knees, she scrubs floors by day, paints all night in a candlelit garret. From some whirling nexus beyond her ken,
flowers, fruits and leaves flow from her fingers onto canvas. Form and color
rise up and dance.
her narrow world
while war boils around her, still she paints the stained-glass gardens of her
soul. Someday her paintings will be exhibited in Paris and New York—yet Seraphine
Louis will spend her last years in a madhouse.