It's late morning a couple of saturdays ago, walking through the chronological halls of the Picasso museum in Barcelona, and the place is full of people, filled with tourists walking in awe of art. The dominant sound is the muffled silence that clothes museum spaces. In particular, in the blue period section there is the weight of the blues hanging in the air like the wail of a silent harmonica.

It is there that my two-year-old daughter, sitting silent in her pushchair, discovers disruption by staging an impromptu event of performance art. She presses the arm of the pink doll she is holding (just bought from a Chinese euro-dime store) and the doll starts singing some Cantonese pop song loop. Eva Maria begins to bob her head to the metallic rhythm while lifting the doll in the air to dance.

All eyes slither off canvass and refocus on pink as smiles are dabbed across faces at cubist angles. Meaning has been changed. Laughter breaks like a beautiful ceramic hitting the floor. For a moment, the power of Pablo is swept aside by the minotaur spell of a young child.