Every turning thing is two decisions: the hub, fixed before the work begins, and the rim, which carries the change. Series fail when the two are confused — when a maker moves the hub because a season pleased them, or freezes the rim and wonders why the year reads like a single long month.
At this desk the division is kept in the writing. The card is the hub: five lines, pasted word for word, untouched between sittings. The season’s line is the rim: outfit, setting, light — deliberately varied, sitting by sitting, so a series has seasons instead of copies. One season shares one light and one wardrobe palette; the next turns both — while her five lines hang exactly where they were hung.
Judging reads the wheel in the same order. First the hub: does the frame match the card, line by line? Only then the rim: was this season’s change the one that was intended, and did it land? A frame that fails the hub is a cull whatever its season did; a frame that passes the hub but wastes its season earns one editor pass, not an upscale.
Turn the seasons all you like. Never move the hub mid-year. The wheel on the wall is the reminder: it has turned through every season and its centre has never travelled.