The Bulb turned out to be more than a dog park. Artists had come in over the years and used it as their muse, reclaiming rubble to create sculptures or painting murals on any surface they could find. On one of the shores, Fisher and I stood in front of a statue made of scrap metal, driftwood, and trash that had us mesmerized for almost half an hour. It stood at least ten feet high and looked like a woman with her arms stretched to the heavens, welcoming people to her little corner of the world. At one point, a man walked behind us and muttered something about how ugly it was. Fisher glanced at him once he was out of earshot.
“It’s sad that some people don’t get it,” he commented.
I did. I now understood what had intrigued Fisher so much from the description. While the sight of so many ho
