When I checked into my hotel, I noticed a man slumped in the corner of the lobby. He looked dishevelled, more like a jet-lagged backpacker than a guest at a five-star retreat. The front desk staff barely glanced at him, so I thought better of rubbernecking.
It wasn’t until later, while touring the property and admiring works by Salvador Dalí and Joan Miró, that it clicked. I returned to the lobby, got face-to-face with the man in the corner and realised he was no man at all. He was an art installation.
