Ben Marcin's debut book, The Holdouts, offers a unique view of Baltimore and its surrounding areas through photographs of lone houses, derelict homes and makeshift camps. The former occupants of these homes came from vastly different walks of life: farmers who settled across the eastern shore, some tracing their lineage back to the American revolution; Black Americans who moved north during the great migration of the last century; and present-day people experiencing homelessness and addiction, who avoid city-run shelters. The book is published by Gost.
Exploring Home and Time
Marcin's photographic essays explore the idea of home and the passing of time, and this latest work is about his home state. He shows solo terraced 'row' houses in the inner city that have somehow survived the wrecking ball; abandoned houses on the Eastern Shore, where the last generations of families either passed away or moved on after decades of farming the land; and temporary homeless camps in the city, none of which have ever survived for more than a year.
The title comes from the term 'holdout', a common real-estate term describing a property owner who refuses to sell a building or lot to a developer, thus greatly hindering the completion of a larger, community-based project. Sometimes eminent domain is invoked to force an owner to vacate a property for the common good but, in other cases, the larger project is simply built around the house. Many of Marcin's houses have become abandoned over time, but others are still surprisingly occupied.
Stories Behind the Buildings
Marcin provides personal accounts of some sites. Of a house in Carroll County, Maryland, he says: 'There is no available public information on this house but it certainly dates back to at least the American civil war. I first photographed it in 2009. A decade later, I noticed scaffolding across the front; the brick exterior was being refaced and it looked like somebody might actually move in. This never came about and all of the restoration equipment out front has long since vanished.'
Of a Baltimore row house shot in early spring 2010, he recalls: 'This was the first row house I shot for Last House Standing. There were people milling about on the street or ordering fried chicken and lake trout from the takeout store behind me. Nobody paid any attention to the building with six eyes staring at them.'
In a devastated section of north Philadelphia, a row house, like so many others, has been sealed off from dealers and squatters. The current plan in many of these neighbourhoods is to turn the vacant lots into community gardens, small parks and green spaces.
Defining the Holdout
Marcin notes: 'Strictly speaking, none of my houses or campsites would be considered real estate holdouts. No shopping centre, highway overpass or gambling casino ever took their place. However, they do personify a more straightforward definition of what a holdout is, namely, the act of resisting something or refusing to accept what is offered.'
Some sites have vanished entirely. Of a house in Sussex County, Delaware, he says: 'I photographed this house on the eastern shore for many years. It is no longer there. The cleanup was so thorough that there is absolutely no indication that the house ever existed.' Another farm house 'disappeared about five years ago', with the big resorts on the Atlantic Ocean just three miles to the east.
Marcin also documents homeless camps. One owner 'spent his days panhandling at a busy intersection 50 yards away. He was a gentle soul with yellowing skin and eyes. His camp was completely invisible from the highway but one couldn't tune out the rush-hour traffic that bellowed outside. Inside, he had a solid bed, pots and pans that hung from the ceiling and a stove powered by a propane tank. When I returned a year later, the ground was levelled and charred black.' Another camp, the 'most hopeful' of all, came with a microwave oven, electric fan and television set, powered by extension cords run to a warehouse outlet, but it didn't last a year.
History, Memory and Marginalisation
Marcin reflects: 'Many of the homes in this book were difficult to find, many no longer exist. All of the people who lived in these places played a role in making America what it is today and the remaining fragments of their homes raise mysterious questions about their ultimate fates. These photographs are not simply about abandoned buildings and encampments – they are about history, memory and marginalisation. They ask us to consider whose stories get preserved and whose disappear.'
