I have no doors, yet I keep you inside. I'm built from the cold, a temporary hide. What am I, where arctic winds cannot chide?

Sometimes I hold a morning brew, or I’m the reflection staring back at you. In another sense, I bring dismay, taking your valuables away.

I am a fruit, often pickled and green, Or cured to a dark, oily sheen. From ancient groves, my bitter taste I glean.

Part of face that bear the shine, And also an icon to glow it's prime.

I am born wet and expected to improve with age. My first mistake is often buried beneath my last success. Light reveals me, Time changes me, And varnish protects me. Though I may depict the world, I am made from neither words nor photographs. I am just one layer on top of another. What am I?