With all of the hype surrounding the newest film adaptation of The Great Gatsby, I have found myself thinking about a certain Fitzgerald. Although Zelda’s (1900-1948) identity and legacy seem too often enmeshed in that of her famous husband, she was in her own right an accomplished artist, dancer and writer. I often think about a fascinating exhibition of her work I stumbled upon several years ago — wishing I had purchased the catalog, if there even was one — that included her paintings and the lovely paper dolls created in the 1930s for her daughter Scottie and later for her own pleasure. Her paper dolls are very delicate and detailed, as one would expect them to be. Her paintings contain quite distorted, sometimes grotesque figures, even those of ballet dancers, which appear to have been a favorite subject. Fitzgerald’s body of work in a way feels at once cohesive and as divergent as we have come to understand her life to be.