How Marginalized Communities Are Redrawing the Atlas Through Counter-Mapping

On September 7, 2026, the arts publication Hyperallergic highlighted a quiet but radical archiving project unfolding in Queens, New York. Small groups of largely undocumented Latin American women, gathering in needlework circles known as "costureros," are sewing a truer atlas of their neighborhoods.

Led by Amalia Uribe Guardiola, a 2026 recipient of the Craft Archive Fellowship, the women are transforming textiles into physical maps. Instead of plotting subway lines or zoning districts, they are stitching a countermap that encodes their bodily gestures, migration routes, and daily survival—creating a tangible record of lives that official city planners routinely ignore.[1]

This tactile project in Queens is the latest expression of a 31-year-old practice known as counter-mapping. At its core, counter-mapping is the creation of maps that actively challenge dominant power structures and territorial claims. It appropriates the visual language and authority of traditional cartography to contest hegemonic representations, allowing marginalized communities to articulate alternative spatial perspectives and reclaim erased histories.[2][3]

To understand the countermap, one must first look at the mechanism of the traditional map. Historically, cartography has served as a primary tool of colonization, ownership, and exclusion. A state-produced map defines borders, extracts resources, and legitimizes land seizures. As critical cartographers like J.B. Harley argued in 1989 and Denis Wood expanded upon in 1992, maps are never neutral representations; they are political technologies that stabilize a specific spatial narrative while marginalizing others.[3]

The counter-mapping inversion takes those exact tools and turns them back on the state. By taking mapmaking into their own hands, communities "map back." They trace competing spatial imaginaries, revealing how different actors attempt to inscribe their claims, memories, and political visions onto the exact same landscape. It is a method of visual argument that forces the viewer to acknowledge that a single piece of land can simultaneously be a state-designated timber resource and a sacred ancestral hunting ground.[3]

The specific term entered the academic lexicon in 1995, when sociologist Nancy Lee Peluso published a landmark study on indigenous forest users in Kalimantan, Indonesia. Peluso observed these communities commissioning their own maps to contest government forestry boundaries that undermined their customary land rights. By adopting the state's highly territorialized, geometric strategy, the indigenous groups successfully bolstered the legal legitimacy of their claims to millions of acres of standing forest.[2]

Since Peluso's initial study, the practice has evolved alongside changing technology and new socio-political contexts. Facilitated by the democratization of digital tools—specifically Public Participation Geographic Information Systems (PPGIS)—counter-mapping has expanded far beyond its environmental roots. It now encompasses urban activist cartography, artistic interventions, and deep mapping projects that seek to expose the inequalities embedded in modern spatial knowledge.[2]

The aesthetic output of these projects varies wildly, often rejecting the strict geometric coordinates of Western cartography entirely. In New Mexico, traditional Zuni elder Jim Enote has spent years working with Zuni artists to create maps that offer an indigenous voice rooted in place. Their paintings prioritize cultural memory, ecological relationships, and ancestral pathways over the rigid, two-dimensional grid lines favored by the United States Geological Survey.[4]

The textile approach taken by the Queens costureros represents a uniquely intimate branch of this movement. As Uribe Guardiola notes, textiles function as texts that modern society has largely forgotten how to read. When a community sews a map, they are not just plotting geographic points; they are weaving a physical archive of care and protest. The fabric itself becomes a repository for knowledge that cannot be captured by a satellite or a surveyor's transit.[1]

Despite its emancipatory potential, the practice carries inherent risks. As researchers noted in a 2021 framework on collaborative cartography, by adopting the dominant tools of mapmaking, counter-maps can inadvertently reinforce the very settler boundaries and territorial logic they seek to challenge. The risk of instrumentalization is always present; a map drawn to protect a community can sometimes be co-opted by the state to further regulate it.

Yet the impulse to reclaim and reinhabit the land—what scholar Edward Said identified in 1994 as the "cartographic impulse" of resistance—remains a vital cultural force. From digital GIS platforms to canvas paintings in Zuni Pueblo to stitched fabric in a Queens living room, these alternative cartographies ensure that the people who actually inhabit a space have the power to define its borders.