Printemps Pour Moi!

**Discovered this yesterday. Wonderful. Please listen as you read.**

It feels like spring. It is, I know, but it feels like it is, too. While I love nothing better than cold and rainy winters, wools and furs, fires and soup, that's a short-lived treat 'round here. Living in places with "perfect" weather, I have to admit I'm developing an appreciation for basking in the sun and driving with my windows down, shoes off and Stones blaring.

The best pixie cut in history. Breathless.

Every season has a mood, and for me, a set of interests. There is a soundtrack, a list of films, a colour scheme. Winter is marked by A Lion in Winter, Fall by Harold and Maude, Summer by The Dead Weather and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Equestrian and preppy styles in fall, gypsies, beggars, tramps and Keith Richards in summer, It's a natural progression, and I find myself gravitating towards the same things in rotation every year, with new additions as time passes.

So, you're dying to know, what is spring? Besides the allergies that dampen my style for the month of May and the drudgery of turning the clock forward an hour, I can't help but be excited in spring. Years of evolution probably facilitate that biologically, as everything reawakens and freshens up this time of year. Living in Southern California, spring and summer and half of fall (for that matter half of winter) feel like one long season, but there are some distinctly spring-specific trends that crop up every year.

Pierrot le Fou

I wear florals and pastels basically exclusively in spring. This is logical, trite, and should require no further explanation. It's my most feminine season, perhaps my only feminine season. Never else shall a kitten heel or bow even fathom resting on my frame. Otherwise, it's a slide into the summer regulars of high hemlines, increasingly bohemian tops, and excesses of jewelry. Also, the appearance of sandals. Don't blink, or you'll miss me in flats. Shhh.

Bardot in Godard's Le Mepris

The music blossoms into the early 1960's, and similar-sounding derivatives. Think Donovan, the Beatles, the Kinks, or more recently, the Allah-Las, Nick Waterhouse, and the Growlers. Softer music, more lush, less plaintive, soulful, sharp, and loud. This eventually gives way to Bob Dylan, more Kinks, the Raconteurs, the Eagles, the Stones, Wolfmother, Jack White, and by the sultry heat of August The Dead Weather. These are not strict rules obviously, but in terms of mood overall... so it goes.

The Master

Finally, the point of this ramble (believe or not, it has one, if the pictures didn't give it away), is Godard. Spring is the start of, and prime time for, Godard season. Nothing sets one off to a great summer like obscure and existential low-budget 50-year-old French films with non-linear narratives. Le Mepris (or Contempt) is my favorite mood film. All of Godard, however, applies. Perhaps this is because, and Wes Anderson is like this, watching a Godard film wakes my mind up just like the environment refreshes my body, and the music, my soul. To explain why (how might be impossible), I'd need another two hours of your time. At that price, I'd say you are better off just watching one of his films for yourself. I hope you do. It's springtime now after all.