Why Do Liminal Spaces Seem to Call Out to Us?
Empty parking lots, abandoned shopping malls and playgrounds, David Hockney paintings – lately, conversations around liminal spaces have become increasingly prominent, especially after Kane Parsons’ Backrooms was confirmed for release in Indonesia this month. There is a distinct visual power embedded within liminal spaces, one that seems to call us toward them. It sounds strange that such imagery could feel unsettling, yet perhaps that very contradiction explains why the film has generated so much anticipation and has become one of A24’s most commercially promising releases.
The word liminak comes from the Latin limen, meaning “threshold.” The term refers to a state of transition; a space suspended between one condition and another, often carrying an atmosphere that feels unfamiliar, uncanny, yet simultaneously nostalgic. Liminal spaces are not limited to physical environments; they can also describe emotional and psychological experiences. Perhaps that is why we often feel an inexplicable connection to them. Imagine an airport terminal at three in the morning. Such a setting evokes a subtle sense of transition: haunting, elusive, and difficult to articulate.
The concept of liminal space gained widespread popularity through digital platforms, particularly communities on Reddit and Tumblr. From there, it evolved into a subculture that developed its own distinctive visual language.
The visual language of liminal spaces is built upon a paradox: environments that feel both familiar and strange. These images typically depict transitional spaces devoid of human presence. The absence of activity leaves their function seemingly suspended, creating the impression that something has just happened or is about to happen. Artificial lighting, particularly the cold and flat glow of fluorescent fixtures, combined with symmetrical compositions, repetitive forms, and a lack of clear focal points, further intensify their unsettling quality. In many cases, liminal imagery also draws on the visual aesthetics of the late 1990s and early 2000s, employing low-resolution photography, faded colors, and digital artifacts that trigger a powerful sense of nostalgia.
That nostalgia is central to the appeal of liminal spaces. Their fascination lies not only in architecture but also in their ability to activate collective memory. Many liminal images feel familiar not because we have visited those exact places, but because their elements recall forgotten everyday experiences: a school corridor during holiday break, an empty indoor playground, or a deserted waiting room. This sensation is closely tied to the concept of the uncanny:; something deeply connected to our lived experience, yet presented in a form that feels subtly wrong or out of place.
Although the term liminal space only entered mainstream discourse through internet culture and contemporary popular media, many artists had long been exploring similar visual territory. Stephen Shore’s photographs capture motels, highways, and suburban American landscapes with a striking sense of emptiness. Todd Hido’s images of suburban homes illuminated at night evoke loneliness, mystery, and nostalgia in equal measure. Meanwhile, Gregory Crewdson constructs cinematic scenes that place ordinary environments somewhere between reality and dream.
The work of David Hockney can also be viewed through the lens of liminality, particularly his iconic swimming pool paintings such as A Bigger Splash (1967). In the painting, the splash itself serves as the sole indication of human presence, while the figure responsible for it remains absent. The result is a curious sense of vacancy. Many of Hockney’s California-era works depict spaces that appear bright, open, and inviting, yet beneath the surface, they carry a subtle feeling of isolation and estrangement.
Today, Backrooms may be the most distilled expression of this visual language. What began as a creepypasta post in 2019, The Backrooms, rapidly evolved into a cultural phenomenon after YouTube creator Kane Pixels released a series of hyperrealistic animated videos exploring its world in extraordinary visual detail. The universe of Backrooms consists of endless yellow corridors, stained carpets, and fluorescent-lit interiors that seem detached from any recognizable reality.
What makes Backrooms particularly compelling is its ability to transform ordinary visual elements into sources of psychological horror. Unlike other liminal imagery, which often invites reflection or melancholy, Backrooms exploits fears of entrapment, disorientation, and the impossibility of escape. Its environments are filled with familiar objects – outdated office furniture, worn wallpaper, commercial carpeting, and buzzing fluorescent lights – yet these elements are repeated endlessly until they lose their original meaning and function. Through repetition, the familiar becomes distorted, creating a version of reality that feels recognizable yet fundamentally broken.
The concept of the endless labyrinth is also one of the reasons The Backrooms has become such a definitive representation of digital liminality. While traditional liminal spaces depict temporary states of transition, The Backrooms imagines a transition that never ends. Within the context of contemporary internet culture, it demonstrates how liminal aesthetics have evolved from simple documentation of empty spaces into a collective narrative that explores modern anxieties surrounding isolation, disorientation, and fractures in reality itself.
On another level, color in Backrooms functions as a psychological device. The film is dominated by a tarnished, muted yellow deliberately chosen to trigger discomfort. Unlike the bright yellow commonly associated with optimism, energy, and warmth in design, the yellow that permeates Backrooms appears faded, dirty, and aged – as though it has deteriorated alongside the spaces it inhabits. The palette recalls the interiors of 1980s office buildings, waiting rooms, and commercial spaces, creating an atmosphere that feels both stagnant and suffocating.
Here, color no longer serves a purely decorative purpose but becomes an integral part of the narrative itself. The endlessly repeating yellow walls operate as a visual trap, gradually eroding any sense of comfort while extending the characters’ experience of disorientation. Much like the film’s infinite corridors, the unchanging presence of the same color generates a subtle yet persistent psychological pressure. Backrooms demonstrates how a seemingly simple visual decision – a single color repeated across a space – can become a powerful tool for shaping emotion, constructing atmosphere, and influencing the way we experience a world.
Looking across the visual language of liminal spaces – whether in photography, painting, film, video, or digital culture –I find myself drawn to the contradiction at the heart of the aesthetic. These images have a remarkable ability to make comfort and unease coexist within the same frame, inviting viewers into spaces that feel both welcoming and unsettling.
Ultimately, liminal spaces reveal that visual language is a tool capable of shaping emotional experience. Through seemingly simple creative decisions, an image can evoke nostalgia, anxiety, loneliness, or even fear without explaining anything explicitly. This power demonstrates how carefully constructed visuals can operate directly on memory and the subconscious, transforming an empty hallway, a childhood bedroom, or an otherwise ordinary corner of a room into something psychologically profound and deeply felt.
