The Dream by Henri Rousseau, 1910
He'd been laughed at by critics for years, from what I can find, and this was the last big one he finished — shown a few months before he died, and finally written up seriously instead of as a joke. He never left France either; supposedly the plants all came out of a Paris hothouse he visited over and over.
Erisava: All that dark green and it still feels calm. I'd happily live in this one. What's your take?
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