Alex Colville, _To Prince Edward Island_, 1965

Alex Colville, To Prince Edward Island, 1965

Alex Colville and The Uncanny Valley

Impressions of a painting.

author V. V. June 16, 2026 2 min read

(AI-translated)

I stumbled upon Colville’s work by chance. His paintings possess the remarkable quality of evoking absolute discomfort in the viewer. One senses a lack of movement—space in the absence of time. The viewer is mysteriously observed. We look at the painting, and at the same time, it looks back at us—a startling twist that provokes a discomfort akin to what we feel when a word is “on the tip of our tongue” and, just as it is about to escape our lips, vanishes into nothingness, beyond the reach of memory.

The woman’s eyes remain hidden from us, and her expression is so cold, neutral, and devoid of life that it causes anxiety—we have no way of knowing her motives. We are doomed to have no access to her world, while our eyes are subjected to her rigorous gaze. It is as if we are stripped of our will and under study. We ask ourselves, holding our breath in anticipation of the answer, with that sharp and tense look that accompanies the foreboding of bad news: why is she watching us, what is she trying to find in us? But perhaps all this anxiety is groundless—is she looking through us? What if her attention is fixed on the horizon—then we can breathe a sigh of relief. We feel the complete absence of dynamics, yet also the tension, as if a storm is about to strike us in the frozen sea.

The coldness of the atmosphere is not improved by the figure of the man who appears casually leaning in the background. His face and intentions remain solely a matter of conjecture. It is as if we have been abducted onto the ship and forced to endure the punishment of opaque surveillance. All of this is further amplified by the huge lifeboat, as if at any moment we might have to resort to it. It quietly and relentlessly announces itself. But no—we are far from land, escape is not an option. Or have we just begun our journey? And the man seems indifferent to such fateful questions. He appears lost in reveries, in the warm embrace of dead memories. None of this is comforting, yet the clouds and dynamism are far from us. The sky above us is clearer than ever—but why?