Every woven thing is two decisions: the warp, which is fixed before work starts, and the weft, which is chosen fresh at every pass. Series fail when the two are confused — when a maker re-decides the warp mid-cloth because a weft colour pleased them, or freezes the weft and wonders why the cloth is monotonous.
At this desk the division is kept in the writing. The card is the warp: five lines, pasted word for word, untouched between sittings. The changing line is the weft: outfit, setting, hour, light — deliberately varied, run by run, so a series has chapters instead of copies. A season of sittings shares one light and one family of settings; the next season changes the light, the hour, the wardrobe palette — while her five lines hang exactly where they were hung.
Judging reads the cloth in the same order. First the warp: does the frame match the card, line by line? Only then the weft: was this pass’s change the one that was intended, and did it land? A frame that fails the warp is a cull whatever its weft did; a frame that passes the warp but wastes its weft earns one editor pass, not an upscale.
Change the weft all you like. Never re-thread the warp mid-cloth. That is the whole weaving craft of this studio, and it fits on the frame.