Review by Publisher's Weekly Review
Truitt's guilt over her husband's suicide, her subsequent bitterness and concern about being true to herself as a painter, the demands of parenting and acute observations on nature are interwoven in this sensitive journal. A sequel to Daybook, this also records the challenges she faced as acting director of an artists' colony. For the author, reality is something we must invent for ourselves, and our precarious hold on it hinges on the ability to invest our activities with love. As her children grow into their 20s, she joins with them in a mutual effort at self-understanding, which helps liberate her from the past. She decodes ciphers in nature: a nesting bird, a pale, sickle moon on Thanksgiving Day dawn renew hope. Her notes on travels from Paris to Padua to Venice will be of special interest to artists and art students. Truitt is a professor of art at the Univ. of Maryland. (November 6) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Kirkus Book Review
Sculptor Truitt's second published journal takes a few steps down from the first one, Daybook, but readers who enjoyed her qualified observations and paced sensitivity may be happy with Turn, also. In her philosophic, free-associative style, Truitt explores the dailiness of her life as an artist, mother, grandmother and as acting director of Yaddo, an artists' community, in between the eventfulness of her life, she finds much time for introspection, for a search for the resolvedness of things and for thoughts on the nature of family and motherhood and on aging. Much of her writing is insightful and near-poetic, not unlike Anne Morrow Lindbergh's but for today. To the non-artist reader, she brings an ease in transcribing visual impulses into words. And despite the sorrow of her two daughters' divorces and of her ex-husband's suicide, she finds an uplifting kind of organic resolution. Turn fails short of its antecedent in part because of its content. It was written over a shorter period of time and during a less active period in Truitt's life, and it lacks the rich reminiscences of childhood that gave Daybook so much truth and universalness. Turn is more personal and more inward looking, a winding-down chronicle strongly occupied from the very beginning with death. A downward move from Truitt's previous journal, then, but a fistful of readers moved by Daybook may enjoy this, too. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
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