I KNOW he died nearly 60 years before I was born, and that I have never been to Vienna, but I’m pretty sure that Gustav Klimt has painted my mouth.

There it was, up on the wall at the recent Tate Liverpool exhibition.

Of course I recognised it as familiar straight away, but it took me a few more seconds of contemplation to realise where I had seen it before.

My friends thought I was being ridiculous, but a girl can recognise her own mouth, can’t she? And, on this occasion, it was definitely being borrowed by Eugenia Primavesi.

I had never thought I looked like a work of art before, except for a slight resemblance to a Picasso when my make-up’s gone awry, and I put it out of my mind.

But I was reminded of this revelation last week on receiving an email from a colleague, commenting on my “Mona Lisa smile”.

For one split second, I was pleased at being told I shared a facial expression with one of the world’s most evocative women, until I realised that a), he was trying to flatter me into something, and b), this might not be the kindest compliment I’d ever been paid.

So I turned to the bastion of all knowledge (and plenty of complete rubbish cunningly masquerading as The Truth) for help.

The internet described the Mona Lisa’s expression as enigmatic (good), intriguing (good), captivating (very good) and masculine (hmmmm).

Even more worrying than the idea that I might have a man’s mouth was that the writer of one website has become so obsessed with the painting he has given her a new identity.

The Mona Lisa likes Nat King Cole, savino sorbet and The Sopranos. She is keen to meet Madonna and model for Versace. Her biggest hate is the paparazzi.

Creating a fantasy life to such an extent seems to me to be the cultural equivalent of thinking a blow-up doll is your girlfriend.

Yet apparently there is a scientific reason for the world’s obsession with this particular woman.

The reason we find her smile so ambiguous is that it disappears when we get close to it.

According to scientists at Harvard University, it’s the shadows around her mouth that make us think she is showing pleasure.

When we stare directly at her lips, our brains no longer perceive her face in detail so it then appears she is expressionless after all.

I have seen the Mona Lisa in the flesh, so to speak, a few times, and the great mystery to me is not whether or not she’s happy but how, with so many tourists in the way, anyone got close enough to investigate.

I can also say with great certainty that I did not recognise my mouth in Leonardo Da Vinci’s masterpiece as I did in that of Klimt.

A greater disappointment is that I spotted it in Eugenia’s portrait, rather than in one of the real beauties he painted.

How much more fulfilling would it have been to have discovered I shared my lips with the captivating Adele Bloch-Bauer or the exquisite Judith.

It’s not just that Eugenia isn’t really a looker, but she’s also on one of the less elaborate canvasses – none of Klimt’s gemstone embellishments or gold leaf.

If I have to share my mouth with a painting, I would rather it had been one of those with a bit of bling.

Actually, if I had the choice, I would probably go for resembling Pre-Raphelite beauty Jane Morris, with her flame-coloured hair, full lips and serene expression.

Musing on this, I asked some colleagues which artwork they would like to be.

The results were very telling: Botticelli’s Venus (fashion writer), a matchstick man from LS Lowry’s

Going to the Match (football reporter), something by Edward Hopper – “lonely and broken” (exhausted arts reporter who hasn’t slept in days from covering the Liverpool Biennial launch) and The Scream (three different people working late on a Friday night).

lauradavis@dailypost.co.uk