Defining the Holdout
Photographer Ben Marcin has spent over a decade documenting a specific architectural phenomenon in the United States. His latest collection, titled The Holdouts, captures isolated structures surrounded by empty space in Maryland and surrounding states. The term holdout usually refers to a property owner refusing to sell land for development. In these photographs, however, the meaning shifts toward the act of endurance.
Marcin’s lens finds lone terraced row houses in Baltimore and derelict farmhouses on the Eastern Shore. Some of these sites once belonged to farming families with lineages tracing back to the American Revolution. Others were occupied by participants in the Great Migration of the last century. Today, the subjects range from stubborn survivors of urban renewal to makeshift camps built by individuals experiencing homelessness.
Landscapes of Persistence
In Baltimore, Marcin documented row houses that survived the wrecking ball while their neighbors were cleared for development. He recalls an early morning in 2010 when he photographed a home on a street where passersby ignored the building entirely. The house remains unchanged despite the surrounding block being gone for years. Such structures exist as literal remnants of a time when these streets were continuous rows rather than gaps in the city grid.
Beyond urban centers, the work explores rural abandonment in places like Sussex County, Delaware. Marcin notes that some houses he visited for years have since disappeared without a trace. The land is leveled so cleanly that no physical evidence remains of the residence. These images document not just the building, but the erasing of local history. The proximity of modern resorts and shopping centers highlights the pressure exerted on these dwindling remnants.
History at the Margins
One of the most striking aspects of the collection is the inclusion of temporary homeless camps. Marcin describes a structure in Baltimore that featured a makeshift bar with a television and microwave, powered by extension cords running to a nearby warehouse. The resident relied on a propane stove and lived in a space shielded from traffic noise. When Marcin returned one year later, the site was charred and empty. None of these camps lasted more than twelve months.
These photographs raise questions about whose stories get preserved and who disappears from the record. Marcin challenges the viewer to look at the fragments left behind by society. He suggests that the people who lived in these places contributed to the fabric of the country, yet their dwellings are often discarded. This work functions as an epitaph for lost domesticity.
The Final Accounting
What remains to be seen is how long the current survivors can endure. In Carroll County, Maryland, Marcin tracked one home that dates back to the Civil War. He once observed scaffolding on the exterior, suggesting a potential restoration, but the equipment vanished and the project stalled. The house sits in a state of indefinite suspension.
Ultimately, The Holdouts is an exploration of memory and the physical traces we leave behind. Marcin’s work shows us that resistance to change can take many forms. Whether it is an elderly homeowner refusing to sell to a developer or a person living in a hidden camp, the drive to claim space remains constant. Readers interested in the intersection of urban planning and human history will find the collection a sobering record of the American landscape.