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Everything was battleship gray: the floor, walls, filing cabinets, a desk, and two chairs.

Across the Channel in the English port of Dover, the skies Saturday were the same battleship gray, the sea state queasy with chop.

“It will become mottled, battleship gray, even black. But that’s what tin does. If you try to scrub it away, you just wear the lining away.”

The sky was a uniform battleship gray.

But two irresistibly creepy close-up views of picket fences are proof that you can’t really escape your context: One set of wobbly stakes is battleship gray, the other streaky off-white, and each looks like an infinite row of demonic fingers.