Heather Jones

For someone who started speaking at 10 months and never stopped, I find myself suddenly lacking in commentary. I have given up the hope of profundity, entertainment or revolutionary insight into the creative mind of ‘Heather’ in 150 words or less. At the end of the day, I like what I like and it changes with the hour — stock piling itself in my head for later use. I usually find beauty in dark forgotten corners, a melancholy snippet of Tom Waits echoing in my head and a silent walk down Great Jones Street alone at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning.



I’m not really one to wax poetic on the creative process. I do what I do because it is all I have ever known and it is the only thing that puts my mind at ease. That nagging need to visually understand everything around me started early and I never grew out of it. I was the only child in kindergarten who knew Kermit the Frog was Pantone 382 and how to use an architect’s scale. Natural progression dictated that someday I would end up in a profession that understood I do my best work while sitting in the bathtub listening to Judy Garland or Johnny Thunders, and that sometimes the ‘greatest’ ideas end up as garbage and a pretty piece of trash blowing down the street can be the inspiration for your best work ever.