Finally went to see Calatrava’s WTC transport hub yesterday. Inside, some fabric-softener or hygiene-product company commissioned H. R. Geiger to design a Moby Dick–inspired set for a remake of Logan’s Run. Outside: it’s sorta wedged in there, no? It’s already aging poorly because the pristine design is so unforgiving: seepage-stained marble, NYC’s inevitable grime collecting on the ribs, and (I guess) the insulation squished and wrinkly behind the perforated ceiling panels. It’s a finicky monument to a dozen corporatist pathologies: the cult of modeling, the hostility to the stream of history, the fear of soil, rigid reactions to color. One odd detail: there are so many flaws in how the ribs were fabricated and installed that they look spackled — a contrast to the freakish perfection of the Guggenheim, which lost its crafty feel when they renovated it. The hub will never become a beloved building, space, or place because it can never adapt to what that would require. I didn’t even dislike it — there isn’t enough there there.