Like a huckster, I tell whoever listens: “If there’s an El Greco show, run, don’t walk, to see it.” Domenikos Theotokopoulos, called El Greco (1541-1614) is almost always arrestingly good. You don’t have to believe anything spiritual to find yourself bewitched by his acidic palette, fantastic settings, and writhing, soaring saints. He’s exotic, with an amalgamated name evoking Crete, Italy, and Spain. Over nearly forty years in Toledo, his exoticism, aided, no doubt, by a disputatious, risk taking character, fermented more than ripened. Today, he’s seen as a unique genius.