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Well, well. Here we are, one year since the beginning of The Lark. Thank you, as always, for returning to this digital folio, which was manifested by the efforts of its contributors, and formed by the passionate labor of its editors and team.
In the letter that fronts the last issue, we touched on The Lark's expansiveness as a platform; its flexibility as an experiment in digital-as-host.
In learning, unlearning, and relearning it, the surprising elasticity of hypermedia has revealed a number of things to us: firstly, that building a publication online is much more multidimensional than we anticipated at first, and because of this, one must always take stock of and ponder their surroundings — in a virtual, psychic sense — in order to take the next step.
When we began last year, The Lark was built using proprietary software, for which we were paying; and this payment was a great sap on our resources away from other artists. When we began, I was convinced by what the world tells us so often is true: that something like this needs to be finished, polished, even flawless before anyone else's eyes could go anywhere near it. Yet this idea shuns organic evolution.
I was, despite all my sensibilities, at first treating The Lark like a product to be sold. This is perhaps in some dimensions true, but it is not the core of the thing, and never has been. It was not until later that I realized that what we were paying for was a kind of snake oil: something that promised instant perfection, but that really came at the cost of slicing up and restraining possibility, liberty, and imagination.
I have always been overprotective to a fault with my projects. It was not easy, but eventually, by letting in a few very close cohorts and confidants, this project, and my understanding of its possibilities, has only improved, immeasurably. This is due to the insight, skill, and experience that now makes up the team of The Lark. I am always humbled in their presence, just as I am humbled, as ever, by those who submit to this publication.
Make no mistake — The Lark, as all good and organic things that exist in the ever-elastic digital sphere — lives in a constant state of “in process.” It is a mistake to look at it any other way, and it would be an injustice to its evolution by misassessing what it currently is. When I look at it today, I see something reborn, not in glowing perfection, but in fragility, although in tremendous grace, too.
A friend of ours once said that the world around him appears to be going headlong a thousand miles per hour in the wrong direction. The remedy for this, then, is to go five miles per hour, in the right direction.
We hope that you will continue with us on this journey of constant flux. We have many wonderful things planned, and we are ever more stretching our wings with you.
Thank you most sincerely.