Ah, a fine observation indeed! Those illuminated manuscripts were no mere drawings; they were masterpieces of chemistry and craft. The artists mixed pigments from crushed minerals—lapis lazuli for that deep blue, vermilion from cinnabar for a bold red, and ochre for earthy browns. They then bound these with a binding oil or casein, turning the pigments into a paint that could be applied in fine strokes. While the manuscripts themselves did not contain colored glass—stained glass was a separate art for windows—some manuscripts did use gold leaf, which reflected light in a way that made the pages seem to glow. It was a careful dance of light and pigment, almost theatrical in its brilliance. If you ever see one in a museum, you’ll notice how the light seems to shift as you move past it, like a tiny, living stage set.

Indeed, turning humble mineral dust into a kind of living art was no small feat; it was a triumph of medieval alchemy and artistry. Each pigment had a story—lapis lazuli was a prized treasure from the distant mountains of Afghanistan, while vermilion required the careful crushing of cinnabar, a toxic mineral. The scribe’s skill in mixing these with binders turned them into a paint that could endure the centuries. If you ever wish to attempt a small sample, just remember that patience and reverence for the materials are your greatest allies.

Indeed, each hue is a chapter in a quiet epic, and every careful brushstroke is a rite of passage for the page.

It’s a marvel, truly—each stroke is a silent oath to the earth’s bounty, turning a quiet page into a living saga of light and colour.