“Pigment?”
“He says we’re 'diluting the satin.' Dr. Evans thinks he’s hallucinating a child.”
I take the chart. I walk into Room 708.
Mr. Finch is pacing. He is a disheveled man in a hospital gown, waving his hands frantically.
“It’s wrong!” Finch yells at the wall. “The hue is wrong! It’s supposed to be Lapis Lazuli! They’re using Cobalt! It’s cheap! It’s pedestrian!”
Dr. Evans is standing in the corner, looking ready to sedate him.
“Mr. Finch,” Evans says slowly. “There is no blue boy here. The boy is safe.”
“The boy is not safe!” Finch screams. “The satin is ruining the composition!”
I stop. I listen.
Lapis Lazuli. Satin composition. The Blue Boy.
I step forward.
“He’s not talking about a child,” I announce.
Evans turns. “Excuse me?”
“He’s talking about Gainsborough,” I say. I turn to Mr. Finch. “Thomas Gainsborough.The Blue Boy. Painted in 1770. Oil on canvas. Currently residing at the Huntington Library in California.”
Mr. Finch stops pacing. He looks at me. His eyes widen.
“The satin,” Finch whispers. “You know the satin?”
“I know it,” I nod confidently. “Gainsborough used a specific layering technique to achieve that shimmering blue. It wasn't just Cobalt. He used Lapis Lazuli glazes over a lead white base to catch the light. It was revolutionary for 18th-century portraiture.”
Finch grabs my shoulders. He looks like he’s found a prophet.
“Yes! Yes! And these... thesephilistines,” he gestures at Dr.Evans, “they keep trying to give me pills that make the blue fade! They want to mute the palette!”
“We can’t have that,” I say smoothly. “But here is the problem, Mr. Finch. If your brain chemistry is too chaotic, you can’t appreciate the brushwork. The mania distorts the colour theory.”
I pick up the small paper cup of medication from the table.
“This isn't a pill,” I lie. “This is a stabilizer. It’s a varnish. It preserves the integrity of the image. If you take this, the blue stays crisp. If you don't? It all turns to mud.”
Finch stares at the cup. “A varnish?”
“Archival quality,” I promise.
Finch takes the cup. He swallows the pills.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “Finally. An artist.”
I walk out of the room. Dr. Evans follows me, his jaw hanging open.
“How did you know that?” Evans demands. “How did you know about the... the Lapis whatever?”
“I spent a summer in London avoiding my mother,” I shrug. “I practically lived at the National Gallery. Gainsborough is basic, Evans. If he starts ranting about the chiaroscuro in a Caravaggio, call me. That gets complex.”
I check the next chart.
