It couldn’t have been any easier in Ceruti’s time to “see” poorly-paid young workers, the homeless, or the marginalized elderly than it is today. It is never easy to acknowledge that we all contribute to and are in some way responsible for the suffering of the world.
The entire Club is a freewill offering, not promoted on social media and with zero online presence. Neither Shuffy nor Morgan have cellphones. Local people simply stop by and for the rest, email suffices.
Consider, for example, the closing lines of “Desert Fury” (1947), a deliriously over-the-top love pentangle directed by Lewis Allen and shot primarily in Arizona: one of the few noirs filmed in (lurid) color.
“Young Girl Holding a Basket of Fruit,” a mid-18th-century piece by François-Hubert Drouais, spells out the metaphor. One breast provocatively exposed, the girl in question holds up a bunch of dewy grapes, her expression telegraphing that there’s fruit — and then there’s fruit.
Rose’s enthusiasm is contagious. His conviction that God had a plan for his dark night of the soul is a consolation. That he took the resources at hand—his musical talents, his energy, his faithful heart—and molded them into an ongoing daily labor of love is a lesson and an inspiration to all of us.
Notes Lev, “Despite his ubiquity … he has returned to the sidelines of artistic innovation. The statues go unnoticed; his placement at the Nativity, pro forma; his might and authority, almost forgotten. St. Joseph has become so visible as to have become invisible.”