Picture series wander the way unmarked rows do — a hand’s breadth at a time, invisible in any single season. A frame is made in one week, another a month later, and by the third month the woman in the first frame is a stranger to the woman in the latest one. The cause is rarely the rendering; it is the marking. She was described from memory at every job, and memory shifts the line a little each time it is asked. A card marked once and pasted every time holds the row.
Five lines that never move
Age and build. One number, one build, stated plainly. Hair. Colour, length and the way it is worn. Face. Skin tone, features and expression. Signature. One small repeatable detail. Wardrobe register. The fabrics and cuts the series lives in. Everything else — the leaves, the bench, the fall of light — belongs to the line for this sitting, beneath the card.
The habit that holds a series together
Paste the card, work the sitting, judge the result against the card, and file the scores with the set. It is unglamorous work, and it is the entire difference between a set that reads as one woman and a folder that reads as a crowd.