Another 10 splendid vintage watches have been meticulously curated for this week’s offering. The funky, the sleek, the practical, and the practically flawless have all been invited. A few exciting highlights include a 1985 Rolex GMT-Master II "Fat Lady," named as such for its oversized case, an incredibly cool 1970s Zenith chronograph with all black PVD coating, and a 1950s Ernest Borel Incastar boasting multiple complications, including a triple calendar. But those examples are merely the beginning. A full-set Tudor Submariner reference 76100 with lollipop hands, an Excelsior Park chronograph signed Zivy & Cie., and a solid white gold Rolex King Midas from 1974 round out the selection.

1970s Zenith Chronograph With Black PVD Case

The all-black PVD coating on this manually-wound Zenith chronograph lends a military aesthetic to the watch, and the large tonneau-style case looks incredible on the wrist. This is one of the last manual chronographs Zenith ever made, and it’s in wonderful condition to boot. Take a look here. 

1985 Rolex GMT-Master II 'Fat Lady' Reference 16760

The fat lady has sung, and the tune is about a thick case and extra large crown guards. The reference 16760 was the first instance of the GMT-Master II, and it's stainless steel with a red and black "Coke" bezel, plus there are white gold surrounds for the hour markers. It looks spectacular on the wrist, has an independently adjustable GMT hand, and is as wearable as it is coveted. Read more here. 

1950s Ernest Borel Incastar 'Dato-Compax'

Always wanted a Rolex reference 6063, but it's a bit out of your budget? This Ernest Borel Incastar from the 1950s has got you covered. The dial and hands are absolutely beautiful, especially the red arrow hand and slim golden handset. An elegant triple calendar chronograph at an affordable price point, from a manufacture that produced many interesting watches before the quartz crisis of the 1970s? Yes, please. Check it out here. 

Wait, There's More

In addition to those mentioned above, we have a variety of other watches on offer this week, including a 1960s Vacheron Constantin dress watch reference 6378Q in white gold, a 1974 Rolex King Midas reference 3580, a 1988 Tudor Submariner reference 76100 with box and papers, a 1950s Excelsior Park Chronograph with Zivy & Cie. signature, a 1950s Eberhard & Co. chronograph, and a 1966 Rolex Oyster Perpetual reference 1013 with original papers.

You can see the complete collection in the HODINKEE Shop.

Way back when, in November 2015, Ben wrote a little story about the highlights of the Christie's Geneva sale. You might recall that there was one watch in particular that caught our eye: the Patek Philippe reference 2497 with black gilt dial. It was the first time that a black gilt dial 2497 had hit the market – for an estimate of CHF 500,000 to 1 million – and the auction world was abuzz. On top of being totally fresh to market, the watch had a rich provenance (literally) as it formerly belonged to Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie, who later gifted it to a friend (as one does). This friend was the consignor and listed it with Christie's – and that is where things got sticky.

The auction went on as planned but the watch was pulled last minute in the middle of the auction on November 9, 2015, due to an ownership title dispute. Well, fast forward to today, and the Patek Philippe 2497 with black gilt dial is back on the market for the Christie's Geneva sale on May 15. It has been confirmed that the ownership dispute has been settled.

So, back to the watch. Why is it so special? The 2497 followed the 1526, and is one of the early perpetual calendar wristwatches produced by Patek Philippe. It was in production from 1950 to 1963 and ran on the manual-winding caliber 27-SCQ. It is recognizable by its fat case with stepped lugs. This particular 2497 is special for several reasons, the most obvious being the black gilt dial, which is a rarity among vintage Patek Philippe. In addition, the combination of gilt printing and Arabic numerals is quite unusual and rarely comes up at auction (with the exception of this beauty). 

The 2497 coming up for auction at Christie's was gifted to Haile Selassie by Italian entrepreneur and pilot Federico Bazzi in 1954. Selassie then gifted the watch to an "eminent African personality," who then passed it down to his descendents – who are now selling the watch. As you may know, it is rare to be able to track the lineage of a watch, so this type of information is always beneficial to the sale.

All in all it is exciting to see this 2497 return to the market, as it was a major let down when we didn't get to see the previous sale come to fruition. The estimate is once again CHF 500,000 to 1 million, and we will certainly be watching it closely on May 15. For more information on this watch and the rest of the auction, you can visit the Christie's website. 

I have a confession to make. After complaining about how women’s watches are too small and insisting that 36mm is the perfect size watch for any woman, I, Cara Barrett, have rediscovered my love for small watches. I know, I know, the hypocrisy of it all! But that’s how fashion and style work – ebbs and flows, and all that. Watches are no exception. As far as this new interest in smaller watches is concerned, there's one culprit to blame, and that's the new Panthère de Cartier.

Back in January, we saw Cartier re-release its iconic (and I really mean that) Panthère de Cartier. This is a watch that was first released during the Must de Cartier days when it was marketed to a glamorous 1980s clientele, and it's been a classic every since. When I saw this new version, I recognized the watch immediately and I knew I had to get one on to my wrist for a review as quickly as possible.

A Little History

Unlike the Tank, the Panthère isn't quite a household name. First introduced in 1983 during the heyday of opulence, the Panthère was praised for its sleek design, concealed clasp, and linked bracelet. It quickly became a huge hit among the who's who, men and women alike, with celebrities such as Pierce Brosnan and Keith Richards amongst the noted wearers (I will never not love the picture of Brosnan below). During a time when Studio 54 was the hottest nightclub in town and glamor was everything, it's no surprise that this watch was a hit. 

In order to fully understand the impact of such a watch, it is important to know what it was up against at the time. After the death of Pierre Cartier in 1964, his two children and nephew moved to sell the family business. As a result, the company was split up into three semi-autonomous companies, Cartier New York, Cartier Paris, and Cartier London, with each producing different products at different times. This created an uneven brand strategy and allowed for each location to do its own thing. In one particular instance, Cartier New York started selling a gold-plated steel Tank watch for $150 in 1971. This was unheard of at the time, and greatly devalued the image of the brand in the eyes of many longtime patrons.

You have to remember that, at the time, Cartier was the ultimate luxury brand, and up until the 1970s it had been producing super exclusive, astronomically expensive, and very high-quality objets – think Mystery Clocks, personalized shutter watches, and ornate cigarette cases. So selling a gold-plated watch was sacrilege, even though the watch did quite well commercially. Despite marring the image, the idea of a less expensive watch later led to the Must de Cartier collection in 1977, after Cartier was bought by a group of investors. The collection was the brainchild of Joseph Kanoui (who gathered a group of investors to purchase Cartier, Paris), Alain Dominique Perrin, and Robert Hocq. The collection included a variety of shapes and was produced in gold-plated silver, allowing for a more reasonable price point. It was a way of re-branding and appealing to a broader audience (much like Montblanc and TAG Heuer creating smartwatches today), and when quartz movements came into play, it was all the more accessible.

So what does all this have to do with the Panthère? To be clear, the Panthère was NOT part of the Must de Cartier collection, which is why it probably was such a hit with certain clientele. Additionally, there weren't that many fresh-to-market designs at the time, making the Panthère even more desirable. But what I think is most interesting about the timing of the 1983 launch of the Panthère is that even though it seems like a simple ladies’ watch, it was quite a big release for Cartier during a time of increasingly affordable timepieces and must have been a hero collection for a heritage maison trying to regain its footing in the global market. It was first launched in mini, small, medium, and large sizes, in two-tone and yellow-gold options (with a steel model introduced in 1991). The Panthère disappeared sometime in the early 2000s, leaving a hole in Cartier's lineup – until now.

The New Panthère

The Panthère is a ladies’ watch that appears to based on the original Santos, though Cartier doesn't communicate about the watch that way at all. It features a similar square case with a bezel secured by eight small screws. It has a classic flat white dial with elongated Roman numerals and the secret "Cartier" signature in the "X" at 10 o’clock. 

The design is bold, restrained, and utilitarian all at once – and without trying too hard. This is the secret to its success and why it appeals to so many. The watch today comes in small (22mm) and medium (27mm) sizes, in rose gold, yellow gold, steel, and two-tone. There are a few other versions, including a version with black lacquered links, that start to move into high jewelry territory as well. For this review, I am focusing on the medium size in stainless steel, which, to me, seems like the best daily-wear option.

The case may appear to be your average square case, but it is not. While square watches often find themselves only appealing to a niche audience, the Panthère finds more universal appeal due to the complexity and finesse of the design. In particular, the curved edges and that instantly-recognizable screw-down bezel really set the watch apart. 

The dial is enclosed in a square steel bezel with rounded corners, which, as I mentioned, is set with eight screws (this is mirrored on the caseback). One of the interesting things about the case design is the curved lugs and crown guards. Both are fluid in appearance and may feel insignificant, but they really add to the overall design of the piece. Without them, the watch wouldn't have the same sense of dynamism at all.

The bracelet is the second most important thing about this watch. When it was first released, people praised this particular bracelet for its versatility and sleek appearance. Unlike the Tank's bracelet, with its large brushed center links and industrial feel, the Panthère bracelet is polished with smaller brick-like links. They are laid out in a brick pattern and are attached to one another internally at the top and bottom of each link. Additionally, the links are curved, allowing for less weight and more movement, which makes the watch more comfortable on the wrist.

For this watch, Cartier has used its standard quartz movement. This comes as no surprise to me, however, as the company likely wanted to keep costs down and to make the collection as accessible and commercially viable as possible. Remember, this isn't a niche product we're talking about. So in this instance, it does not bother me one bit that the watch is quartz – haute horlogerie is not what this watch is about, and I appreciate that it's not pretending otherwise.

On the Wrist

What I love most about the Panthère is that it looks equally good on either a buttoned-up Junior Leaguer or a fashion-forward Voguette. It has a timeless quality that anyone can pull off and it comes in a variety of metals and sizes. You can really make this watch your own, despite how simple it might appear. 

My favorite is the medium-sized steel version, which measures 27mm on each side. While the rose gold version is also beautiful, the steel is definitely the most versatile and will likely be Cartier's most popular model. That it retails for $4,600, which is one of the lower price points at which you can get a Cartier timepiece.

On the wrist, the watch feels great. It's that simple. It is sporty and refined, elegant and easy to wear. I could easily see myself wearing this to play tennis (because I am a prep at heart and that is what one does with a watch such as this) or to attend one of those black tie galas I don't get invited too (I’m looking at you, Met Gala). The more time I spent with the watch the easier it became to see why this was so popular when it first came out. 

As I said earlier, the bracelet is 50% of the appeal of this watch. It looks great, sure, but it's also crucial in making this watch so easy to wear. Because of how the links are laid out and connected to one another, the bracelet hugs your wrist without any pinching and can easily be adjusted with the screw-set links near the clasp. The deployant clasp is concealed, just like on the original, and it is easy to unclip with one hand. The only gripe I have is that the bracelet end-links connect to the case, rather than to the ends of the lugs – this can allow for some weird overhang, with the lugs sticking out a tiny bit, but it's not the end of the world. 

The Competition

So what other watches are there that can compete with the Panthère de Cartier in stainless steel? A few. The most obvious being the Cartier Tank Francaise.

The Tank Francaise is a similar watch in the sense that it is a square(ish) steel watch with a bracelet from Cartier. And while the aesthetic may be totally different to the trained eye (brushed finish, heavier bracelet, rectangular case, etc.), it's clearly in the same family. However, these watches are being sold to people mostly on aesthetic grounds, and in that regard, there are plenty of cases for someone definitively wanting one or the other. On the wrist, the Tank and the Panthère look totally different, with the latter being much more feminine. It is worth noting that the medium-sized steel Tank costs $3,750, while the comparable Panthère costs $4,600. So at the end of the day, this one really just comes down to personal style (and $850). 

Another watch on the market that could give the Panthère a run for its money is the Rolex Oyster Perpetual in 36mm. The Oyster Perpetual is far sportier than the Panthère and costs more, at $5,400, but it can still easily fill thae role of a steel everyday watch on a bracelet, albeit in a different way. This watch also brings into play an automatic movement and the Rolex name, both of which can obviously be game-changers for certain customers.

A better comparison might be the new 28mm Lady-Datejust in steel, which was re-introduced this year at Baselworld in three new versions. The steel version with a pink dial and Roman numerals might get closer to the delicate femininity of the Panthère, though, again, this is a far cry from Cartier's particular aesthetic. Retailing for $6,300, it's also in a higher price bracket. 

If these comparisons seem a little unusual and it doesn't quite feel like anything is a direct competitor, that's because nothing really is. The steel Panthère has all of that great Cartier style that you can't really find anywhere else – and, if we're being honest, most people who want a Cartier watch just want a Cartier watch. It's the style, the brand, and the history they're buying, so likely nothing else will quite do.

Final Thoughts

One of the main things to reflect on is the fact that the Panthère de Cartier in 1983 was a high-luxury timepiece in comparison to the rest of the market at that time. Fast forward to today, and the same exact watch has become almost mainstream in the same industry. Furthermore, what the Panthère de Cartier does best is appeal to a specific group of buyers. These buyers aren't watch nerds and they aren't worried high-end movements. They might not even be interested in most of the usual-suspect ladies' watches. I think this is why I was so surprised that I enjoyed wearing it so much. After years of complaining about a lack of mechanical watches for women, I found myself back at the source with a 27mm quartz ladies' watch and I loved it. 

I think the major takeaway here is that the Panthère de Cartier re-affirms that good design and wearability are more than half the battle. This is something that Cartier understands and applies to all its products. It's a strategy that clearly works. I have always been a huge fan of Cartier and the Panthère de Cartier further solidifies that. And I am sure I am not the only one.

For more information on the Panthère de Cartier, visit Cartier online.

Pictured: Medium Rose Gold, $23,000; Small Two-Tone Steel and Yellow Gold, $7,350; Medium Steel, $4,600.

Panerai is celebrating its lasting relationship with the sport of classic yacht racing by releasing three automatic flyback chronographs equipped with a set of functions directly connected to the nautical world. The so-called PCYC (Panerai Classic Yachts Challenge) chronos offer three slightly different takes on the form though, so let’s take a quick look at what makes each new model special.

The Panerai Luminor 1950 PCYC Regatta 3 Days Chrono Flyback Automatic Titanio (PAM 652)

First up is the PAM 652. While it also measures 47mm, is made of titanium, and is powered by the same chronograph movement, it is a wholly different proposition to the PAM 615 Jack tested in situ during the Corinthian Classic. Don't mistake it in the photos here for a rattrapante – it has central chronograph seconds and minute hands. There's also a chronograph hour counter at three o’clock and a small seconds register at nine o’clock. Unlike the PAM 615, it comes in a classically styled Luminor 1950 case with a polished bezel, and the 15-minute countdown is placed on the dial's rehaut, between nine and 12 o'clock. 

I’m sure you’re wondering, as I did when I first saw this watch, how you quickly get the chronograph minute hand in position at the start the countdown. The answer: by pushing the button located at four o’clock, set into the crown guard. Each press moves the hand back by one minute. It’s quite a clever execution really, and the placement of the countdown in the fourth quarter of the dial allows for the addition a nautical tachymeter scale too.

The Panerai Luminor 1950 PCYC Regatta 3 Days Chrono Flyback Automatic Titanio (PAM 652) is priced at $17,200.

The Panerai Luminor 1950 PCYC 3 Days Chrono Flyback Automatic Acciaio (PAM 653 And PAM 654)

Next, we have the PAM 653 and the PAM 654. Both are slightly smaller than the PAM 652, measuring 44mm instead of 47mm. Both also come in a Luminor 1950 case made of steel rather than titanium, and are powered by Panerai’s in-house, self-winding, three-day movement, the caliber P.9100. Once again their tachymeters are based on a knot scale. It's the looks though where the two watches differ – and something small makes a big difference.

The PAM 653 looks very much the part of your typical Panerai. It has a deep black dial and a full complement of those slightly bubbly Arabic numerals for the hours, rendered in a golden hue that is meant to look well-aged. The PAM 654, on the other hand, has a bright, ivory-colored dial with luminous dots to mark the hours and batons at 12 and six o'clock (double and single, respectively). The result is a pair of watches that, while technically identical, look completely different.

Both versions of the Panerai Luminor 1950 PCYC 3 Days Chrono Flyback Automatic Acciaio – the PAM 653 and the PAM 654 – are priced at $12,300.

For more information, visit Panerai online.

From now until the end of April, TAG Heuer is showcasing a small collection of historically important watches, most of them chronographs from the 1960s and '70s, in one of its Paris boutiques. If you find yourself in the French capital, you should definitely head to 12 Boulevard des Capucines and pay the boutique a visit.

The small trove of watches has been lent to the shop by the TAG Heuer Museum and a handful of private collectors. These particular watches provide a link between the company’s past and TAG Heuer’s current collection, marked by the recent comeback of several of these vintage pieces.

Placed next to one another, the watches display the chronograph’s evolution at Heuer; a mere comparison of the Autavia and the Montreal could not better highlight the design evolution from the 1960s to the '70s. It is definitely not the only reason to check these chronographs out though, as each has its own deep roots in the automative world. A yellow gold Carrera reference 1158CHN similar to the watches that were issued at the time to Ferrari F1 drivers is just one example.

I've compiled a few photos of the watches currently on display, in case a trip to the boutique itself isn't in the cards for you. It's not everyday you get to see these watches, especially in this condition.

This exhibition of vintage chronographs is on display at the TAG Heuer Paris boutique located at 12 Boulevard des Capucines, and it runs through the end of April 2017. For more, visit TAG Heuer online.

My first vintage watch was an ultra-thin Piaget, which probably explains the infatuation I have for the brand. Understandably, the announcement of an upcoming "game changer" last year raised my expectations – and my doubts. July's release of the Polo S was dominated by polemics over its potential resemblance to some other iconic watches, overshadowing a bit the conversation about whether it might or might not be the crucial game-changing piece that Piaget had promised. More than nine months later, it felt that it was time to look back at the Polo S and truly assess what it was all about, on its own merits. 

I spent a week wearing the Polo S Chronograph with a bright blue dial, day in and day out. But don't be confused. This isn't A Week On The Wrist, but instead a look at the raison d'etre of the Polo S, its core purpose for Piaget and its core value to customers.

"Comparison is the death of joy," according to Mark Twain, so let’s tackle that side of things first: does the Polo S look like a Patek Philippe Nautilus? Undoubtedly. Especially the blue dial versions. It would be dishonest of me to pretend otherwise. More exactly, it looks very much like the women’s version of the Nautilus, the reference 7118/1A, which also offers a date at six o’clock and a similar looking combination of lumed hands and indexes. However, I truly feel that the Polo S is more complicated than a carbon copy of an iconic reference – itself an interpretation of the Royal Oak from Audemars Piguet, I might add. As you are already aware, both watches were designed by the very same Gerald Genta, some four years apart.

There is indeed something very Piaget in the Polo S, far beyond just its name coming from the cult 1980s collection. Looking closer at the case, it bears a striking resemblance to the Emperador line; the finishing might have been inverted on the case and the bezel, but the lines of the case are pretty much identical. Furthermore, the dial colors of the Polo S can also be found in many previous Emperadors. The blue dial is obviously the most contentious, as it is associated with both the competing Patek and AP models (if you can call watches that are twice the price or more "competitors"), but truthfully it is also an iconic color in Piaget’s history, notably featured on its packaging. 

Considering all the previous facts, the Polo S naming seems at first illogical: Why not call it the Emperador S if it borrowed most of its aesthetic from that existing line? Herein is the difference between product development and marketing – branding it Polo S was much more in line with the mission of this launch. Polo S obviously sounds sexier, but I believe the core reason lies deeper than that. The Polo S aimed to accomplish as much as the Polo had done in the late 1970s and early '80s, when it was the versatile watch of the jet-set crowd, admired for its precious looks and water resistance. 

Interestingly, the most Polo-like feature that can be found on the new Polo S is the horizontal pattern on the dial, made in honor of the construction of the original bracelet. Despite this link, it is also one of the most controversial elements in the Polo S, since it is also a signature of the Nautilus.

Now that we've looked at its inception, an incorrect assumption must be cleared up before we move to the more detailed stuff: The "S" in Polo S stands for "Sport" and not "Steel." The Polo S does not pretend to be so important because of its metal – though since the mid-1950s all Piaget wristwatches have been made of precious metals, except for the forgotten (and forgettable, I dare say) Upstream, launched in 2001. 

No, the real value of the Polo S is that it offers a sportier, more casual alternative to dressier watches, like the Altiplano, that dominate Piaget's offerings. The price positioning was also important and different for Piaget, with the time-and-date Polo S below $10,000 and the chronograph below $15,000. This makes both watches about half the price of a comparable Altiplano and, as mentioned earlier (and discussed in an epic Three On Three), about half the price of comparable luxury steel sport watches. As such, it can be considered as the introductory piece for Piaget, which can bring new clients to a historical brand.

I specifically chose to spend a bit of time with the chronograph as this version got much less coverage than its three-handed counterpart. And, I will be honest, in the first hours of wearing it, I did not like its proportions very much at all. It was sitting high and large on the wrist, very far from the vintage dimensions with which I spend more time. Yet, it is something you quickly get used to; in a matter of days I had forgotten about it, especially since the blue dial often took the light in various beautiful ways. Here, the horizontal pattern does look very Patek (in a good way) and it definitely reminded me of the bracelets on those earlier Polo models of which I am so fond (though that might be more personal than anything).

The one thing I remained disappointed in was the bracelet; it felt a bit slim for such a case, and the finishing was a bit rough. Then again, the price positioning might justify a sort of trade down in the bracelet department. Moreover, it is not fully integrated, so a switch to a strap is always an option. 

There was one place where I could tell no concession was made: the chronograph movement. Its operating was clean and precise, and the layout was highly legible. Note that the caliber 1160P from Piaget bears a striking resemblance with the 1904-CH MC from Cartier, much as the 1110P of the time-and-date Polo S seems close to the Cartier 1904 MC, probably showing some synergy between the two Richemont-owned brands (an ultra-thin Piaget caliber can also be found in the new slim Cartier Drive, for what it's worth). The last thing about the chronograph gets even more geeky: the feeling might not be shared, but I loved the round sub-register shape in the square-ish case, as it reminded me of the smiley robots I used to play with as a child. Now that I've said that, can you un-see it in this watch? I didn't think so.

After a week of wear, I definitely have a better understanding of the merits and shortcomings of the Polo S chronograph. Far from being a disappointing watch, it is a very interesting release from Piaget at a different price point that, all things being relative, offers a new audience access to the brand. This watch makes total strategic sense, entering the sport-chic segment where the Royal Oak and Nautilus are blossoming, though again at a lower price for a different customer.

But, while it's a strength in some ways, this is also the Polo S's greatest weakness in the eyes of the purists. It feel like a "safe" watch, adding nothing new and taking no real risks. As such, it falls below what we would have expected from the Piaget of the 1960s, '70s, and '80s, which did not shy away from offering radically different pieces from the competition, from the slim watches with hard stone dials to the original Polo. 

Obviously, different times call for different measures, but it surely explains how a self-proclaimed "game changer" disappointed quite a few when launched. However, I want to emphasize two things after my time with this watch: First, it truly is a game-changer for Piaget, if we look at it from a business strategy and long-term-growth perspective; and second, the criticism is coming from seasoned collectors who are not in any way the primary target for the Polo S to begin with. Time will tell if the Polo S (time-and-date and/or chronograph) will find its market and have the same impact on Piaget that the Polo had throughout the 1980s. It will be interesting to observe, at the very least.

The Piaget Polo S chronograph with blue dial retails for $12,400. For more, visit Piaget online. 

This week we're focusing on some memorable watches from the 1970s, starting with the iconic stainless steel Royal Oak from Audemars Piguet – a watch which, with an original price tag higher than that of contemporary gold dress watches, truly created the sport-luxury category. We've also found a Beta 21, the very first Swiss quartz caliber, here housed in a Piaget reference 14101 with a striking tiger's eye dial. The Zenith A3637 shows how it earned its "Big Lemon" nickname, while the Favre-Leuba Deep-Blue proves again that bright colors can really work in a diving watch. This is your Bring A Loupe for April 14, 2017.

Favre-Leuba Deep-Blue, With Orange Dial

Strictly speaking, the Favre-Leuba Deep-Blue is not a watch from the 1970s since it was launched in 1966, but its aesthetics announce the next decade in many ways. The bright orange color scheme might be one such indication, but it is truly the squarish 43mm case that's the biggest hint of the '70s. The use of orange is common in many divers as it is a very legible color underwater, and the 500-meter water resistance also explains the Aqualung logo on the dial.

The Deep-Blue relies on the high-beat automatic caliber FL1164, which offers the day-date complication highlighted by the black date discs that keep to the color scheme of the minute track. The black hands maintain the same legibility against the orange dial, and their distinctive shape is designed to avoid any confusion in reading the elapsed time on the rotating bezel during a dive. Originally, the watch came on a bracelet, which is not included here. 

You can find this this Favre-Leuba Deep-Blue offered on Instagram for $4,000 or best offer.

Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Ref. 5402 'A-Series'

Launched in 1972, the Royal Oak remains one the most emblematic watches of the decade, if not of the century. This lasting legacy testifies to the talent of its designer, Gerald Genta, who was hired to come up with a watch that would bring new attention to Audemars Piguet at a time when quartz was the cool newcomer. And the Royal Oak definitely succeeded; the watch has had great success, right down to today. It also introduced the idea of a luxury (and very expensive) sports watch in steel, a category that Patek Philippe would join in 1976 with the Nautilus, which was born from the very same designer.

As can be seen on the caseback, the watch here belongs to the A-series, which is the first batch of 2,000 watches produced, and the most coveted by collectors. These can also be recognized by the AP logo placed at six o'clock; the logo would eventually be moved to 12 o'clock in the later C-series. The crown is correctly unsigned; an AP logo there would have indicated a service part. The case and dial show a bit of aging but this is to be expected, and wear is even throughout. Similarly, you should expect some stretch from the original integrated bracelet. It is photographed in the listing in an Audemars Piguet box, but this is not the original box. 

The Keystone just listed this A-Series Royal Oak for $39,500.

Piaget Reference 14101, With Beta 21 Caliber

You might remember the history of the Beta 21 movement from our previous Quartz Week. It was the first commercial quartz caliber made in Switzerland, developed and adopted by all the big names in watchmaking, from Rolex to Audemars Piguet to IWC. Piaget was of course included, as the company was involved extremely early on with the CEH (Centre Electronique Horloger), which was in charge of the research. Beta 21 movements offered great accuracy but they were definitely on the chubby side, which explains the big profile of the cases housing them, as can be seen on this Piaget – far from the thin dress watches that the company produced in the previous decade.

The reference 14101 is undoubtedly the most common Piaget to feature the Beta 21 (it was the one presented in Basel in 1970) but other shapes existed, as a watch formerly owned by Andy Warhol testifies. The multi-stepped case aims at giving a more dressy feel to the massive case (measuring 41mm x 33mm) in 18kt gold as you would expect from Piaget (the brand had sworn to only use precious materials for its cases since the mid-1950s). The tiger eye dial is very much in line with the vibrant designs of the time, and seems free of any cracks or fractures. Note that the quartz caliber was recently serviced, and is said to work flawlessly (here it is often called the XP4 following Piaget denomination but it is indeed a Beta 21). Last but not least, the box and papers accompanying the watch are described as original, which would make for a nice full set.

A German dealer presents this this Beta 21 Piaget for €6,995 (approximately $7,430 at time of publishing) on Ebay; he will also consider lower offers.

Gallet MultiChron Calendar, With Yellow Gold Case

This MultiChron is everything we love in Gallet chronographs, and more. It has the stylish simplicity that means great legibility, even considering the addition of a triple date complication. This watch is powered by the caliber Valjoux 72C, the C standing here for calendrier (calendar in English) indicated in the two small apertures, and on the periphery of the dial.

Initially introduced in 1946, the MultiChron Calendar was produced through the 1970s, the current piece belonging to the early production from the 1950s. True to its elegant style, the case is made from solid yellow gold, and seems extremely well preserved (the lugs are still thick and sharp, and the hallmarks on the caseback deep). The dial is equally nice, without any noticeable imperfection, and a very bright date track. The provenance is also great, as it is said to have come from a former executive at Gallet USA, who definitely knew how to take care of his watches.

Vesper & Co has this beautiful Gallet MultiChron Calendar for $7,950.

Zenith Diver Reference A3637, 'Big Lemon'

The bright yellow of the Zenith reference A3637  puts the orange of many other divers to shame, including all the other configurations that Zenith came up with for this reference. Its bold looks easily earned it the catchy "Big Lemon" nickname, another reason to love this watch. However, this 43mm piece is not only about looks; it was guaranteed to be water-resistant up t0 1,000 meters. 

It relies on the automatic caliber 2542PC, which is known for its reliability. The date was placed between four and five o'clock, a characteristic of the Zenith watches of that time, as is the triangular minute hand, which is found in many other contemporary sport Zeniths. It comes with the original Gay Frères bracelet, which shows a production date sometime in 1970. It seems this diver always came with a GF bracelet – either the ladder one found on the El Primero or the fully folded one included here.

The dealers Davidoff Brothers posted this this Zenith Diver A3637 on their website for 4,800 CHF (approximately 4,770).

Bulgari has added a new watch to its Octo collection, the Octo Roma. The Octo Roma is similar to its predecessor, the Octo Solotempo, and is still very much Bulgari's take on a classic time-and-date watch, only with a slightly different case and some new design features. Let's see what it's all about, shall we?

First things first, the Octo Roma has a 41mm rounded octagonal case. It's not nearly as sharp and architectural as what you'll find with, say, the Octo Finissimo Automatique (or the Solotempo). The watch is available in stainless steel with a black lacquered dial and a steel bracelet, stainless steel with a silvered dial or a brown dial and an alligator strap, two-tone pink gold and stainless steel with a silvered dial and an alligator strap, and, finally, pink gold with a brown dial and an alligator strap. 

All of the models have a simple three-hand and date layout with the date classically displayed at three o'clock in a small window. Powering the line is the automatic caliber BVL 191, which is one of Bulgari's simple in-house movements. It has a 42-hour power reserve, runs in 26 jewels, and uses ceramic ball bearings for the bi-directional winding system.

Additionally, Bulgari has introduced a new brown dial made in-house at its very own dial factory. The technique involves multiple layers of lacquer varnish, which creates great sheen. The brown dial is available in both the steel and pink gold models, though not the two-tone. The entire collection has the standard Bulgari Arabic numerals at 12 and six o'clock and batons to mark the other hours.

The Octo Roma is priced at $5,950 in stainless steel on a strap, $6,500 in steel on a bracelet, $7,150 in two-tone pink gold and steel, and $18,300 in solid pink gold. For more, visit Bulgari online.

Until the Grand Sonnerie came out, one of the most complicated watches Greubel Forsey had in its portfolio was the GMT – a notably pithy name which is in stark contrast to the size, general visual impact, and complexity of the watch itself. It's very seldom that you get a chance to actually see a Greubel Forsey watch in the metal, although over the years I've been lucky enough to see more than my fair share. In 2006, one year after the Double Tourbillon 30° launched, I got to sit next to Stephen Forsey at a dinner in New York and talk for a couple of hours about the tourbillon in general, the theoretical background of the tourbillon, and the technical considerations that gave Forsey and his partner, Robert Greubel, the inspiration for that watch. 

It was an extremely memorable night because I took away from it a much better understanding of the pros and cons of tourbillons in general, as well as a pretty striking quote. Towards the end of the night we were talking about the challenges in squeezing a few fractions of a second better performance out of increasingly complex mechanisms, and I asked Stephen Forsey if he felt the game was really worth the candle. He laughed and said, "Well, you know, it's always a struggle to gain more than you lose." 

That could be something of a motto for Greubel Forsey in general, whose whole production might be seen as a reaction against the notion that there is such a thing as "good enough" performance or finish. The designs Greubel Forsey produces can be very polarizing but in general, whether or not they fit your taste ultimately ends up being less interesting than how well each watch succeeds in being what it set out to be.

The Greubel Forsey GMT is one of the most complicated watches from Greubel Forsey (the only two which top it being the Quantième Perpétuel à Équation and the new Grande Sonnerie) and the name, while concise, somewhat undersells the actual complexity of the watch. Visually, it's a showstopper, as most Greubel Forsey watches are. Up front, you have a 24 second inclined tourbillon, tilted at 25°. The hours and minutes are shown in a large sub-dial, and a second time zone is shown to the left. The biggest fireworks are from a titanium globe, which rotates once every 24 hours and shows the Earth as seen from a position above the North Pole. The globe shows about 3/4 of the Earth's surface, with the pivot at the South Pole. The part of the Earth in daylight is shown by the white background side of the 24-hour ring, and an aperture in the side of the case lets light in to shine on the daylight side as well.

That the watch undersells itself technically (at least as far as the name goes) becomes apparent when you turn it over.  On the back, there is a 24-city, full world-time disk, which, like the globe, rotates once per day, and which shows the correct time in 24 different time zones. The cities in time zones that observe summer time/DST are shown in white, and you can read the correct local time in those cities during the time of year you know DST is in effect, by reading the time off the inner, rather than the outer, 24 hour track. The position of the Sun relative to the Earth is shown on the back of the watch as well; the Sun is represented by a stylized engraving on the wheel affixed to the underside of the globe.

Setting up the GMT is a fairly simple procedure. First, you pull out the crown (there's only one setting position). Next, you set the city disk to the nearest correct hour for your home city (or you can also just set any given city to the nearest correct hour for its time zone). You don't need to take DST into account. The crown can be rotated in either direction. Next, with the crown left out, you press and hold the GMT pusher. This engages the crown with the hour and minute hands, and disengages it from the globe and city disk. You then set the hands to the nearest full hour for your local time position. Finally, you release the GMT pusher, and set the hands to the correct local hour and minute. This advances the globe and city disk as well. 

The GMT hand can be set in one hour increments via the pusher. Once you're done setting up the watch, the hour and minute hands, GMT hand, globe, and city disk are all synchronized. When changing time zones, you can use the GMT hand as a local time indicator, by adjusting it to local time as needed; this takes care of any time zone with a full, one hour offset from GMT. There's a sort of power user option as well, however. If you recall, the GMT pusher decouples the crown from the GMT indications, allowing you to just set the hour and minute hands. If you hold the pusher down and re-set the hour and minute hands to local time in your new time zone, you can use the GMT indication as a home time indication, and you can also set the local time to any offset from GMT you need – including non-full hour offsets. This would be the option I'd choose; it's much more natural to read local time off the larger display, and the globe lets you know approximately what o'clock it is anywhere in the world in any case.

Now, reading about this sort of thing and understanding the watch technically is one thing, but wearing it is another, and for all the technical sophistication, this is not, I think, ultimately an exercising in primarily technical prowess. Greubel Forsey's watches never really are; they're generally all about an extension of a kind of experimental perfectionism into pretty much every aspect of watchmaking. You could almost think of it as a kid of horological reductio ad absurdum: what happens if you simply push every aspect of traditional horology – not just finish, but also the pursuit of better chronometry with a traditional approach to improved isochronism – as far as it can go? The aesthetics of Greubel Forsey watches have always seemed to me to have been almost stumbled on by accident and although there's a lot that's deliberate about the aesthetics per se, they're so informed by the obsessive pursuit of perfectionism in every aspect of the watch that they become both less, and more, than conventional aesthetics – a very strange, but to me very charming, combination of deadpan earnestness, and utter whimsical lunacy. 

The funny thing about wearing the GMT is that you think before you put it on that it's going to be like winning a date with a $20 million-per-picture film star or getting the keys to a Ferrari F12 for the weekend – you're going to be wowed as much by inhabiting an heretofore uninhabitable demographic as by the actual experience. But somehow that's not the case. You look down at your wrist and while, yes, you do see an extraordinarily expensive and generally unattainable watch, you also see something else. 

The Earth is 12,742 kilometers in diameter, and if you turn the watch to face you and look at the time, you're looking at that titanium globe from about 10 times its diameter away. That means you're seeing the Earth from above the North Pole as it would look from a distance of about 153,000 kilometers, which is a bit shy of halfway to the moon. At such a distance, the Earth is both close enough to tug at your heartstrings – it's home, after all – and distant enough to seem an abstraction. The combination is a poignant one, and in combination with the tourbillon, and the hour and minute hands, you have dramatically different scales of spatial experience as well as three very different time scales, all in one place on your wrist. 

I wore the Greubel Forsey GMT during Baselworld and it was, as you might expect, an attention-getting thing to have on at a watch trade show (and it provoked some goodnatured – I think – ribbing that maybe HODINKEE overpays its staff). But what I took away from the experience wasn't a sense of having lucked out in some horological lottery – it was an experience of almost philosophical tranquility; a feeling that, when I looked at the time, I wasn't so much seeing the time, as I was seeing a broader and more balanced perspective on how we perceive it. 

Travel broadens, they say, and while there are any number of much more affordable multi-time zone watches out there, there are few that take you outside yourself quite like the Greubel Forsey GMT. Everything has to work together for something like this to really sit up and sing, but the level of attention to technical detail in the GMT is, paradoxically (or maybe necessarily?) what makes it work as a launchpad for fantasy and philosophical rumination as well. 

The Greubel Forsey GMT, as shown: Movement, 36.40mm x 9.80 mm; 72-hour power reserve, running in 50 jewels. Two coaxial mainspring barrels, running in series, fast rotating (one turn/3.2 hours) one with slipping bridle. Free sprung 10mm balance with timing screws; Phillips terminal curve; 21,600 vph. German/nickel silver/maillechort mainplates. Hours, minutes, GMT and world time indications. Case, 43.50 mm x 16.14mm in 950 platinum; water resistance 30 meters. $630,000. Read more about it at GreubelForsey.com.

When Patek Philippe released the first Caliber 89 (in 1989) to celebrate its 150th anniversary, it was one of the most complicated watches ever made. One of the most unusual complications in the Caliber 89 is one that hasn't been duplicated since (that I'm aware of, anyway) – an indication for the date of Easter. The reason why is not simply because Patek has a patent for the date-of-Easter mechanism, either. It does, however, have to do with the fact that a true date-of-Easter complication is probably the single most difficult complication in horology – so much so, that despite the Caliber 89, it may, for all intents and purposes, be impossible.

In the Caliber 89, the date-of-Easter complication is handled by a mechanism for which Patek Philippe applied for a patent in 1983. The patent lists, as the inventors of the date-of-Easter mechanism, Jean-Pierre Musy, François Devaud, and Frédérique Zesiger; Jean-Pierre Musy has been with Patek Philippe for nearly four decades and has been the company's technical director for many years. The mechanism for displaying the date of Easter was designed to show the correct date from 1989, until 2017. The reason that all four Caliber 89 watches are now in need of service has to do with how the Caliber 89 "knows" the correct date.

Easter is one of the "moveable feasts" of the Christian calendar; it falls on a different date every year. The reason is this: the basic rule for Easter is that it falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon of Spring (that is, the first full moon after the Spring Equinox) and because both astronomical events are variable, the Easter date changes every year. (As with any calendrical irregularity, there have been various proposals over the centuries to just pick a single date, but so far nothing has stuck). For this reason, Easter can fall anywhere between March 22 and April 25.

The Caliber 89 date-of-Easter mechanism knows the right date for Easter thanks to a notched program wheel. Basically, the program wheel advances one step per year and each step has a different depth. Depending on the depth, the hand showing the Easter date will jump to the correct date for that year.

The mechanism is reasonably straightforward; in the original patent diagram above, you can see the program wheel just to the right, at 3:00, as well as the question mark-shaped rack that moves the actual hand. The hand itself (15) is shown, as well as the spiral spring that retains it in position once it's jumped to the correct date. (The rack is lifted by the lever, 27, which pivots at 28; the same lever indexes the program wheel via the toothed wheel 40. You can see the foot of the rack sitting on one of the program wheel steps, at 10, held in place by the spring, 26.)

You can easily see now the only problem with this otherwise ingeniously designed mechanism: the program wheel can have only so many steps. The program wheel might remind you of the one at the heart of a classic perpetual calendar, but a leap year cycle repeats, reliably, once every four years (there are corrections at 100 and 400 years, but again, these are predictably periodic). The date of Easter, on the other hand, repeats a full sequence of possible dates at a much longer interval of years, and so can't be fully encoded in a program disk. 

Calculating the date of Easter didn't used to be quite so complicated. The rule according to the Julian calendar was fairly straightforward. A full cycle of full moon dates was thought to follow a 19 year cycle (the so-called Metonic cycle, which you might remember from our coverage of the Vacheron ultra-complication 57260) consisting of 235 lunar months. A fully cycle of the Julian calendar was 76 years (after four Metonic cycles – 19 x 4 = 76 – a full leap year cycle was completed also). Easter dates repeated, in the Julian calendar, every 536 years – as Ian Stewart points out in his 2001 Scientific American article on the subject, the mathematical principle is that, "532 is the lowest common multiple of 76 (the Julian calendar’s cycle) and 7 (the cycle of days in the week)." As we all know, though, the Julian calendar did not adequately correct for the actual time of the Earth's orbit around the Sun vs. the number of days in the calendar, and gradually it drifted badly out of sync with the seasons.

Then Pope Gregory XIII came along. He instituted a new calendar – what we now know as the Gregorian calendar – and, to correct the drift of the Julian calendar, decreed a one-time update wherein the day after Thursday, October 4, 1582 would be not Friday, October 5, but rather Friday, October 15. (It's said many farmers bitterly opposed the correction, seeing it as an attempt on the part of landlords to deprive them of a week and a half's rent.)

With the new calendar came a new procedure for calculating the date of Easter. Each year would be assigned a number called the Epact – this was the age of the Moon on January 1 (the number could be anywhere from 1 to 29). In addition, each year was given a letter corresponding to the date of the first Sunday in January (A-G). These "Dominical Letters" (Leap Years get two) plus the Epact for that year, plus the Golden number (where you are in the Metonic cycle) are the raw material used to calculate the date of Easter. These are just the basics – in order to keep the ecclesiastical Moon and Equinox reasonably aligned to the astronomical ones, periodic adjustments have to be made which make the actual calculation much more complicated (for a good look at how things get complicated fast, check out this article on the Cycle of Epacts, which will tax your appetite for minutiae like you wouldn't believe).

A couple of points: first, the astronomical events considered in the calculation are abstractions. The Church considers March 21 the fixed date of the Spring Equinox, but in fact, the date of the actual astronomical Equinox varies from one year to the next. Second, the astronomical full moon doesn't always correspond to the ecclesiastical full Moon. Creating algorithms that spit out the correct date of Easter has been a diversion for mathematicians ever since Gregory XIII reformed the calendar, and even before. Karl Friedrich Gauss, who is often called the greatest mathematician of the 19th century, came up with such an algorithm in 1800, and in The Art Of Computer Programming, Donald Knuth (who famously coined the term "surreal numbers" to describe John Conway's discovery of a set of numbers much larger than infinity) wrote that, "There are many indications that the sole important application of arithmetic in Europe in the Middle Ages was the calculation of the date of Easter."

A method for calculating the Easter date is called a computus; is it possible to make a true mechanical computus, rather than relying on a program disk? The answer is, "sort of." The first true mechanical computus appears to have been made not long after Gauss came up with his algorithm, and it currently resides in a place more horological enthusiasts should know about: the great astronomical clock in the cathedral at Strasbourg, in Alsace, France. There have actually been three successive astronomical clocks there since about 1354, but the most recent was completed in 1843. Designed by Jean-Baptiste Schwilgué, it has a true mechanical computus – probably the first ever constructed.  It's not the only mechanical computus, but I haven't been able to find anything in English on other computus devices (although a reprint of a review of a book on the Strasbourg computus mentions at least two other "similar" mechanisms).

Certainly it's the only one of its kind in terms of operating principles; I'm actively trying to research how it works but it's an uphill climb to put it mildly. The clock itself is a virtuoso piece of horology even without the computus – an article by Bryan Hayes, for Sciences, in 1999, mentions that there is a gear in the astronomical train of the clock that makes one rotation every 2,500 years, and that furthermore, the clock features a celestial globe that makes one rotation about an axis showing the precession of the Equinoxes only once every 25,000 years (the article was on Y2K compliance, and on how the Strasbourg clock is Y2K compliant with a vengeance).

Fortunately for the horologically curious (and maybe intellectually masochistic) you can see the computus mechanism – it's on display in a case at the lower left hand side of the base of the clock. You'll notice that among the otherwise gnomic assembly of gears is a display for the Epact of the current year, as well as the current Domenical Letter. The "Nombre D'Or" or Golden Number is the number corresponding to the current year's position in the Metonic cycle (one through 19, as shown) which is also necessary for the calculation.

Once a year, on New Year's Eve, the mechanism comes to life. Its gears turn and, on the main calendar ring next to the computus – mirabile dictu – a metal tab changes position until it comes to rest next to the correct date of Easter for that year. 

Schwilgué had made a model of the computus as well, which was stolen in 1945 and hasn't been seen since. However, clockmaker Frederic Klinghammer (1908-2006) who was employed by a company that at one time was responsible for the care of the clock, built a working model of the computus in the 1970s, and it's that model which is the basis for what modern information there is on how the Strasbourg cathedral computus actually works.

At this point you can understand why the trio who designed the date-of-Easter complication for Patek might have looked at each other and said, "Okay, guys, look ... let's just go with a program wheel." Modern fabrication techniques might make it possible to make a mechanical computus, based on Schwilgué's design, that would fit into a large wrist or pocket watch but my guess is that even with things like LIGA and silicon fabrication, it would be pushing it (though I'd kind of love it if someone would try). A 28 year program disk seems a reasonable compromise, even if replacing it with a disk for another 28 years probably involves non-minor surgery on the Caliber 89. The program disk is an unavoidable necessity as, if you use the current rules for calculating the date of Easter, a full cycle of Easter dates only repeats itself once every 5,700,000 years. 

The Strasbourg clock appears to be built to be theoretically correct until the year 10,000 AD (the year indication goes to 9,999 and Schwilgué is supposed to have helpfully suggested that in 10,000, someone might paint in a "1" to the left of the year window). However, if the computus follows a 10,000 year cycle, it will output the incorrect date for Easter in 11,999. In that year, the computus will display the date of Easter as April 4th; in fact, the correct date will be April 11nth.

As you can probably imagine, a program disk for the full cycle of Easter dates would be a wildly impractical thing as well; it would have to have 5,700,000 steps in order to encode the full cycle of Easter dates. If you assume that the 28 step disk is, say, 3 cm in diameter, this gives an approximate circumference of 9.42 cm. That means each individual step takes up about 3.364mm (94.2mm/28).

A 5,700,000 step program wheel would, therefore, be over 19 million millimeters in circumference – more exactly, about 19.176428 kilometers, which is roughly 6.1 km across. Even by pocket watch standards, that's getting a little hefty.

"The (Easter) holiday is a quasicrystal in time, rather than in space."

There is a hidden, abstract beauty to the date of Easter – the very long period of its date cycle hides a remarkable structure. Ian Stewart explains: 

"In general terms, the date of Easter slips back by about eight days each year until it hops forward again. The pattern looks irregular but actually follows the arithmetical procedure just described. In 1990 Alan Mackay, a crystallographer at the University of London, realized that this near-regular slippage ought to show up in a graph that compared the date of Easter with the number of the year. The result is approximately a regular lattice, like the arrangement of atoms in a crystal."

"The peculiarities of the calendar, however, make the dates vary slightly as compared with the lattice. The graph more closely resembles a quasicrystal, a molecular structure built for the first time in the early 1980s. Quasicrystals are not as regular as crystals, but their arrangement of atoms is by no means random. The structure is similar to a curious class of tilings discovered by University of Oxford physicist Roger Penrose; these tilings cover the plane without repeating the same pattern periodically. The atoms of quasicrystals have the same near regularity, as do the dates of Easter. The holiday is a quasicrystal in time rather than space."

The date of Easter encodes a strange kind of orderly disorder, and yet, even that is an expression of an abstraction that only approximates reality. Over a period of 5,700,000 years, as Bryan Hayes points out in his 1999 article on Y2k compliance and the Strasbourg clock, things like tidal drift will cause enough variation in the orbital and rotational periods of the Earth that any algorithm will require ad hoc correction anyway (assuming any humans are around by then to celebrate the holiday in the first place). 

You can look at the Patek Caliber 89 and see its date-of-Easter complication as a compromise, but it isn't – not really. Yes, it's true that the whole structure of astronomical mechanical complications – whether in the Strasbourg cathedral clock, or in watches like Caliber 89 – is a manifestation of a world view. That worldview – of an orderly clockwork universe, with tidy nests of ratios that can be encoded in gear trains – never really existed; the real universe is chaotic and probabilistic. But it is a beautiful vision, albeit it says more ultimately about how we would like the universe to be than how it actually is. There is a poignancy, whether intentional or not, in the fact that there is, at the very heart of the Caliber 89 – a monument to the dream of the music of the spheres – a mechanism that acknowledges that that beautiful dream is also an impossible one.

For a more complete discussion of date-of-Easter algorithms, including that of Gauss, and another famous method submitted anonymously to the journal Nature in 1876, see the Wikipedia article on the computus. 

It's been a while since SIHH, and, as you may recall, we saw a lot of watches back in January at the show. One watch that we saw but didn't really get to talk about was the updated Vacheron Constantin Overseas in 37mm without diamonds. You may remember briefly seeing this watch as Ben's pick for best ladies' watch from SIHH, but there's more to it than that. While this isn't groundbreaking news, like, say, the Celestia Astronomical Grand Complication, it is exciting for those of us who actually want to buy a watch to wear daily in a slightly smaller size.

As you recall, the Overseas collection got a significant relaunch at SIHH 2016, with loads of new models. We saw the Overseas Chronograph, the Overseas Ultra-Thin Automatic with new caliber 5100, and, one for the ladies, the Overseas 37mm with diamonds. A lot of people, including me, loved the Overseas but yearned for the 37mm version to be available without diamonds. And this is true for both guys and gals, I might add. Well, ask and you shall receive – for 2017, Vacheron has created four Overseas models in 37mm cases, three of which come free of stones.

The four models include a stainless steel model with either a rose or blue dial, a two-tone version with pink gold bezel and crown (two-tone is back!) and a silvered dial, and a similar two-tone version with a diamond-set bezel. All four versions are powered by the Vacheron Constantin caliber 5300, which is the same movement used in the diamond-set versions from last year. This is an automatic movement with a 60-hour power reserve and 31 jewels. It has the 22k-gold rotor that is decorated with the compass rose motif, and, as you'd expect from Vacheron, the watch bears the Geneva Seal.

The watch is time only, with a seconds sub-register located at nine o'clock. The steel version comes on a removable linked bracelet, which is one of the highlights of this timepiece, with an alternative alligator strap and rubber strap in blue or rose, depending on the dial color. Additionally, the two-tone version comes on a removable alligator strap and an extra rubber strap in dark brown. Notice what's missing? The date window. Bravo, Vacheron.

As I said, this is nothing ground-breaking, but just a good-old fashioned (and good-looking) sports watch in a versatile size. And there's nothing wrong with that at all. The 37mm Overseas is priced at $18,400 for the stainless steel models, $21,700 for the two-tone model without diamonds, and $28,000 for the two-tone model with diamonds. For more, visit Vacheron Constantin online.

A lot of watchmaking history these days comes to us in the form of marketing from big brands that are trying to part us from our money through references to heritage and provenance. There's still a lot of real history out there, though. A ton of it, actually. And when you find it, sitting in front of you in a large wooden cabinet on the top floor of a building across from some scenic cow pastures in the Swiss Jura, it's nothing short of awesome. I paid a visit to the Montblanc-owned Minerva manufacture in Villeret, Switzerland, last week and found some pretty amazing stuff.

Minerva traces its origins back to 1858, when Charles Robert founded a small watch assembly in Villeret. The family company would eventually become a noted movement maker specializing in all kinds of unusual stopwatches and chronographs, specifically those for sports and scientific measurements. The company remained in family hands for almost a century before being sold to some longtime employees, whose families stayed in control until an Italian investor purchased the company in 2000 with the goal of reviving its former glory. Eventually, Richemont purchased the company in 2006 and a year later incorporated it into Montblanc, where it remains today as the brand's high-watchmaking branch.

By staying under relatively stable control for a century and a half, Minerva was able to maintain much better archives than many of its competitors – which either fully went out of business or had to sell off machinery and components when times got tough. Which is how we have the cabinet you see here. This six-foot-tall array of 45 wooden drawers sits on the top floor of the manufacture, next to the small museum exhibit, and contains tens of thousands of original Minerva components from the 1940s and earlier.

There are chronograph levers and movement baseplates, all contained in little bags with their original handwritten labels (many dated to the early 1940s), and opening each drawer you're not quite sure what you'll find. The most interesting thing I found though was a cache of original grand feu enamel dials for various watches, stopwatches, and chronographs that all date to those first few decades of the 20th century. There are thousands of dials tucked into two dozen drawers or so, and most of them are still wrapped in the original brown tissue paper.

Because they've spent their days out of the sunlight and mostly protected from moisture and other elements, they're still pristine. Making dials like this today would cost a small fortune, and that's if you could even find a supplier to make them in this kind of volume.

Here's a little look inside the Minerva archive. Enjoy.

The Girard-Perregaux Laureato has gone through so many mutations and transformations since the design was first introduced in 1975, that it's hard to think of a single model that really embodies its essence. The first Laureato, after all, was a thin quartz watch and it represents a period when not only GP, but the Swiss watch industry as a whole, was struggling to find a way through the Quartz Crisis. 

Some people find the Laureato's design derivative of the Royal Oak, but I don't see it that way – there are some, I think, fairly trivial similarities, including the use of an octagonal bezel, but if you put the two watches side-by-side they seem to me to clearly be going after different effects. The Royal Oak has a much more visually aggressive, overt angularity which the Laureato manifestly is not trying to ape; instead, it's shooting for a slim, relatively unobtrusive vibe that, the steel case and eight-sided bezel notwithstanding, has much more to do with the mid-century ideal of a thin, elegant dress watch than it does with the flashy geometry of the Royal Oak. Whether this is or isn't a good thing is a matter of taste, but the original Laureato is, I think, fundamentally a much more conservative design than the Royal Oak, at least in terms of its underlying aspirations. 

That the first Laureato was a quartz watch, not a mechanical one, is significant as well; GP was one of the first Swiss brands to offer a quartz watch. The first in-house GP quartz movement was the Elcron caliber, which came out in 1970 and ran at 8,192 Hz. In 1971, however, the GP-350 caliber debuted – this was the first quartz movement with a crystal vibrating at 32,768 Hz, which has become the frequency standard for almost all quartz movements made, right up to the present. 

The original Laureato, therefore, wasn't just an attempt to use a modern design idiom to achieve the feel of a traditional thin dress watch – it was an attempt by Girard-Perregaux, and by extension the Swiss watch industry, to assert itself as a leader in both aesthetic and technical modernity; not for nothing did it proudly say "chronometer" on the dial of the original Laureato. It's on the same continuum with later, even more extreme examples of ultra-thin quartz horology, like the Omega Dinosaure or Concord Delirium, and it's also an ancestor to later thin, integrated bracelet quartz watches such as the 1980 Piaget Polo (another now-classic design that started out as a quartz watch, with the caliber 7P in 1979 and 8P in 1980).

Laureato was exclusively a quartz watch for quite a long time (it was used as a vehicle for quartz complications as well) and, interestingly enough, the first mechanical Laureato didn't come along until fairly late in the game. In 1995, GP introduced a mechanical Laureato with its in-house automatic caliber 3100. The 3000 family of movements was first introduced, just the year before, in 1994, and like the original Laureato, they are rather conservative in certain respects – they're relatively small by modern standards, at 11 1/2 lignes, or 25.60 mm x 3.36mm, for the caliber 3300 (the caliber 3000 is a 10 1/2 ligne movement). However, this is comparable to the ETA 2892, which is also an 11 1/2 ligne caliber (and 3.6mm thick). The 3300, which is used in the just-released 38mm Laureato watches, is a fairly high-beat caliber, at 28,8000 vph.

The 3000 family of GP movements, by the way, has found its way into some interesting watches from other brands. MB&F uses the 3300 caliber as the basis for a number of its Horological Machines, where its dimensions and general reliability give a lot of flexibility in overall design and mechanical implementation; in 1996, Vacheron Constantin used the GP 3100 as the Vacheron Constantin caliber 1311, in the first series of the Overseas watch – the first new model launched by VC after it was acquired by the Vendôme Group.

My own first encounter with the Laureato was in the early 2000s, when I had a ref. 8010 in the rotation for a time. This series, from the mid-1990s, used the caliber 3100 and it's a 36mm watch; mine had a slate-blue Clous de Paris (hobnail) dial. On the wrist, it was a very pleasant watch; thin, genuinely elegant, very versatile thanks to the integrated case and bracelet, and with a movement that, while not an haute horlogerie product on the level of a Patek caliber 240, say, or an AP 2120, still had a respectable history, an advantage of originality over the ubiquitous ETA 2892 (in those pre-Sellita days) and, as well, pleasantly gracile dimensions.

The new 38mm Laureatos have a lot of what made the ref. 8010 so appealing – a 3000 caliber family movement (in this case, the 3300) and appealing dimensions as well, at 38mm x 10.02mm. The hobnail dials are back as well, although the bezel and hands are slightly heavier – you get a bit more visual impact, as well as better legibility (not that the ref. 8010 was hard to read but the older I get the more I realize very little bit helps) and an integrated bracelet with the same slightly biomorphic elegance you have in the 8010. In fact, the 38mm Laureato feels very much like a pre-21st century watch, and like the original quartz Laureato from 1975, it's as much geared towards satisfying mid-century thin, daily-wear dress watch codes as it is geared to satisfying modern market demands. In that respect, it's almost anachronistic. Oddly enough, the slightly heavier bezel emphasizes its incidental similarities to the Royal Oak far more than the thinner bezels of the 1975 model, or the mid-90s 8010, ever did.

I think the new 38mm Laureatos make a solid case for themselves, especially in steel. Fit and finish are very good; there's some very subtle beveling on the case flanks which is especially nicely done and the transitions between brushed and polished surfaces give you a lot of texture and variety, emphasizing the case geometry without seeming garish or harsh. The various 38mm models are available on straps or bracelets, and the effect on a bracelet is quite handsome but for my money, the bracelet is the way to go as it's so much part of the design history, and current design language, of the Laureato. Not that the strap looks bad, but as with the Royal Oak, getting a Laureato on a strap is something of an exercise in contrarianism.

Now, here's the thing: I like these a lot, but I said earlier that there have been so many models of the Laureato over the years, that it's hard to think of one that's truly iconic for the design. For me the most iconic Laureato is always going to be the reference 8010 – it came along when I was really exploring modern watch design intensively for the first time (after being interested, for many years, mostly in antiquarian horology) and as well, when I first ran across the 8010, the enthusiast landscape was different. I got to know GP as the company that had made amazing things like the Esmerelda Tourbillon pocket watch and which had originated the tourbillon under three golden bridges design in the 19th century; the company that had dared to innovate in quartz tech early on and which had taken a technically leading position; the company that had made the amazing Chronometer HF (a high frequency automatic chronometer which, in the 1960s, was so precise that GP guaranteed accuracy to within one minute per month). And of course, more recently, it's the company that put the first true constant force escapement in a wristwatch – a major milestone in watchmaking.

I think the Laureato 38mm in steel, on a bracelet, is a great watch with a lot on offer but it also underscores the basic problem GP has nowadays, which is figuring out how to take all the indisputable assets it has in its history, and creating some sort of narrative that makes sense to modern consumers. The company has been something of an index, ever since the end of World War II, for the ups and downs of the Swiss watch industry and it's never occupied a high-end position exclusively; it's made everything from very middle-of-the-road watches with third party movements (like the first series of post World War II Sea Hawk watches – solid value watches, by the way, just not haute horlogerie) to extremely elevated stuff like its pocket tourbillons, to crazy complications like the Jackpot Tourbillon, to pretty much anything else you can imagine. 

(Above, a 2010 HODINKEE video of the Jackpot Tourbillon.)

There have been any number of historically important and truly fantastic watches along the way but what GP clearly needs, moving forward, is a clearer public expression of its own identity and a realistic assessment of the position it actually inhabits in the mindset of its consumers. All the pieces are there and I'm sure the temptation to try and be all things to all people is strong (especially if your history and technical capacities make it actually possible) but a narrower focus is often a clearer one.

And the Laureato makes me think – again – just how subjective tastes in watches really are. Appreciation and connoisseurship are funny things. You start out by accumulating knowledge as a way of giving depth to experience, but at some point, if you live long enough, the exercise of connoisseurship starts to become an exercise in nostalgia as well. You start out collecting experiences and you end by reflecting on the experiences you've had in the past. Maybe that's one reason why disagreements among enthusiasts can become so heated; you're not so much arguing over objective specifics as you are debating validity of how you experienced something in the past, which of course really means you're arguing over your identity.

I loved the Laureato ref. 8010 when it came along, and I really like the new 38mm Laureatos, however that's grounded not just in a more thorough grasp of the company's history and accomplishment than a lot of relative newcomers to mechanical watches are likely to have, it's also grounded in a particular time, and a particular personal experience. If other enthusiasts don't share my affection for the model, I can hardly blame them for not sharing the context behind that affection. 

What I do hope for though, in general, is a little more appreciation for the value of context in understanding what a watch actually represents. If you don't know anything about when the Laureato came to be, and what it's been over the last 42 years, then yeah, you might be apt to think of them as poor man's Royal Oaks on first examination. However if you do dig a little more into the history of both the Laureato, and GP, I think things start to look a little different. The Laureato is an outlier, sure, but not being in the mainstream of most identifiable watch designs is not necessarily a bad thing. It would be a dull old world indeed if we all wore Rolex Submariners (not that we don't sometimes seem to be trying). You can call picking a Laureato a gesture of contrarianism, or one of individuality – which one, depends at least as much on where you're coming from, as it does where the Laureato came from.

The Girard-Perregaux Laureato in 38mm, as shown: stainless steel on strap, $9,700; stainless steel on bracelet, $10,400; rose gold on strap, $19,900. Case dimensions, 38mm x 10.02mm. All watches with GP caliber 3300, 25.60mm x 3.36mm; 27 jewels, 46-hour power reserve, 28,800 vph. Water resistance 100m for steel models and 50m for gold models. Alligator straps. See the entire Laureato collection at girard-perregaux.com.

On April 3, the Horological Society of New York (HSNY) celebrated its 151st anniversary with a gala dinner and charity auction in Midtown Manhattan. Members and guests from across the country gathered to celebrate New York's horological tradition, see the presentation of the Henry B. Fried Scholarship, and bid on a collection of vintage timepieces.

The Henry B. Fried Scholarship was established to assist American watchmaking students in their studies at full-time watchmaking schools and was awarded for the first time at the 2017 Gala. HSNY's Director of Education, Steve Eagle, spoke on the merits of horological education and reflected on his time at watchmaking school. Eagle then introduced the 2017 Henry B. Fried Scholarship awardee, Justin Shellenberger. Shellenberger is a first year student at the Lititz Watch Technicum in Pennsylvania. In his scholarship application, Shellenberger referenced the impact that the writing of Fried and Daniels made on his watchmaking ambitions.

A collection of vintage timepieces bequeathed to HSNY over 40 years ago was auctioned at the 2017 Gala, with proceeds going towards HSNY's newly established endowment fund. Bidding was enthusiastic, with over $30,000 raised from the five lots. The charity auction was made possible by HSNY sponsor Heritage Auctions, and called by Nicholas Dawes of PBS Antiques Roadshow fame.

The crowd was a diverse mix of watchmakers, clockmakers, collectors, journalists, auctioneers, and executives (with more than a few HODINKEE team members in the mix), reflecting the friendship and generosity of the NYC & US watch industry. Plans for HSNY's 2018 Gala are already underway, and we are looking forward to seeing you there!

HODINKEE is a sponsor of the Horological Society of New York.

(Photos: Monica Schipper)

 As long as this little site has been on the interwebs, I've been talking about how much I love the idea of early travel watches (see?). There is something so beautiful about them – so romantic. Or, to borrow a term from my colleague Cara, they're just "chic AF." Why? Think about what international travel meant in the 1960s. We're talking about donning your Sunday best as you step aboard one of the first commercial jet-liners (Boeing 707 or Douglas DC-8, naturally). Once aboard, you're met by a smiling, well-dressed young man or woman, and served the drink of your choice, or maybe several drinks of your choice. The entire cabin is respectful of the fact that international travel is even possible and to be clear, it is not something, in the early 1960s, that most can even imagine – the average domestic ticket on TWA would cost you 5% of your yearly income. 

And this only makes the fact that some Swiss companies – well, one in particular – was building wristwatches designed for those who jumped timezones so special. Vintage travel watches are rare. In fact, they are far rarer than I think most people realize, and that is why I thought I'd call attention to the two Patek Philippe travel watches available at the Phillips' Geneva Watch Auction Five this May.

Patek Philippe Reference 2597

This is reference 2597. Think of it as a ref. 570 Calatrava with a special travel-time movement – because that's basically what it is. Using caliber 12’’’400 HS (heures sautantes, or jumping hours), we have a time-only watch that allows its wearer to jump the hours forward and back using two small pushers integrated into the side of the case (which Laurent Ferrier may have seen when designing this).

By pushing the button at bottom with your finger nail, the hour hand jumps exactly one hour backward. By pressing the button at top, it jumps one hour forward. This design was conceived by Louis Cottier to allow for quick timezone adjustments without having to take the watch off your wrist. Two different series of the 2597 were made – series one as you see here, and series two with a second stationary hour hand, or "home time" hand.

I have long admired the 2597 and have looked long and hard for great examples – they are incredibly difficult to find. If you look for second series watches with the third hand you might be waiting a very long time. A tip I've picked up along the way is that you will from time to time find 2597s with a third hand that dates to pre-1961 – if that's the case, that third hand is likely not original. Frankly, the majority of the three-hand 2597s I've seen sell over the years I assume were not born that way.

So, what makes a desirable 2597? Quality, obviously, and potentially a retailer's signature. Last year Phillips sold this very high quality 2597 signed by Gübelin and accompanied by an original bracelet at just over $106,000 after it was previously on offer by Watches In Rome for some time. The watch seen in the upcoming sale is also double-signed, but it's a New York watch and the Tiffany & Co. signature is present above "Patek Philippe" at 12 o'clock. This watch is compelling in its origins and is made even more so by its seemingly unmolested condition and Tiffany signature. The case quality is very good, the dial signature deep and clean, though there seems to be large-ish dimple between 11 and 12 o'clock not easily visible from the listing pictures. Still, this is an extremely desirable example of a very rare and interesting reference, especially if you're like me and still wish you were born in the golden age of jet travel.

Click here for more.

Buyer's Tip

This is not the only 2597 coming up for sale. Here is another high quality 2597 – this one comes from Dr. Crott and is void of a double-signature. The watch is very nice and has some interesting provenance, though the astute buyer will remember that Antiquorum sold this very watch just last December. It sold all-in then for $67,500, while the estimate at Dr. Crott this time is €85,000 to €110,000. To be fair to the seller, the sale price in December was below market price and it did not include any mention of who its owner was, whereas Dr. Crott does make mention of who its original owner was and why he is important. We will see if a flip is possible soon enough.

Patek Philippe 2523/1

The 2597 travel time above allows the wearer to jump timezones easily, while the reference 2523 allows the wearer to see all timezones at once. The 2597 plays it cool and stays under the radar – it could easily be confused for a simple Calatrava. The 2523/1 however is a different beast. It not-so-casually displays all timezones around the world. It features long, elaborate lugs. The center ring may be seen with a few different patterns (the enamel discs are found on its brother reference, the 2523). Oh, and of course, this bad boy has two crowns!

No, you weren't seeing a 2523/1 on the wrist of your average millionaire in the 1960s. The idea of a worldtime Patek wristwatch dates all the way back to the 1930s with the introduction of the 1415 – it featured just one crown and an engraved city ring. The 2523 came out in 1953, again with the help of Louis Cottier who originally developed the idea decades earlier and licensed the technology to Patek as well as Rolex and Vacheron Constantin.

Now this 2523/1 is a special one, naturally. This, like the 2597 above, is signed by Tiffany & Co. So you can just imagine a New York magnate walking into the flagship store on June 5, 1964 and saying "I want the most expensive watch you have" and being shown this. Indeed, the 2523/1 was an exceedingly expensive watch in period and it did not sell well – which is why only nine of them are known. This is the only example signed by Tiffany currently on the market and that only adds to the opulence that is perhaps the defining wristwatch of the golden age of aviation.

Click here to read more on this Patek Philippe 2523/1.

Buyer's Tip

While this Tiffany-signed 2523/1 is a very special watch – one of just nine examples of this reference known and the only Tiffany retailed piece – it sold in 2008 at Christie's for around $800,000. Some years later it was offered by Lugano-based dealer Davide Parmegiani.

In January 2017, Jean-Claude Biver announced that he would be acting as interim CEO for Zenith, in addition to staying Head of Watchmaking at LVMH, Chairman of Hublot, and CEO of TAG Heuer. He's a busy man. At the time, the plan was to find a full time candidate within six months, and now just three months later we've got our guy. The news broke today that Julien Tornare is taking over as the top boss at Zenith after spending the last 17 years at Vacheron Constantin.

It is no secret that of the LVMH watch brands Zenith has been having the hardest go of things recently, a fact that pushed Jean-Claude Biver to energetically step in just before SIHH this year. At the time, he told Arthur he had "become impatient, which has led me [Biver] to lose a certain confidence in the ability of the managing team." However, it was always in the cards that his tenure as CEO was limited, giving him the time to find someone with the right profile to turn things around.

Today, it was announced that Biver's pick is Julien Tornare, a real veteran of the watch industry. Tornare has spent the last 17 years at Vacheron Constantin and worked at Raymond Weil for two years prior to that. Most recently at Vacheron, Tornare was in charge of the 13 boutiques in the Asia Pacific market, which he began after supervising the boutiques in both the Swiss and U.S. market's. In an article announcing the news (in French), Mr. Tornare fully acknowledges the challenge that he will face at Zenith, where he will start at the beginning of next month. He was careful to stress the asset that Zenith's history represents though and also mentioned that he's ready to work in collaboration with Jean-Claude Biver, who has clearly communicated that he will remain deeply involved at Zenith for the foreseeable future. 

It will be interesting to see the direction that Zenith takes in the next few months, and the balance that it will find between its historical pieces and the more contemporary designs.

This week, we’ve assembled an assortment of vintage watches covering all categories. Whether it be a mono-pusher chronograph from the 1940s with an amazing set of lugs or a charmingly-patinated Longines made for the French navy, each piece possesses transformative details that set it apart. From sporty to elegant to historically important, any of these pieces would be a delight to own and wear. Read on for more details. 

1975 Rolex Reference 1625 'Thunderbird' In Yellow Gold

Named for the U.S. Air Force Air Demonstration Squad officially activated in 1953, the Rolex 'Thunderbird' was born in the 1950s as a Datejust modified for the active sportsman. The best part though was that it was initially produced exclusively with either yellow or white gold. This example from 1975 looks absolutely exceptional with its golden dial, and it makes a truly luxurious statement on the wrist. See more here. 

1960s Doxa SUB 300T Searambler

Created for divers and perfected in the depths of Lake Neuchatel, this Doxa SUB 300T's legible dial and U.S. Divers official depth rating on the outer rim of the bezel gives the (correct) impression that this watch was built for action. That doesn't mean that it lacks in the aesthetics department though. The tonneau case, orange accents, and silver dial all work together to create a statement on and off the wrist. Read more here. 

1940s Longines Reference 5774 For The Marine Nationale

Issued in December 1948, this Longines military wristwatch is perfectly charming, perfectly patinated, and perfectly balanced. Complete with a certificate from Longines identifying this watch as issued to an officer of the Marine Nationale, it sports military engravings on the caseback and a coppery, almost iridescent, patina. A truly exceptional watch at 33mm, but with a thick case, domed bezel, and elongated lugs – don't let the diameter stop you. All the details here. 

Wait, There's More

In addition to the watches mentioned above, we have a 1940s Sabina Suisse mono-pusher chronograph, a 1966 Tudor Advisor reference 7926, and a 1960s Gübelin Ipsovox. 

All are available now on the HODINKEE Shop. 

The latest complication from Ralph Lauren is a minute repeater, which seems at first glance like a risky undertaking bordering on foolhardy. After all, there are to this day quite a lot of vocal objections to the idea of Ralph Lauren doing a watch collection at all, much less one that includes such an elevated complication. At the same time though, I've always felt that if you are going to accept the idea of Ralph Lauren as a maker of luxury watches at all, you have to give the idea its head, so to speak, which means the question is not, does Ralph Lauren have a right to make a minute repeater, so much as it is, has Ralph Lauren made an interesting minute repeater?

The Ralph Lauren minute repeater is a 42mm x 10.10mm watch – in other words, on the flat side as both watches and minute repeaters go. For comparison, the F. P. Journe Répétition Souveraine, which is considered a thin repeater, is 8.65mm thick; Vacheron Constantin's Patrimony Contemporaine Ultra-Thin Calibre 1731 is 8.09mm thick; the world's thinnest repeater, the Bulgari Octo Finissimo Minute Repeater is 40mm x 6.85mm, which is a record that seems unlikely to be broken any time soon. Bear in mind as well that these are all designed as extra-flat/ultra-thin watches; the new Audemars Piguet Jules Audemars Minute Repeater is 43mm x 13.15mm, so point to Ralph Lauren for making a slim, elegant repeating watch. (This isn't such a surprise, either; one of Lauren's favorite watches from his own collections is the 867 square model in guilloché white gold, which is only 27.5 mm square and 5.75 mm thick – basically, the Cartier Tank that Cartier itself isn't making).

Design-wise, this might be one of the most classically oriented repeaters out there. Generally speaking, you don't get this sort of guilloché work on the cases or dials of most modern repeaters, which – at least in the models from AP, Vacheron and Patek – tend to skew very austere. The Ralph Lauren Minute Repeater really puts Lauren's affection for the elegance of the Deco era on display, which is a fascinating thing – on the one hand with Lauren you have an absolutely irresistible attraction to the general atmosphere of the great outdoors, and for American Western design in particular (after all, this is the guy who put Western-inspired clothes on the map, and injected them into the general design language of modern clothing design, back in the 1970s and '80s). On the other hand, you have the Ralph Lauren who finds the Art Deco era an endless source of quotable quotes, so to speak – an American for whom elegance is not only European, but aspirationally European. The latter is very much where the 867 collection of watches comes from and it's definitely where the RL Minute Repeater is coming from.

All the context aside, and leaving aside for the moment the extent to which the RL Minute Repeater is a refracting lens for the disparate inspirations and motivations Lauren has imbibed over the decades, it's as traditional a repeater, and watch, as I've ever seen – so much so that it's almost reactionary.

The case, dial and hands are done to an impressive standard and the minute hand in particular is very finely done, tapering to almost nothing before the triangle-tipped circle at the end. Two criticisms: I would have left out "minute repeater" (in a watch this oriented towards early 20th century aesthetics, and minimalist elegance, the words seem to detract from the effect and the sans-serif typeface seems too modern) and, I think I'd have tried to find someplace else for "Ralph Lauren." Printing directly onto a guilloché surface can be tricky; it works in the 27mm square 867 model, I think, because where the letters are placed, the guilloché is so fine the letters give a visual impression of flatness; here there is just enough depth in the engine-turning that the letters take on a subtle but distracting ripple effect. Perhaps a flattened area onto which the logo is printed would help (a la the solution to this issue used by Audemars Piguet in the Royal Oak). Other than those quibbles, this is an impressively elegant and rather subtle repeater.

The movement is rather interesting. Obviously Ralph Lauren is not a manufacture (nor has it ever claimed to be one) and the movements in Ralph Lauren watches are supplied, at the higher end, by the Richemont Group, including IWC, Jaeger LeCoultre, and Piaget. Entry level price points are covered by Sellita calibers (totally appropriate to the price) but occasionally Ralph Lauren works with other suppliers as well. Most notably, in 2013, the movement for the Safari Tourbillon (a micro-rotor caliber) was supplied by La Fabrique du Temps, in Meyrin (just outside Geneva, and the location of a number of brand's manufacturing centers). La Fabrique du Temps became La Fabrique du Temps Louis Vuitton in 2012, by the way, when Louis Vuitton acquired it.

The RL888 caliber appears to be a version of a minute repeater movement made by La Fabrique du Temps – the general layout is identical to that of the repeater works in Louis Vuitton's Escale Minute Repeater Worldtime (caliber LV235) although the bridgework and aesthetics are both rather different. 

The aesthetics and finish of the caliber RL888 (which, like the LV235, has a 100 hour power reserve and beats at 21,600 vph) were obviously deliberate decisions to bring the appearance of the movement in line with the overall aesthetics of the watch. Again, the layout is bordering on anachrononistic. The use of finger bridges for the center, third, and fourth wheels is something characteristic of a lot of Swiss production from the mid-to late 19th century, giving you an old-fashioned view through the back that's a good match for the old-fashioned look of the watch overall. 

The skeletonized escape wheel (which is also found in caliber LV235) is a touch of modern technology (it looks like a LIGA-fabricated metal part, not silicon) although intriguingly enough, RL888 uses a lateral lever configuration rather than the virtually ubiquitous inline lever escapement – lateral levers nowadays are found almost nowhere else than nowadays than in tourbillons, although you can find them fairly frequently in 19th century pocket watches.

This isn't a unique piece but it is going to be made only to order, so at least for now the watch you see here is the only one of its kind. It's going to stay a pretty rare bird, as this is obviously not a large series product! Pricing is $206,000. Now for anyone who thinks a Ralph Lauren luxury watch of any kind is prima facie absurd, this watch is not likely to convince them otherwise. However as small series repeaters go, the price (to the extent that price comparisons are even a relevant consideration for people in the market for six figure repeaters) is on the less aggressive side of the repeater spectrum (the simplest Patek repeater, the reference 5078G, is an application-only piece, priced at $350,000). 

Of course the repeater is an auditory, as well as a visual, complication; here's the Ralph Lauren Minute Repeater in action.

The volume is surprisingly good – white gold isn't generally considered an optimum metal for repeaters although this is as much as anything else, a matter of taste. All other things being equal, you get a cooler sound than you would from rose gold (conventionally thought of as the most ideal material from a traditionalist standpoint) but that's not necessarily bad; just different. And of course how the case and dial are actually made, as well as everything from how the gongs are tempered and tuned, to how they're fixed to the movement plate, have a huge effect on the final sound as well; repeaters are complicated in more ways than one.

It's worth noting also that this is a 30m water resistant watch, with the slide constructed in such a way as to help prevent water getting into the case. Traditionally, minute repeaters are in general about as water resistant as a sieve – gaskets have a tendency to deaden sound – so that's a plus as well, and in terms of volume, certainly, the Ralph Lauren Minute Repeater doesn't seem to have suffered from having some degree of water resistance.

This particular watch is really a prototype and you obviously can't extrapolate from its performance to the sound of a delivered watch, but you can see (well, hear) that, right now, the higher of the two chimes need refinement – the hammer's rest position sounds like it's a little too close to the gong, which tends to muffle the chime prematurely (a watchmaker would say the depthing of the hammer needs adjustment and indeed, this is one of the essential steps in fine-tuning a repeater). I'd want it tweaked if I were taking delivery of this watch, but as prototype repeaters go, the overall impression was pretty positive. 

As a Ralph Lauren high-end, haute de gamme luxury watch, this is no more or less challenging than any other high end Ralph Lauren watch; as I said before, if you found the idea absurd before, you're not going to change your mind now (at least, I don't think so). As a minute repeater, however, and taken on its own merits aesthetically, I think there's a lot to like here – the Old World, and highly traditionalist execution of the movement and watch give an impression you don't really get from any other repeater on the market. 

The Ralph Lauren Minute Repeater is made to order, and if you're interested you can enquire through the Ralph Lauren flagship boutique at 867 Madison Avenue in New York.

Winston Churchill loved his watches. We know that because we’ve seen some of his favorite pieces up close, including his beloved Breguet pocket watch which he nicknamed the Turnip. We've also seen correspondence between Churchill and none other than Rolex founder Hans Wilsdorf, regarding wrist sizes and engravings. Mr. Winston Churchill would later receive Rolex's 100,000th chronometer, a gold Datejust with his coat of arms on the back, as a gift from Wilsdorf himself.

This week, we found out about another watch formerly in his collection. It's an 18k yellow gold Lemania chronograph, another gift – this time from the Canton de Vaud. And it pre-dates his Datejust, no less. The watch, which was recently acquired by a private individual, is Lot 160 in Sotheby's next watch auction, being held May 25 in London, and it's special for quite a few reasons.

First off, the whole watch is made of gold. All of it, from the case to the hands to the hour markers, and even the dial is gilt. Therefore, it’s a very, very yellow Lemania, whereas most Lemania chronographs – when they were not ébauche movements supplied to other manufacturers – were cased in stainless steel. This is basically the opposite of that. Note that one of the pushers is a replacement, and not a very good one at that, which unfortunately throws the visual balance of the watch off a bit. See it here?

Second, it’s a chronograph of some repute. Inside the watch is a caliber CH27-C12, a manually-wound chronograph developed in the early 1940s in partnership with Omega, who called it the Caliber 321. CH27-C12 might not sound familiar to many of you, but Caliber 321 probably does. This movement was used to power, among other things, the Speedmaster that made its way to the Moon. 

And, finally, this watch was a personal gift from the Canton de Vaud, where the Lemania manufacture was based (the manufacture was purchased by Breguet in the 1990s, and, to this day, the Swatch Group company uses the building to make its own watches). Churchill received the watch while he was vacationing in Switzerland with his wife Clementine, shortly before delivering a speech at the University of Zurich, where he shared his vision of a united Europe.

Because of the timeline, Sotheby’s is suggesting the watch is a symbol of Churchill’s "vision of peace and unity in Europe." The claim should be taken with a grain of salt though, since there is no evidence that Churchill wrote his speech while visiting the Canton de Vaud, or that his experience of Switzerland inspired his speech, or that he even wore the watch during the speech. Either way, the value of the watch resides in the certainty of its singularity and provenance, not its metaphorical significance.

Sotheby's is estimating the value of the watch between £15,000 and £25,000 (approximately $19,000 to $32,000 at time of publishing). I suspect this lot will appeal more to collectors of Winston Churchill memorabilia than to watch collectors. The former will surely see past the condition of the watch – the case was severely knocked near the top pusher, and the dial is flaking between four and five o'clock – in order to secure an intimate piece of his watch collection.

For more information, visit Sotheby's online.

This is one of the most unlikely and wonderful little machines to come out of Jaeger-LeCoultre, ever. You may have read about the Compass Camera before, but if not, it's a compact camera that JLC made in the late 1930s, and at the time it was one of the most technically advanced cameras anyone had ever made. Machined out of aluminum, it's a 35mm film camera, with rangefinder, ground glass viewfinder, exposure meter, and a ton of other bells and whistles, all in a package just 2 3/4 inches x 2 1/4 inches x 1 1/4 inches.

The Compass Camera was the brainchild of a guy who, if you were in an especially charitable mood, you'd describe as "a character." Noel Pemberton Billing (1881-1948) was a man of many interests, and nothing if not an iconoclast – he got his start in professional life when, at the age of 13, he set fire to the headmaster's office at his school and ran away from home. Eventually he ended up in South Africa, where he worked odd jobs (apparently he was a pretty good boxer) until he was old enough to join the Army, and he ended up being wounded twice in the Second Boer War.

Back in London after the war, he devoted himself enthusiastically to two things: aviation and politics. In the latter field that he became notorious – Billing held extreme right wing views and also had many rather weird conspiracy theories – but that didn't keep him from becoming a Member of Parliament in due course. The aircraft company he founded – Pemberton-Billing Ltd. – would go on to become Supermarine Aviation Works Ltd., and would manufacture, amongst other groundbreaking aircraft, the Supermarine Spitfire. This was some time after Billing had anything to do with the company, but he never lost his taste for inventing and in the early 1930s – supposedly as a result of a bet as to whether it was possible to make a camera that would fit into a cigarette packet – he began work on a miniature, collapsible camera that would accept 35mm film.

35mm format film started out as cinema film and as every photography buff knows, its earliest use for still photography was when Eastman Kodak cinema film was adapted for use in still photography by Oskar Barnak, for Leitz Camera. His Leica camera debuted in 1927 and it was revolutionary, with a design that has stood the test of time with almost unbelievable stability (modern digital Leica M cameras bear a startling resemblance to the ur-Leica from 1927).

Given the fact that what we today would call large format film was still very much a professional standard in the 1930s, it took an enterprising and slightly intolerant frame of mind to find the Leica camera excessively bulky – it itself was a miracle of miniaturization in its day – but if you wanted enterprising plus intolerant, Noel Pemberton Billing was your boy. 

His design required a company with expertise in miniaturization of gear trains, and instead of working with a conventional camera manufacturer, he set up his own company in London – Compass Camera Ltd. – and contracted with LeCoultre & Cie to assist with engineering and manufacturing.

It's a seductively beautiful little machine. Only about 4,000 were made – the first version used individual sheets of 35mm film, while the second version allowed the use of a roll film magazine that added very little bulk to the camera (you could actually swap out backs and the roll film magazine was offered as a free upgrade to Mark I owners). The procedure for using the camera was somewhat complicated, but this was as much owing to its versatility as anything else.

You would begin by opening the telescoping lens, and loading a sheet of 35mm film into the back. Closing the back would leave one edge of the light-tight paper film envelope protruding, and you would pull this out, which would leave the film ready for exposure.

Amazingly enough, there were three options for focusing: a fold-out ground glass screen; a distance ring at the base of the lens (with calibrations from 1 3/4 feet to infinity) and an honest to Betsy split-image rangefinder, which is all the more remarkable when you consider that the first rangefinder Leica (the Leica II) had only come out a few years earlier, in 1932. 

For aperture, you had several options – the lens is f/3.5 with a 35mm focal length and there were suggested apertures, based on available light, which you could set via a dial on one side of the lens. Filters could be selected depending on whether you happened to be using orthochromatic or panchromatic film. (Orthochromatic film uses unmodified silver halide emulsion, which is much more sensitive to blue light than to green or red and which could produce very distorted contrast. This can be corrected, to some extent, with filters. Panchromatic film could compensate to some extent but still required correcting filters, and was much more expensive and in the 1930s both film types were widely used.)

If you wanted to, you could also use an "extinction" type meter. This was built into a finder on the lower right hand side of the camera; it was basically a strip of transparent material of gradually increasing opacity. You pulled it out, while looking through the finder, until you could just see the highlights in what you wanted to shoot. Then you would read off a guide number, which you could use to set aperture and shutter speed.

There is a wonderful YouTube video that goes into a great deal of detail on how you set up and use the Compass Camera.

Now, as you can imagine, shooting with such a small camera, and having to juggle all the manual settings, is not for the faint of heart but it's salutary, in this Instagram age of ours, to consider what a hassle taking a picture used to be (those of you who, like me, are old enough to remember taking film to drop off at the drugstore and waiting with bated breath to see what "came out" will know what I mean).  You really had to know what you were doing, but if you did, the engineering and optical sharpness of the Compass meant you could get quite detailed images. Recently, Jaeger-LeCoultre sent a photographer out with a Compass Camera to take pictures around the world, and, as you can see, at its best, and for its time, it was quite a Mighty Mite.

You've gotta love film – when you consider these pictures were taken with a camera made in 1937, it's impressive just how built-to-last the Compass really was. Some of these images, by the way, are going to find their way into the exhibition "The Art of Behind the Scenes" organized by Jaeger-LeCoultre, which will open at the Cannes Film Festival on Friday, May 19, 2017, so check it out if you happen to be at Cannes in May (and hey, who isn't?). I've had a chance to handle a Compass and it's got an amazing tactility – if somehow an upgraded version were made that could handle modern 35mm film rolls I suspect they'd sell like hotcakes. Expensive, high-precision aluminum hotcakes.