The chart on this wall counts nothing: no names, no dates, no generations numbered. It is a family tree audited down to branches.
Zero as a style. Other studios in this family let the framed tree stand for ancestry imagined. Here it stands for ancestry declined. The lines divide and divide — the shape of a lineage — and stop there, because every figure who might hang on those branches is an invention of the studio and is labelled as one.
That is the same honesty the pedestal keeps. Between an unlabelled tree and an unoccupied plinth, the desk states its whole policy in furniture: portraits yes, monuments no; invented women, clearly invented; nothing presented as a record of anyone real.
Composing the pair. Chart high and soft behind, pedestal low and lit beside. The sitter sits between an ancestry that is only lines and a monument that is only stone — she is the only person-shaped thing in the frame, which is exactly where a portrait wants her.
If a generation fills either — labels on the chart, a figure on the pedestal — cull it without discussion. This desk’s two emptinesses are its signature; a filled frame belongs to some other studio.