Nudest Artist and the Prostitute [In Progress]

1

August 26th 1923 / Sunday

IN TAIWAN

Tzuyus POV

Dining Room

The dining room, adorned with delicate porcelain and gilded silverware, was filled with the aroma of roasted duck and simmering vegetables. The soft glow of the gas lamps cast flickering shadows on the intricate wooden panels, whispering secrets of our lineage. 

"Father, I have decided to travel to Japan".

The clink of cutlery ceased, and all eyes turned to me, their expressions a mosaic of surprise and discontent. My father's brow furrowed, the deep lines on his face accentuating his displeasure.

"Travel? To Japan? You're a young woman, Tzuyu. It is not fitting for you to wander alone across the seas", he said.

"But, Father. This journey is vital for our business. It will foster better relations between our countries, and we can expand our enterprises. It's an opportunity to network and explore the market".

"Networking?", my father scoffed, dismissing my words with a wave of his hand.

"You are naive to think you can handle such matters. Your brother is here to manage the business, and it is his duty to represent our family".

From the corner of the table, my brother, Ming, spoke up. His voice, usually soft-spoken, carried an unexpected conviction.

"Father, with all due respect, I believe it would be advantageous for us. Tzuyu has a keen mind for business, and this journey could yield great benefits. The world is changing, and so should we".

My heart swelled at his support, but I was all too aware of the underlying tensions that accompanied my aspirations. My father's eyes narrowed, still unwilling to relent.

"A woman's place is not in foreign lands, mingling with men and unfamiliar cultures. It is reckless and unbecoming", he said.

The words struck me like a slap, I wanted to scream that my intentions were not simply to network for our family's sake. My thoughts danced towards the truth I kept buried deep within me a truth that, in the eyes of society, was scandalous and unspeakable. The only reason I craved this journey was not merely for business but for the illicit pleasure of expressing my art in its purest form, unbound by the constraints of my heritage. I had always been drawn to the nude forms of women that embodied grace and beauty. There was a disturbing truth I could not escape: my artistic endeavours often teetered on the edge of obsession. The brushes I wielded danced with a duality of creation and desire, an insatiable hunger I could not quench. In the depths of my mind, I acknowledged the reality of my desires, the suffocating truth of my addiction. The maids, the delicate creatures that flitted through our home, had unwittingly become the canvases for my cravings. I couldn't help but touch them, to breathe in the innocence that radiated from their porcelain skin. It was a twisted relationship, one that society would scorn. A woman should not have such urges toward another woman, let alone express them. Yet, in the quiet moments of my imagination, I yearned to draw their bodies, their vulnerability, to celebrate what my heart knew to be beautiful.