Anne Truitt (March 16, 1921 – December 23, 2004), born Anne Dean, was a major American artist of the mid-20th century.
Art comes into the highest part of the mind, with which we can know the presence of God.
The finest teaching touches in a student a spring neither teacher nor student could possibly have preconceived.
No one questions the fact that verbal language has to be learned, but the commonplaceness of visual experience betrays art; people tend to assume that, because they can see, they can see art.
I never decided at all to be an artist; being an artist seems to have happened to me.
the more visible my work became, the less visible I grew to myself.
The most demanding part of living a lifetime as an artist is the strict discipline of forcing oneself to work steadfastly along the nerve of one's own intimate sensitivity.
When I speak now, my experience in art wells up so articulately that I am surprised even while I am talking. I move around a podium as easily as if it were my living room and although I am keyed up I am not anxious. I feel as if I were doing what I should be doing - the feeling I have when intent in my studio.
The shape of my work's development becomes a little clearer every time I am forced to articulate it.
The difference between men and women is inalienable. It is not a political fact, subject to cultural definition and redefinition, but a physical verity. We do truthfully experience our lives differently because our bodies are different. It is in what we do with our experience that we are the same. We feel, absorb and examine with the same intensity, and intense experience honestly examined informs the art of both sexes equally. . . . The power of imagination illuminates all human lives in common.
It is ultimately character that underwrites art.
There's a small still center into which conception can arrive. And when it arrives, you make it welcome with your experience.
I have slowly come to realize that a family is composed of people who are teaching one another.
the capacity to work feeds on itself and has its own course of development. This is what artists have going for them.
The end of parenthood is implicit in its beginning: separation.
I have no home but me.
There is an appalling amount of mechanical work in the artist's life. . . Talent is mysterious, but the qualities that guard, foster, and direct it are not unlike those of a good quartermaster.
Their [artists'] essential effort is to catapult themselves wholly, without holding back one bit, into a course of action without having any idea where they will end up. They are like riders who gallop into the night, eagerly leaning on their horse's neck, peering into a blinding rain. And they have to do it over and over again.
Artists have no choice but to express their lives.
the knowledge of personal failure. . . is the invaluable predicate of all honest compassion.
I have been flooded with color on the inside, drab on the outside.