Visitors sometimes ask why the public gallery here is small next to the volume the tools can produce. The answer is the stand itself: this studio is run like a curator, not like a warehouse. Most frames made here are private working material — proofs, near-misses, experiments — and only a deliberate few are ever mounted for display.
The habit has a practical root. A series is remembered by its weakest public frame. One drifted face in a gallery undoes the authority of nine true ones, because a visitor cannot know which woman was intended. So publishing is treated as a separate, later decision, made cold, after finishing — never in the warmth of the sitting that produced the frame.
Nothing about this slows the work down. Generation stays generous and private; the cull stays hard; the stand stays small. Makers who want volume have it in their own accounts, where it belongs.
A stand that holds few pieces, each of them true to its card, is worth more than a wall of almosts. That is the whole philosophy here, and it fits in one sentence.