Everyone is crying, Oli

Inevitably, when you meet Olivier Jean, he asks about your children.

“My boy is fine, Oli.

“Yours?” »

I must reason with myself here and write in the past…

When you met Oli, he would go off on his two guys, inexhaustible. He acted exasperated in the face of the upheavals of adolescence, but what his dense and detailed stories of the lives of his boys revealed was an immutable truth: he was close to his children, a daddy hen, present. Great present.

Olivier Jean was one of the best press photographers in Quebec, Canada. He has won every photojournalism award in the country – Antoine-Desilets, National Newspaper Awards – as part of this stellar team of photographers from The Press.

But Oli was first and foremost a father.

And a boyfriend, Catherine’s boyfriend, our graphic designer colleague.

A brother, a son.

And a friend… the friend of so many people.

The verbs must be in the past tense because Oli died suddenly on Wednesday.

Like many press photographers, Oli was a sensitive gruff. I say it with all the affection in the world and people in the business will understand. A bit whiny, a bit cynical.

Since Thursday, his constellation of friends has been publishing photos of Oli. And it struck me when I saw this best of: Oli went to report in an indigenous reserve, at the DPJ or in a slum with the most deprived among us and the photos he brought back inevitably oozed empathy and humanity.

I quote Ivanoh Demers, his great friend: “Oli was quite a photographer, because he listened to people. With extraordinary empathy and exceptional knowledge of human beings. »

The gruff side was a shield so that we would forget that he was soft.

Since Thursday, dozens of Oli’s friends have published emotional tributes on Facebook: long, heartfelt texts punctuated with anecdotes, quotes from our man in all kinds of contexts, thanks for the gentle and attentive friend he was.

Audrey Ruel-Manseau: “You were one of the pillars of my life. A big brother, always present, at the end of the line, at my doorstep. An emotional shield when life gets tough. You played down everything with big blows of “emptying”, “trash” and “big calisse”. »

(Oli was brutally honest, bluntly expressed.)

Simon-Olivier Lorange: “For each dry phone call from his tank (“I’ll call you back…”), he compensated with 1000 attentions, guided by an attention to detail that few people possess. He advised and consoled, followed his world diligently. Even with dozens of files open, nothing escaped. When he had to be absent, he distributed guard shifts. “Keep an eye on him, I’ll write to him soon,” he ordered me last winter when a mutual friend lost his father. Well received, Mr. Calisse…”

Marie-Michèle Sioui: “You always had 150 ideas for stories. You won’t have time to make them. You wanted to take care of others all the time. You were loud, you were funny, intelligent and sensitive. I never existed as a journalist without you. Since Rue Frontenac, you have always been there. You had the best expressions and the best nicknames. I was lucky to be your Minou. Rest easy, Oli, I love you. »

Fanny Lévesque: “You took me under your wing as soon as I arrived in the big family of The Press. When I arrived from Sept-Îles, and I didn’t know where Place des Arts was, when I worked in the evenings, when I missed my family. You knew I didn’t come this way for nothing. We became friends naturally. You made a place for me in your close guard. You escaped nothing. Your sensitivity is unique. Your art, grandiose. You were the kind of friend I said “I love you” to when I hung up. I will always love you, my beautiful friend. »

Olivier Jean knew how to anticipate THE photo well before clicking, but above all, he knew how to understand and connect with his peers. With his friends, yes. But with the foreigners he encountered while reporting, too.

It is a human quality that serves the profession of photojournalist. The best master the technical side of photography, an aspect that I cannot explain to you. But top models also know how to read the mood of a room, understand the event and the people. Know when to intervene in the journalist’s interview. When to photograph. When not to photograph.

The great photographers know how to capture the essence, the moment. And sometimes the truth…

Oli had all of that, in triplicate. Hence the prices, hence the tributes.

I knew him at Montreal Journalwe joined the same year, 1999. He wrote to me in his prose devoid of embellishments, a few years ago: “Summit of the Americas best job ever with you…”

I discovered a punk photographer, who fueled the adrenaline of the field. A festive, kind, loyal human, equipped with a prodigious bullshit detector.

Wednesday, I was in an interview for an upcoming column and I received a call from Vincent Larouche. I didn’t take it. But two minutes later, another call, this time from Daphné Cameron…

Two calls, not preceded by a text, from friends of The Press in less than two minutes?

What’s going on?

I took the call.

Daph cried uncontrollably. I had trouble understanding what she was saying. I finally understood: Oli is dead.

I headed for The PressI felt like I had to be there. In the Uber, I made one of the most difficult calls of my life. I called my friend Dominic Fugère, great friend of Olivier Jean. Doum’s good humor immediately broke my heart when he responded, I knew I was going to break his.

Doum screamed when I told him the news.

He put his girlfriend, Pascale Lévesque, in a conference. And Pascale shouted even louder.

“Tell me it’s not true!”

– Sorry… “

HAS The Presseveryone was crying for Oli…

Everyone was crying, Oli.

When she entered the room, Katia Gagnon cried. You’re going to tell me it’s easy to make big Kat cry, but this time it was different.

All your work “wives” were crying: Daph, Gabrielle, Caroline…

Our big boss François had wet eyes, Martin Tremblay had wet eyes, Alain Roberge too. Vincent Larouche. I haven’t met your photographer friends François Roy, David Boily and Patrick Sanfaçon, but they are inconsolable: “A slap in the face,” said Pat.

Gabrielle took the call from Alain Décarie, your photographer accomplice from Montreal Journalshe was upset to have to tell him of your death.

Everyone was crying, Oli. I don’t remember when I was in the presence of such a torrent of tears.

Everyone was waiting for the return of Ariane Lacoursière, another of your job wives, who had left for your home. Nobody wanted to leave The Press before Ariane’s return, to avoid returning to a deserted newsroom. Our hearts are deserted enough as it is.

Oli, François Foisy just wrote this on Facebook, I think it rings true to you: “The world always became more beautiful, more colorful, more unpredictable once you entered the room. A sort of mad scientist mixed with a heart on two legs. Worse funny, but funny…”

I read the words of François, Oli, and I remember your crooked smile which came as a kit with that sweetly mischievous flash that you had in your eye. With your cap screwed diagonally on your head, it made you look eternally youthful…

Ivanoh Demers published a photo of you, you are carrying your telephoto lens on your shoulder, it must have been a religious event because Ivanoh quotes you: “We came to photograph God…”

It was a joke, but if God existed, you would have taken the best photo of him, the one that would reveal him in all his substantial marrow.

Olivier was one of the best photographers in the country, of course. But he was a father, a lover, a brother, a son, an even better friend.

In all these roles, present at the bone.

He asked for news of his friends and their children. He was Albert’s best friend, one of Vincent and Gabrielle’s sons.

Jasmin Lavoie said it so well: “You were there for your people. For your boys. For your girlfriend. »

Your world, Oli, will never forget you.

We will never forget your photos. But above all, above all, your presence will never be forgotten. This is what we are already missing. These words come up so often in tributes: present, presence.

I’ve been reading the tributes since Thursday and I’m wondering, Oli, your world is so big… where are we going to have your funeral? It’s going to be the Bell Centre, I think, where you’ve shot so many events.

There, Oli, it’s me who’s crying because I just read your son Bili’s words on Instagram. If you’re wondering if he knew you loved him and his brother Raphael… The answer is a resounding YES.

And your world, Oli, will remind your boys that their father’s greatest pride was not his photojournalism prizes, but indeed them, your two children whom you loved more than anything.

Take photos of your world, from up there, Oli.

They will be the most beautiful, as usual.