Dadaism

Spock had never attended an art class. On Vulcan, it was not considered a skill to be able to adequately recreate a figure or object using some kind of visual media—inasmuch as it was not considered a skill to blink or force blood through one's veins. In fact, a Vulcan that did not have a near-perfect memory and could not concentrate sufficiently to sketch an exact likeness was considered an aberration. Thus the idea of purposefully gathering in order to demonstrate this ability seemed illogical. Still, his mother had requested that he attempt an activity that explored his human culture; he would endure far more than a few hours of mental stagnation to please her.

"You seem to have an unparalleled ability to draw exactly what you see, Mr. Spock. What picture are you copying?" Mrs. Tamei asked brightly.

He glanced at his sketch, a photograph quality drawing of the Seattle skyline, and raised an eyebrow. "It is not a copy. It is the view from the window of the hotel Avander. I saw it when I was visiting Earth and simply reproduced it."

"You drew this from memory? I just visited Seattle a few months ago and this looks exactly right!"

"Your perception is in error. Since my visit, the Starfleet Medical Information Hub was constructed in 2245, altering the skyline significantly."

"Wait a minute—you saw this over twenty years ago and you've remembered it well enough to sketch it perfectly?"

"I am Vulcan," he reminded her.

Mrs. Tamei smiled and rolled her eyes—something humans did often around him, he noticed. "Well, Spock, from what I've seen your technique is perfect, but you do seem to purposefully limit yourself."

Spock tilted his head, confused. "Please clarify; to what limitation are you referring?"

"Well, you've drawn blocks, flowers, robes, and birds. You've painted sunsets and landscapes. I've seen your pastel work with the lyre—it was beautiful, but I've noticed you never draw or paint people." Mrs. Tamei's eyes widened, as if trying to convey some significance.

"You imply that bidpeds are more difficult to portray than objects or animals, or perhaps that their absence is a deficiency in the variation of my portfolio?" Spock asked politely.

Mrs. Tamei floundered. "No, it's not that—although many artists think people are the most difficult thing to capture. The expression on their face, the emotion in their eyes, all the little nuances that make up a persona, that's a real challenge. That's what your art is missing."

It was clear what she was not saying, something his mother had been not-saying his entire life. "Mrs. Tamei, you suggest that my art lacks emotion," he stated calmly. "I posit that it is illogical to expect an artist to reveal something in his work that is not present in the artist."

"That's why I think you should paint people, Mr. Spock," she insisted, gesturing with her paintbrush and leaving little speckles of red in her wake. "You draw what you see; maybe if you see something that has emotions, you'll draw it."

He paused. "An indirect route which nonetheless arrives at the prescribed destination," Spock conceded. "Very well, I will make an attempt."

"Excellent," Mrs. Tamei enthused, beaming at him. "I have a model coming in on Friday for the figure painting class, but it's a pretty small group. You can bring your sketch pad and sit to the side."

Spock considered this. "That would be acceptable.

Spock arrived precisely on time for the class and was forced to wait for almost ten minutes before the other students finished greeting each other and set up their various materials—an inefficient use of his time. From his position towards the front of the class, only one other artist's canvas was visible to him. It appeared to be a cubist interpretation—the work was obviously derivational, but the technique was adequate. His attention was diverted from the painting by the arrival of Mrs. Tamei and her model. Though she was speaking too quietly for any of the humans to overhear, Spock listened as she instructed the girl—Nyota—to ascend to the platform.

Spock was grateful that he was positioned to the side where no one was likely to glance at him, else they would have seen a most un-Vulcanlike loss of composure when Nyota calmly doffed her robe and stepped naked towards the stool provided for her. His eyes widened noticeably, his face and neck turned ever so slightly green, and his muscles tensed briefly. He was feeling surprise, embarrassment, appreciation, and a slight sexual awareness. Within a moment these catalogued feelings had been accepted and moved past; now he was free to think about the situation logically.

When growing up in Shikaar Province, he had occasionally heard disdainful references to the human race's affinity for 'casual nudity.' When he had subsequently visited Earth with his parents, he had assumed this was merely propaganda. When he had moved to San Francisco to attend the Academy he had observed the beach-goers with a lifted eyebrow and amended his assumption—the Vulcans had merely exaggerated. Now here was another paradigm shift.

He could not help but wonder why they did not simply use a holographic projection of a person or allow the young lady to wear a bathing suit—perhaps provide some kind of drape to preserve her modesty? Then again, Nyota appeared perfectly at ease, even a bit bored, and none of the students were reacting with undue…emotion. Spock attempted to follow their lead and resolved to research this matter at a later date.

The hour allotted for the class passed quickly. Spock had several proficient sketches and, of course, had not been required to so much as glance at Nyota for the rest of the session. He had not yet decided the pose he would use for the final version, but he was certain he would not require another modeling session. He packed up his materials quickly and efficiently, heading for the exit at a dignified walk, and if his eyes failed to meet Nyota's on the way out, it was a purely accidental matter.

He arrived at his Academy apartment at 4:36 pm and completed several essential course updates. He then prepared a light dinner, quickly consumed it, and proceeded to meditate for several hours. At 9:45 pm, he extinguished his lights and went to bed. At 12:11 he awoke abruptly from a strange dream in which Nyota's perfectly proportioned body had featured rather prominently.

Still slightly flushed from the dream, Spock nonetheless forced himself from the bed and assumed a meditative position. If his subconscious was attempting to manifest in fantasy, clearly he had not fully confronted how the day's events had affected him. Five hours later, feeling relaxed and in better control of his emotions, Spock ascended from his trance with a single image in his mind. He swiftly readied his supplies and began to sketch the beginnings of what would become his first foray into portraiture.

It being a Saturday, Spock had scheduled the morning for research into increasing antimatter yield by altering the resonating frequencies of the sub-harmonic particles in warp core coils. He mentally rearranged his schedule in his mind as he mixed the perfect medium-brown-bronze of Nyota's skin under the Vulcan sun.

His last session with Mrs. Tamei was Tuesday, and he would prefer to have the painting finished by then; he would reschedule his racketball match with Captain Smith-Smythe on Sunday morning to devote that time to his research, however he still had tutoring sessions all that afternoon. Monday he would be in Xenophrenology all morning and in conference all evening, with Tuesday's morning taken up by two introductory classes in Spacial Sciences. That left today as his only possible time to complete the work. Though it would necessitate his failing to attend the symphony as he had planned, it seemed the most logical plan.

And then, with the week's schedule perfectly arranged, he was free to work.

Seven hours later, Spock cleaned up his materials and moved the painting to the corner to dry. He was usually conscious of a sense of peace upon the completion of a project, but in this case he was…unsettled. He had created something that was essentially irrational, an accurate representation of a visual representation conceived by random neural impulses firing while he slept—not something he could ever explain to a Vulcan without having his logic questioned.

Vulcans did not dream.

And yet, the painting had symbolic meaning, at least to him. There was an internal logic. He scanned it again, trying to mentally verbalize the picture. It was the Cheleb-khor Dessert, a harsh, barren landscape that would be immediately recognizeable to any Vulcan who so much as glanced at it. In the center of the painting was a bed that could have been produced by almost any humanoid culture were it not for the almost illegible ancient Vulcan script etched into the baseboard. The words to the marriage ritual, and thus very obviously a marriage bed. And there in the center, splayed atop the disarranged beige sheets was a slim, brown human girl-Nyota. Her naked body was relaxed, her expression, seductive, but it was her eyes which bored out of the painting, brimming with sated lust that were truly the focus of the work: the image from his dream. There was the warm, sensual, beautiful humanity wrapped up at the core of his equally beautiful austere Vulcan heritage. And the duality worked-perhaps because Nyota's replete splendor at the center made it difficult to focus on the rest of the painting. He found himself tracing her curves with his eyes and abruptly stood. It was possibly his best work.

He would have to dispose of it.

He could objectively classify the techniques and brush strokes to be impeccable. It perfectly represented the ideas he had wished to express and it captured the human element so essential to this type of work. Ms. Tamei would no doubt think it exceptional. However, to display such a work would be…inappropriate, and should he store it away, his mother would be almost certain to find it and ask him questions that would be difficult to answer with any degree of dignity. She would also be unlikely to allow the subject to rest no matter how many years passed in the interim.

That would be…unacceptable. Spock boxed up the painting the moment the pigmentation was secure.

Six days later Ms. Tamei reverently pulled the painting from the box and propped it on an easel as Nyota looked on curiously. "I'll be very disappointed if this is some weird Impressionist portrait, Kim" she said, a note of laughter in her voice.

"Can you truly imagine a Vulcan Impressionist?" Ms. Tamei asked, reaching for a drop cloth.

"Well you never know, they seem to be good at—" Nyota caught her breath as the painting was revealed, "everything."

"Isn't it gorgeous? I admit, I despaired of him ever creating anything that really spoke and then this."

"Why did he just give it away?" she had to ask. It was so beautiful.

Ms. Tamei snorted. "He said something about wanting to thank me for my time, but personally I think he just didn't know what else to do with it. It's not the sort you imagine Vulcans having in their rooms, is it?"

"I guess not," she said weakly, still unable to look away.

"Anyway, he asked me not to display it—and since I live in an art gallery and my house practically has a revolving door on it, I thought I had best give it to you," she finished up, rewrapping the work and putting it back in its box.

Nyota blinked. "To me? Are you sure? It must be so valuable!"

Ms. Tamei smiled. "Perhaps it could be, but if no one sees it, art is wasted. At least you will appreciate it; and this way, I do not break my promise."

Nyota knew she should refuse, but there was something about the picture that stirred her; she felt a connection to this unknown Vulcan who had looked at her and seen…that. What else could he see? So she accepted, eagerly. "Thank you, Kim. I know exactly where I'm going to put it."

Ms. Tamei shrugged. "That is the way it is with art—you see it and you know where it goes."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the artist, other than his race, I mean?" Nyota asked as she gathered her things to go.

The older woman sighed and thought for a moment. "He was tall and good-looking, with very dark eyes. Other than that, he only gave me his first name, Spock."

Nyota sighed and nodded. "Thank you anyway, Kim."

"It is no trouble…oh," she called, just as the door to the studio was swinging closed. Nyota caught it and peeked back in.

"Yes?"

"I believe he once mentioned something about rescheduling a teacher-conference with a cadet, if that is of any help."

The young girl smiled back, triumphant. "Yes, Kim, that will help a great deal."

And that was how, six days later, Spock answered the chime of his office to find the slim uniform-clad figure he knew in precise detail waiting patiently outside. She gave him a cool nod and a sharp, "Sir."

He stared impassively at her. "What can I do for you, Cadet?"

"Cadet Uhura, Sir, Communications. I just wanted to stop by and thank you for your efforts."

"Cadet, to what are you referring?"

For the first time, the slightly wooden expression faded and her eyes glinted with emotion. "To your painting, Sir."

Spock felt embarrassment, examined the emotion, and discarded it as irrelevant. Regret actions that could not be altered was illogical, an inefficient use of his time. "Cadet, your sentiments are appreciated, but unnecessary. The painting to which you refer was not meant to be viewed."

"Yes, Sir," Cadet Uhura replied. She seemed to hesitate then.

"Was there something else?"

Uhura straightened. "Yes, Sir, it is 1300 hours; if you have not eaten, perhaps you would like to share a meal with me in the commissary?"

Spock considered his schedule. He had twelve essays to grade between now and 1500 hours. He had a meeting at 1530 and a training period to oversee at 1700. Working in his office while he consumed a nutrient bar would be more efficient. He considered Cadet Uhura. "Yes, Cadet, that would be satisfactory.

Nyota smiled.