Inside, there are only two rooms open to the public showing work by Hany Armanious. The one on the lower level houses one work, on the right-hand wall. It’s made of carpet – ‘cheap, generic, nylon, think shopping centre’, I’m told by the attendant – stretched over canvas, and must be 2 metres wide and almost as high. Printed over the huge expanse are the drawings of an infant; more precisely, the scribbles of Armanious’ four year old son. I’m told that work on this series is necessarily coming to a close, as the little boy’s projects become more sophisticated. To have caught his development at this stage – however fleeting it might have been – is truly charming. To memorialise, re-contextualise, and present it on an enormous scale in a gallery setting is philosophically interesting.