A young gorilla sits on a wooden swing in an astronaut's helmet and gazes out at us, calm and thoughtful. Above him, the ropes of the swing climb into a turquoise sky where the planets hang close enough to touch: Earth with its blue oceans and sunlit continents, banded Jupiter with its great red storm, ringed Saturn, and a scatter of smaller worlds in rust, ochre and ice blue.

He is rendered in soft, deep greys, every tuft of fur described, his small hands curled tight around the ropes and his bare feet dangling over the edge of the seat. Behind the visor his brow is gently creased, more curious than afraid, as if he is quietly working out just how far a swing might carry him. The sky around him is alive: turquoise drips run down toward the white ground below, and confetti-bright flecks of pink, yellow, orange and blue drift across it like stardust.

A swing is the first way any of us learns what it feels like to fly, and here it hangs from the heavens rather than from a jungle branch, suspended between earth and sky. That is the quiet idea at the heart of Dreams Beyond The Jungle: where we begin need not decide how far we go. Playful from across the room and tender up close, at five feet tall it fills a space with wonder.