Christal
Cooper
* The Photograph Description & Copyright Information Page is at the end of the piece.
“Zelda Burning” reprinted from the Saturday Evening Post January/February
2016 issue. React-text: 262) Winner of
the 2016 Great American Fiction Contest.
Copyright granted by © Celeste McMaster and The Saturday Evening Post.
Celeste McMaster
Guest Blogger Celeste McMaster
Short story: Zelda,
Burning
How is it that she’s
come to this? From flapper to frump, sitting here in an oversized sweater, the
color of cerulean blue, her hair a frowsy tangle — though just now she doesn’t
care about that. There’s sun in her chest that’s pushing out through her limbs.
She’s still. Warm.
Photo 4
She knows this place,
this white windowless office, is not where she belongs. But she’s not sure
where it is that she does.
From behind his desk,
Dr. Carroll is asking her another question, as Zelda, stretched out on the
couch, gazes out the window, seeing sunlight slice through gray.
Photo 5
Scott is there, but Dr.
Carroll doesn’t see him — isn’t it strange, with his presence so clear? He’s to
her right, slouched in a chair, squinting from the light. He’s silent but she
can tell he’s judging her thoughts.
She stares over at him,
questions in her eyes, but his face is a wall she keeps coming up against.
Dr. Carroll never quits, prodding and poking.
“Excuse me?” Zelda asks.
“I was asking if you’d
care to talk more about your childhood — your parents, for example?”
“Not particularly,
doctor. But if you insist, I’ll do my best.” She bats her eyes at the good
doctor. Such a proud and puffy little man.
“Yes, Zelda. Tell me
about your father.”
Zelda's father
She lights a cigarette.
“My father was a judge, Old Dick we all called him. He never really approved of
me.” She rushes on, breathlessly, “Scott always remembers him chasing me around
the table with a carving knife that time at dinner. But really he wasn’t as bad
as all that.”
Scott is still slouched
in the chair to her right, his hand curved toward him, inspecting his nails. So
strange how the doctor never even glances his way.
The doctor’s face flushes in alarm. “Your father chased you with a carving knife? Why do you think that was, Zelda?”
The doctor’s face flushes in alarm. “Your father chased you with a carving knife? Why do you think that was, Zelda?”
Zelda laughs, waving her
hand in dismissal. “Oh, who knows? I was probably being sassy. It was right
after Scott and I were married, so I ’spect we were all getting used to things.
Don’t worry, Doctor. Father knew I was a fast runner.”
Photo 7
She can tell that
sometimes the doctor doesn’t know whether she is fibbing or not. Honestly,
there are moments when she isn’t sure herself.
Photo 8
“I suppose you want to
know about how he was when I was growing up, that sort of thing?” She flicks
the ash from her cigarette into the brass tray.
Photo 9
“Yes, Zelda. That would
be fine.” Dr. Carroll runs his fingers through the little hair he has left,
then adjusts his glasses and straightens in his chair.
Photo 10
“Well, he mostly stayed
out of the way, too busy with work, you know, which was fine by Mother and me.”
Photo 11: Zelda's mother
She closes her eyes and
she is there again: a small child in a white sundress, golden hair glinting in
the sun, running through the field of yellow daisies. She smells the bright new
grass and onion weeds blended with clover. Her mother sits in the shade on a
white, paint-chipped bench, fanning herself and reading Harper’s.
Photo 12
“Look how fast I can
run, Mother.”
“Yes, darling. You
certainly can.”
“I can beat the boys.” She runs and runs
straight through the field, faster and faster until she tastes the sweat on her
upper lip and the wind cuts deep down in her throat. Throwing herself into the
tall weeds, she rests for a minute. Her mother, used to toting Zelda home
covered in grass stains and bruises, never minds in the least if she gets
dirty. Zelda’s days consist of doing exactly what she wants, when she wants.
Swimming and diving, those she adores — darting into the water like a tiny
exotic fish racing through the blue of the pool, water pulsing in and out of
her ears. And then some days, after she’s beaten the boys in that, too, they
bicycle or roller skate home and Mother has warm cookies and lemonade for all.
At night she catches fireflies with the boys and falls asleep to the smell of
the pear trees in their yard.
Evening at the Edge of
the Garden
Attributed
to Paul Bond
Copyright
granted by Paul Bond
“Zelda.” A voice like
her father’s calls to her, but she’s not ready to go back home yet.
“No. I’m with Mother
now. I still want to pick flowers.”
“Zelda.” It is Dr.
Carroll. “You are drifting away again. Remember how we discussed the importance
of focusing, of staying in the world of the real?”
Scott is sitting
straight up in the chair now, staring across at her, as if he is waiting too.
“But Doctor, the fantasy
world is so much nicer.”
Photo 14
She has been a good girl, even helping those patients who need assistance in exercise and dance, and so has earned a hike in the steamy late afternoon near Sunset Mountain with Dr. Carroll’s assistant Landon. The rain begins to thump down on her head, but Zelda does not mind; she is thrilled to be outdoors, comforted by the dank, dark woods.
Landscape
painting of the sunset in the Ashville, North Carolina Mountains
Attributed
to Jeff Pittman
Copyright
granted by Jeff Pittman
“Let’s make a fire,” she
suggests, and begins rifling through the bark and briar patches, choosing
pieces of kindling.
Hypnotized by this fire,
Zelda thinks of others. There were the sharp smells of burning eucalyptus from
fires behind the beaches on the Riviera. Those were happy times, with her
French aviator — his strong body lying next to hers as they watched the sun
set, smelling the cool breeze from the ocean, the smoky sharp scent that made
her feel so alive … then there were the fires that she had set in rage,
whenever Scott had hurt her, or whenever she simply needed the closure that
comes with flames — igniting her clothes in an old fireplace (nearly burning
down the house in La Paix in the process), or in an old bathtub when Scott was
on the prowl.
Photo 16
Walking back home in the
dusk, Zelda looks ahead to the moon glowering over the mountain trees in the
direction of the Grove Park Inn. She thinks for an instant of when she stayed
there with Scott for their wild honeymoon and all the other times they stayed
there as lovers and partners in fun. They were excitement eaters in those days
— riding around on the tops of taxicabs, coming in at 3 a.m. They made a
picture, the two of them — better than movie stars.
Photo 17
As the hospital comes
into view, Zelda notices something she hasn’t before — a gray stone well on her
right. There’s something mysterious about it, spooky. As she approaches, from
deep down below, a voice calls to her.
“Zelda.” It’s Scott’s
voice, muffled. “Zelda, it’s me. I’ve come to see you. I’m down here. Come,
jump. Dive like you used to.”
“Scott, what are you
doing down there?”
“This way we can have
some privacy, baby. Come on and jump. There’s a golden kingdom that goes through
from here — all to way to China!”
Zelda moves closer to
his voice, but just as suddenly, arms grab at her, pulling her back, back,
back. She struggles and screams, lashing out against them, but they still carry
her, fighting, away.
Photo 18
She’s not altogether sure how she came to be here, sitting on the sofa in this bright white room. Dr. Carroll looks at her from over his glasses.
“Tell me, Zelda: What do
you remember about your hiking trip yesterday?”
Zelda sits dazed. A
couple of minutes pass. “I had the chance to be with him, Doctor. That man
pulled me away. You’re all trying to keep us apart.”
Photo 19
Dr. Carroll draws his
eyebrows together, making one long caterpillar of them. “Trying to keep whom
apart, Zelda?”
“Me and Scott.”
Dr. Carroll looks weary.
“Zelda, you know Scott died a few years ago.”
Photo 20
But Scott will never
die, she knows. Why just the other day, when she was out visiting friends, he
sat right beside her at the dinner table and told her the train would depart
late, and sure enough, it was a good 30 minutes behind schedule. Her Princeton
man. The King of Roses. He’d pursued her when she was just a girl, just a
beautiful girl in a frothy tulle dress. How jealous the other girls were of
her, how envious her boyfriends were of him. Right up until the very last
minute she’d kept them all guessing whom she’d choose. She recalls standing
around at the pool, the evening before her marriage to Scott, dressed in her
flesh-colored swimsuit (rumors quickly spread that she’d been naked). Spinning
around, eyes closed, arm outstretched and finger pointing, she’d taunted,
“Whoever I stop on, that’s who I’ll marry.” The boys scrambled around to have a
better chance of being chosen.
Photo 21
Dr. Carroll clears his
throat, pulling her back. Zelda has noticed that he has an annoying little
habit of doing this when she drifts.
“Let’s talk about your
paintings, Zelda. They’re very impressive. Tell me about this one.” He holds up
a watercolor of a naked woman lying fallen on stone steps. Underneath her hips
and legs are gold coins. Ornate gold pots stand tall beside her. In the
shadowed corner, a gray phantom figure dressed in brown holds a jar containing
large white moths that exit and fly into the space. An amber city gleams
through the archway in the background.
Photo 22
“Oh, that’s from a
parable Jesus taught his followers: ‘Do not store up treasures on earth.’”
“I see. Zelda, why is it
that the hands in all of your paintings, this one included, are so large in
proportion to the bodies? They seem slightly disfigured — overpowering and grasping.”
Zelda turns her head,
considering the painting for a few seconds.
“Well, I’ll tell you,
Doctor. I’m just not that good with hands.”
Photo 23
She believes that the things she sees in the clouds are hers alone — no one else can pinpoint the Degas dancers tying their point shoes, or see the faces of zinnias, the tufts of the beard of Moses, the snowsuit-padded child zooming down the hill on a sled, and other scenes — the backs of knees, for instance, or the intertwined bodies of lovers — that are not polite to mention, but that she mentions nonetheless, whenever she has the chance to leave listeners in stunned and open-mouthed silence. Zelda knows, by intuition, that, say what they may, no one can give life to these shapes better than she.
Photo 24
Earlier that afternoon
she lay alone in the grass just beyond the hospital, staring up at the clouds.
Scott had been there briefly, sitting to her right, arms wrapped around his
knees. Writing in his leather-bound journal — the one she smelled even when he
wasn’t around. He’d look up from time to time, but his thoughts were on his
work, not on the sky. Finally, he’d gotten up and wandered dreamily up the
hill, journal in his back pocket, leaving her alone.
Photo 25
Now, in the spacious wooden-floored room devoted to arts and exercise, Zelda works at her easel. She always chooses to set up in front of the window that has the best light, and today it is the one in the left-hand corner, where the sun’s rays stream down like warm honey from behind the clouds and through the large glass panes. On her palette, she mixes the different shades of browns and pinks. The smell of the oil paint stings her nose and provokes in her a heightened sense of awareness. As she mixes, Zelda sees from out of the corner of her eye a patient meandering towards her. The woman appears to be, like Zelda, in her 40s. She has left the group of men and women at the craft table at the far end of the room and comes to stand beside Zelda. The patient’s hair is unkempt and she sucks her thumb, drool running from the corners of her mouth. Her clothes sag and hang, and she stares blankly at the canvas.
The woman takes her
thumb out of her mouth. “Whatcha gonna paint there?”
“Ballet dancers.” It is
a painting of two Picasso-esque figures, male and female, and Zelda, ignoring the
intrusion, turns to her canvas and blends brown paint, shadowing the woman
figure’s outstretched arm. Both dancers are naked, with the exception of the
pink ballet slippers the female wears. In her hands are the tutus she has
discarded — a white one in the outstretched hand, a pink one in the left. The
woman stands over the man who is facing backwards with arm curved over his
head, crouched under the female’s arm as if being banished. The two figures’
features blur together and the legs, arms, and hands are stretched out of all
proportion, for this is how dancers feel after dancing.
Photo 26
As Zelda uses her
fine-point brush to outline and shade the female dancer’s limbs, she reflects
back to her days of intense training at Madame Egorova’s studio. How Madame’s presence
infused life — that luminous chandelier-brilliance of beauty and hope — into
Zelda! How her manic days of practice at home — her work at the barre and
mirror she had installed into her and Scott’apartment at which she worked
nonstop, even talking to friends who came to visit them as she rehearsed — were
well-worth a single word of praise from the tall, dark-haired, brilliant Madame
Egorova with whom she was a little bit in love. And dancing itself stretched
her muscles, her mind, her soul. It seemed to her then that only through daily
disciplined movement could she beat back the demons.
Photo 27
“Third-rate.”
Zelda whips around,
startled that the voice is not the patient’s, but Scott’s. He is dressed in a
relaxed suit and tie and wears his hat at an angle. Leaning, one leg crossed
over the other, on a wooden column, he smokes a cigarette and observes her
painting.
Photo 28
“You’re a third-rate
artist, Zelda, just like you were a third-rate dancer, and writer, for that
matter.” He blows the smoke through his mouth and nose, his eyes boring into
hers.
“Scott, please. You’re
not supposed to be here. You’ll get me into trouble again, and then they won’t
let me out to see Mother. Let me paint. This is all I have left.” Hands
trembling, she returns to the dark brown floors of the stage, a space that does
not require particular steadiness.
He sneers, “Save Me
the Waltz. I can’t believe you had the audacity to publish it. Taking my
material like that.”
Photo 29
Zelda spins around to
face him. “Your material? It was both of our lives, wasn’t it? You talk
about audacity after rifling my journal, after lifting my own words from my
letters to you and you alone for your stories and novels? Go away!”
Photo 30
He disappears and in his
place stands the female patient, still sucking her thumb. But now her eyes are
large and she moans as if she might break out in frightened sobs. The nurse in
charge of the crafts table hurries to the scene. “Zelda, is something the
matter?”
The patient runs
forward, turning away from Zelda and clinging to the nurse.
“No ma’am, but this
woman is disturbing my concentration. Would you please escort her back to the
table?”
As the nurse shepherds
the patient back to her fold, Zelda cleans her brush and dips it into the dark
pink paint, refocusing her attention on the creases of the tutu and the
ballerina slippers.
Photo 31
She wants to stick out her tongue at the world. She’s always had the impulse, ever since she was a child, and that’s how she feels at this moment, at age 47, now that she’s out of that wretched hospital at last, puttering away in her mother’s garden, digging up clods of dirt with her trowel. Raking her fingers through the earth, breathing in the rich dark soil, she feels the sun’s rays begin to heal her tired body. When she first came there was one lonely jonquil outside her bedroom window, but now, she looks proudly at all she has planted — crocus, jasmine, lilies, larkspur, phlox, marguerites. Lifting her face to the sky, she sees dark, menacing clouds moving closer and she smells the oncoming rain.
Photo 32
Though it is March and
springtime, the evenings are cool and she and Mother still make fires in the
hearth. Zelda can sit for hours, just staring into the fire, imagining in the
orange and blue flames the shapes and faces that meld together in her dreams.
Photo 33
The next day, after a lunch of fried chicken and mashed potatoes with her mother, Zelda, in unusually good spirits, decides to walk to town to see a painting in a gallery she read about in the paper.
“Be careful, Zelda,” her
mother calls to her as she heads out the door.
“Really, Mother, it’s
fine. I believe I’m finally getting better.” Dressed in a dark green velvet
gown, purple scarf, and black bucket hat, Zelda sets off. The air is crisp and
clean after last night’s rain, and the wind refreshes and lifts her spirit.
Photo 34
Rounding the corner a
couple of blocks from her house, she spots two young boys sitting on their
bicycles talking. Zelda thinks how adorable they are in their coats and caps
and remembers how she would dress little Scottie in her jacket and boots before
she went out to play.
Photo 35
As she passes by the
pair, she overhears one say to the other, “Hey, Jack. Look! That’s the woman my
ma said was talking to herself and yelling at imaginary folks in the street the
other day.”
Zelda increases her pace
until she is safely out of earshot and then slumps onto the steps of a vacant
apartment, her eyes stinging. She didn’t know she had been yelling, only
communicating. How many people had seen her? Did her mother know? Wrapping her
scarf tighter around her face, she returns home by a different route.
Photo 36
Back she goes to Highland Hospital, in spite of her good intentions to be well. Although the stone walls and antiseptic smells oppress her, she has come to look on this place as a refuge from the world’s expectations of sanity. In a tiny white room on the wing of the first floor, the nurse, a girl — young, lovely, but with a bit of the pinched, hassled look about her — is giving her an injection. Zelda is not sure what it is, but silently submits, desirous to be left alone with her thoughts.
Photo 37
“Goodnight, Mrs.
Fitzgerald,” the girl says.
Zelda simply looks at
her.
Left alone, she feels
restless. Flopping like a fish in her bed, she wonders abstractly if anyone is
surprised she is back here. She certainly isn’t. Zelda remembers telling her
mother, just before she got in the car to be taken back to the cool air of
Asheville, “Don’t worry, Mother. I’m not afraid to die.” And she is not. She
thinks of death as all pure and white and golden, where she eats honeydew melon
and drinks dope with boys who once again adore her.
Out of the darkness she
sees a section of light under her door and a voice calls to her, “Zelda.
Zelda!” He has come for her at last. They told her he was gone, but she knew he
would come for her.
Photo 38
“I’m coming, Scott! Hang
on.” Just like him, when he was tight — yelling like that, loud enough to wake
up the whole place. This time, she determines to appear very glamorous when she
meets him. No more crazy old woman. Oh, no. Searching through her closet, she
finds a short black dress with a fringe at the bottom. She pulls out her string
of beads and straps on her black heels. Oh, where is all this coming from? But
she doesn’t care, she is happy. Finding a mirror under her bed (somehow she
knows just where to look) and some mascara and rouge and red lipstick too, she
puts on her Elizabeth Arden face. That nurse has more gumption than she’d
imagined, leaving all these tokens behind for Zelda to find. And now she sees
that some kind soul (Dr. Carroll?) has tucked away a small gift for her, and
opening the box she takes out the most adorable little black cap, just what the
outfit needs. Pulling it on, she rushes out the door.
Photo 39
And then she hears the
music — Ivie Anderson singing with the Duke Ellington Orchestra. She would have
to talk to Scott about them. And God and other important things that he might
not have considered. But no time for that now. She must go and meet him, and
then he is there — just like the first time she met him back in Montgomery,
Alabama, when she was 18. He is beautiful in his tawny golden suit, white
shirt, and black-with-gold-striped tie underneath, his hair combed back and his
gray eyes holding hers, and she runs right up and throws her arms around him
and kisses him. Duke and Ivie are swinging to “It Don’t Mean a Thing If It
Ain’t Got That Swing.”
Photo 40
“Hey, Baby. I sure have
missed you.” Zelda lowers her chin and cuts her eyes up at him, her lips
curling in a sultry smile. It’s smoky in here. The horns blare loudly, but it
is just how they like it. The lights and music don’t faze two lovers who want
to shine for one another. And they do sparkle, swinging to the syncopation of
the sound.
Doo-wah, doo-wah,
doo-wah, doo-wah, wah-wah.
Magically, Scott has
improved since their last dance so long ago. He knows all the steps, but it’s
Zelda who causes everyone to turn and stare. They can’t keep their eyes off her
stylish flair, her sense of rhythm. Scott pulls her close to him, closer than
ever before, cheeks touching, one body, then swings her over and around, then
turning for them to Charleston with the group and then back to Zelda.
Photo 41
Wa da da do, Wa da
da do, da doh, Whup de dittle ittle up, Dat dat dat doh.
And then Zelda breaks away. She feels the beat of the drums way down in her body, and she wants a solo. Pulling up her dress to her hips, she shakes her fanny in perfect double-time rhythm. Everyone stands back to watch, amazed, as always, by her verve and courage. She doesn’t care what they think — she knows that every inch of her is moving in time to the music — that she is the music and the energy and the pulse of nighttime. The spotlight is on her and she twirls, her skirt swinging out, and she comes to one corner of the room where she sees Dr. Carroll sitting on a stool snapping his fingers and bobbing his head from side to side. He smiles up at her and tries to tell her something, some word of admiration, but she can’t be bothered with anyone else’s rhythm; she has her own.
Photo
042
The Resurrection
1940. Attributed to Edwin G Lucas
Edwin
G Lucas gifted The Resurrection to a psychiatric hospital.
Fingers stretched tight,
hands flittering, legs hopping and kicking first front and back and out and
turn. She spins and spins until she comes to the next corner, where sits a man
in a chair. But instead of looking at her like a loon as he usually does, he,
too, is smiling and nodding along. She sees him pull out a notebook, look back
up at her in approval, then glance down again and write a line or two. Let him
write — let him tell Scott ugly things about her — she doesn’t care this night.
This is her dance. She is not Nicole Diver or Daisy Buchanan or any other girl
in Scott’s stories — or maybe she’s all of them, yes, she’s all of them, but more,
more more, because she’s Zelda Sayre.
Photo 43a
Photo 43b
One hand on hip and
swinging her beads with the other, she scissor-steps a little ways across and
finds another familiar face.
“Do you remember me, my
southern beauty? We had such fun on the Riviera!” He is still in tip-top shape,
young and bronze, with the same jet-black hair. They had been quite cozy that
summer when Scott was too busy to be with her. At the time it had broken her
little heart, but now all she can concentrate on is the blissfulness of her
dance. And then, as she nears the next corner, there sits her father, the
judge. She gives her best smile and dances harder and harder, faster and
faster. Shimmy-shimmy-push-pull, back together front. The steps come to her
automatically — her body dictates and throbs with the slightest nuance of the
singer’s voice, or the trumpet or sax. Zelda jumps up on a chair, then onto the
nearby table. Her entire body vibrates and all the spectators blur together.
Photo 44
The song is nearly over.
In need of a grand finale, Zelda jumps off the table and onto the floor. Once
she hits, she crouches in a frozen pose for a couple of beats, then spins
around on one leg, then raises her arms above her head and clasps her hands.
Doo-wah, doo-wah,
doo-wah, doo-wah, wah-wah.
Arms fanning out, legs
kicking behind, she twirls towards Scott, stopping arm’s length away from him.
With hip jerked to one side, Zelda reaches into his pocket, where she knows
she’ll find cigarettes. Taking one from the case, and dramatically placing it
between her lips, she thrusts her chin out for him to light it. With a grin, he
obliges, and tapping her foot to the rhythm, Zelda puffs brilliant circles of
smoke and then tosses her cigarette into the frenzied crowd.
Photo 45
And then this is the
most spectacular effect she has ever had. Scott, the darling, must have ordered
it for her. The fire starts just beside Scott, close to Dr. Carroll’s seat, and
then spreads slowly slowly around the room, around the room, as she dances and
swirls and smiles. She feels the heat, but it just makes her dance faster and
faster, the fire creeping up the walls, the flames licking and beating down the
cabinets and tables. And no one seems much to mind, for Zelda is dancing her
heart out, she’s never danced like this before, and soon the two hands of fire
join together and the circle is complete. She’s dancing in a ring of fire and
twirling and twirling and twirling and rushing around and around and round. And
she thinks as she dances, This is the end. Scott will love this ending.
Something in her pauses, and she wonders, Will he? Will he love this ending?
Will it be the ending he wants? And then the notion quivers and snaps, for
she thinks, It’s my own ending this time, and a damn good one.
Photo 46
—
Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald was born Zelda Sayre in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1900. She married writer F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1920. In 1930 she suffered her first mental breakdown and was shortly after diagnosed with schizophrenia. Not only was Zelda a gifted writer, publishing her autobiographical novel, Save Me the Waltz, in 1932, she was also a talented dancer and painter. In 1948, she, along with eight other patients, died in a fire at the Highland Mental Hospital in Asheville, North Carolina.
—
Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald was born Zelda Sayre in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1900. She married writer F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1920. In 1930 she suffered her first mental breakdown and was shortly after diagnosed with schizophrenia. Not only was Zelda a gifted writer, publishing her autobiographical novel, Save Me the Waltz, in 1932, she was also a talented dancer and painter. In 1948, she, along with eight other patients, died in a fire at the Highland Mental Hospital in Asheville, North Carolina.
—
Photograph
Description And Copyright Info
Photo
001
Jacket
cover of The Saturday Evening Post
January/February 2016 issue
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
002
Celeste
McMaster
Copyright
granted by Celeste McMaster
Photo
003
Photo
depicting F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda Fitzgerald in a ring of fire.
Copyright
granted by Celeste McMaster and The
Saturday Evening Post.
Photo
004
Model
from a 1920s Fashion catalogue
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
005
1940s
psychiatric couch
Public
Domain
Photo
006
Justice
Anthony Dickinson Sayre
Public
Domain
Photo
007
F.
Scot and Zelda Fitzgerald in 1920
Copyright
?
Photo
008
A
painting depicting the artistic view of how the world felt like with
schizophrenia-
Attributed
to Craig Finn, a schizophrenia patient
CCASA3.0
Photo
009
1920s
woman smoking a cigarette
Stock
photo 1920s
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
010
My Eyes at the Moment of
the Apparition
Attributed
to August Natterer, who suffered from schizophrenia
Public
Domain
Photo
011
Zelda’s
Mother Minnie Buckner Machen Sayre
Public
Domain
Photo
12
Zelda
in Daisy Field in Nantucket 1882
Attributed
to Theodore Robinson
Public
Domain
Photoshopped
by Christal Rice Cooper
Photo
013
Even ing at the Edge of
the Garden
Attributed
to Paul Bond
Copyright
granted by Paul Bond
Photo
014
Dr.
Eugen Bleuler and Zelda Fitzgearald far right.
Dr.
Bleuler is the one who coined the term Schizophrenia and diagnosed Zelda with
schizophrenia after she was admitted to an asylum in France in April of
1930. She was moved to Montreux,
Switzerland and finally a psychiatric hospital in Prangins, Switzerland,
located on the shores of Lake Geneva.
She was considered cured and released in September of 1930 Dr. Bleuler
deemed her recovered and she was released form the mental asylum.
Public
Domain
Photo
015
Landscape
painting of the sunset in the Ashville, North Carolina Mountains
Attributed
to Jeff Pittman
Copyright
granted by Jeff Pittman
Photo
016
1933
Movie Poster depicting Marlene Dietrich in the Blue Angel in Nice, France
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law.
Photo
017
The
Grove Park Inn where Scott and Zelda spent the summers of 1935 and 1936
Image
taken on May 16, 2007
Attribution
is unknown
CCBYSA2.0
Photo
018
Magazine
ad depicting Electro-ionic Shock therapy for mentally ill patients.
Public
Domain
Photo
019
Homewood
– the home of Dr. Robert S Carroll and his wife Grace Potter Carroll.
Homewood
was located at Highlands Hospital in Ashville, North Carolina.
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
020
F.
Scott Fitzgerald smoking a cigarette, June 14, 1937
Attributed
to Carl van Vechten. Carl van Vechten
Collection, Library of Congress
Public
Domain
Photo
021
Scott
and Zelda in their automobile in 1920 New York
Photo
022
Do Not Steal by Zelda Fitzgerald
Photoshopped
by Christal Rice Cooper
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
023
1940s
self-portrait of and by Zelda Fitzgerald.
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
024
Zelda
at her easel painting.
Attribution
unknown
Date
unknown
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
025
F.
Scott Fitzgerald writing from a May 1922 Esquire
magazine edition
Public
Domain
Photo
026
Painting
by Zelda Fitzgerald of two lovers dancing.
Photo
027
Madame
Lubov Egorova in the title role of the choreographer Marius Petipas and the composer
Cesare Pugnis’s balled The Blue Dahlia
1905
Public
Domain
Photo
028
F.
Scott Fitzgerald in suit and smoking cigarette.
Date
unknown
Attribution
unknown
Photoshopped
by Christal Rice Cooper
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright law
Photo
029
Full
Jacket Cover of Save Me The Waltz
Public
Domain
Photo
030
Jacket
cover of The Great Gatsby, one of the
numerous novels where F. Scott Fitzgerald’s used Zelda’s own words.
Public
Domain
Photo
031
Newspaper
clipping from a Baltimore newspaper of Zelda Fitzgerald painting. It is revealed that she participated in a
Baltimore art contest in October.
Believed to be the year 1934.
Public
Domain
Photo
032
1940s
self portrait of and by Zelda Fitzgerald.
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
033
The Weeping Woman
Attributed
to Pablo Picasso in 1937.
Pablo
Picasso also had schizophrenia.
Public
Domain
Photo
034
Jeune fille en vert
!930s
deco-art
Attributed
to Tamara de Lempicka in 1930
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
035
Zelda
Fitzgerald, Scottie Francis Fitzgerald, and F Scott Fitzgerald in what appears
to be a happy family.
1924 in Rome
1924 in Rome
Photo
036
Vintage
sewing pattern of 1920s orange scarfs
1920s
Public Domain
Photo
037
Highland
Heights Hospital today
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
038
F.
Scott Fitzgerald smoking a cigarette, June 14, 1937
Attributed
to Carl van Vechten. Carl van Vechten
Collection, Library of Congress
Public
Domain
Photo
039
Her
Elizabeth Arden Face
Photo
040
Zelda,
age 17, her junior year photograph while attending Sidney Lanier High School in
Montgomery, Alabama. This is one year
before she met F. Scott Fitzgerald
Public
Domain
Photo
041
1920s
vintage photograph of a couple dancing to the Charleston
Public
Domain
Photo
042
The Resurrection
1940. Attributed to Edwin G Lucas
Edwin
G Lucas gifted The Resurrection to a psychiatric hospital.
Photo
043a
Original
lobby card of Tender Is The Night
with Jennifer Jones starring as Nicole Diver
1961
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
043b
Movie
poster of The Great Gatsby with Mia
Farrow starring as Daisy Buchanan.
1974
Fair
Use Under the United States Copyright Law
Photo
044
Famous
flapper Ms. Maude Allan as Salome dancing with the head of John The Baptist.
1915
Public
Domain
Photo
045
1920s
cigarette vintage ad of woman smoking
Public
Domain
Photo
046
Two
images of the Highland Hospital fire that killed Zelda and eight others on
March 15, 1948
