In a large, empty underground room in central London, a baby is crawling along a mirrored floor while hundreds of Salvador Dalí’s clock faces melt and dribble beside, above and – so it appears at least – below him. To some this could be disconcerting; the child, however, appears delighted, scooting gleefully towards a mirrored column to plant a slobbery kiss on his own reflection.
Elsewhere in the room, a girl is twirling; in the centre their mothers sit on the floor, chatting quietly while enormous projections of works by GiuseppeArcimboldo, Henri Rousseau and Edvard Munch twist and animate on every surface around them.
