Mark 
Psychogeography describes the effect that a geographical location has on individuals’ emotions and behaviour. It asks: how do different places make us feel and act? How does the environment we walk through every day shape our inner world, our creative impulses, and even our identities?
For photographers, this is not an abstract question — it’s central to what we do. Every time we pick up the camera, we are responding to place: to light, texture, mood, and the invisible atmosphere that lingers in the spaces we enter.
The term psychogeography was coined in 1955 by the Marxist theorist Guy Debord. Debord was part of the avant-garde Situationist International, a radical group of artists, writers, and political theorists who aimed to break down the barriers between culture and everyday life. Inspired by the nineteenth-century French poet Charles Baudelaire’s concept of the flâneur — the urban wanderer — Debord imagined new, playful ways of navigating the city. The flâneur moves aimlessly yet attentively, drifting through streets and alleys not to reach a destination, but to absorb and reflect upon the urban environment.
Debord and his Situationist companions believed that modern capitalist cities were designed to manipulate and control behaviour, funnelling people into predictable, commercial patterns. Psychogeography, then, was a form of resistance: a way to disrupt the functional logic of the city and open it up to exploration, surprise, and personal interpretation. Instead of following a map or agenda, one could perform a dérive — a drift — wandering without plan, letting the contours of the environment guide the journey, tuning in to its emotional resonances.
This reimagining of urban experience has deep roots in earlier art movements like Dadaism and Surrealism, which sought to unlock the subconscious through random encounters and juxtapositions. The British painter Tristram Hillier, with his strange, dreamlike urban landscapes, can be seen as an early visual example of psychogeographic thinking: his paintings turn ordinary streets into charged, uncanny spaces.
In the 1990s, the idea of psychogeography experienced a revival, particularly in Britain, where writers, artists, and filmmakers like Iain Sinclair and Patrick Keiller began creating works centred on walking and place. Sinclair’s books, such as London Orbital, trace the psychic scars of the city’s architecture and history, while Keiller’s film London turns a documentary gaze on the overlooked, the marginal, the quietly haunting.
So where does photography fit into all this?
For photographers, psychogeography offers a powerful way of rethinking our relationship with place. Rather than treating a location as a backdrop or a subject to be documented objectively, we can approach it as an active collaborator — a space that shapes how we feel, how we see, and ultimately, how we shoot.
Think of how a particular neighbourhood feels different at dawn than at dusk. Or how walking a city block on foot reveals details and moods that would be invisible from a car window. The camera becomes not just a tool of recording, but of immersion and emotional mapping. The psychogeographic photographer isn’t necessarily looking for the most famous landmark or the most technically perfect composition; they’re tuned in to the vibrations of place, seeking images that capture the subtle interplay between landscape and mind.
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Many street photographers, knowingly or not, embody psychogeographic principles. When you wander without a set goal, letting curiosity and instinct guide you, you open yourself to chance encounters and moments of meaning. You might follow a shaft of light into a back alley, notice the tension between old and new architecture, or be drawn to the solitary figure waiting at a bus stop. These moments — unpredictable, fleeting, and charged with atmosphere — are at the heart of psychogeographic photography.
But it’s not just limited to cities. Rural and coastal environments offer their own psychogeographic textures. A ruined farmhouse in the landscape, a crumbling sea wall, a forgotten footpath overgrown with weeds — these places exert a psychic pull, inviting the photographer to explore not only their physical forms but also their emotional weight. The land remembers.
In practical terms, photographers can incorporate psychogeographic practices into their work through deliberate acts of wandering and openness. Leave behind the shot list. Avoid the temptation to “capture the icon” — the postcard image everyone knows. Instead, let the environment lead you. Walk without headphones, paying attention to sound and smell, as well as sight. Be alert to patterns, textures, and visual rhythms. Notice how spaces change over time: the way a street transforms in rain, or how a deserted industrial site feels different on a weekday compared to a weekend.
Psychogeography also encourages us to think critically about the spaces we inhabit. Why do certain places feel alienating, while others feel inviting? How does architecture manipulate movement and mood? What histories are embedded in the landscape, waiting to be uncovered? As photographers, we can use our images not just to document, but to question and reflect. A photograph of an empty square or a crumbling wall can hold layers of political, historical, and emotional meaning, opening up dialogues about memory, loss, and belonging.
Importantly, psychogeography reminds us that photography is not just about looking — it’s about being present. It’s about cultivating a sensitivity to place, a willingness to be surprised, and an openness to the stories that spaces tell. In a world saturated with images and driven by speed, taking time to wander, drift, and respond becomes a radical, even revolutionary act.
For those working on long-term projects, psychogeographic principles can provide a rich framework. You might walk the same route repeatedly over weeks or months, photographing how it changes — or how your perception of it shifts over time. You might create a body of work around a forgotten or overlooked part of your town, using your camera to trace its psychic landscape. You might even experiment with non-linear ways of presenting your images — as maps, collages, or visual diaries — that reflect the layered, wandering nature of your process.
In the end, psychogeography is an invitation: to slow down, to pay attention, to let place work on you. For photographers, it offers not only a fresh way of seeing but a deeper way of engaging — with the world, with history, and with ourselves. Whether you are shooting on a bustling city street or a quiet country lane, the principles of psychogeography can help you uncover the emotional currents that flow beneath the visible surface.
So next time you set out with your camera, consider leaving the map behind. Let your feet, your eyes, and your instincts lead the way. Who knows what you might discover — not only out there in the world, but within yourself.
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Image © Mark Stothard MA ARPS