I cannot say I left the Broad feeling edified, although I did remark to my companion that it is a welcome addition to the cultural landscape of Los Angeles, which was basically me being old and upright and boostery and maybe touched by a little of the sparkle that abounds within its forcefully muscular walls. But here is what I am telling you, who are my companion in this moment (it's statistically likely you are the same companion!), I am saying to you that it is more like a Museum of the Open Checkbook. It is also the Museum of Sparkle. There was pleasure in it, I do not say there was not pleasure in seeing a great portion of that collection, but I did not leave with any afterglow, which is the afterglow of being in the presence of the numinous, and the only afterimage I retain is that of the Eric Fischl triptych that was itself, to my way of seeing it, a not-fully-realized afterimage, I did not like it. But perhaps it was only my mood. Certainly, I did not study the individual works closely, I only passed before them, as I was meant to do, an animal through a chute, we are spectators there, pushed steadily along through the vaginal passageways of neofascist architecture that announces, "I'm important! I am the Museum of the Open Checkbook! Visit, but Do Not Linger."