She was carved from wood in the fifteenth century. Her skin is painted pink, her cloak is gold, and so is the throne she sits on. She is 48 centimetres tall. She balances a small child who stands on her right thigh, and proffers an apple with her left hand. She could be any mother with her infant child. However, her gold cloak has a slit that runs from her chest to her feet. Hinges allow her body to swing open. The act of opening her is at once both natural and a violation: the hand that parts her body enacts the rupturing process of birth. It also forces this natural act upon her in an unnatural way, literally splitting her figure in two (it seems a particularly violent, traumatic type of birth). Once open, her body reveals a scowling bearded man inside her, where a womb should be. He is sitting on his own throne in gilded robes. It is God, or the human incarnation of him. He holds up a crucifix, to which a miniature Christ is nailed.

In another instance, this one from the turn of the fourteenth century, she is made of gilded oak. She is smaller, standing at not quite 37 centimetres tall. She sits on a throne with her legs splayed and holds a baby on her thigh. On her head is a crown. She and the baby gaze at one another. Their clothing is gold, their faces pink. She too swings open. Inside her is God in human form. Once he was joined by Christ and a dove, but they are lost now.