We dismantled everything – the walls, the windows, the entire exterior of the house from 20194 Stoepel Street, just west of Detroit’s 8 Mile.
Disassembling a house was a novel experience for me. My unpreparedness was evident from my worn sneakers, which struggled for grip on the precarious roof tiles. From the street, onlookers watched as I removed the asphalt shingles. Some questioned why I, a white man, was taking a black family’s house.
My project’s concept was straightforward from the outset: to transport an American house back to Europe. Arriving in Detroit in March 2015, I observed a city that, outside of downtown’s revitalization, resembled a war zone. This was in stark contrast to the America I had left in 1992, a country I’d departed due to its nationalism, isolationism, police brutality, complex legal system, and what I perceived as excessive political correctness. I spent weeks driving around Detroit’s 8 Mile area, observing abandoned homes and learning terms like “ruin porn” and “poverty tourism.” I also became aware of the government’s plan to demolish houses to create arable land, encouraging agricultural lifestyles.
Gregory L Johnson and other workers on the house in Detroit. Photograph: Fabia Mendoza
Presenting my project to the Detroit City Land Bank, I was met with initial skepticism regarding the mayor’s interest. Nevertheless, I sought his endorsement. I explained my plan to take one complete house and facades from three others slated for demolition to Europe. My intention was to generate press coverage and public support to auction off the three facades for $1 million each, with proceeds directed back to Detroit, specifically the 8 Mile area.
However, the mayor seemed uninterested in artistic concepts or grand schemes for societal change. As my hopes for city involvement waned, my Detroit friend, Gregory L Johnson, offered an alternative: a house that could become a source of pride for Detroit through art.
With the assistance of Johnson, businessman Harley K Brown, and the support of Geert Verbeke of the Verbeke Foundation in Belgium – where the house would be exhibited in April – I salvaged as much of the house as possible. Only the inner framework, awaiting demolition permits, and a heavy cast-iron bathtub remained. Graffiti on the house’s side read, “There is nothing left to take.” I even took that wall.
Inside the five-bedroom house, once home to the Thomas family, I carefully boxed scattered photographs. I found a black bowling ball upstairs, its finger holes invitingly familiar. Four non-functional television sets, potential canvases for painting, were also collected. I gathered unopened City Land Bank letters addressed to the Thomas family, notifications of their house’s forfeiture. These remnants were treated as treasures.
Ryan Mendoza painting the house white. Photograph: Fabia Mendoza
Word spread about my project: transporting a Detroit house to Europe for reconstruction. My aim was to preserve a moment in American history, preventing the government from bulldozing dilapidated houses and their embedded memories without acknowledging their significance. This project, tentatively titled “Unforgotten,” would serve as a testament and reminder. To shield the house from intrusive gazes, I decided to paint it entirely white – windows, roof, everything. This white coat would protect the house’s dignity, no longer exposed like a corpse in the street.
During this process, I met Thomas family members almost daily, each visiting to pay respects to their childhood home. Vincent Thomas shared cherished memories: German Shepherds, backyard grape vines, barbecues, his mother who passed away in 2005 leaving behind 38 grandchildren, and his bicycle repairman father who loved The Temptations and The Spinners. “This house was full of joy,” he reminisced.
Vincent entrusted me with family photos featuring the house in the background – birthdays, proms, dinners, Christmases. I promised to safeguard these memories, along with the house itself.
Upon the house’s arrival in Rotterdam on February 5, 2016, the weather was windy and rainy. My vision of a white house remained steadfast. It was essential to protect the memories, to counteract the “ruin porn” narrative, and to deflect the exploitative gaze, ensuring love and remembrance prevailed. Painting in the rain was a challenge, the paint repeatedly washing away until it finally adhered.
The white house. Photograph: Fabia Mendoza
In the back of the white house, I intentionally left a single window open, illuminating the opaque windows from within at night.
Playing music by The Temptations, I combined Vincent’s family photos with my own, particularly those of my mother, a 1960 Miss Pennsylvania runner-up. Projecting these images inside the house, I intertwined our stories – distinct yet now inextricably linked.
In Detroit ‘ruin porn’ ignores the voices of those who still call the city home
To those who questioned my motives, accusing me of exploiting the already marginalized and pointing to my race and outsider status, I explained my choice: to either ignore the situation or confront it. Superficially, it might appear as exploitation. But with deeper consideration, it’s about connection.
Fabia Mendoza’s documentary, Coming Home, chronicling the White House project, premiered at the 2016 Detroit Free Press film festival. The White House was exhibited at the Verbeke Foundation from April 17, 2016.
