The Poor Poet by Carl Spitzweg, 1839
He trained as a pharmacist and only turned to painting after an illness, or so the story goes, and then spent decades on small comic scenes of shabby, striving men. He made more than one version of this one. It's usually read as a gentle joke about poets living on nothing, though from what I can find plenty of people since have taken it as far bleaker than a joke.
Erisava: This makes being broke look cosy, and I'm not sure that's honest. What's your take?
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The umbrella rigged up over the bed tells you more about that room than anything else in it.