The Paradox of Distance: Psychogeography, Home, and Why a Map Is More Than a Tool in the Art of Ed Fairburn

Transmission 399: Interview with Ed Fairburn

Ed Fairburn is a creative artist who has developed an idiosyncratic visual language, transforming vintage maps, atlases, and topographical charts into intricately rendered human portraits. His work exists at the captivating intersection of humanity and geography, a delicate dance between anatomy and cartography. Far from using paper simply as a surface, he treats the map as a living collaborator in his process. By meticulously following the contours of topographical lines, mountain ranges, and street networks, he uncovers hidden portraits waiting within the landscape: a technique he describes as a “synthesis” of the man-made and the natural. His use of physical, archival maps brings a sense of history and “lost time” to each piece, contrasting the permanence of the earth with the fleeting nature of the individual. Working primarily with traditional tools like ink on vintage paper, his work challenges our perception of scale and distance.

His pieces invite viewers to shift constantly between macro and micro perspectives: from a distance, the expressive portraits appear striking, soulful, and almost photographic; up close, they dissolve into a complex, dense web of rivers, roads, and elevation markers. He combines meticulous draftsmanship with a fascination for perception, memory, and the emotional resonance of maps as objects that record both place and history. Rather than erasing the map to make room for the art, he ensures the geography remains legible, allowing the two worlds to breathe together. This delicate balance suggests a profound philosophical truth: that humans are not merely residents of the environment, but an intrinsic part of its very fabric. Over the past decades, his artworks have been exhibited internationally and featured in major collaborations, earning recognition for a practice that feels both technically astonishing and deeply emotionally moving.

Featured image: Ed Fairburn with Brooklyn II © Ed Fairburn
Official site | Instagram | Facebook

Ed Fairburn listens to maps: he has the ability to find the human form hidden within the intricate grids of city streets and the rugged slopes of mountain ranges. 

Some people describe “seeing faces” in objects as pareidolia. Do you think your art taps into that psychological instinct? When you first study a map, are you searching for a person within it, or imposing a person onto it? Is there a specific kind of terrain,  coastlines, mountains, urban grids — that behaves most “immediately for you” when you work?

While I understand that pareidolia is an involuntary process for us all, it’s not something I actively do as part of my process. When I first started working with maps, a lot of people assumed I was seeing faces in the patterns, but instead what I’m really doing is looking for opportunities to synchronise the two. And when I say synchronise, I don’t mean perfectly match the two – in fact, that’s something I try to avoid – instead I look for echoes of patterns, leading lines, or areas which are just begging for a particular shape or shift in tone. I sometimes think of my process as the map asking a question, to which I then create a response. If I treated the shapes and patterns on the map as literal figurative forms, the two would clash, and instead of a question/response situation, it would be more akin to talking over one another. As for specific kinds of terrain, I love working with a coastline – the more rugged, the better – and I usually try to balance the emptiness of the water with very dark, heavy tones. In terms of balance, it just works. 

You work on maps that carry history and stories. Do you see yourself collaborating with the previous life of the map? What is the oldest city you have ever drawn?

Yes, absolutely. I sometimes refer to my work as ‘hijacking cartography’ which sounds a bit aggressive, but a gentler way of describing it would be a collaboration between myself, the maps I collect, and ultimately the landscapes shown in the maps. I’ve been a map collector for around 14 years now, and I’ve learned so much about cartography, from the purposes of maps to the individuals and companies that have created and published them. Everything I do stems from a love of those base materials. I’m a very selective collector; I know what I like, and what works well for my process. People often ask where I find the maps, but I often say, it’s the wrong question. It’s more a case of how I find them, not where. My selection process is driven by taste and experience, and there’s no shortcut to that. I have to know what to look for, rather than where to look, and that takes time and genuine interest.

As for the oldest maps in my collection, I have some old city atlas maps from the early 1800’s, and some whole, intact geological atlases from slightly later. They’re in remarkably good condition given their ages. I don’t really collect maps older than the 1800’s, as cartography was not as advanced, and therefore maps from much earlier times tended to be more pictorial and less consistent in terms of detail. The ‘sweet spot’ for maps I’m drawn to (no pun intended) is around 1850-1960, depending on the publisher. This date range presents maps with the most beautiful papers, ink colours and print qualities. 

He creates faces that seem to emerge organically from roads, rivers, contour lines, and boundaries, blurring the line between geography and identity.

 Most people view maps as tools to find their way to a place. By turning them into faces, are you suggesting that a “place” actually holds human experiences?

I think inevitably everywhere holds human experiences for someone. So many of the maps in my collection contain handwritten notes around the edges, or paths traced in pen or pencil, perhaps with specific places circled or picked out. My imagination always runs wild, even with the most mundane likelihoods. There’s something quietly fascinating about the countless lives lived through the many folded papers on my bookshelves. 

You’ve mentioned that your work behaves more like a portrait from afar and loses detail up close. Does this reflect how you view people—that humans are only “whole” when seen in the context of their own environment?

I’ve honestly never really thought of that before, but I do like the idea. I hear lots of different interpretations of my work, and I think every one is valid. 

By merging portraiture with cartography, he breathes life into cold, clinical data, revealing the deeply emotional, human stories behind every map.

Your artwork also connects people’s personal histories with their hometowns. How does it feel to be a “cartographer of memories”?

Pretty amazing. Most of the time, to me, the places I work with are simply representations on paper, although I do enjoy learning about each place (sometimes I wish I had a photographic memory so that I could recall each location in vivid detail), but I love hearing people’s real-world experiences and relations to the places shown in my work. Inevitably I always hear and read comments referring to even the most obscure corners of my work, where people have lived previously, or passed through. It’s interesting to learn about the extent to which each place changes too. Lots of the maps in my collection contain local ads, for small businesses from estate agents to florists. I occasionally google the businesses in the ads, and to this day I’ve yet to find a surviving business. It’s sort of sad, but at the same time strangely comforting, to be reminded of just how temporary and ever-changing the world around us is. 

You aim to keep the map functional. How do you balance what you decide to do with a completely obscure and significant landmark (like a cemetery or a hospital) and the mood you wanted to convey? What about keeping the balance also with the existing colours of the map (the greens of forests, blues of water) ?

I generally creep forward, and decide along the way which areas to cover, but on the whole my aim is to preserve as much as possible. I’ve always had a little joke in my head, that one day a potential collector would pass on an original, simply because I chose to demolish their home street in ink. As for colour, I don’t really add colour myself bar some of my older work from around a decade ago, where I would generally try to match or compliment the existing colours. I haven’t ruled out exploring colour again in future, although I already love the traditional map colour palette – I call them spring colours – pastel shades of pale blue, soft greens and the gentle yellowing of the paper.  

Ed Fairburn utilizes the existing “language” of cartography, the colors, symbols, and grids, to inform the shadows and highlights of the human face.

Maps represent a frozen moment of permanence, suggesting that cities only change through expansion, natural disaster, or war. Conversely, human faces are defined by aging and the inherent impermanence of mortality. Is this a contrast you consciously consider while drawing? Do you view your artwork as ‘freezing’ the subject within the geography, or ‘animating’ the paper itself?

I try to create a sense of stillness through my work, so that each composition feels like a quiet moment locked in time. Many of the locations I work with change rapidly over the years, and actually it’s surprisingly difficult to date maps – most publishers never wanted consumers to know that a map was say, 5 or 10 years out of date and therefore possibly useless – so the mystery of figuring out when a map was made through geographical clues and additional research is always an interesting and thought-provoking one to solve, and one of my favourite (and probably least known) parts of my process. 

Working on paper maps means there is no “undo” button. How does the high-stakes nature of working on a non-renewable surface change your physical approach to drawing compared to working on a blank canvas?

Ah yes, the permanence of ink! Although I make mistakes, ink is less permanent than it would often appear. Firstly, I can roll with mistakes – simply leaving them in place and accepting them – this is especially true for larger works, where a few marks out of place won’t make a huge difference to the bigger picture (literally). Usually a mistake is just an area out of balance with its surroundings, so moving over to other areas will often correct the mistake. For actual definite mistakes which I absolutely want to get rid of, I can either gently scrape the surface of the paper with a razor-sharp surgical scalpel, or use a very fine-grade sandpaper to erode the surface, which can then be cleaned up with a soft eraser. No solution is perfect, but with a bit of patience and buckets of confidence, anything is possible. Ultimately it’s just ink and paper, and I’m in charge of it all. 

On the nature of maps themselves, I find them very forgiving to work with, especially maps on heavier materials like thicker papers or even fabric-backed maps. The existing creases, the dog-eared corners and stray scuffs and marks allow me to handle maps with a little less care, than if I were drawing on pure white paper fresh from a block. That’s not to say I’m not careful with the materials, because of course I am – but it’s always a welcome feeling not needing extreme measures like wearing gloves while drawing. I often peg maps up on lines in my studio, like clothes on a washing line. I likely wouldn’t do that if the maps weren’t already showing a life well-lived.

His process of ‘spatial storytelling’ explores how humans navigate the boundary between other people and the places they call home.

Do you think digital maps and the use of smartphones have changed the emotional relationship people have with geography, cities, and the way they live, move, or travel, compared to when people used paper maps?

Yes. I read something the other day that struck me – something like ‘a digital map shows us where we’re going, whereas a paper map shows us where we could go’ – I think it essentially meant that people pore over paper maps more, maybe even flicking through atlases like reading a book. I know I certainly do. That being said, tools like Google Earth and street view are just incredible. To be able to randomly drop into almost anywhere on the planet, and walk around, even in a virtual setting is a fascinating exercise. Maybe it leaves less to chance, therefore removing a sense of adventure before visiting a place, but I think it also gives people the opportunity to see places they wouldn’t otherwise dream of travelling to.

Your artwork requires intense patience and concentration. What role does silence play in your creative process? What’s something viewers could misunderstand about your artwork?

Oh, I’m not good with silence! For someone who talks a lot, I don’t really like hearing my own internal train of thought. I do need a calm environment though. I usually listen to gentle music, perhaps instrumental jazz (current favourites are Miles Davis, obviously, and dark jazz extraordinaire Bohren And Der Club Of Gore), talk radio and podcasts, and lots of snooker. I love snooker, I don’t play so much but I love the commentary and focus of the players in the highest level matches. It sets a very particular tone in my studio. I think there are lots of comparisons to be made between snooker players and artists – or even, athletes in general, and artists – the relentless dedication, the mentality of it all – but that’s a different conversation. 

One major misconception about my process is my level of patience. People often think I have a lot of patience to do what I do, but the truth is, I don’t. Or rather, my level of patience is perhaps average at best. For me personally, drawing (and specifically crosshatching) is patience-building, not patience-testing. It’s meditative and calming… most of the time at least. 

You use Photoshop for digital drafts but the final artwork is strictly traditional. As AI and generative art begin to mimic “merged” styles, what do hope people who  are interested in your artwork can understand remains uniquely human about your tactile, ink-on-paper process?

The maps themselves are the most obvious tactile element of my work, and of course the age and history of every map in my collection is genuine… not to mention my deep interest and expertise in those materials and the processes behind my work. I would say that my manual hand-drawn approach only really exists in the real world. Occasionally, I see comments on my posts along the lines of “AI can knock this up in seconds” – and while firstly I disagree with that for a number of obvious reasons, I think those sorts of comments are completely missing the point of what I do, the materials and concepts that I explore, and the processes that go into creating the very tangible end results, imperfections and all.

Photos and images courtesy of © Ed Fairburn

Dominique Musorrafiti

Ciao! My name is Dominique. I’m Italian and I’m proud to be a mix. My father was an Italian chemical engineer and high school teacher, with Greek and Polish heritage. My mother is Haitian, she was high school language teacher, with Dominican, Spanish, French, Portuguese, African and Native American heritage. Being a mix makes me appreciate to want to understand different cultures and lifestyles. I grew up in Italy, lived few years in Haiti, travel around main European capitals, lived many years in China, in Spain and UK. Traveling makes me feel that we can learn something from every situation in every part of the world.