We might say Scott Honeycutt’s life is a series of intersections; crossing paths between his love of literature, writing, outdoor life, and his own style of Appalachian regional folk art. As an English professor at East Tennessee State University in Johnson City, Tennessee, he can incorporate all of these passions as an educator.

I first got to know Scott as a very talented poet with the ability to immerse readers with what we might call the stuff of the world. That’s not surprising since he spends so much time out-of-doors, traveling and hiking. You can tell by his work he’s absorbing the natural world like food, expressing that nutrition through the story of poetry. 

His other brand of storytelling, and our focus during this present issue of HeartWood is by way of Scott’s unique hand-drawn Rambler’s Maps. The formal name for this sort of work is psychogeographic mapping. For sure, it’s a kind of interactive folk art, setting viewers down into places of importance by way of images rather than a simple word on paper connected by mundane lines.     

He’s produced over a dozen so far, ranging from city histories (Johnson City or Asheville) to hiking trails (Appalachian Trail), from Southern Appalachian literary figures (James Still and the like) to the mysteries of cryptozoological creatures (think Bigfoot and Mothman). If a “spot on the map” deserves attention, Scott’s probably got it covered.

You can tell at a glance these are time and thought-consuming projects. These works of art are maps, sure, but there’s storytelling, story-hinting imagery on every square inch of the work. Look at his maps. Inspect them image-by-image, place-by-place. They’ll tell you a lot about our place in the world. They’ll also tell you a lot about Scott Honeycutt.

Go get yourself a few by way of Scott’s ETSY shop.

HW: I’ve taken a crack at introducing your work to readers, but I’d like yours as well. How do you describe your own work?

SH: First, thank you for including me in your journal. When people inquire about my art, I always tell them that I create psychogeographic ramble maps. As I understand it, the term psycho- geography was coined in the mid-twentieth century by the French theorist and artist Guy Debord. Debord envisioned psychogeography as a radical way to “drift through” or explore Paris, without regard to its official maps or pedestrian throughways. Instead, he desired to playfully reimagine how the city’s history, culture, and land contours all affect a walker’s consciousness. Since Debord’s time, the term has expanded to include a growing number of people -- from artists and writers to even city planners -- who all wrestle with this fundamental question: How do different places make us feel and behave? For my maps, I try to capture the spirit of a place as I draw landscapes that have particular resonance.

I identify as a Southern so all of those unique southern places and spaces show up in my maps – long leaf pines, lost chestnut trees, the ridge and the valley province, the blue ridge escarpment, song lyrics, birds, and so on. My hope is that when folks look at the maps, they are working through their own memories and considering trails that they have walked or would like to walk, mountains that they have climbed or would like to climb.  

HW: Tell us a bit of the genesis of your first few maps. What were those first sparks of idea germination like?

SH: Several family members are accomplished artists. My grandmother was an artist; one aunt is a sculptor, and my cousin, Josh, is a first-rate painter. I have always been a person who liked to draw, mostly caricatures, but I never considered myself to have much talent. For years, I drew what I termed “refrigerator art” – bits of whimsy to hang on the fridge until it gets too mustard stained. About five years ago, I sent someone very special to me a map of all the adventures that we had undertaken during the year. It was way of crystalizing our time together, putting down in images all of the wonderful memories we shared. After I completed it, I started thinking that mapping out our life’s landscapes would be an intriguing venture, and perhaps other folks would like them, too. About that time a friend introduced to me the work of the late graphic artist William Nealy. In the 1970s, Neely created a series of amazing cartoon maps of southern whitewater rafting rivers: the Gauley, French-Broad, Nantahala, and Nolichucky to name a few. In the years since his death, Neely has become a kind of cult figure, and I feel weird even comparing my work to his, but he is the sort of artistic model of what I’d like to achieve someday.

HW: What are you experiencing during the process of producing a map? In other words, are there certain contemplative manners with which you approach projects? Also, how does your physical, emotional, spiritual states inform the process?

SH: That’s a heavy question – Here’s one thing: When I first place down the large sheet of white paper in front of me, I always run my hands over it in a figure eight motion. All art is a type of conjuring, and I’m attempting to ask, I don’t know, to ask permission to create the map. It may sound kind of silly, and I know the maps are whimsical, but I don’t want to mess up the space. I try to be deliberate and not arbitrary– every image adds to an entire effect.

Also, it’s very important to have actually visited and hiked or at least read deeply about the places I’m drawing. So every time I visit and hike somewhere, I’m looking intently. A few years ago, I drew a map of Leelanau County, Michigan. Because it was a new landscape to me, I spent the first week literally all the walking trails and drinking every apple cider I could find. Then I sequestered myself in a room with a sublime view of Lake Michigan and attempted to render all that I saw into a useful and aesthetically pleasing map. 

HW: I’m sure your process of transporting thoughts and mental images to paper is quite interesting and instructive. Describe for us a few pages of your sketch and notes journal.

SH:  My sketch book is a total mess – it’s filled with monsters and fangs, half drawn mountain ranges, circles, and tornadic scribblings, not to mention half baked poems and fragments of thoughts – the usual madness of creation. 

HW: Do you have a favorite map(s)? Can you allow yourself to pick one or a few? 

SH: After I made several hiking maps, I started to branch out and draw more literary and fantastical ones – the guides to Southern Appalachian literature and the Beat generation as well as two maps of American cryptids. Those were a lot of fun to make because they involved hours of research. For example, the guide to Appalachia lit had me reading and discovering authors that I had not been familiar with, so that has been an important one. Since I created the map, I’ve discovered even more Appalachian writers, so I suppose I’ll have to make a newer version on down the road.

HW: Again, relating to process, are you more of a planner or do the maps organically reveal themselves as you’re sketching? Also, since these require regional knowledge and research and reading, what’s your estimate of average time spent per map?

SH: I generally have list of items that must be included on a map. For example, if one is drawing a map of Knoxville, TN, the iconic sunsphere must be included, the same goes for the Biltmore house in Asheville, and Rock City near Chattanooga. The folks who live in those towns would definitely notice the omissions. Besides the primary cultural landmarks for each place, I let the map emerge organically as I review my notes and work through my memory of going there and exploring. The time depends on my familiarity with the terrain. My Tennessee maps have come rather quickly because those landscapes are baked in to my personhood; however, the literary and monster maps took well over 40 hours to draw.

HW: What’s the one map you’ve been wanting to do, but haven’t been able to get going?

SH: My dream map would be to find a huge sheet of paper, say 12’ by 12’, and map out every major long-distance trail in America – an epic map of American hiking. Holy, Shaggy America!

I don’t have studio for such an endeavor (I create at the kitchen table), and I have no clue where I’d find such a sheet of paper, but that’s my vision.

Beyond that large scope map, I do have a few others that are cooking in the mind right now: a Rambler’s Guide to the Works of Edgar Allan Poe, A Rambler’s Guide to the John Muir Trail, A Rambler’s Guide to Southern Americana (Blues Artists, Folk Heroes, etc.) and, of course, A Rambler’s Guide to West Virginia.

HW: You’re obviously creative. You write and draw. With what other artistic mediums are you working?

SH: I used to paint a bit and that’s something I’d like to pick up again, but for years I’ve been thinking about how walking itself is a type of artform. I like to go on odd rambles in my home town of Johnson City. For example, alley strolls or walks between local cemeteries. It’s a way to shake up the known world, to see the local with fresh eyes, and imagine one’s place as full of wonder and not overly familiar. Almost no place is boring when walked.

HW: You have several maps completed and available. What’s your latest count and how many new ones are in store?

SH: In the past five years, I have made over 25 maps. Five of those maps were made as custom “love maps.” Clients gave me their own personal landscapes and commissioned me to illustrate the places that were special to them and their loved ones. Those custom maps are very fun to make, and I feel a lot responsibly to the client. I want to get every detail just it right for them. I’ll keep making maps for the foreseeable future as its an exhaustible topic for me. My long-term goal would be to collect the maps in book form so that those who are interested could have a coffee table map book – Keep Rambling, Solvitur ambulando.

p.s. On each map, one may notice the names Nora and Rose written in small script and tucked in behind a tree or under knoll. Those names belong to my daughters, map-makers of the highest order.