't right, we fix it or remake it."
He's rejected approximately 15% of finished pieces—not because they're damaged, but because he found issues that could be fixed. Loose thread. Slight seam tension variation. Hem that's a millimetre off. He fixes them himself or sends them back to Maya to correct.
Maya: The Maker
Maya is 28, grew up watching her grandmother sew, and learned garment construction not in school but through apprenticeship. She sews every piece of Orangeba clothing by hand—no machine shortcuts, no industrial efficiency tricks.
Hand-sewing takes time. A dress takes approximately 8 hours to construct. Trousers take 10. Most of her work is invisible—seams, hems, closures, buttonholes. But the invisible work is where durability lives.
She hand-stitches seams with thread tension that won't unravel under stress. She sews buttonholes with density and evenness that no machine achieves in less time. She hems with stitches small enough to be nearly invisible and strong enough to last years of wear.
"Hand work is honest," she says. "I know every piece I make. I feel it under my hands. If something isn't right, I feel it immediately. Machine work is faster, but it hides problems until later."
The Collaboration
Deadstock comes in. Lia designs specifically for that fabric. Pattern is drafted. Maya receives pattern and cuts pieces. She sews with care and precision. Tun inspects the finished piece. If it passes, it ships to a customer. If not, issues are fixed.
The process is inefficient by industrial standards. It's expensive. It produces maybe 20 pieces per week instead of 200. But each piece is made with intention, inspected with rigour, and built to last.
"We could make more pieces," Lia says. "But then we'd have to compromise somewhere. On design, on quality, on the care that makes these pieces beautiful. The number of pieces we make is determined by what it takes to make them right."