Every sitting at this desk is dated, and the date is the whole point: what changes is supposed to change, openly, one day at a time. Series fail when the changing and the fixed trade places — when a maker re-decides the woman because a Tuesday outfit pleased them, or freezes the outfits and wonders why the week reads like one long day.
The division is kept in the writing. The card is the masthead of the person: five lines, pasted word for word, untouched between sittings. The day’s line is the edition: outfit, setting, hour, light — deliberately varied, day by day, so a series has dates instead of copies. A week of sittings shares one light and one family of corners; the next week changes the light, the hour, the wardrobe palette — while her five lines stand exactly where they stood.
Judging reads the edition the same way. First the fixed lines: does the frame match the card, line by line? Only then the day’s line: was this day’s change the one that was intended, and did it land? A frame that fails the card is a cull whatever its edition did; a frame that passes the card but wastes its day earns one editor pass, not an upscale.
Let the days differ. Never let the woman be redated. That is the whole publishing craft of this studio, and it fits on the stand.