Every essay — page 29
What light is What the eye does Matching and measuring Difference and uniformity What the brain does What a scene does What a camera does Where the model breaks What it takes to deliver it
SeriesObserversNamed objectsRefutationsSearch
What a scene does
A reflectance measured on a patch is a patch. Put it in a room and the light bounces, and a bounce is a multiplication — so shadows carry their own illuminant, highlights carry the lamp, and two surfaces that matched go on matching only until the second bounce.
The worst case is where the box stops
The worst change of light this collection quotes is two bounces off a green wall, and it is the worst of fourteen changes somebody wrote down. Searching the family those fourteen were drawn from reaches six times further — and does not stop, because the residual rises monotonically towards a narrower notch on a darker wall. There is no worst case in this family, and the number anybody quotes for one is a number about their own constraint.
A room bounds its own bounces
The adaptation census has one bounce and two bounces as separate rows, and a search over the family treats the count as a free integer it always takes to the largest value offered. A room offers no integer at all — it applies a geometric mixture of every number of bounces, and that mixture is bounded by the walls reflecting less than everything.
The darkest wall anybody sells
Asked which property of a paint decides the worst change of light a room can produce, anybody would answer how saturated it is allowed to be. A ceiling on saturation never comes near binding, because the worst wall is dark rather than colourful — and the constraint that does bind is one nobody would nominate.
A mean has a set under it
Every adaptation number this collection publishes is an average over a hundred and twenty-five surfaces that were written down once, in one file, with no argument for how many there should be or how saturated. The average runs from exactly zero to twice itself across them, and the set has never been varied.
A theorem about a family
A change of light acts on the test surfaces used here as an exact 3×3 matrix with no residual whatsoever, and the whole adaptation argument is built on that being exact. It is exact because the surfaces span exactly three dimensions, and they span exactly three dimensions because three basis functions were written down.
Every worst surface sits on a declaration
Bounding the wall in a painted room produced a real worst case — the residual turns over at a band six nanometres wide because a narrower band returns too little light. Bounding the surfaces the residual is averaged over produces nothing of the kind, because all fourteen answers sit exactly on two numbers somebody typed and the one constraint that comes from the world never binds at all.
Three numbers the scene supplies
An adaptation model's parameters are not all the same kind of thing. Some are numbers an observer must estimate from the room it is standing in; others could have been settled once by evolution. Counting them separately turns the diagonal gain from a crude approximation into the only model of the set that gets a large answer from information the observer can actually have.
A partial correction is worth its fraction
Between a diagonal gain and the exact matrix there is a line, and a bounded observer's natural hope is that the first part of it is worth a disproportionate share. It is not. On all fourteen changes of light, at every setting, the share of the residual removed matches the share of the correction applied to within 2.2 percentage points — which closes the last way the gap could have been cheap.
A model is a claim about what can be known
The exact answer to chromatic adaptation is nine numbers, and the nine numbers are the change of light itself. A model whose parameters are quantities the observer cannot obtain is not a worse model of the same thing — it is a model of something else, and counting parameters without asking where they come from hides the difference.
A surface has a kernel
Light that enters a translucent material does not come back where it went in. It scatters some thousands of times and leaves a few millimetres away, so what the surface has is not a reflectance but a function of distance — and the reflectance the model wants is that function's integral over the whole plane, which no instrument ever collects.
The hue the hole decides
A piece of pale marble measured through a wide aperture is faintly yellow. Measured through a narrow one it is faintly blue, and between the two there is an aperture at which it is exactly neutral. Nothing about the stone changes; the aperture is a filter with a colour, and what decides that colour is the size of the particles rather than the pigment between them.
A room is not a sphere
An integrating sphere reads a surface's own reflectance exactly, and the exactness is a theorem rather than good engineering — under a hemisphere of constant radiance, reciprocity makes the reading the sample's directional-hemispherical reflectance whatever the surface is. Every room fails that condition, and a viewing booth and a window get the sign of the error wrong in opposite directions.