The warmth of hardening plaster deepened my love for its having lent itself fluently to my hand. Plaster has such grace. Working with it is like making love. And the same with clay. The fascination of mixing clay: the wedging of earth colors, minerals, back into the earth in order to make a new earth all of your own conception, consciously brought into being. The delicate strength of tools for work in clay and plaster; the ways in which they adroitly extend the sensual ability of the hand; their actual beauty in themselves - wire bound to wood, steel-toothed and curved and pimpled with rasp. My hands loved, too, the feel between them of what they had formed. This love is like that I later felt for my babies, the same quality of sensuous satisfaction. Nothing is missing from it. All is there, globed, whole, full, perfect.

Daybook (1975), Anne Truitt