Two edges with different ancestors
A scallop is a manufactured edge. It is what you get from a die, a rotary cutter or a pair of shaped shears: a repeat of identical arcs, evenly spaced, cut into or out of a straight line. Victorian carte-de-visite mounts had them, doilies have them, so do the paper cases under a cake and the edges of a great many greeting cards. The eye reads a scallop as something that was made in a factory and made carefully, which is exactly why it flatters a photograph of a child or a wedding.
A deckle is the opposite. It is the untrimmed edge of a sheet of hand-made paper, formed where the pulp thins out against the wooden frame — the deckle — that holds the mould. No two are alike, none is straight, and the irregularity is the whole point. Where a scallop says careful, a deckle says made by hand and left that way. Torn paper is the same family with less politeness: an edge pulled apart rather than formed.
That difference in ancestry is worth holding on to, because it decides which control matters. A scallop is judged on its regularity. A deckle is judged on whether its irregularity looks plausible.


