“She said it was fine” is not documentation. When the moderation desk asks about a transformed photo, the answer that protects everyone — the subject, you, the studio — is a file: retrievable, dated, and specific. Building that file takes five minutes before the shoot and is nearly impossible to reconstruct after it.
What belongs in the file
The agreement itself. A message thread, a signed release, a contract clause — any form where words survive. It must cover transformation, not just photography: being photographed and being undressed by software are different permissions, and honest paperwork names the second one explicitly. Scope. Which tools (undress, edit, swap), which outputs (private library, published gallery), and for how long. Identity and age. Confirmation the subject is an adult, from the subject. Revocation terms. What happens if they change their mind — the professional answer is that published work comes down, and saying so up front is what makes the asking easy.
How to ask
Plainly, in writing, before anyone undresses anything. Professional models expect the question; it signals a creator who will still be reachable next year. Screenshots of the conversation, exported and dated, are the floor. A one-page release is the ceiling, and for paid work it is worth the page.
Keeping it
Store the file beside the work it covers, for as long as the work exists. If the work is deleted, the file can go with it. If consent is revoked, the file is your proof of when the work was lawful and your checklist for taking it down. The studio’s rule is absolute — documented or it does not run — and creators who keep good files discover the rule costs them nothing and occasionally saves them everything.