The most expensive habit in this work is kindness to mediocre frames. Every portrait gets retouched a little, enlarged a little, fussed over a little — and the collection ends up uniformly adequate, which is a polite word for forgettable. A retoucher’s eye is mostly a willingness to decide: this one, finished properly; the rest, left as studies without regret.
The three tests
First, the glance test. Show yourself the frame for two seconds and look away. What remains in the mind — her expression, a fall of light, a line of dress? Frames that deposit something survive; frames that deposit nothing were decoration. Second, the bones test. Ignore the flaw you are itching to fix and judge pose, composition and light alone. Retouching can correct a wardrobe or an hour; it cannot give a portrait a spine it was born without. Third, the neighbour test. Place the frame beside the keepers it would hang with. A piece can be lovely alone and still lower the wall it joins; collections are judged as walls, not as singles.
What finishing is actually for
Retouching and enlargement are presentation expenses, and presentation should follow selection, never precede it. The house order exists for a reason: compose widely at the standard tariff, select severely, correct the chosen few at the desk, and enlarge only the pieces that will actually be seen large. Reversing that order — finishing first and choosing later — spends the budget on studies and leaves the keepers underdressed.
In praise of the study
None of this makes the unfinished frames waste. Studies are how a muse’s range is discovered: the pose that fails in March becomes the signature of the June sitting. Keep them, privately, the way painters keep sketchbooks — out of the gallery, but not out of the house. The discipline is not to make less. It is to finish less, on purpose, and to let the few finished pieces carry the full weight of your attention.