Series go incoherent quietly. A frame is made in March, another in May, and by summer the woman at the start of the route is a stranger to the woman at the end of it. The cause is rarely the rendering; it is the briefing. She was described from memory at every job, and memory redraws the route a little differently each time it is asked. A line written once and pasted every time does not drift.
Five lines that never change
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 — setting, light, pose — belongs to the changing line beneath the card.
The habit that holds a series together
Paste the card, change one line, 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 catalogue that reads as one woman and a folder that reads as a crowd.