On seeing colour

How can aeneous mean bronze-coloured as in “brassy or golden green,” asks the classicist Shadi Bartsch?  Most of the replies to her question pointed to the copper in bronze that turns green when it oxidises, but that is a blue green, not a golden green.  For Homer, the sky was bronze, but was it golden-green, or the blue of oxidation? – and the sea was wine-dark, but was it red?  Are the Greeks really talking about colour at all?  It is as if one culture hearing an orchestra is listening only to the pitch of the notes, and another culture is listening to the sounds the different instruments are making, so a description of the sound an oboe makes is met with the bewildered response that is sounds like a description of C# yet surely the note is more of a A, and helpful scholars finally find a way of hearing it perhaps as a rather flat B flat.  But I like the idea of seeing the world less in terms of colours and more in terms of texture.  Not just any texture either, but the specific texture of how light reflects off objects – a world of varying degrees of shimmer and shine, depth and detail.  It makes me want to describe something as wine-light, thinking of the way the clarity of white wine in a glass is a particularly lit-up clarity, holding lightness as both brilliance and levity, and how this might describe the character of a person, just as another person could be described as wine-dark, with wine-dark depths you could get lost in.