←Return to Liminal Spaces (1)
Part One: The Lure of Liminality
2022 was the heyday of the Liminal Spaces hype. I’d like to take a look back, reflect on the phenomenon and place it within the broader context of our era — approaching it from historical and philosophical angles. Since Liminal Spaces possess both rapture-inducing and horrifying characteristics, the topic is split into two installments — each addressing one side of its dichotomy. The first article tackles the lure of liminality: What strange obsession is it that makes people yearn for … deserted shopping malls?
I live in a land known for its shadowy forests and spooky fairy tales. When wandering through its woods at night, precaution is a must: By chance you might encounter evil witches, talking wolves, or freaks like Rumpelstiltskin. In recent times it has become even nastier: Now, towns and villages are haunted too. If you venture through market squares or parks in the dark, you may suddenly get shocked by a threateningly big, rusty, and sinister-looking entity!
Yes, I am talking of these. Unsettling art installations. They are becoming an increasingly familiar sight. Even the ordinary parking lot around the corner from where I’m writing has one.
Although I wouldn’t deny they are interesting, they sometimes really make me think. Why do the remaining landmarks of bygone eras look so … nice? While my generation is constantly putting up monuments that show disfigured bodies or shapes reminiscent of industrial scrap?
My earlier self always struggled to understand the intentions behind these sculptures, and instinctively dismissed them as the brainchild of an elite that is totally detached from the public. The public, I thought, has no desire for monuments that seem to defy all established standards of beauty!
Well, that was before I studied the phenomenon of Liminal Spaces.
Today, I know better.
The Lure of Liminality
The popularization of the term “Liminal Spaces” originates from an internet hype, where people share and enjoy a certain type of images that also defy most established standards of beauty. It happens on forums and image boards, completely outside the reach of the elite, who, for this time, can not be blamed.
If you are now like “Liminal Spaces — ?” — there are lots of articles and videos explaining this phenomenon, which has been happening since 2020. Summing it up in one sentence:
Under the Liminal Spaces headline people on the internet share and discuss pictures of empty spaces that leave a distinct impression of nostalgia, unease, or rapture due to their unfamiliar absence of humans and their dream-like, non-everyday structure or minimal decor.
Some enjoyers of Liminal Spaces are clearly into it for the thrill of subtle horror these pictures radiate (there is a term for this: “horror vacui”, the fear of emptiness). Others are from a different breed. They do not feel horror when looking at these images, but actually find pleasure. To understand their mindset, please take a look at some quotes by them:
“I first dappled with liminal spaces after a late-night supermarket trip. As the pale moonlight cascaded over the parking lot littered with nothing but shopping carts, the stale glow of the Shoprite sign flickered and buzzed along to the sound of summer crickets. Not a soul was left in sight, leaving the cool night air to focus its attention on me sitting in my car in the middle of the concrete desert. I found a home in the stillness of the night. […] Since then, I have been on the hunt for living in liminal spaces, immersing myself in situations that encapsulate the visceral experience. […] I often seek out liminal spaces to stimulate creativity and take a pause from reality. Spending time in these places provides the right balance of creepiness and comfort to make me see the everyday locations from an unconventional perspective. Liminal spaces go beyond the aesthetic; they alter and transcend the common expectations for daily life.” — Abigail Alvarez, “My Love of Liminal Spaces”
“Liminal Spaces are disturbing, creepy and lonely. No question. But for me, and for some other people, they mainly give all the sense of comfort. A sense of comfort so prevalent that I consider looking at these bizarre, abnormal pictures as a relaxing and calming experience. A sense of comfort that is the strongest when you’re mentally at your lowest. At those moments when you just want to vanish from this reality and dive into another one.” — YouTuber Scrabbl
People in Scrabble’s comment section agree:
“I never saw liminal space as uneasy or uncomfortable to look at, I feel safe or just calm. It feels like a dream. Like things that look familiar.”
“In general, these empty, long rooms without objects allow me to completely unwind. I find bathrooms in general, combined with the sound of running water (shower on or bathtub filling up), very relaxing. In hotel bathrooms without windows, I sometimes just sat on the toilet, let the shower run, dimmed the lights, and enjoyed the constant sound of water. The rumor of air conditioners in complete darkness during the summer is incredibly soothing for me, and even in winter, I sometimes set the air conditioning to just the fan mode to sleep better. This shutting off of senses and perception is pure relaxation for me.”
“What I like: An empty industrial area on a cold autumn night, with the onset of rain gently touching my face, and the distant sound of a highway rushing. Give me cold, efficiently built, culture- and spiritless, standardized non-places. What do I need with so-called “historic city centers” filled with replicated, commercial-purpose-serving historical grandeur, where hordes of tourists wander around some old cathedral, munching on overpriced snacks and licking ice cream under the scorching summer heat on cobblestone streets? What do cathedrals, temples, castles, and patrician houses still mean to us in a country whose ruling class wants to flush away all the ideals of their former builders down the drain?”
The sensation of experiencing a calming pleasure while watching a certain type of imagery is, of course, nothing new. What is new are the motifs: Instead of seeking solace in pictures of still oceans, misty mountains, or tranquil forests (like previous generations would have done), people now find comfort in subjects like “empty corridor of a suburban shopping mall from the 90s at night.”
I think this cultural shift is truly remarkable. Here is a substantial group of people who rejoice in something which I personally would instinctively dismiss as modern nothingness: pictures of boring, empty, soulless, identity-less corporate places devoid of any distinctiveness. Places that look the same everywhere in the world, and normally nobody would shed a tear if they get demolished.
Liminality’s True Essence: Being Highly Processed
Before we dive into finding explanations for the lure of liminality, I would like to clarify an issue I see with the definition of the word “Liminal Space”. Translated from its Latin roots it means “threshold space” or “transitional space” — and I think these terms do not quite capture the character of liminal imagery. A long, dimly lit corridor may fit the definition well, but does a deserted cinema hall, a half-empty office, or a children’s play area? What about trash cans waiting for collection by the roadside? These motifs can have the same perceptual effect without being “transitional”.
To me, the greatest commonality of Liminal Spaces is not that they are transitional, but that they are artificial. Most of these spaces are products of the tertiary sector of the economy, the mass-service industry — the sector where industry and human life intersect (in contrast to the secondary sector, the classical industry, where metal and machinery rule the scenery).
A more accurate definition for this kind of spaces would be “highly processed”. A term that is normally used to describe a certain type of food (that health experts warn you about). I think it creates a great analogy. Let us compare highly processed food with freshly caught fish:
Both are food, but the first has undergone much more manipulation and is far more removed from its organic basis. Similarly, Liminal Spaces are almost always highly inorganic, artificial, and far removed from the natural aesthetics of the world. Rooms we perceive as liminal are not just random empty rooms. They are rooms that lack natural light and have a high proportion of smooth plastic surfaces and unnatural colors. Take a look at “The Backrooms”, the famous image that started the Liminal Spaces hype:
Some standard industrial carpet, monotonous wallpapers, fluorescent lights, ceiling tiles — everything that touches our senses is highly processed and created under the dogma of cost efficiency and scalability. In comparison, take a look at an ancient hall:
These historic buildings were handcrafted and individually designed. The viewer feels the human dedication that went into them, and therefore doesn’t experience the detachment he faces in Liminal Spaces, which are quite the opposite: They are designed in big numbers for the management of the masses, for highly streamlined, standardized processes. Beyond their function of handling the crowds there is nothing of value left in them.
Ancient halls lack “mass” characteristics, because they were not built for the masses, but always for a single person or a distinct group of people. Imagine you build a swimming pool for yourself — you would surely take good care that it is going to be beautiful. You would think of decoration, plants, nice furniture etc. The commercial pool, in comparison, needs nothing of that. All it needs are water holes, tiles and some stainless steel tubing.
Synthetic Romanticism
So what is it that makes people yearn for liminality? Looking at the above quotes again, it becomes pretty clear that their authors have a pleasant sensation of melancholia, relaxation, and nostalgia towards Liminal Spaces. Feelings that can be described as romantic — although classic romanticism, which involves a longing for returning to nature, rather appears to be the polar opposite of “liminalism” at first glance. But by comparing Liminal Spaces with classic romantic paintings from 200 years ago (here by Caspar David Friedrich), it becomes obvious:
They are very similar in their dim lighting and their absence of details and people. The analogy is apparent: The ancient and the modern romantic both dream of mystified memories of their childhood, while the “liminalist” never has memorized a view of nature as an identity building event. Those events rather took place in dull, prefabricated buildings.
Curiously, according to the quotes, it appears that there’s a concept of liminal soundscapes as well. Once again, we can draw parallels to romanticism. The romantic enjoys white noise like ocean waves, fire crackling, or the whisper of the wind. The liminalist prefers white noise like the sound of air conditioning, a running shower, or vacuum cleaners:
Liberation from Information
“In an information-rich world, the wealth of information means a dearth of something else: a scarcity of whatever it is that information consumes.”― Herbert A. Simon
We discovered that Liminal Spaces possess romantic qualities by mystifying childhood memories. Another quality might be that they evoke the tempting notion that, when devoid of people, the mass character of these places disappears — allowing one to use the space unobserved to satisfy one’s own sense of power, exploration, and curiosity.
While these explanations might answer the question of why people enjoy looking at pictures of Liminal Spaces, they don’t answer the even more intriguing question: Why are we endlessly constructing these spaces to begin with? Again, for economic reasons, right? Certainly, Liminal Spaces are cost-effective and low-maintenance. However, that can’t be the complete explanation. I mean: If Liminal Spaces existed for economic reasons only, why did the production designers of Star Trek, a TV show that is set in a prosperous future without economic constraints, create liminal sets like these?
As the YouTuber EC Henry pointed out in his video The Enterprise is Insanely Huge, in which he explains that the star ship is creepily empty and underpopulated:
“What is interesting is that the show kinda supports this sparsely populated Enterprise: Very rarely do we see anybody else in the corridors. In most cases the ship is actually empty and lifeless, except in the expected hubs of activity. So it’s entirely possible that the positively massive amount of space on the enterprise is completely intentional.” — EC Henry
Of course it is intentional. Sure — nobody would ever point at a Liminal Space and say: “Oh my God! This is sooooooo beautiful!!” In fact, very few people would even admit that they kinda like these aesthetics. And yet do we surround ourselves with them. Liminal Spaces are everywhere. Surf a little on sites like AirBnB and you will find that even many private apartments easily fall into this category:
People who live in such apartments usually describe this style as “minimalism”: Plain white walls, mass produced interior that looks the same everywhere in the world, and if there is decoration, it is, of course, the eternal Ikea triptych …
… which is equally mass produced and carefully designed to convey a feeling of nothingness.
The fact that we encounter liminality even in the most private living space is to me a clear indicator that Liminal Spaces aren’t here by accident — but are genuinely desired.
It becomes evident if we acknowledge that liminal aesthetics actually have a history and didn’t emerge out of thin air. If we observe the evolution of aesthetics from the Middle Ages until today, liminality doesn’t appear to be so “off” anymore, but indeed a logical continuation of what preceded them. Let’s explore this evolution, or to be more precise, let’s delve into the history of simplification in the arts:
If there’s one common thread that runs through art history since the Gothic period, then it’s the constant drive to reduce information. Each era can in fact be identified by how its artists approached this. The trend of looking for new ways of simplification continues up to our times, and Liminal Spaces aesthetics can easily be recognized as yet another of its manifestations. While late medieval paintings were often filled with so many details that it was difficult to identify a background, Liminal Spaces are essentially just that: a background. The same history of simplification we find in architecture — compare a Gothic cathedral with a recently built church.
The reasons for this struggle against information might be complex and numerous, but a straightforward explanation quickly comes to mind: Since the late Middle Ages, with the invention of the printing press, information has become increasingly accessible, and consequently, its value has diminished. Down to a point where it can even possess a negative value, evident in those moments when we are happy if we can simply gaze at a white wall.
Or at a Liminal Space.
Liminal Spaces are Anti Privilege
“Architecture is the will of an epoch translated into space.” — Ludwig Mies van der Rohe
We’ve discussed several explanations for the lure of liminality. The most compelling one I’ve found, the sociological explanation, is still to come. Before we delve into that, I’d like you to take a look at a photo of a pompous palace, most would consider as beautiful. Such as Castle Neuschwanstein:
What we see here is the opposite of a Liminal Space. Neuschwanstein was not built for the masses, but for one person (the Bavarian king), for the sole sake of prestige. It is not highly processed, rich in detail and corresponds with aesthetics established for many centuries.
It’s worth mentioning at this point that this structure is not a real castle, but a 19th century luxury home built during romanticism — which was a reactionary aesthetical counter movement to industrialization. Which I find a bit funny when you consider this in the context of Liminal Spaces and where industrialization has led us a 150 years later.
Now, what message does Neuschwanstein convey? It symbolizes wealth, power and hierarchy and whispers to you something like:
Aren’t I awe-inspiring? Owning me and reigning as king is quite something, isn’t it?
This statement might evoke within you two different notions:
- A pleasant daydream of being king yourself.
- The terrible realization that you will NEVER be king. That these massive walls were built to keep wealth in, and you out. That it’s a monument to remind you of your own insignificance.
Beauty like that of Neuschwanstein has a big problem: it communicates privilege. In the feudal era, if you were a ruler, this was accepted — rulers were symbolic figures, and their displays of grandeur were seen as reflections of their people’s prosperity.
In modern times, where we believe that every group of people has an equal value (egalitarianism) and that everyone is personally responsible for their success (liberalism), vanity objects of Neuschwanstein’s ink have become potentially offensive. Imagine you live in a row house — would you want your colleague to live in a palace? Or imagine all your colleagues dress casually in the office. Would you want to come to work as a fashion icon? Vanity creates imbalance, and this imbalance demands constant justification and protection. You are probably better off not to stand out too much and to adhere to the standard.
And here lies the true power of Liminal Spaces: Their dullness, their insignificance, their lack of vanity … is precisely their appeal! Liminal Spaces are anti privilege — they don’t breed jealousy, greed, ambition, or hostility between classes. The CEO spends his work time in the same drab office building as the junior clerk — everyone deals with the same corporate mediocrity. Andy Warhol’s quote about Coke comes to mind. Liminal Spaces are a big equalizer, providing calm — something that is probably deeply needed in our highly competitive world.
If they could speak, they would say:
Hey, come in, stay a while, consume a little for a small penny, nobody will chase you away, because I’m here for everyone.
Compare this to snobbish Ms. Neuschwanstein and decide who you like better.
Something Dark
Let’s return to the beginning of the article, where I mocked the emergence of landmarks of debatable beauty. Having reflected on the lure of liminality, I believe I now better understand their appeal. Vanity objects like Neuschwanstein will always bring privilege to whatever they represent — something that deeply conflicts with our society’s constant quest for social balance. These modern monuments, on the other hand, stand as an aesthetical antithesis to pomp. They may not be “awe inspiring”, but they empower the individual — by offering a backdrop where everyone can shine. Which is actually something nice!
Before we wrap up, I invite you, dear reader, to ponder a question: What do you think about the current state of society — which no longer spawns palaces but endless Liminal Spaces? Will this lead us to the Star Trek future? Or do you feel that also something dark lies within the rise of liminality?
We’ll tackle this in part two: The Menace of Liminality.
