Back to the Basics: Asking Ourselves Why We Love Watches
There are three places I hate unconditionally: the beach, the DMV, and the airport. The first because any activity you do there is secondary to burning alive. The second is specifically directed towards the American version which has been endlessly cliched as a cesspit of bureaucracy. But remember, every cliche had to be true at some point.
As for the last, the place has a way of grinding down the human soul at a Hadron collider level of acceleration. I have never witnessed a degradation of human kindness happen so fast as it does in an airport. There, I can watch someone double take and then, struck with the slow, sad realization that they have no other choice, accept the price of a chicken salad sandwich.
More importantly, I really don’t like the preparation that goes into traveling. The packing everything as neatly as you can only for it to become an unmitigated disaster less than 48 hours later. The careful planning that can be knocked this way and that like the jaw of a heavyweight fighter realizing that maybe this wasn't their profession after all. And the “hurry up and wait” nature of it all where time is never my own; where it becomes as much of a luxury as the free snack they give you on a flight. Which is why I wholeheartedly agree with the old adage that it's not about the journey, but the destination.
In fact, if they ever invent teleportation devices, I’ll be the first human test subject; even if my left arm were to end up in Poughkeepsie while the rest was in Reykjavik. It's mentally and physically taxing and I dread going through those motions the second after I click “Book Now!”.
I’ve mentioned before about the exhaustion that comes with living in an age of limited editions, rarity, and manufactured scarcity in the world of watches. For an enthusiast and as someone spending and investing not only their money but their time in something where the carrot keeps moving just out of reach is disheartening. Why would anyone stay in this kind of environment? Is it because we’re in too deep now? Is it social media curating our daily intake of information driving us to envy or longing or whatever seventh sin of the day it is? #gluttonywednesdays
Do we just slowly merge out of the passing lane into something where we barely have to pay attention anymore? It's numbing in a way, draining in another. That isn’t to say that the passion for watches is completely gone. It's more of a disillusionment. A resentment from an unspoken, broken promise that “hype” would come from the naturally occurring excitement within the hobby, not the carefully curated campaigns of new watch releases year after year. And I can’t speak for all of us but damn.
To counteract the growing dread that came with preparing to travel (that seeped into the actual journeys) and my creeping fatigue of all things horological, I decided that the logical choice was to slam both of them into each other in a bid for “whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” kind of deal. Inviting my Type A “excels-at-planning” wife would take care of the former. Taking photos of watches in beautiful places and sometimes putting them in absurd locations (on top of a sign that read “Don’t jump over the cliff”) would hopefully take care of the latter. Together, they would become “Watch Travels”.
During a 2021 trip to Austria's Zell am See, where I was attempting to photograph the Tudor Pelagos, the journey grew into a top ten stressful moment for my wife.
Finding parking in your home country is bad enough. Double if you can’t parallel park when there isn’t a line of impatient drivers watching you fail for the sixth time. I don’t think there were any signs indicating where available parking was, you just had to let go of the proverbial wheel and use your spirit to find something. But she is an ace when it comes to fighting for a spot and we were soon shaking the stress from our shoulders as we took a leisurely stroll around the lake. Facing it from where we parked were more mountains in the distance. To our left were some lake houses and to our right was the small cozy town framed by more mountains.
We walked to the end of a pier where a father and son were lowering their bright red boat into the aquamarine waters. The breeze coming off of the water was fresh and pure, the kind that hurts your nostrils like it does in the dead of a winter night.
We weren’t exactly stressed but like I said, traveling has a way of doing it anyway. Adding its own pressure to the vacation as if to urge and ask, “Is this the most exciting part? Are you sure you couldn't find somewhere more relaxing to enjoy?” And then, you know, the whole parking thing.
All I wanted was a clean shot of the water, the mountains, and the clouds, a literal capture of serenity. But out on the water was someone on a paddleboard. For the next few minutes, I spent all my focus seething and wishing I had telekinetic powers. He was just treading water. Framed perfectly. In the middle of the lake. In the middle of my shot.
Like when your headphone cord gets snagged on something or you bite down on the inside of your cheek when eating something soft, you just find yourself irrationally irritated and pushed past your normal levels of patience and self control.
“Of all the places, of all the times, that's where they stop for six minutes?!” I gestured to my wife with one hand and the lake with the other.
That same over the top energy, where you hopscotch over the breaking point, was something I’ve felt in this hobby as well. Through the lack of social media likes and reach. Through seeing campaigns of more limited editions. Through never ending wait lists. And the continuous yet neverending feeling of chasing the next grail. I hadn’t yet resorted to shouting at anyone on social media but the amount of times I abruptly left those platforms just to get away from all of it happened more often than not.
I faced the water instead of my wife after my exasperated outburst; she had to deal with a two year old already, she didn’t need to handle another one. I could tell you I had a zen moment. Or took a deep breath. Or something philosophical like that. What actually happened was I tilted my head and said, “Huh…”.
I half remembered a video on photography advice from a creator who enjoyed taking landscape photos. He had hiked up a mountain in Scotland the day before, and had camped all night in the rain just for the opportunity of catching golden hour rising along a ridgeline. And the conditions just didn’t happen for him. And instead of throwing a tantrum or hiking back down immediately, he just started snapping photos and saying something to the effect that he was already there anyway, and that he’d just make the most of what he had. His passion for the hobby and what he did wasn’t diminished from the external: he recontextualized what he saw, let his love of photography take over. And he came away with a gorgeous set of moody overcast photos.
The paddleboarder was, what I originally thought, technically ruining a potentially peaceful and idyllic shot. They were also turning an otherwise static shot into something about perspective, framed with them in the middleground and the mountains in the back giving it both a figurative and literal depth. I corrected the angle of my head, fired off a shot, and took a picture that would become one of the favorites that I had ever taken.
The hobby, I remembered, wasn’t about how viral a reel could go, or a particular brand release, or waiting years and years for a watch you may never get. It was about a feeling. How wearing a watch made me feel.
My first timepiece, the absolute first one to ever hit my wrist was a 1940s vintage Omega. So the bar for quality was set pretty high from the jump. It belonged to my great uncle Sonny, the kind of man we collectively used to refer to as a “slick”. Just someone who always wore his hats at an angle, moved like gin flowing into tonic, and wore a smile like he had a good secret to tell you, his one and only best friend, what the deal was.
It was a gold timepiece with a simple dial, pointed indices all around and doubled at the cardinal points. And of course, the bracelet. At the time, it was fabulous: stretchy like an accordion but comfortable all the same. Now? It rips the hair from my wrist like a dog fighting you over its chew toy.
Uncle Sonny could see by my tiny, jam crusted face that I was in love. And then he got on one knee so he could be at eye level with me and told me I could have it. I really don’t know why. I didn’t really know why then. Why this epitome of cool would give a then vintage piece (even by then in the early 90s) to a five year old. For one afternoon, I was untouchable, moving around my grandparent’s living room with a class and swagger I’d never have again in my life. Before Uncle Sonny left, my Dad asked if he could see the watch and then pointed me towards a snack as a distraction. I assume he figured I’d lose it or damage it and snuck it back to Sonny. I wouldn’t see that Omega for another 25 years.
The picture of the man on the lake is hanging up by my desk for two reasons: one, it actually relaxes me if I’m caught in a zoom meeting. And two, it's just a gentle reminder.
I have that Omega tucked safely away on a shelf but I still see every single day as I pass it by. And it reminds me why I got back into this hobby and stay in it. It's because I love wearing the damn things and I enjoy the fact that they make me feel as cool as someone who would walk into a room and ask, “Hey! How are all you cats doing?”
And really, that’s all I need.
What’s yours?