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In my notebook, my daughter draws the Eiffel Tower. It’s a large triangle, like a Christmas tree, with sturdy legs added to make it easier to identify. But the inside is a mess: no crossbeams, no supportive triangles, just a dense mass of squiggly shapes meandering about, like a traffic cone full of snakes. Oh no, I say, this is a disaster. In the foreground is a small person painting an even smaller Eiffel Tower on canvass. The structure is the same, but the interior looks even wilder, the squiggles more erratic, some jutting outside the frame like flames grasping for open air. I was wrong, I say, this is a masterpiece.