Tilda Umber stood at the podium of the lecture hall. Her glance surveyed the room, taking in her audience. The room was filling with the low chatter of students just settling in.

It was the first session of her course, Through the Spectrum: Art and Memory in Chromapolis, and she was keenly aware of their mix of expectation and curiosity.

„Good morning, everyone,“ she began, her voice calm but warm, carrying the quiet confidence of someone who loved what she taught. The chatter in the room faded as eyes turned toward her. Rows of bright, youthful faces. The students‘ Colour Harmony Profiles ranged from bold and vivid to subtle and subdued. This was not an unusual spectrum for any art history course.

„I would like to start today’s session with a short experiment. Please close your eyes for a moment and picture a historic moment.“ She paused to let the students follow her instructions.

„Have you all got a picture in your head? Good. Now, I would like you to focus on the colours. Are you seeing sepia tones, black and white, or maybe carefully restored hues, brighter than they ever were? You don’t need to answer. Just keep those colours in mind. Okay. You may open your eyes again.“

The students looked at her with expectation, and a soft smile played on Tilda’s lips. „It’s a trick question, of course,“ she continued. „The colours we assign to the past often say more about the present than they do about history itself.“

She stepped away from the podium slightly, letting her gaze sweep the room.

„Over the coming weeks, we’ll explore how art reflects the history of Chromapolis and actively shapes how that history is remembered. And today, we’re going to start with something that’s often overlooked: How our perception of colour whether curated, corrected, or manipulated, influences what we think we know about the past.“

Tilda tapped her console, and the first image appeared: A centuries-old landscape painting by an anonymous artist, showing rolling green fields under a sky of soft, muted blues.

„This,“ Tilda said, gesturing toward the projection, „is how the painting appears in most standard archives.“

She paused to let the students take in the picture. Then, she clicked on the next slide. It revealed the same painting, but now the colours were vibrant to the point of artificiality. The greens were unnaturally lush, the blues electrifying. „And this,“ she continued, „is how it appears in Chromadyne’s curated galleries.“

Once more, she paused; this time, she could hear a ripple of murmurs spread through the room.

Tilda smiled, enjoying the students‘ curiosity.

„Notice anything odd?“ she asked, pacing to the side of the projection.

She looked into the audience for any raised hands, but when none came, she continued, „Look, here at the greens, for instance.“

She clicked back and forth between the two images and left the more vibrant one on the screen. „Do you see it?“

Some students nodded.

„Well, I think we can all agree that the artwork is beautiful, but these colours we see in this version are far more saturated than the pigments used in the original paints were able to achieve.“

A hand shot up in the second row.

„Yes, Nick?“

„Why would they change it?“ the young man in a bright cyan jacket asked.

„Excellent question,“ Tilda replied. „Well, one answer would be that enhanced colour fidelity makes historical art more accessible to modern audiences. But what do you think? Does accessibility come at the cost of authenticity? Is this restoration, or is it reinvention? Is it the past, or a version of it that we are meant to believe?““

The room buzzed.

Tilda, encouraged by their engagement, pressed on.

She clicked through her presentation, always showing the before and after of several artworks. In the portraits, the skin tones were subtly altered, making the depicted person seem slightly more attractive. You could recognise the original, yet one could argue it was somewhat off and no longer the same as the original. In still-life paintings, the shadows seemed just ever so more crisp, and the hues of the fruit, wine, glasses, or whatever they displayed were more intense. One comparison even showcased a restored fresco where the once-faded version was revived in improbably intense hues.

„As you can see,“ Tilda continued, her voice becoming more animated, „Sometimes the corrections erase the painter’s original intent. Maybe the painter wanted to show a person’s vulnerability in their portrait by depicting certain colours or imperfections. By imposing our modern aesthetics onto such works of art, we distort their original meaning. And in general, we can say, when looking at them, we no longer experience the past as it was, but rather a version that has been filtered through our present-day ideals.“

The students exchanged glances. Some seemed intrigued, others sceptical. Tilda saw a young woman frowning at her wristband, clearly fact-checking something.

Tilda didn’t mind. She welcomed scepticism. In fact, she thought scepticism was an integral part of the academic mindset. She wanted her students to be able to think independently, fact-check statements, and challenge common beliefs.

A hand in the back went up, slow and deliberate. It was Jasper Tone, a third-year student known for his sharp intellect and sharper tongue.

„Professor,“ he began, „isn’t it a bit… presumptuous to criticise Chromadyne? After all, their technology keeps our city running. And honestly, aren’t we lucky to experience art at its most vibrant?“

Tilda paused and considered Jasper’s contribution. „Jasper, I’m not saying Chromadyne’s contributions aren’t significant. Of course, Chromadyne’s technology is impressive, and I did not criticise that. However, as art historians, it’s our responsibility to question how such contributions, however well-intended, shape our understanding of history? Is it not dangerous to suit historical works to modern tastes, just to make them more accessible? Don’t we risk losing something valuable, something real, in the process?“

Jasper smirked but said nothing further.

Tilda continued, happy that she could make her point about how important art historians were in preserving history. The lecture ended with polite applause, and the students filed out in their usual kaleidoscope of colours. Tilda packed up her notes and left the lecture hall.

Halfway down the corridor, she noticed a figure waiting near her office. A tall man in a three-piece blue, magenta and orange suit. He stood there with an air of quiet authority.

„Professor Umber,“ he greeted, his voice smooth. „I’m Elias Prism. From the university’s partnership office.“ His posture was casual, but his eyes were anything but.

„Mr. Prism,“ Tilda responded politely. „How can I help you?“

„I am a representative from our partnership office, Ms Umber.“

„It’s Professor Umber, actually“, Tilda corrected him, not liking where the conversation was heading.

„Of course,“ Prism continued. „As it may be, I attended your lecture,“ he said, his tone even. „Very… thought-provoking, Ms.—I mean—Professor Umber. However, as a representative from our partnership office, I must advise you to be cautious when discussing Chromadyne in such critical terms. As you surely know, their support is vital to this institution.“

Tilda’s brow furrowed. „Yes,“ she answered firmly. „As I had already stated in my answer to the student in my lecture, Mr. Prism, I was by no means criticising Chromadyne’s technology. Merely exploring—“

„Of course, Ms—Professor Umber.“ he interrupted smoothly. „Exploration is the heart of academia, isn’t it?“ He let out an ironic chuckle. „And I merely advise you to be mindful of our partners. Not everyone is as lenient as I am and appreciates such… nuanced interpretations.“

With this, Prism turned and walked away before Tilda even had the chance to respond. She stood in the hallway, stunned by the conversation.

Tilda returned to her office to find a stack of papers on her desk, which she had not put there. On closer inspection, they turned out not to be papers but printouts of her lecture slides. Scribbled across them in red felt pen was a single word: „Obsolete.“

Her breath caught. Who had done this? And why?

A faint buzz came from her wristband, a notification. She opened it to find a brief, formal message from the dean requesting a meeting about „course content alignment with institutional priorities.“

Tilda sank into her chair; this couldn’t be happening.

She glanced outside her office window and watched students crossing the campus as if they had no care in the world. She went over the questions she’d posed during her lecture.

„Is it the past,“ she murmured to herself, „or a version we are meant to believe?“

Her fingers hovered over her console. For the first time, she hesitated. Not out of fear, but something more profound. A quiet resolve began to form in her chest.

If they were trying to shut her up, there had to be something worth uncovering.

Tilda knocked on the dean’s door. Her hand was trembling, and her nervousness annoyed her. She had done nothing wrong.

At the faint sound of „Come in“, she inhaled deeply, straightened her green jacket, and entered.

The dean’s office was immaculate. The furniture gleamed with a polished sheen. The walls were adorned with holographic art that shifted between pastoral landscapes and abstract neon bursts. The room smelled faintly of synthetic lavender, which she associated with Chromadyne’s popular air diffusers.

Dean Carver sat behind a massive desk, his sharp features slightly softened by his meticulously maintained salt-and-pepper beard. He was reviewing something on his wristband but looked up as she entered, offering a neutral smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

„Professor Umber,“ he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. „Please, have a seat.“

„Thank you, Dean Carver,“ she replied, lowering herself into the chair and folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her palms felt damp.

The dean leaned back, steepling his fingers. „‚I’ll get straight to the point. It has come to my attention that your lecture earlier today has raised some concerns with our partnership office.“

Tilda kept her expression neutral, though her stomach clenched. „Concerns?“

„Yes,“ Carver said, his tone carefully neutral. „I have been informed that your discussion of Chromadyne’s art restoration techniques may have come across as unnecessarily critical.“

„With all due respect, Dean Carver, I was by no means criticising, only encouraging critical thinking,“ Tilda responded. She was furious about the allegation but tried to keep her tone even. „Is it not essential for students in our field to examine and learn how external forces shape our understanding of history?“

„An admirable goal, Professor Umber,“ Carver said. „But we must be mindful of our partnerships. Their funding allows us to maintain our facilities and provide scholarships. Frankly, they pay our salaries. Chromadyne is one of our largest partners and integral to this university’s operations.“

„Of course,“ Tilda said carefully, feeling the pressure of his gaze. „But we also need to be able to maintain academic integrity. Integrity should always be the priority of academia, don’t you think? If we fail to question—“

„Integrity is precisely why I’m speaking with you,“ Carver interrupted. „Your role as an educator is to guide students and not to impose doubt on the very systems that support their education.“

Tilda resisted the urge to clench her fists. „Well, I would argue that doubt is a vital part of education, would you not? Without it, how do we inspire innovation? Progress? Surely corporations like Chromadyne need minds capable of innovation?“

The dean sighed, leaning forward slightly. „Tilda, let me be honest with you. Your lecture today caught the attention of some very important people. Elias Prism from the partnership office was among them, as I’m sure you noticed.“

Tilda nodded silently.

„He expressed… unease,“ Carver continued. „And when someone like Prism expresses unease, it tends to escalate. You’ve built a reputation as an excellent lecturer, but this kind of attention isn’t beneficial. Not to you, not to us.“

Tilda felt her pulse quicken. „Are you asking me to avoid discussing Chromadyne entirely?“

„Not at all,“ Carver replied smoothly. „But I am asking you to approach the topic with caution. Highlight Chromadyne’s contributions and innovations. Criticism, if necessary, should be framed constructively.“

„And if it is not constructive?“ Tilda inquired provokingly.

Carver’s expression hardened. „Then it becomes a liability.“

Silence hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Tilda’s mind raced with a mix of frustration and defiance. This discussion ran against everything she believed in. The dean of all people should be protecting his academic staff. Instead, he was selling out integrity and bending under the system. Tilda knew he wasn’t explicitly threatening her, but the subtext was clear: tread carefully or face the consequences.

„I understand,“ she said finally, her tone measured but devoid of warmth. „Is there anything else?“

Carver relaxed slightly as if relieved she hadn’t pushed any further. „No, that will be all. Thank you for your time, Professor Umber.“

Tilda rose, nodding curtly. „Thank you, Dean Carver.“

As she turned to leave, Carver’s voice stopped her at the door.

„Tilda.“

She stopped without glancing back.

„Be mindful, please. For your own sake. Stay away from it.“ he said. „Not everything is worth digging into.“

Tilda stepped into the corridor, her heart pounding. The dean’s parting words echoed in her mind, more warning than advice.

Not everything is worth digging into.

It made her angry on a level she hadn’t yet experienced. But if they didn’t want her digging, maybe that was the best reason to start.