Chapter Nine: The Colorblind Painter

- Emotion can dictate how we see the world.

Excitement, for instance, can make everything appear brighter.

Life in Technicolor.

What are you thinking?

- Nothing. Why?

I just know your thinking face.

You do it like 99% of the time--

sometimes even when you're sleeping.

Not that I watch you sleep or anything.

- I am thinking that we shouldn't tell anyone at work about this.

- Don't worry. I'm with you.

I've got enough drama in my life anyway.

Mm. Exactly.

If there is one thing

that spreads faster than a virus in a hospital, it's gossip.

This is fun.

Uncomplicated fun.

Let's keep it that way.

- We still have an hour before rounds.

- When you're in a good mood, colors look more vivid.

They're even a form of expression.

For instance, we say red is the color of passion.

Or a patient might describe themselves as feeling blue.

But it's more than just a metaphor.

Color can also cause emotions in us.

Maybe the yellow of a sunrise gives a person hope.

- Someone woke up on the right side of the bed.

- Whose bed do you think it was?

- Can you go two seconds without thinking about sex?

Wolf does have a glow.

- Yeah. Come on, Ericka. Don't be jealous.

The guy clearly got laid. Good for him.

At least someone around here

has got enough time for a little lovin'.

- But imagine a world without color.

How would it make us feel?

How could we feel?

Josh, hi. Um, it's me.

I think I just missed your call, uh, again.

So... you're right.

This probably would be easier if I had a cellphone.

Anyway, uh, I hope that you're having fun

at the conference... if that's even possible.

Um, just, uh, call me back whenever you can.

I'm here, okay? Bye.

Dr. Wolf. Hello.

I'm Angelika Delaney with the Brooks-Everett Gallery.

We spoke on the phone. - Of course.

Please have a seat, Ms. Delaney.

- I can't express how grateful I am to you

for making the time to see me.

Dr. Stewart at Presbyterian West says you are one of the best.

- I'm sure she said more than that,

and in more colorful language if I know Dr. Stewart at all.

How can I help you? - Oh, it's not for me.

I'm here on behalf of my client, Gabriel Ferguson.

He's one of the most talented artists I've ever worked with.

But out of nowhere, he has stopped painting.

He says it's his head. Migraines.

I don't know. I can't get a full story.

Gabe's never been great about letting people in.

Here. I will write down the address where you can find him.

- Oh, uh, I have so many patients here who need my attention.

So if you could arrange to have him come see me--

I've tried.

He won't talk to me.

Why would he listen to me?

- I've done my homework, Dr. Wolf.

I don't bring just anyone to my clients.

You care about what you do,

and from what I hear, it's your craft.

My client respects a man with a craft.

Please.

He has a show at the end of the month,

and if he doesn't deliver, it will be the end of his career.

Hello?

Anybody here?

- My paintings aren't for touching.

- I-I'm so sorry. I didn't mean--

- Did the gallery send you? Was it Angelika?

God. That woman is like a dog with a bone.

- I'm not with the gallery. My name is Dr. Oliver Wolf.

I'm a neurologist at Bronx General.

Ms. Delaney sought me out. - Look.

I'm fine.

I'm sure there are people who actually need your help,

but that's not me.

Sorry you wasted your time.

I understand.

But it would bother me if I didn't ask.

Ms. Delaney mentioned the headaches?

- Haven't you ever told a white lie, Doctor?

I was just trying to buy a little extra time with my work.

- O-Okay. Um...

I'm sorry that I-I interrupted your day.

Are-- Are these both yours?

- That's from a while back-- Paris, 1994.

- Blue bananas. Interesting.

Weren't you leaving?

- How long have you been color-blind?

- "Color-blind," he said,

as if I just mistake red for green.

Try all I see is black and white.

Everything's like burnt charcoal.

So unless you're here to tell me you can fix that...

...there's the door.

I miss everything about him.

The way he smelled,

the way he made me feel like the only woman in the world.

I keep trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong.

I-I was too eager, too available.

- Mm. Tell me more about that.

- I always let him call the shots.

Like... the time when he took me away for my birthday.

He picked this tiny little town upstate.

And then he refused to leave the hotel room all weekend.

And I just let him have his way,

even though it felt like he was embarrassed to be seen with me.

- Oh. I didn't realize the two of you had traveled together.

Just the once.

You know, my mom was always the "go along to get along" type.

Maybe if she'd voiced a single opinion,

my dad wouldn't have cheated on her.

- Well, I can see how you'd internalize silence

for weakness.

How do you think your family history influenced

your thoughts on dating a married man?

When did I say he was married?

- Oh. I-I'm sorry. It...

The way you talk about him, I must have assumed.

Oh.

And that's our time.

- Okay. Sounds good. I'll see you this weekend.

- Okay. I love you, too.

- Ericka's gonna kill you. - What?

- If you're trying to sneak her baby carrots,

she'll go straight for your carotid.

- Copy that.

So, who were you talking to?

What?

- Come on, man. On the phone.

Who are we going to see this weekend?

Uh, nobody.

- Oh, okay. Okay. I get it.

You don't kiss and tell.

But first Wolf and now you, man.

I don't know where the love bug is, but it needs to come my way.

Van, send it this way. - All right.

- When did you first notice the chance in your vision?

- About six months ago. I was in a car accident.

After that, it was like my whole world became

a black-and-white movie.

And to be clear, I don't like black-and -white movies.

- Now tell me about the accident. - It was nothing.

My car hit black ice, went into a ditch.

- Did you hit your head? - Nothing crazy.

Three stitches.

But... the next morning, everything was...

...different.

What is all this?

This is Holmgren's wool test.

This will help me understand the severity of your condition.

Um, choose the piece of yarn

that most closely matches this shade.

- I don't know. - It's okay.

Gabriel, when is the last time you left your studio?

- I go outside in the world. It's-- It's ugly. Gray.

Food looks like it's been left to rot.

People don't even look like people anymore.

They're alien.

I used to love to paint the world,

and now I can barely stand to look at it.

It's just easier to stay inside.

I don't know. It...

Is a life like that even worth living?

If you're willing, I think that it might be best

for us to have this conversation at the hospital.

- I can't believe I'm looking at Gabriel Ferguson's brain.

It's so cool.

- You've heard of him? - Mm-hmm.

I read a piece in The New Yorker about him a few years ago.

Almost made me want to drop out of med school

and pursue the arts.

Almost. - I read that same piece.

He talks about his expressive use of color to evoke emotion.

This guy's work's incredible.

- Looks like an entirely unremarkable MRI to me.

Which in itself is remarkable,

considering he was in a car accident.

Sorry.

I'm being slammed with ED consults.