Is anything so nearly perfect, so reliably, repeatedly sublime, that it deserves to be preserved, as-is, for people yet unborn to experience the same joy that we know now? Can one fix some exquisite entity, as it were, in amber, immune from changing fashion and unsusceptible to the contamination of the whims of the insistent rich? Must some place, any place, however satisfying, grow and change, or die? Is even Isabella Stewart Gardner's august and unmatched 'Palace of Art', Fenway Court, unsafe from threat?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isabella_Stewart_Gardner_Museum
