Kindynis, T. 2014. Ripping up the map: Criminology and cartography reconsidered.

British Journal
of Criminology, 54(2), pp. 222-243. ISSN 0007-0955 [Article]

https://research.gold.ac.uk/id/eprint/23440/

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 Introduction

Criminologists have long been interested in mapping crime, and today, computer-aided
crime mapping is used by police forces around the world (Chainey and Tompson 2008).
Yet despite crime mapping’s burgeoning popularity in recent decades (Sharon 2006),
criminology’s use and understanding of maps, their production and application remains
largely superficial and uncritical (see, for example, Anselin et al. 2008; Boba Santos
2013; Chainey and Ratcliffe 2005; Hill and Paynich 2013). This article calls for
criminologists to look at maps and map-making anew, and to critically reengage with
cartography as an object of theoretical critique and inquiry; as a methodological toolkit;
and as a vehicle for social and political intervention.

Beginning with a brief overview of the history of crime mapping, the article then
considers the development of critical cartography; a constellation of theoretical critiques
and new mapping practices that challenges how we think about maps, and which, it is
argued, can provide a useful corrective to criminology’s cartographic illiteracy. Also
considered are the production and achievements of “counter-maps” which reframe the
world in such a way as to articulate alternative, subversive and marginalised interests.

The remainder of the article proceeds in three parts, exploring the implications of
critical cartography for criminological theory, method, and social and political
intervention, respectively. First, criminologists are urged to challenge conventional
crime mapping’s use and efficacy, and to interrogate its epistemological and ideological
presumptions. Relatedly, it is argued that as new forms of digital mapping become
increasing popular, cartography and its implication in crime, control and resistance,
should comprise a focus of criminological enquiry.

Second, it is argued that cartography affords a host of innovative methodologies that

criminologists have yet to take advantage of. Despite the recent ‘spatial turn’ within
criminology (see Hayward 2004, 2012; Campbell 2013), criminologists have so far been
reluctant to explore the abundance of cartographic research opportunities at their
disposal. Some tentative suggestions are made as to how criminologists might utilise
maps and map-making in order to generate unique empirical insights and yield other
methodological advantages.

Finally, the article considers how criminologists might harness maps’ communicative
power to better engage with the public and to promote social justice. Several examples
are considered, which point towards innovative new approaches for action research and
opportunities for more critically informed, political engaged mappings of crime and its
control. However, whilst socially progressive mappings give cause for optimism,
criminologists must nevertheless remain vigilant against cartographies of intolerance and
vindictiveness.

A brief history of crime mapping

The history of crime mapping is punctuated by three defining moments. Ever since the
first recognisable examples of crime maps were produced in the early 19th Century by
André-Michel Guerry and Adolphe Quetelet, following the publication in France of the
first national crime statistics, cartography has maintained something of a flickering
1
presence in criminology (Courtright and Mutchnick 2002). In many ways Guerry and
Quetelet’s cartes thematiques anticipated contemporary crime mapping, with areas shown
shaded according to the rates of various categories of crime, as well as other socio-
demographic features, such as poverty and education levels (Wortley and Mazerolle
2008; Beirne 1993; see figure 1). Importantly, Guerry and Quetelet’s maps showed that
crimes were not evenly distributed but clustered geographically along with other
observable social variables such as poverty and education levels, and that such patterns
were consistent over time (Courtright and Mutchnick 2002; Hill and Paynich 2013;
Wortley and Mazerolle 2008). Credited with founding what is now termed the
‘cartographic school’, Guerry and Quetelet’s methods formed the basis of a flourish of
studies throughout the 19th Century – perhaps the most well known of which is
Mayhew’s (1862) survey of London’s rookeries – as well as offering a direct challenge to
Lombroso’s biological positivism (Chainey and Ratcliffe 2005).

(Figure 1 here)

The next substantial and somewhat more influential moment in the history of crime
mapping, to which modern criminology’s fascination with charting the spatial
distribution of crime can be more or less directly traced, is the work of the Chicago
School sociologists in the 1920s and ‘30s. The theoretical and empirical initiatives of the
Chicago School and its legacy have been discussed at length elsewhere and need not be
reiterated here (see, for example, Hayward 2013). However, of particular relevance to
the present discussion is the iconic significance of Ernest Burgess’s “concentric zone”
model (Park et al. 1925), arguably ‘the most famous diagram in social science’ (Davis
1995). Inherent in Burgess’s model is a particular way of seeing urban space which has
endured for almost a century (see Hayward 2004): today, the concentric zone model
remains the quintessential expression of criminology’s conception of the city 1.
Schematic, rationalised and ‘mappable from above’ (Hayward 2004: 97), the model is
emblematic of what the French philosopher and urban theorist, Michel de Certeau
(1984), would later describe as the ‘concept city’: ‘the city as seen by planners,
developers, statisticians and, all too often, criminologists... distilled to leave only
quantitative data, demographics and rational discourse’ (Hayward 2004: 2).
Unfortunately, it is the School’s superficial interpretation of urban space which has since
predominated within criminology, having ‘set the geography of crime down a… narrow
conceptual path from which it has rarely deviated’ (Hayward 2012: 443).

The next significant development in crime mapping occurred during the late 1970s and
‘80s when the so-called “second wave” of environmental criminology reinvigorated
interest in the spatial distribution of crime (Hayward 2004). In the following decade,
developments in computerised mapping software, the availability of affordable
hardware, and the digitisation of police records heralded a new era of “desktop” crime
mapping (Chainey 2009). Today, digital crime mapping software is used by police forces
around the world to identify crime “hot spots” and to target resources where they are
apparently most needed (see, for example, the volume edited by Chainey and Tompson
2008). Recent developments include acoustic gunshot detection systems, which use
hidden microphones and sensors to triangulate and alert the police to the location of
gunshots in real time, and predictive crime mapping software, which enables police to

1
As Hayward notes, the School’s appreciative focus, exemplified by groundbreaking
ethnographic studies such as Anderson’s The Hobo ‘increasingly fell victim to outside policy
influence and rational abstraction… a road that led ultimately to the creation of disciplinary
variants such as environmental and administrative criminology’ (2012: 445).

2
identify ‘prospective hot spots’ (Bowers et al. 2004; see www.predpol.com). Perhaps
most significantly, however, recent years have seen a growing trend in the publication of
crime maps on the Internet, often hosted on the websites of police departments, and
increasingly in an interactive format (Ratcliffe 2002; see, for example, www.police.uk
or maps.met.police.uk).

Critical cartography
Crime mapping is now arguably the growth industry in criminology, with its own
dedicated journal (Crime Mapping), hundreds of books published on the subject and a
plethora of commercially available software applications (Byrne and Pease 2011: 361;
see, for example, Hirschfield and Bowers 2001; Murray et al. 2001; Weisburd and
McEwen 1998). Yet despite crime mapping’s growing popularity in recent decades
(Sharon 2006), criminology’s use and understanding of maps, their production and
application, remains superficial and largely uncritical (see, for example, Anselin et al.
2008; Boba Santos 2013; Chainey and Ratcliffe 2005; Hill and Paynich 2013).

Meanwhile, recent years have seen the development of critical cartography: a

perspective that applies the lessons of critical theory to how we think about maps, and
which can provide a useful corrective to criminology’s cartographic shortsightedness. A
host of academic, artistic and activist contributions have challenged the authority of
conventional cartography, through both theoretical critique and through new and
imaginative mapping practices (Crampton and Krygier 2006; see, for example, Bhagat
and Mogel 2008; Crampton 2010; Harley 1989; Kitchin et al. 2011; Wood and Fels
1986; Wood et al. 2010). In what follows I consider, first of all, the emergence and
nature of this theoretical critique. I then discuss the practice of “counter mapping” and
its potential as a tool for bolstering the territorial claims of indigenous and marginalised
populations, and contesting dominant narratives.

The power of maps: Theoretical and political critiques of cartography 2

Although critique and contestation have accompanied cartography since its inception as a
discipline, contemporary critical cartography as a more or less unified body of critique
rose to prominence during the 1990s (Crampton and Krygier 2006). Catalysed by the
critical debate surrounding the growing use of Geographic Information Systems,
geographers began to pay increasing attention to how maps privilege certain ways of
seeing and support dominant political structures (Schuurman 2000; Crampton and
Krygier, 2006). Around the turn of the decade, a constellation of theoretical critiques
began to call into question the presumptions of professional and academic cartography,
and to address the political implications of mapping (see, for example, Harley 1988,
1989, [1991] 2001; Harley and Woodward 1987; Wood 1992). This nascent
perspective challenged conventional geographical understandings of maps as neutral
scientific documents, instead interpreting maps as instruments of government, social
constructions and inscriptions of knowledge and authority (Crampton and Krygier,
2006).

2
I allude here to Dennis Wood’s The Power of Maps (1992), an early and influential work of
critical cartography.

3
Critical cartography has called attention to the ways in which maps and map-making are
enrolled as instruments of state control, and implicated in struggles over territory,
identity and meaning (Kitchin et al. 2011). Historically and contemporarily, mapping has
played an instrumental role in Western imperial domination and exploitation. By
rendering distant territories ‘knowable, navigable and claimable’, maps have allowed
military and commercial power to be wielded efficiently and effectively from afar
(Kitchin et al. 2011: 390; see Latour 1987). In addition, the ‘cartographic gaze’ – a way
of seeing implied by the dehumanising and rationalising visual grammar of cartographic
abstraction, and which renders the complexity of human life as mere dots – allows those
in power to take action without witness to its human consequences (Pickles 2004;
Kitchin et al. 2011: 390). Moreover, once a territory is occupied, colonisers’ maps erase
the presence and territorial claims of subjugated indigenous populations. In the partition
of India (Kalpagam 1995), the ‘terra nullius’ of Australia (Gibson 1999), and the
annexation of Palestinian land (Tawil-Souri 2012), cartography has been integral to
colonial coercion (Harley 1988). Today, mapping practices – from real-time
surveillance and “strip mapping” by unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) or “drones”, to the
Pentagon’s new ‘cartography of enmity’ (Shapiro 2007; see Barnett 2004) – remain
essential to contemporary geopolitical conflicts (Raza 2012: 182).

Alongside its complicity in colonial, imperialist and capitalist domination, cartographic

mapping has long been a key strategy within states’ internal regimes of governmentality
(Rose-Redwood 2006). ‘To govern’, says Rose, ‘it is necessary to render visible the
space over which government is to be exercised’ (1999: 36). In theoretical terms,
mapping can be said to be concerned with the institution of what Deleuze and Guattari
(1987) term ‘striated space’: ‘a space within which movements and flows are regulated
in ways which enable authorities to act; a space that is measured, directed and
standardized’ (Barry 1996: 127-128). In fact, cartography has long facilitated
surveillance and control by both the state and capital (Harley 1989: 12). Since the early
19th Century, states have used maps in their assessment and management of population
and resources, and their distribution across territory (Crampton 2010). Meanwhile, the
production, ordering and inscription of cartographic space ‘has historically been related
to the… processes of capital accumulation, the circulation of commodities, and the
creative destruction of urban landscapes’ (Rose-Redwood 2006: 470-471). Today,
mapping practices remain central to the politics of the production (and consumption) of
urban space (Graham 2005). To give a contemporary example, the geodemographic
profiling of individuals and neighbourhoods – ‘fitting them into idealised consumer
types, fixing them into a spatial grid of quantifiable economic value and ranking them
based on their ‘worth’ or ‘risk’’ (Kitchin et al. 2011: 391) – reifies and exacerbates
social and spatial differences and easily leads to the discriminatory process of ‘redlining’,
whereby areas deemed unprofitable or high risk are denied services (Graham 2005;
Pickles 1995). Furthermore, recent developments in mapping and GIS technologies
offer unprecedented opportunities for new forms of surveillance and tracking (discussed
below).

Besides power external to cartography – surveillance, for instance, is achieved with the
help of maps – critical cartographers have also called attention to the ways in which
power inheres within, or internal to, cartography itself: how power is ‘embedded in the
map text’ (Harley 1989: 13), and ‘constituted in the very design and creation of maps’
(Kitchin et al. 2011: 390). Several scholars have argued that all maps are inherently
ideologically loaded, reflecting the interests of their creators (see, for example, Wood
and Fels 1986; Harley 1989; Pickles 1992). Whilst we have been ‘indoctrinated into the

4
conventions of cartographic sign systems’ and conditioned to read maps as ‘natural’,
cartographers invariably ‘have to make a whole series of decisions regarding content,
presentation, scale and so on’ (Kitchin et al. 2011: 390). Perhaps the most well known
and controversial example of maps’ embedded politics is the Mercator projection.
Whilst it remains the most popular form of world map, the projection was originally
devised in 1569, intended as a navigational aid for European sailors, and actually distorts
the relative size and position of nations and continents (Monmonier 2004). Not only are
Europe and North America shown to be much larger than they actually are, but the map
places Europe literally at the centre of the world. Thus, the projection is arguably as
much an inscription of European world domination as it is an accurate depiction of the
earth’s surface, and, in misrepresenting the size of third world countries and continents,
has arguably fostered European imperialist attitudes for centuries 3 (see, for example,
Peters 1974, 1983; Wood 1992).

Power, then, is subtly constituted through even the most seemingly benign of maps: the
school atlas (Kitchin et al. 2011: 390). All maps are inherently selective in what they
communicate and ‘include all kinds of ‘silences’ about other information’ (Kitchin et al.
2011: 390). Furthermore, by leaving certain oppressed and underprivileged social
categories “off the map”, maps also reproduce specific power relations (see, for
example, Brown and Knopp 2008; Gleeson 1996; Harley 1988; Matthews and
Vujakovic 1995; Winlow 2001). ‘Once it is accepted that certain conventions are
“natural” or “normal”, the danger is that they acquire a coercive and manipulative
authority’ (Harley [1991] 2001: 202). It is in this way that maps’ apparent objectivity
belies their inherently ideological character.

Counter-mapping: Critical cartography in practice

Critical cartography’s theoretical critique has been accompanied by experimentation

with new and alternative mapping practices by a variety of actors from outside the
academy: artists, activists, disenfranchised and minority groups and other “non-experts”
(Crampton and Krygier, 2006). “Counter-mapping” refers to the use of maps to re-
frame the world in such a way as to challenge dominant power structures and to
articulate alternative, progressive, and even radical interests (Hodgson and Schroeder
2002; Kitchin et al. 2011). The creation of alternative, subversive maps is by no means a
recent phenomenon: particularly well-known instances include the 1929 Surrealist map
of the world (figure 2) and the Situationists’ psychogeographic guide to Paris
(reproduced in Sadler, 1999: 21). Both of these early counter-maps distort existing
cartographies in order to contest official representations of space, yet whilst witty and
provocative, their impact is easily overstated: they remain vague in their political intent,
and of negligible consequence.

(Figure 2 here)

3 The cultural and political significance of the Mercator projection and its subsequent rivals (such
as the Gall-Peters and Robinson projections) remains the source of considerable controversy and
debate (see, for example, Crampton 1994; Monmonier 1995, 2004; Taylor 2004; Wood and
Fels 1992).

5
More recent examples have, by contrast, yielded very real achievements (Wood et al.
2010: 111). During the 1990s anthropologists and cartographers worked alongside
indigenous Inuits in Canada to produce maps documenting their patterns of land use
such as fishing sites, travel routes and settlement locations. These maps went on to play
a key role in negotiations that would enable the Inuit to assert a territorial claim to the 2
million km2 of Canada now known as Nunavut (Wood et al. 2010). The participatory
mapping of indigenous lands in order to secure their tenure has since spread to other
parts of the world including Southern Asia, Africa and Australia (see Chapin et al. 2005
for a review).

Since 2005, the United Nations has been mapping the restricted access to, physical
enclosure and illegal occupation of the Palestinian territories in response to the ongoing
violations of international humanitarian and human rights law by the Israeli government
(UNOCHA, 2010). This project has established a powerful counter-narrative to Israel’s
rendering of the conflict; the maps produced hang in consulates and embassies around
the world, affirming the reality of the occupation for the diplomatic corps and making it
an inescapable topic (Wood et al. 2010: 247).

Contrary to popular conceptions then, maps are socio-political constructs, instruments

of domination and government, and expressions of power and ideology. Yet they can
also be powerful tools for social justice. In what follows I suggest some ways in which
criminology might critically reengage with cartography: firstly, as an object of research
and critique; secondly, as a methodological toolkit; and thirdly, as a vehicle for social
and political intervention.

Thinking criminologically about maps

Whilst other so-called “environmental” criminologies have long met with ardent
opposition, crime mapping has hitherto tended to elude criticism. First and foremost
then, a critical cartographic criminology – if we can imagine such a thing – must take
conventional administrative crime mapping to task. Criminologists must not only
challenge crime mapping’s use as a tool for crime analysis and law enforcement, but by
extending the analysis of critical cartography, move beyond conventional (albeit valid)
criticisms of bias, inaccuracy and inefficacy, and interrogate crime mapping’s
epistemological presuppositions, its latent political and ideological functions, and its
aesthetic and semiotic grammar. Furthermore, mapping and its implication in crime,
control and resistance should constitute an object of criminological enquiry in itself. In
the remainder of this section I consider these aspects in turn.

Even judged according to their own criteria, crime maps are often ‘worse than useless’
(Arthur 2011). To begin with, crime maps are dependent on police-recorded crime
statistics rather than, for instance, the more authoritative British Crime Survey, and thus
reflect the reporting of crime, police recording practices and insurance company
policies, rather than any “true” measure of crime, whatever that might entail (Jenkins
2011; see for example, Morrison 1995, Ch.8). Furthermore, it is increasingly the case
that it simply does not make sense to think about certain types of crime in terms of our
conventional notions of space. Cybercrime, white-collar financial crime, transnational
terrorism, fraud and identity theft all have very real local (and global) consequences, yet
“take place” within, through or across the ‘space of flows’ (Castells 1996). Such a-spatial
or inter-spatial crime is invariably omitted from conventional crime maps. Moreover,

6
even those illegalities that, crime maps would otherwise have us believe, neatly adhere
to a set of geolocational coordinates are frequently misrepresented; clustered, for
instance, according to the nearest residential postcode. Thus, a quiet residential street in
Portsmouth appeared as a “war zone” according to the Home Office’s online crime map
after being misallocated crimes from a nearby shopping centre and neighbouring bars
(Morris and Carter 2011).

Crime mapping is frequently touted as an indispensible aid to law enforcement, and has
contributed to a veritable paradigm shift in policing (Sharon 2006). For these reasons its
strategic implications are also worth considering; in particular, the targeted policing of
so-called “hot spots”. Undoubtedly the best known instance of crime mapping’s
operational use is the New York City Police Department’s COMPSTAT program 4,
heralded by many as the policing success story behind the New York “crime miracle” of
the 1990s (Muncie 2013; Rosenbaum 2006). However, on closer scrutiny the role of
police strategy in explaining the crime drop appears less certain. Objective evaluations
of the COMPSTAT process are limited (see, for example, Kelling and Sousa 2001) since
many “assessments” have been written by persons deeply involved in the program, and
are essentially works of advocacy (Hoover 2013: 165; see, for example, Bratton and
Knobler 1998; Maple and Mitchell 1999; McDonald 2002).

Meanwhile, COMPSTATs critics argue that the crime decline is better explained by
other factors including increasing imprisonment, the receding crack epidemic, and
broader demographic shifts (see, for example, Levitt 2004). Regardless of its
effectiveness, COMPSTAT’s operationalisation of “broken windows” theory, coupled
with New York’s Giuliani-era brand of zero-tolerance policing left a trail of “collateral
damage” in its wake, the brunt of which was borne by a politically powerless underclass
(Eterno and Silverman 2012; Howell 2009; Muncie 2013). More generally, whilst a
small number of evaluative studies suggest that hot spots policing can be effective in
reducing crime (see for example, Koper 1995; Sherman and Weisburd 1995), others
show that its impacts tend to be small, inconsistent, and short-term (see Rosenbaum
2006 for a review).

At a more fundamental epistemological level, established crime mapping techniques –

predicated on a Cartesian conception of space as an “empty grid” – inevitably fail to
capture the spatial dynamics of crime, as they reduce complex social phenomena to dots
or shadings on a two-dimensional surface (Bear and Lee 2011). After all, crime and
criminality do not exist as a scattering of discontinuous, static points, suspended in
isolation; they have a history and a trajectory, an ambience (or aura?) that surrounds
them in both time and space. Conventional dot distribution or choropleth crime maps
show only those coordinates at which these trajectories, individual biographies or
confluences of criminal “opportunity” (Felson 1986, 1998) – once reported, recorded,
categorised, classified and quantified, distilled into static data points – are ‘assimilated
into an administrative grid’ (Scott 1998: 24). Moreover, as Rosenbaum points out, the
implications of this superficial understanding of the interrelationship between space and
crime extend to crime mapping’s strategic use:

Rarely do we see a detailed analysis of the characteristics of the hot spot and the
nature of the problem. How much can we really learn about the problem from the

4
Whilst COMPSTAT refers to the NYPD’s overall management and accountability system,
crime mapping is integral to this process (Chainey and Ratcliffe 2005).

7
 spatial distribution of calls about drug transactions, crime incidents, or arrests? […]
The real problems are hidden behind the calls for service or arrest data. The real
story is more complex, more dynamic, and more difficult to summarize (2006:
248)

Beyond such epistemological inadequacy, crime mapping performs several insidious

political and ideological functions. First, by rendering the city as an urban dystopia – a
“threatscape”, depicted solely in terms of criminality – crime mapping legitimates the
existing criminal justice apparatus (Wallace 2009). With no clues as to motivation,
context or mitigating factors, crime is portrayed simply as ‘the result of individual
irrational predators’ (Wallace 2009: 22). Moreover, digital crime maps are often
‘hyper-local in the sense that the displayed results are only made meaningful at the
highest level of zoom, in which individual streets rather than whole sections of the city
can be seen’ (Wallace 2009: 18). This privileges punitive street-level approaches to
crime, to the neglect of macro-level social and political interventions, which might
actually address crime’s social, economic and cultural roots. All this is not to mention
that crime maps invariably exclude many of the crimes of the powerful. Financial,
corporate and environmental crimes simply do not feature on conventional crime maps
(Wallace 2009).

Second, whilst the decision to publicise crime maps is invariably rationalised in terms of
community empowerment and police accountability (Jones, 2009; Tompson and
Chainey, 2012), it can also be seen as an extension of what David Garland has termed
‘responsibilization’. This is a process whereby the state attempts to shift responsibility
for crime control onto non-state agencies, organisations and individuals (Garland, 2001:
124-5). In this way, crime maps implicate citizen-users in their own safety, and in doing
so promote a neoliberal agenda of individual responsibility (Wallace, 2009).

All the while, crime maps maintain a persuasive, yet ultimately superficial, ‘aesthetic of
authority’ (Ferrell 2009: 78). High definition satellite imagery, geolocational
coordinates and decimalised crime statistics all ‘provide an assuring sense of precision
and order’ (Ferrell 2009: 78). According to an aesthetic or semiotic reading of the type
popularised by cultural criminologists (Ferrell 2006; Ferrell et al. 2008), crime maps are
best understood as ‘symbolic performances of scientific objectivity’ (Ferrell 2009: 78).
It is interesting at this juncture to invoke Latour and Woolgar’s (1979) notion of
scientific diagrams and documents as inscriptions: ‘material representations used in the
production of scientific knowledge and evidence’ (Finn 2009: xv). Of particularly
relevance here is that, according to Latour and Woolgar, once a scientific object or
process is translated into a graphic-textural form, it assumes the status of irrefutable,
visually objectified evidence (Born 1997; Latour 1987: 64-70). Thus, crime maps are
not only traces of where crimes are alleged to have occurred, but “proof” that they did
(Wallace 2009).

‘Postmodern cartography’, crime and control

Besides advancing a critique of “crime mapping” per se, it remains to critically theorise
the broader criminological implications of a host of other contemporary mapping
practices. Of particular relevance here is the proliferation of digital maps; what critical
cartographers have referred to as the emergence of ‘postmodern cartography’ (Farman
2010) or ‘maps 2.0’ (Crampton 2009). To take one example, as of 2013, over one
billion people were using Google Maps services every month (Choudhary 2013), and the
8
Google Maps smartphone app was the most popular app in the world (Mari 2013). As
digital maps become increasingly ubiquitous, mobile, immersive, interactive and user-
generated, our relationship with cartography is undergoing a qualitative, paradigmatic
shift. More and more, ‘the boundary between consulting a map and interacting with the world
outside it is blurring’ (Burkeman 2012, emphasis added). Maps are now interwoven with
our everyday lives, implicated in crime and its control, and embroiled in political
struggles as never before, yet this nexus has thus far been neglected by criminologists.

Importantly, new mapping technologies offer unprecedented opportunities for social

control. Technologies including GPS, the Internet, CCTV and wireless communications
– many with military origins – are now being reappropriated as the bases for new
architectures of surveillance and tracking (Graham 2010). ‘Everything from mobile
phones to passports is fitted with microchip radio frequency tags that have the potential
to turn their hosts into tracking devices’ (Graham 2010: 66). In 2013, it was revealed
that the American military contractor Raytheon had developed software capable of
tracking individuals’ movements and predicting future behaviour by mining data from
social networking websites (Gallagher 2013). The software, named RIOT, is able to
extract and analyse information including the geolocation metadata with which many
smartphones now automatically embed images.

At the same time, such technologies also offer new possibilities for resistance, subversion
and transgression. In the West Bank, whilst Zionist mapmakers erase the presence and
territorial claims of Palestinians in a process of cartographic ethnic cleansing (Tawil-
Souri 2012), Palestinian militants use Google Earth to help determine their targets for
rocket strikes (Chassay and Johnson 2007). And in my own research in London,
shoplifters and graffiti writers use Google Street View to “scope out” potential targets. In
a world of ubiquitous digital mapping, our understandings of space, knowledge and
power, and how all this relates to crime and its control must be reconsidered.

Maps as a methodological toolkit

Not only might cartography constitute a novel area of criminological critique and
inquiry, but maps and map-making also afford a host of innovative research tools and
opportunities that criminologists have yet to explore. In the fields of geography,
psychology, sociology and anthropology, maps have long been used to document and
analyse the experience and meaning of place and space (Powell 2010). Established
research methods which have incorporated cartographic maps include: semiotic analysis
(Wood and Fels 1986); graphic elicitation (Crilly et al. 2006) and ‘mental’ or ‘sketch
mapping’ (Gieseking forthcoming 2013). In recent years cultural criminologists,
drawing on intellectual developments provoked by the ‘spatial turn’ in social theory,
have begun to offer a more sophisticated rendering of the lived experience and socio-
cultural complexities of (urban) space / crime (see Hayward 2004, 2012; Campbell
2013). However, this enterprise has thus far been a largely theoretical one. It is my
contention that by utilising maps as research aids, criminologists can develop innovative
and explicitly spatial(ising) methodologies with which to generate further empirical
insights into this exciting new subfield.

As noted above, conventional two-dimensional and static crime maps inevitably fail to
capture crime’s complex spatial dynamics, and perhaps there is something naive, even
futile, in any attempt to fix and objectify such a fluid and elusive phenomenon. Yet if we

9
look beyond the methodological conventions of administrative crime mapping, we can
imagine new, more creative, revealing and meaningful ways to map crime. Deleuze and
Guattari’s (1987) concept of the rhizome – a dynamic, acentered, non-hierarchical
network – provides an instructive “image to think with” here. And in fact, critical
geographers have already deployed the rhizome concept in theorising cartographies of
cyberspace (see Dodge and Kitchin 2000). Along the same lines, it is possible to imagine
alternative mappings of densely enmeshed and multidimensional, criminogenic and
criminalising processes – urban (socio)spatial configurations, individual biographies,
institutional dynamics, and so on – that would constitute a more vivid rendering of the
interrelationship between space and crime.

Furthermore, recent years have seen the increasing use of computerised “geographic
information” systems such as GPS mapping software in qualitative research (Jones and
Evans 2012). Several methodological developments with potential application for
criminologists are worth considering here. Particularly innovative examples include:
participatory photo-mapping projects, in which photographs are geo-tagged and made
viewable on a digital map (Dennis et al. 2009); and walking interviews, in which audio
recordings are matched with a GPS log of participants’ route to create a kind of ‘spatial
transcript’ (Jones et al. 2008; Jones and Evans 2012). A more experimental form of
participatory mapping is exemplified by the “bio-mapping” project developed by Nold
(2009). Here, participants wear a portable device comprised of a biometric Galvanic
Skin Response sensor and a GPS receiver. The biometric sensor measures changes in the
moisture level in participants’ skin – a crude indication of emotional intensity – whilst
the GPS records their location. This data is then integrated and visualised as an
“emotional map” (figure 3): the wearer’s journey is represented as a visual track
superimposed onto Google Earth’s “satellite view”, the height of which indicates the
level of physiological arousal at a given moment. This in turn functions as a visual
prompt to elicit ‘detailed and personal interpretations of [participants’] bio-data’ (Nold
2009: 5). In the remainder of this section I offer some tentative suggestions as to how
these methods and others incorporating maps and map-making might be deployed by
criminologists.

(Figure 3 here)

“Criminological cognitive cartography”

In a short but intriguing chapter, Canter and Hodge (2000) probe some of the ways in
which sketch maps – participants’ drawings of their mental or cognitive “maps” (see
Kitchin 1994) – might offer researchers an insight into individuals’ experiences of space
/ crime. Having asked offenders to draw maps indicating where they had committed
crimes, they present four examples to demonstrate sketch maps’ potential value to
criminologists. Particularly interesting questions here concern how respondents choose
to interpret the instructions to “draw a map”, as well as the sorts of details that they
recall or choose to symbolise. Canter and Hodge offer some speculative interpretations
of the maps presented, noting that, for instance, ‘crimes that are a dominant part of an
offender’s life might be expected to dominate their conceptualizations of places and be
the primary focus of the maps they draw’ (2000: 186). This idea is particularly
unnerving when one considers the map drawn by a serial rapist, in which ‘[t]he lack of
any other details… than the rape sites and his home show how important these assaults
became in defining his existence’ (Canter and Hodge 2000: 190). Researchers must

10
remain wary, however, of treating these drawings as straightforwardly “projective”, and
interpreting sketch maps without any other background information can be misleading.
Rather, they are better used as a focus for interviews exploring the participants’
lifestyles and offending, and the emotions and conceptualisations associated with the
image produced (Canter and Hodge 2000: 187, 190).

It is unfortunate that the authors did not choose to pursue this methodological sortie
further, since it clearly has the potential to provide insight into individuals’ experiences
of crime (and control) and the spaces and places in which it occurs. What, for instance,
might homeless people’s drawn maps of the city tell us about the stigmatisation,
criminalisation and spatial exclusion of the poor amidst the ongoing privatisation of
public space and the socio-aesthetic sanitisation of city centres? And what might young
people’s maps of their local areas tell us about the nature of inter-neighbourhood
territoriality, ethnic tensions and gang rivalries (see Kintrea et al. 2008)?

(M)apping crime
The increasing availability and popularity of GPS-equipped smartphones, accessible and
open-source mapping software, and social network geo-tagging offers new opportunities
for researchers to engage with wider audiences and participant populations. Mappiness
(www.mappiness.org.uk) is a smartphone application developed by researchers at the
London School of Economics, and designed to measure the relationship between
emotional wellbeing and environmental quality. The app asks users-cum-research
participants how they feel at random intervals throughout the day, whilst using the
iPhone’s GPS to record their approximate location, and its microphone to measure
ambient noise levels. Whilst the research’s subject is undoubtedly intriguing, perhaps
even more significant is the project’s unprecedented response rate: to date over 57,000
people have participated! Criminologists would do well to exploit mobile apps’
versatility, their popularity and their accessibility, as well as smartphones’ capacities to
function as “pocket research labs” (see Cunnane 2011). Potential research applications
include mapping fear of crime through time and space; tracking the sprawling midnight
“bombing” missions of graffiti writers (a potential interview prompt); and documenting
unlawful stop and searches, wrongful arrests and police brutality (with the possibility of
uploading and geo-tagging photographs and video footage).

‘Bio-mapping’ the ‘crime-consumerism nexus’

It is interesting to think about how Nold’s (2009) “bio-mapping” might be used to map
the late modern city’s manufactured landscapes of (criminogenic) consumer desire. A
small but significant body of literature has detailed designers of retail environments’
efforts to ‘seduce the consumer through specific variations of space and place’ (Miles
2010: 8; see for example, Crawford 1992; Goss 1993; Shearing and Stenning 1984).
Consumers are often unconsciously manipulated through a host of strategically deployed
environmental features – flooring patterns, seating, lighting, music, and even scent – in
order that they ‘adopt certain physical and social dispositions conducive to shopping’
(Goss 1993: 31-2). In recent years, cultural criminologists have begun to unravel the
various interrelationships that exist between the values and emotions associated with
consumption and consumerism on the one hand, and various forms of expressive and
acquisitive criminality on the other (Hayward 2004; Hayward and Kindynis 2013). Put

11
simply, the same dispositions actively cultivated in a consumer culture, and which
consumer environments attempt to induce – insatiable desire, aggressive and
competitive individualism, hedonism and impulsivity – can also find expression in
criminal behaviour (Hayward and Kindynis 2013). How do these architecturally-induced
subjectivities play out over time and space? What kind of ‘bio-data’ or “emotional maps”
might a drift (or dérive, to use the Situationists’ terminology) through London’s
militarised post-Olympic landscape or Westfield supermall yield? And what might this
data reveal to participants and researchers alike about their experiences of these
insidiously contrived consumer spaces?

These methods and many more can offer researchers an insight into how people see their
world and their lived social relations. What is more, maps’ provide an untapped
opportunity for criminologists to engage with the public (see Loader and Sparks 2010).
Unlike so many datasets and impenetrable academic jargon, maps are visually appealing
and intuitively legible, and it is to maps’ communicative power that we now turn.

Mapping for (and against) social justice

The institutionalised inequalities of criminal justice and social control; the ongoing
abrogation of human rights in the name of “total policing”, “counterterrorism”, and
neoliberal economic interests; hate crime, domestic violence and rape: this is all the stuff
of criminology, and like it or not, there is no neat choice between academic analysis and
political involvement (Ferrell et al. 2008: 13). If we acknowledge that criminologists
have a responsibility not just to interpret the world, but to try and change it,
cartography offers us a powerful tool for action research and a vehicle for promoting
social justice. By re-framing the world in a way that forces us to look at it anew; by
making visible that which otherwise goes unseen; and by juxtaposing stark and shameful
inequalities, counter-mapping asks questions deemed insignificant, inappropriate or
“difficult” by those in power (Kitchin et al. 2011). And the counter-mapping of the
criminological landscape is already well underway, albeit not by criminologists.

A map of London’s prohibition zones – in which otherwise legal activities, such as

drinking alcohol, dog walking, or political protest are criminalised – has been charted by
the Manifesto Club, a group that campaigns against what it calls ‘the hyperregulation of
everyday life’ (The Manifesto Club 2012; Bowcott 2012). The map exposes the dramatic
extent of these quasi-legal jurisdictions, which together cover around half of the city.
What is particularly interesting is the way in which this map hijacks the visual language
of conventional crime mapping, yet turns the picture on its head, rendering the city as a
landscape of social control. As well as a key, the map provides further information about
each of the prohibition zones, the option for users to submit reports of their own
experiences, and links to relevant petitions and protest organisations, thus making
explicit the project’s normative ideals.

Prison Map (www.prisonmap.com) is a project which uses satellite imagery from

Google Maps to visualise America’s carceral epidemic. The maps creator explains that,
‘When discussing the idea of mass incarceration, we often trot out numbers and dates
and charts’ (Begley 2012). ‘But what does the geography of incarceration in the US
actually look like?’ Often located far from population centres, prison buildings are a rare
sight for many Americans (Alexander 2010: 190). By collecting and concentrating these
images in the same place, Prison Map seeks to make visible this hidden penal

12
architecture, and with striking effect: a surreal and seemingly endless grid of satellite
photographs, a dystopian archipelago of incarceration.

Dronestagram (www.dronestagram.tumblr.com) employs a similar methodology,

posting Google Maps satellite images of the locations of drone strikes to the social
networking website Instagram. Each image is supplemented with a summary drawn
from the Bureau of Investigative Journalism, which compiles reports on drone strikes in
Pakistan, Yemen and Somalia (Bridle 2012; see TBIJ 2013). A typical captions reads:

At least 16 people killed and more injured in a strike by four missiles on a house
near the Miranshah bazaar. Drones remained over the target for some time after the
attack preventing the injured being rescued. The Pakistan government protested
the strike as a violation of sovereignty, and released a statement that “drone strikes
are counterproductive, entail loss of innocent civilian lives and have human rights
and humanitarian implications.” #drone #drones #pakistan
(www.instagram.com/p/bT9aNBLB6i)

There is something undoubtedly quite powerful about this drone’s-eye-view of covert

robotic assassinations rudely interrupting an Instagram feed of friends’ photographs.

Many of these projects are both critical cartography and public criminology in all but
name, and point towards new opportunities for participatory action research and a more
politically engaged criminology. However, such progressive mappings have their
reactionary equivalent in cartographies of intolerance and vindictiveness 5. Offender Locator is
an app which allows smartphone users in the US to locate registered sex offenders living
in their area. The app’s developer, ThinAir Wireless, Inc., has compiled and mapped
names and addresses from all 50 states’ “Registered Offender Databases”, rendering
them searchable by name or location. According to the developer, Offender Locator is
designed to offer its users “peace of mind”, yet it is not difficult to imagine how
publicising such information might serve as a catalyst for vigilante justice. Numerous
other websites host interactive “offender search” maps, many of them produced by local
and state-level authorities. Perhaps owing to the availability of offenders’ personal
information, this kind of vigilante crime mapping has thus far been limited to the US.
However, in 2012 a map allegedly depicting the prevalence of “Muslim paedophile
gangs” in the UK began circulating on the extreme-right blogosphere (see kafircrusaders
2012) 6. Whilst the map does not purport to show the home addresses of the alleged
offenders, it nevertheless serves as icon of thinly-veiled racist propaganda: ostensibly
evidence of a pervasive ethno-racial crime threat. Fortunately, such cartographies of
intolerance remain few and far between.

Conclusion

This article has sought to challenge criminologists to think differently about maps, to
critically reengage with cartography as an object of research, and to explore its

5
I refer here to Jock Young’s work on the ‘criminology of intolerance’ (1999) and the
‘sociology of vindictiveness’ (2007).
6 As of July 2013, the map had over 87,000 views. On the construction of this racial crime

threat and its co-option by the extreme right, see Cockbain (2013).

13
implications for theory, method, and social and political intervention. After briefly
reflecting on crime mapping’s history, the article considered the development of critical
cartography and its theoretical, methodological, social and political relevance for
criminology.

It was argued that criminologists must not only challenge conventional crime mapping’s
efficacy as a tool for crime analysis and its strategic implications for law enforcement,
but must also interrogate its epistemological basis and its hidden political and ideological
functions. Furthermore, it remains for criminologists to theorise the implications of a
host of other new mapping practices, particularly the proliferation of digital mapping,
and their implications for our understandings of crime and its control.

It was suggested that by using maps and map-making as research aids, criminologists can
develop pertinent spatially-oriented methodologies, with which to generate empirical
insights to compliment emergent critical and cultural criminological theorisations of
space/crime. Moreover, not only are maps more visually interesting and easily
accessible than dense academic articles and textbooks; the increasing popularity of GPS-
equipped smartphones and digital mapping applications offers researchers a unique
opportunity to engage with new audiences and potential participants.

Lastly, the article considered how counter-mapping offers criminologists a powerful tool
for action research and promoting social justice. However, whilst progressive mappings
provide opportunities to challenge the inequities of criminal justice and social control,
criminologists must nevertheless remain vigilant against cartographies of intolerance and
vindictiveness. My hope is that this article will encourage criminologists to reconsider
maps’ meaning, power and significance; to innovate and experiment with new
cartographic methodologies; and use maps to engage, excite and enrage the public,
policy makers and practitioners, about crime, (in)justice and social control.

14
Figures

Figure 1. Adriano Balbi and André Michel Guerry, 1829. Statistique comparée de [l'é]tat de
l'instruction et du nombre des crimes [d]ans les divers arrondissemens des Académies et des Cours Rles de
France.

Figure 2. Artist unknown, 1929. Surrealist Map of the World. From ‘Le Surréalisme en
1929’, special issue of Variétés (1929: 26–7).

15
Figure 3. Christian Nold, 2009. Map data ©2006 Google, The GeoInformation Group.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owners. From Nold, C. (2009) Emotional
Cartography: Technologies of the Self, p.13.

16
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