Umberto Eco, describes a picture, on a package of an early XXth-century effervescent powder, that recurses.

I looked for another container, this one not a tin but a small carton, definately from a later period, one which I had opened on countless occasions before we sat down to our meals. Its illustration would have been slightly different: still the same gentlemen, who still were drinking the amazing water from champagne glasses, except that clearly visible on the table before them was a carton identical to the actual carton, and on that second one were depicted the same gentlemen, drinking in front of a table on which appeared yet another carton of powder, that one also with gentlemen who...and so on forever. You new that all you needed was a magnifying glass, en abime, like Chinese boxes or Matrioshka dolls. Infinity, as seen through the eyes of a boy who has yet to study Zeno's paradox. The race towards an unreachable goal; neither the tortoise nor Achilles would ever reach the last carton, the last gentleman, the last waitress. We learn as children the metaphysics of the infinite and infinitesimal calculus, though we are unaware of what we are learning, and it might be the image of an Endless Regress or its opposite, the dreadful promise of the Eternal Return and of the turning of the ages that bite their own tails, because upon reaching the final carton, were there such a thing, we might have discovered, at the bottom of that vortex, ourselves, holding the first carton in our hands. Why had I decided to become an antiquarian book dealer if not in order to have a fixed point, the day that Gutenberg printed the first Bible in Mainz, to go back to? At least you know that nothing existed before that, or rather, other things existed, but you know that you can stop there[.]

P. 121-122

Human finitude, the cure for common recursion.  ¶ 9:58 AM