Builds go incoherent quietly. A revision is made in March, another in May, and by summer 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 briefing. She was described from memory at every job, and memory rebuilds the picture a little differently each time it is asked. A sheet 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 sheet.
The habit that holds a series together
Paste the sheet, change one line, judge the result against the sheet, 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.