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Courtesy of Telluride Arts District Tonight, low-hanging clouds ring the mountains that frame the historic town of Telluride. Once home to a frenzy of mining activity in the late 19th century, Telluride is now a mountain adventurer’s paradise and a cultural hub full of various rotating festivals and an impressive fine art scene. This evening, as they do on the first Thursday of each month, Telluride’s galleries open their doors to welcome visitors with trays of cookies and a wealth of stories. Courtesy the artist, Earl Bliss, Turquoise Door Gallery Turquoise Door Gallery My first stop is the Turquoise Door Gallery, housed in an

Amongst the sprawling one-story warehouses of downtown LA, Murmurs Gallery stands out with its polished glass-and-concrete exterior and beckoning matcha and café-latte sign. The recently reopened, community-oriented events space and gallery boasts an artist-curated shop, café, plant-filled courtyard, and monthly exhibitions.  Passing through the storefront shop, café and courtyard, unidentifiable sounds beckon me towards the exhibition space, mixing with the passing cars and conversations into an industrial symphony. Just before the gallery, a small seating area, guestbook, press-releases and off-beat floral arrangement welcome me. Despite the frame of the white-cube gallery — track lighting, white walls and concrete floors — the

The Clemente Soto Vélez Cultural and Educational Center — The Clemente for short — is a quiet cultural trove. The architecture juxtaposes its clamoring Lower East Side neighborhood, standing proud on the corner of Rivington Street under a sedate, arched stone exterior. Serving as a community center since 1996, The Clemente hosts programs from after-school Capoeira to nonprofit organizations and galleries. When you first enter, it’s not unusual to hear the sounds of a theatrical rehearsal or spoken-word poetry from La Tierra Prometida, a collection written by the center’s namesake that is regularly broadcasted through the entryway speakers.  I attended

Tucked into a stripped-down space in the upper reaches of a building beside the High Line, Hesse Flatow gallery displays Plum Cloutman’s work almost in secret. Not actually, of course—the U.K.-based painter and printmaker’s solo show has been quite popular thus far. But the out-of-the-wayness of the space, which involves a five-story ride in a brass-plated elevator, is conducive to the reveries of the work. The young artist’s paintings sparkle like gems, and emerge from their surrounding whiteness with a hushed exhibitionism. They evoke, in a city full of art that clamors be seen, the quiet intimacy of a private

Ballet is a cruel art, not much less crueler now than what it was in Belle Époque Paris, but art nonetheless, and terribly inspiring as such. At the beginning of June, I went to see the Degas exhibition at the Museum of Art of São Paulo. The MASP has one of the largest collections of Degas sculptures in the world, paralleled only by the likes of the Musée d’Orsay or the Met, and I grew up knowing the ballerinas, admiring them, or knowing that I should. But they were also just there, and nobody asked me to think critically about