We were created in Nuremberg. My portraitist had returned to his home town after a stimulating study trip to Venice. Now—in addition to all of his other work—he concentrated his efforts and skill on me.

Coiffed curls and plucked eyebrows, high brow and soft chin, delicate nose and red mouth: the very picture of a woman.

But eye contact I may not grant.

My shimmering, many-layered veil of gold keeps you at a distance, for your gaze should be directed at the child that I hold in my arms.

I wish you could feel what I do: Christ’s plump, warm body wriggles almost restlessly, but I hold him tight.

And if something should happen, would you catch him?

The cloth that lies between my strong fingers and his soft curves was originally violet in colour, and thus commonly understood as an allusion to Christmastide and Easter.

The stem end of a pear in Jesus’ left hand is a reference to his fruitful gospel, and you will have noticed how I prepared a bite-sized piece of the sweet fruit for him as part of my divine commission. Sweet too are the traces that his small milk teeth have left in the pear.