JD Beltran
The other day, just for kicks, I looked up the address of my old college boyfriend. We got along so well, and I so wanted to end up with him. This was decades ago—I was young. He came from a wealthy family—I once imagined we might grow old together, and perhaps live in his family’s big house in that sprawling estate, tucked under the towering Eucalyptus trees of a sunny California suburb. Didn’t happen. And now it looks like he ended up living in a studio apartment. And I’m the one who lives in a big house, tucked under a towering Eucalyptus tree.
There are so many things I thought were going to happen in my life. I used to believe I could steer my future, control how things would turn out—by sheer force, stubbornness, and ambition, I’d simply make things happen the way I wanted them to. D’oh!
I’ve realized—especially this past year—that the only thing we can predict is that our lives will continue to be unpredictable. Perhaps we will all be more mindful and selfish about how we choose to spend our time—and who to spend it with. And be better about connecting with who matters to us. And feeling gratitude. And growing empathy. And fostering passion. I think those can be the good things that can come of this. That’s what happens when people are suffering and dying around you, and you realize the life you thought you had may not be there for you tomorrow—or was never really there in the first place. That’s my hope for the future. A sustained enlightenment.
My work has always been obsessed with the concept of time. Trying to capture the time of the present. And seeing how the present reflects upon the past, and perhaps illuminates that opaque vision of what’s ahead. But I’m also fascinated by how much things don’t really change. People and places and episodes in my life are life are like my hourglasses—their time will end, but I don’t know when. So I’m constantly trying, in some way, to capture the people and the moments and the stories that are important to me. Before the sand runs out.
Material Language (Beach) is a continuation of a decade-long exploration of the ways in which the mediums of art imbue the concept of time into their subject. One composition—a sunny family Sunday at the beach—is rendered in four different mediums: oil on wood panel, 35mm film photography, Super-8 film, and high definition video. The video feels like the ubiquitous contemporary media of today, while the Super-8 film evokes the sixties. Photography, around since the early 1800s, remains timeless. The oil painting of the lone fisherman at the left of the piece could be from the 1600s—or from yesterday.
Collection of Andy and Deborah Rappaport.
A meditation on time captured in a snowglobe. The film evokes how artists have depicted seeing (how the human eye has been represented) from the cave paintings to frescoes, paintings, film, video, and the present.
This work is inspired by and an extension of an earlier moving image work I created that pays homage to 17th Century Dutch master Johannes Vermeer. Four hundred years ago, Vermeer created art about many of the same subjects we create art about today—so it doesn’t seem like that much has changed in our lives. In this portrait of my friend Renee, I portray her as a living painting. Unlike Vermeer’s subject, Renee can leave the frame.
Capturing Time (Sebastien+Sophie+Alex) 2018
Digital Photograph
Capturing Time is a continuing photographic exploration of what it means to convey the concept of time.
The photograph captures my son Sebastien and his dog Sophie in front of a 1979 artwork by artist Alex Katz, "Boy with Striped Shirt." While an emerging artist, whenever I sold a piece, I would reward myself by buying an artwork. So in the early 2000s, I purchased Katz’s artwork and hung it over my fireplace—sort of as a substitute child—since at the time I predicted I would devote my life entirely to a studio art practice, and wouldn’t possibly have time to have children.
But, times and things change. Sebastien—almost 18—has been my muse, my inspiration, and one of the greatest treasures of my life. Along with Sophie.
Mom + Bubbles (The last portrait) 2020
Digital Photograph
In late August 2020, a few months ago, I pulled out a fortune from a fortune cookie that said, "A SURPRISE AWAITS." I wondered what that surprise could be.
A few days later, my mom suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Cardiac arrest. She lives in Hawaii so I hadn’t been able to visit her recently, but I was able to speak to her one last time, a few weeks earlier. And I'm grateful my family got to visit and be with her in Hawaii, not that long before. If there's anything that I've been trying to concentrate on in 2020, it's been trying to stay mindful of how I'm spending my time—and my life—and how it's making me feel. Really being present in the moment, and expressing love and gratitude to those I'm spending my life with. So much of what might happen tomorrow—or even tonight—is mostly beyond our control, anyhow. Unpredictable, for sure. My mom was an incredibly complicated person, as was our relationship. But I'm glad that the last thing I told my mom was that I loved her. I miss her.