Arthur Nicholas ORCHARD Born in 1983 in Paris.
A father, ukranian motorcycle mechanic-fitter, in Brooklyn, a mother, violinist in the middle of the Rockies, Colorado.
On a twist of fate and a big misunderstanding, his parents meet in Biarritz during a gathering of tattooed bikers, organized by a Belgian brewer. Fate persists, they kiss, dance all night at the Son of Anarchy ball, and decide to drop their coyote lives to try their luck in the land of Marcel Cerdan, Victor Hugo, Michel Platini and Serge Gainsbourg. They put their backpacks in Paris, Porte des Lilas. His father landed a job in the chain, at the Peugeot factory in Aulnay-sous-Bois, in the evening, he took French lessons at the factory by reading Boris Vian and the speeches of Jean Jaures. He will join the CGT union fairly quickly, and will be, since that day, always angry and never happy. His mother will find a place as sixth violin, in a Parisian cabaret, she will play little, will often be a substitute but always present for her son and for the well-being of the little family. After a chaotic course in a Parisian high school, the young Arthur will nevertheless end up graduating with a baccalaureate and also later, many university things that are not of much use in everyday life. To the dismay of his parents, they prefer the English rock of the 70s, he will grow up between rock ‘n roll, motor oil, the PCF, beer, the festival of human beings and old cameras. Photography, his great passion. He has few traces and family photos, so he builds his album. Photojournalism quickly became the common thread of his life, his profession and his faith. For a long time, Raymond Depardon will be his example in the haze of sharks that is photojournalism. He defends photojournalism, often fights against the wind, but he does not achieve anything, and defends the little that remains of this profession of freedom. Because without journalism, there will only be communication and artists. In other words, only beautiful poems but nothing more credible. He never understood these people who say they do photojournalism, but who behave like they are at a carnival. He does not disguise himself as a ninja with rollerblade protections to go and photograph a drunk protester who gives the middle fingers to a column of Gendarmes Mobiles with a fisheye 20 cm from her face. His credo is to be invisible, never to be seen, not to bother anyone, not even a demonstrator, not a passerby, not even a flag, not even the wind. He wants to be like the wind. He joined the Hans Lucas structure, in the covidian year 2020, the year the world collapsed. The road is long. It’s life that’s short. We have no choice, we have to do everything thoroughly!
