White on White: A Literary Tribute to Bauhaus, edited by Alex S. Johnson and reviewed by Cristina Deptula

Cover of Alex S. Johnson's anthology White on White. Drawing of Bela Lugosi playing Dracula on the cover.

With the 1979 album “Bela Lugosi’s Dead,” British rock band Bauhaus thrust themselves firmly into the goth-rock scene. The anthology “White on White,” edited by horror writer Alex S. Johnson and released nearly 50 years after Bauhaus came together, pays homage to the spirit of the band and the broader Gothic sensibility. 

“White on White” contains a mixture of poetry and prose in various styles and genres. Writers from different national backgrounds and literary traditions, including several whose work has been translated into English, contribute to a mashup of different sensibilities. Some poetry addresses the experience of listening to Bauhaus and plays off of song titles, others are more impressionistic takes on the band’s themes and aesthetic. 

Common threads include shaky and fluid personal identity. In one piece, just the touch of pills on the ground obliterates and transforms a character and his dog, a young woman loses herself in her romantic obsession with a strange pale man and his diary, a man steals another’s train ticket and finds the other man’s face staring back at him through a mirror. Many characters live on the margins of their world, people who wouldn’t normally serve as main protagonists. One narrator is a groundskeeper on a historical estate of immortals, another is a lovelorn woman in her forties seeking oblivion and companionship in goth clubs, yet another has her last wishes disrespected on the day of her funeral.

The anthology probes power dynamics and the corruption that can come with extreme power imbalances. In one story, a woman with a gift for healing helps many, then carries out destruction after becoming world famous. In another, a clever grad student turns a spelunking expedition into spooky revenge on a professor who has exploited and discarded a string of women. The uncanny and supernatural sometimes become means for achieving justice, other realms where those who have been excluded or wronged can defend themselves. We see a murdered woman’s son, reincarnated through biotechnology, poetically avenging his mother, and a murderer whose goth-girl love interest sets him up to be arrested. One man seeks to destroy his own kind after realizing that he is something much scarier than the drug dealers and criminals who surround him, hoping to eliminate the threat he poses to innocent humans. 

“White on White” takes place in a variety of settings. Inspired by Bauhaus’ music and the 1939 Dracula actor Bela Lugosi, we see a selection of tales within goth clubs and old buildings at night where vampires tend to lurk. Other pieces, though, are set within a biotech future where guitars and bedrooms come alive, in urban settings such as Little Italy, within caves rumored to hold Indiana Jones-style ancient relics, and an ordinary apartment building where a young female academic befriends an elderly gentleman with an active mind and tenuous grasp on reality. 

These pieces blur the boundaries between the past and the present. People’s pasts catch up to them, people forget and remember who they truly are. History, memory, and decay show up as continual motifs: there’s a whole town of empty, dilapidated buildings, a dis-used broadcast tower in the midst of a shiny new city, and a radio station where a late night DJ plays Bauhaus and encounters the ghost of a guest murdered long ago in that room. 

We see the interplay of past and present most clearly in a story near the end of “White on White,” where an aging actor dreams up the final performance of his career in a theater that’s now unused and decrepit. From his chair in his senior care home, this experience allows him to look back over his entire life and find meaning in all of his memories. He achieves his lifelong dream of acting where he saw his first old silent movie with his parents. 

The Goth aesthetic is often linked with death in people’s minds, but this story is a celebration of life, all the more poignant by the protagonist’s acknowledging his mortality. This entire anthology embraces the grotesque, the marginal, the deathly, the traumatic, and the just plain weird with openness and curiosity. By doing this, the writers and curator point to an expansive world where there’s room for all sorts of people and where we can look beyond our fears and our pasts to fully welcome ourselves and each other.

White on White: A Literary Tribute to Bauhaus is available at your local bookstore through Bookshop.org.

It includes original pieces by such rock stars as Kari Lee Krome (The Runaways), Athan Maroulis (Spahn Ranch), Tara Vanflower (Lycia, Type O Negative), pieces by Bram Stoker Award-winning authors John Palisano and John Shirley (who also wrote The Crow screenplay and songs for Blue Oyster Cult), former Swans co-leader Jarboe, Caitlin R. Kiernan (two-time World Fantasy and Bram Stoker Award-winning author, Nebula award finalist), with a foreword by Poppy Z. Brite, the iconic author of Exquisite Corpse, and much more. The anthology is endorsed by David J. Haskins, the founding member of Bauhaus and Love and Rockets and writer of the song “Bela Lugosi’s Dead”; Haskins is also a Nocturnicon Books contributing author.

Essay from Chimezie Ihekuna

Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben) Young Black man in a collared shirt and jeans resting his head on his hand. He's standing outside a building under an overhang.
Chimezie Ihekuna

Chapter 1: The Current State Of Being

We live in a time where it would be difficult, extremely difficult, to live and lead a normal life.

Back in the day, the need for normalcy, decency and modesty in every area of Interests was being looked out for. The family, community, work-place and general society would prioritize character in relation to any engaged endeavor.

However, modern-day situations hold different narratives. What was seen as morally upright in the days of old is frowned today. What was seen as evil in the past is revered in the present. Being a person of integrity seems to portray limited relevance as it has been substituted with the exact opposite: deceit. From family to society, the culture of what was seen as “good character” has now become a complete shadow of itself. The pop culture of falsehood, which carries an aesthetic outlook, is given a warm embrace by vast majority of people in today’s world.

Consequently, it is without a doubt that the world of today is so wrong that what is left of it is not right and what should be right is not left!

Whatever led to such transition of value, has constituted the current state of being of most people of today, regardless of income bracket, status and even conviction.

Bottom line:

The Current State Of Being: Being abnormal is the new normal!

Poetry from Joseph Ogbonna

An Ottoman label for Cleansing (1915-1923)

An Ottoman label

An Ottoman branding.

To uproot my human development.

A human development of two millennia 

once flourishing in Anatolia.

I was labelled Armenian! 

I was branded Armenian!

By whom?

by merciless Ottomans!

I took a long hike to my own graveyard,

accompanied by the Ottoman funeral cortege.

They played the dead march for my own interment.

My interment in the Syrian desert.

My offence was my identity, and 

a global conflict and its attendant heavy losses.

A conflict I knew little or nothing about.

I was preyed upon by men of beastly testestorone.

Coercively I became a sunni proselyte,

and I was dispossessed of everything vital.

Terribly weakened by an inflicted famished state, I was laid to rest in the Syrian desert.

Poetry from Philip Butera

Flawed

Orchids are delicate,

a passion,

an obsession.

Roses are appropriate

for love

or death.

The Buttercup is overlooked

and the Easter Lily

is always acting

to entice you.

Know

that I love lilacs.

They are not bashful.

They announce their presence

even before being seen.

I am careful or careless

depending on one’s

definition.

Simply self-assured or selfish,

depending on my mood.

Flowers are intriguing images,

like a dazzling ring on a finger

or a glowing branding iron

about to touch your heart.

Lost thoughts gather

among the clouds

and then disappear

when the Sun

breaks through.

That same Sun

that nourishes flowers,

turns them pale yellow

and

brittle at the edges.

I can’t seem to grasp my actions,

I love,

I lose.

I buy flowers

they die.

I once had dreams

but they were flawed

often centered

on sight and scent.

Picture me in a garden

surrounded

by beautiful flowers

celebrating summer.

I was among the Tulips

and

unprepared for

the wrecking ball

about to smash

into my desires.

It only took

a few words

and what was colorful and stunning

and what was not

became questionable and gray.

Leaden gray.

Gray, the blush

of no garden.

I notice Marigolds now.

Golden Marigolds.

They are polite

not intrusive.

They give one permission

to see beyond

what is staring

past them.

Philip received his M.A. in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published five books of poetry, Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You, Falls from Grace, Favor and High Places, and Forever Was Never On My Mind. Three novels, Caught Between (Which is also a 24-episode Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/), Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript, and Far From Here. Philip also has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.

Short story from Isaac Aju

Young Black teen in a red tee shirt with short hair and a serious expression.

The Worst That Could Happen

I was that awkward girl who did not get much interest from boys. I was gangly, tongue-tied, unattractive, and I was okay and fine. I helped my mom in the market to sell her perishable goods. I was hardworking, and people would always tell my mother, “Oh your daughter works so hard like a boy. You are so lucky.”

My mother would smile and nod, and I would keep my face blank.

It was almost a good thing that I hardly got serious attention from boys, until Chima appeared. Chima with his dark muscular build and charming smile. Chima had machines that ground things in the market for him, things like pepper, tomatoes, corn, cassava. His shop wasn’t far from my mother’s, and he even had boys working for him, boys who did most of the messy work for him. It was either they were learning work, or they were hired as proper workers.

I had always been happy with myself, gangly or not, beautiful or not. I didn’t bother about makeups, it just wasn’t my thing. If anyone would ever have something to do with me, that person should be acquainted with the real me. Not hating on people who use make-up, though. I’m just saying it wasn’t my thing. The highest I did while going to church on Sundays was to apply black tiro – the ones I imagine Nollywood actresses used in their epic, culturally-rich movies, and on some dramatic Sunday mornings I would stand in front of our large mirror and mimic the voices of Nollywood actresses. I would start with Ngozi Ezeonu commanding a palace maid, and I would end with Chioma Chukwuka flirting with a cute, muscular black man beside a quiet stream.

I didn’t know that Chima was interested in me until I gave him an envelope for our church harvest. Every year we were given large envelopes in church to share with people we knew, family, friends and well-wishers, and they were supposed to put money in those envelopes for the work of The Lord. When I went to take it back, Chima had put ten thousand naira in it. Other people had put five hundred naira, one thousand naira highest, but Chima put ten thousand naira. I was startled. I had never been interested in anybody’s money, except for business. Right from a young age I was getting money, I hustled with my mother in the market. What else did a young girl need? I was properly fed, I had come out of secondary school. Nobody was talking about going further, my mother wouldn’t afford that, so I was content with myself, doing business with my mother, trying to be a succor to her soul as a woman who left an abusive husband – my father – many years ago. I was twenty-two when Chima picked interest in me, but never been in a serious relationship before. Somehow I thought things would unfold on their own, but the way mine unfolded scared me.

Chima started giving me money every weekend, without me asking him for it. I never knew how to ask, by the way. I had always been satisfied with my mother’s financial coverage, and with the little income I made. I took Chima’s money for weeks. I saved it. Because of Chima I added a little more effort in the way I dressed to the market. At least I tried my best. The market wasn’t a place where one needed to dress extravagantly while going out for the day, but I tried my best to look very good or sharp, in the Aba slang.

Ahịa Ọhụrụ market wasn’t like working in the bank, or in an office where you could dress yourself daintily. Here in the market you dress in a certain way, in a subtly rugged way because anything could happen. A fight might break out. A barrow pusher might hit you, somebody might look for your trouble, a rogue might try to steal your goods, so one came to the market with a certain kind of dressing void of superfluity.

Chima got more friendly with my mother, and I wondered if my mother suspected anything.

Then I started visiting Chima in his house. Many months had passed, and yet Chima was still giving me weekend money as though I was working for him, as though I did anything for him. It started with him saying, “You never ask me where I live. You never bother to just pay me a visit.”

That was how I started visiting Chima, me the unattractive, skinny girl. The first day I visited him was the day I took a proper look at myself, really observed that I didn’t have a robust nyash – buttocks – like a proper girl should have, a proper Igbo girl, if there was any such thing. I just observed it, but I did not pity myself. I was not the type that wallowed in self pity. I was ready for anything. What was the worst that could happen? The worst that could ever happen was Chima to stop being interested in me, to stop giving me money, and to stop grinning too widely when he spoke with my mother. That was the worst that could ever happen, and I was ready for that, in case it happened.

So on that first day of me visiting him in his house I prepared myself and went, wearing a new gown I had bought in Ariaria market. It was a bit loose, the gown, modern, and a bit churchy. And I went, feeling confident and reserved at the same time.

Isaac Aju is a Nigerian writer whose works have appeared in Poetry X Hunger, Writers’ Journal -New York City, The Kalahari Review, and is forthcoming in Flapper Press. He lives in Aba where he works as a fashion designer.

Poetry from Taghrid Bou Merhi

Young middle aged woman in black with a red headscarf.

FREEDOM OF THE SOUL 

I was a prisoner behind the fence of fear,

Searching for a window in the wall of night,

But the moon was pale,

And the wind tore through the silent branches.

I cried out:

O sky, open your gate to the light!

A star exploded in my chest,

And the birds returned to their nests.

But the chains tightened around the dream,

Draining my cry,

As if the earth refused to listen

To the echo of footsteps fleeing toward the light.

O freedom, are you a mirage

We chase through dark alleys?

Or are you a sun born

When we shatter the shackles buried in our veins?

I will write your name upon the wall of the wind

And let the echo carry

My voice to the coming dawn.

One day,

I will stand atop the sun

And dance with the light,

Free

As the wind was in a pure time!

 THE AGE of CHAINS DOES NOT LAST 

Stretch your hands toward the horizon,

Like the surge of waves rising against the shore.

Do not fear the darkness,

For stars are born from the womb of night.

Tell the wind to carry your song

And scatter it over the balconies,

For when a branch is broken,

It grows from pain flowers that never die.

I am the child of open skies,

I do not belong to fences

Or closed doors.

Freedom is rooted in the soul,

Not in locked squares.

I will walk on water if the earth narrows,

And I will carry in my wound

A flower of dreams.

If you are imprisoned today,

Tomorrow is your meeting with the light.

Give hope its wings,

And walk beneath the rain.

Freedom is not granted—

It is seized from the jaws of time!

A DREAM UNCHAINED 

Freedom has no door,

Nor does it love walls.

It recoils from iron

And despises the color of chains on the wrist.

It is a wave racing toward the horizon,

Breaking yet returning stronger.

It is a cloud refusing to trap its rain,

A flower blooming in the palm of the wind.

Do not ask where it dwells,

For it lives in the eyes of birds,

In the breath of children’s laughter,

In the voice of a song that knows

No language of submission.

Every wall,

No matter how high,

Will one day be nothing but a fleeting shadow.

And the river, which embraced the soil for too long,

Will return to the sea at dawn.

If you cannot find it around you,

Search within yourself.

Perhaps you are the bird

Who has yet to discover his wings!

Short Biography: 

TAGHRID BOU MERHI is a distinguished Lebanese-Brazilian Poet, Author, Essayist, Editor,  Translator, and Media Professional known for her profound literary contributions across multiple languages. She currently resides in Brazil, where she has built a remarkable career in poetry, translation, and cultural journalism.

With a Master’s degree in Law, Bou Merhi has established herself as a versatile intellectual figure, seamlessly bridging the worlds of literature and academia. She is fluent in five languages in addition to her native Arabic, which has enabled her to translate and publish an impressive body of work. Her translations include 43 books and over 2000 poems, and her writings have been translated into 47 languages.

Bou Merhi has authored 23 books, both in print and digital formats, covering a range of genres, including poetry, short stories, haikus, critical studies, articles, and children’s literature. Her literary influence extends beyond writing, as she serves as the editor of the translation department for 12 Arabic magazines and a Spanish magazine Azahar Poetic and Reverence Cultural poetry. Additionally, she has written introductions for 40 books and contributed to more than 220 National and international books and anthologies.

Her exceptional contributions to world literature have earned her numerous international accolades. She was named among the top 50 women shaping modern literature in Asia and one of the top 20 media professionals in the region from Legacy Crown. Chinese television CCCV ranked her among the top 10 poets globally for her mastery of language and poetry.

Currently, Bou Merhi serves as the head of the Lebanon branch of the International Chamber of Books and Artists and holds key cultural relations roles in five international and regional organizations. She has also been an international judge for the Walt Whitman competition for three consecutive years.

Taghrid Bou Merhi has received numerous international awards, honors, and certificates for her literary and translation work. Some of the most notable include:

•Naji Naaman Award (2023) – Recognizing her excellence in literature.

•Nizar Sartawi’s Translation Award – For her outstanding contributions to translation.

•First Prize in the Nian Zhang Cup (2023) – A prestigious international poetry award.

•Top 50 Women in Modern Literature (Asia) – Honored for her impact on contemporary literature.

•Top 20 Media Professionals in Asia – Recognized for her influence in cultural journalism.

•Top 10 Poets Worldwide by CCCV (China) – Acknowledged for her mastery of language and poetry.

•Judge for the Walt Whitman International Poetry Competition – Serving for three consecutive years.

Additionally, she has received many certificates of appreciation from international cultural organizations and literary institutions for her contributions to poetry, translation, and cultural exchange.

Christopher Bernard reviews Cal Performances’ production of William Kentridge’s The Great Yes, The Great No

Two actresses of color in dresses move about a stage in masks of older black and white images of white women.

MIXED EMOTIONS

The Great Yes, The Great No

William Kentridge

Zellerbach Hall

Berkeley, California

For some people the day comes

when they have to declare the great Yes

or the great No. – Cavafy

Cal Performances presented the Bay Area premiere of William Kentridge’s new collaboration, The Great Yes, The Great No, on a recent chilly, rain-sprinkled March evening, to a standing ovation in a warm, dry, and packed Zellerbach Hall in the “People’s Republic of” Berkeley.

Truly, it was manna to the baffled left these days of a monstrous politics. And a stimulus and wonder even to skeptics of both progressives and reactionaries; echoes of Cavafy, Dante, and Carlyle were clearly not unintended. Even of Coleridge and “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”; even of the Narrenschiff – the “ship of fools” of the Middle Ages and Katherine Anne Porter’s bleak, modern fable.

The work, co-commissioned by the ever-questing Cal Performances for its Illuminations series (the theme this year is “Fractured History” – a timely phrase, as we threaten to crumble into a humblingly fractured present), is the latest in the South African artist’s theatrical undertakings, culminating most recently in Berkeley with the amalgam of fantasy and prophecy Sybil two years ago.

In Kentridge’s new work, we are introduced to a cargo ship repurposed for refugees, ploughing the seas of midcentury on a voyage to escape a Nazified Europe for temporary asylum in the New World. In March 1941, the Capitaine Paul-Lemerle left Marseilles for the Caribbean French colony of Martinique, bearing several hundred refugees, including luminaries such as “the pope of Surrealism” André Breton, Cuban artist Wifredo Lam, novelists Victor Serge and Anna Seghers, and the anthropologist and founder of structuralism, Claude Levi-Strauss: a ship of geniuses, culture avatars, and anti-imperialists fleeing a continent of psychopaths for the utopia of the irrational, of “revolution,” of “freedom.”

A curious but relevant fact about Martinique: it was the one island Napoleon allowed slavery (according to the libretto) when he abolished it throughout the Empire – and why? Because of Europeans’ insatiable desire for the sugar Martinique was known for and could not produce “economically” without its slaves.

Kentridge haunts his ship with figures from multiple eras binding the imperial center to the tiny Antillean island: the Martinican poet, and father of anti-colonialist theories of negritude, Aimé Césaire, and his wife Suzanne; the fellow Martinican sisters Nardal, whose Parisian salon incubated negritude with the Césaires and African writers such as Léopold Sédar Senghor and Léon-Gontran Damas; and other relevant phantoms: Napoleon’s beloved Martiquinaise Joséphine Bonaparte and the Martiniquais, and future revolutionary theorist, Frantz Fanon.

We were treated with Kentridge’s characteristically virtuosic blend of spoken word, dance, dream scene and song, surreal cartoon and reversed film sequence, liberated signifiers, extravagant costumes and portrait masks for each of the avatars, dancing tools and animated utensils (including one of his signature mottos, a twitchy, goofily animated typewriter), in this modern version of classic singspiel.

It took off on a wildly surrealist ride across time and geography, with a collage libretto combining quotations from the figures named and such notable subversives as Bertolt Brecht. Narrative is not Kentridge’s strong suit, and his attempts in that direction usually run aground on pancake-flat characters and prosaic plots (he has yet to quite realize that a story without logic (his explicit pet peeve, in this work, being reason and all its affiliates) is like a decalcified hippo: somewhere between a glob and a blot. He is at his best when indulging his imagination and letting poetry suggest where prose merely deafens.

At the head of the ship stood its captain, an African version of the classic Greek Charon, boatman of the underworld ferrying souls to their final ends. The captain (a brilliantly insouciant Hamilton Dhlamini) dropped many of the evening’s most provocative lines. Another performance especially shone; Nancy Nkusi as Suzanne Césaire, whose recital of the verses of her spouse Aimé, from his poem Cahier d’un retour au pays natal, provided much memorable imagery. Not least was her haunting appearance in a black-and-white film scene, crawling across a banquet table surrounded by tuxedoed gentlemen with the heads of coffeepots and the cannibalistic appetites of all empires.

A constellation of quotations were projected or spoken or sung, or all three, across the magic lantern–like astrolabe that backed the stage: “The Dead Report for Duty,” “The Boats Flee, But to Where?” “The World Is Leaking.” “These Are My Old Tears.” “The Women Are Picking Up the Pieces.”

And a Chorus of Seven Women sing, dance and comment on the mystico-political voyage throughout, translated into the native languages of the singers: Sepedi, Setswana, siSwati, isiZulu, in the music of Nhlanhla Mahlangu.

A small, tight musical ensemble accompanied the proceedings throughout, led by the percussionist and composer Tlale Makhene.

For all the cornucopia of imagery, word wonder and music, my feelings about the evening were obstinately mixed. What I loved were the endlessly inventive visuals Kentridge can always be counted to magic out of the bricolage of his imagination, the 360-degree projections of the ship, the gimcrack costuming, the slants of film and dashes of music, the rich, sly humorous poetry, both visual and verbal, that illuminates, in flash after flash, as much as it entertains.

But there was also an element of agitprop, of heavy-handed prose hectoring and editorializing as it blundered into the show – the poetry, singing, told us endlessly more than the political prosing, shouting, which performed the bizarre act of shipwrecking itself. And when there are positive references to such monstres sacrés as Trotsky and Stalin, I, for one, am out. An artwork makes a poor editorial: when it trades poetry for slogans, it thrills only a few converts.

There is, unhappily, an even more serious point to make. Something about the enterprise rubbed me the wrong way from the start. Late winter 2025 on planet Earth hardly seems the best time and place to be celebrating “the irrational.” Whatever we are facing, politically, historically, it cannot be called by any stretch of the imagination a “tyranny of reason” or the authoritarianism of the bourgeoisie. In the current moment, I, and I suspect many others, feel trapped inside a global surreal nightmare from which we may not be able to escape. A surrealist fantasy celebrating unreason seems perhaps not the most appropriate message for a world on the verge of shipwrecking on the reef of insanity.

Those of us cursed with a reflexive skepticism may not care much to embark (without security guarantees) on so dubious a journey. For every “Great Yes,” there is sometimes a small but potent “no.”

_____

Christopher Bernard is an award-winning novelist, poet, and essayist and author of numerous books, including A Spy in the Ruins (celebrating its twentieth anniversary in 2025) and The Socialist’s Garden of Verses. He is founder and lead editor of the webzine Caveat Lector and recipient of an Albert Nelson Marquis Lifetime Achievement Award.