Working Title for Video –
You Think My Work Is "Liminal"? Thanks, I Hate It. (Sort Of.)

Close your eyes and imagine standing on a threshold—a moment when day kisses night, when sound fades into echo. A place that exists neither fully here nor entirely elsewhere. That, in essence, is what “liminal” means. It refers to being in a state of transition where boundaries blur and certainty gives way to possibility—a curious space between absence and presence, tinged with mystery and promise.

Every day, we encounter these in-between spaces: empty bus stops at dawn, city corridors bathed in fleeting light, car parks echoing with silence after the rush, hinterlands where the urban meets the undefined, and business parks that pulse with transience. Have you ever paused to feel the mystery in these corners of your day? Even friends who don’t visit art galleries instinctively recognise that indescribable, uncertain quality—a whispered, almost subconscious nod to something both elusive and familiar. During Covid it was as if our whole world became liminal, on the edge of something, waiting to see what came next.

I must confess: I have a love–hate relationship with the term “liminal.” I enjoy its nuance—in my art it captures that “on the tip of the tongue” moment, the fleeting glimpse of uncertain mystery. Yet, every time I use it, I’m struck by an awkwardness, as if it belongs solely to those who intentionally seek out spaces radically distinct from their ordinary lives—a deliberate venture into the unknown. Yet here I am, painting what I see around me everyday.

I live in Sheffield, in Highfield—a neighbourhood bounded by the ceaseless flow of London Road and Bramall Lane. It isn’t some exotic destination; it’s an in-between place, a space people simply move through to be elsewhere, rather than a place to call home. And yet, it is my home. While critics dismiss many urban cityscape paintings as “poverty porn,” I see my work as a chronicle of this area and beyond, unashamedly rooted in the very streets I walk.

I recall a conversation during an exhibition where one visitor confessed feeling uneasy about the spaces in my paintings—there was a sense of uncertain threat that made them feel uncomfortable and unsafe. In contrast, their friend revealed how those same spaces offered them a meditative escape when everything else felt overwhelming. This duality made me wonder: if the spaces we inhabit can evoke both fear and calm, are they not liminal by nature? And if my home and these in-between spaces are liminal, does that make the people who live in them, liminal too? Am I less anchored in my identity for choosing a place that few aspire to call home, or is there a hidden class bias in the idea of liminality itself?

When I mention I live in Sheffield or invite people to visit, I have been met with smirks—as if my neighbourhood is “not for them”, beneath them: too urban, too rough, too messy, too populated by “certain types.” That reaction reeks of a biting class snobbery.

Extending this thought further: after 10 plus years of austerity, where high streets are dying and general up keep is waning, can entire cities or regions be unconsciously cast as liminal, what does that even mean? An implication that vast communities and spaces are being sidelined—a narrative where some of the lives of the people that live in these areas are deemed inherently lesser, dehumanised. This leads to disinvestment, with the self-fulfilling expectation that “the wrong choices” will inevitably be made by the “wrong types” of people. The ripple effects of such judgements are enormous.

So here’s the question I leave you with: Am I off base, or am I simply projecting my own fears and frustrations? Is my discomfort with the term “liminal” a deeper struggle with identity, class, and belonging—or merely a self-imposed label? What do you think—do these in-between spaces inspire creative meditative potential, or do they stand as stark markers of societal division? Have you ever felt caught between two worlds? What does liminality mean in your lives?