How I Stopped Collecting Watches and Learned to Love Them

Consider the following thought experiment: a genie opens a portal and offers you two watches from two future selves. You can only pick one.

The first is a cheap digital watch. But as you look at it, memories come back to you of your life with it on your wrist. It was the watch you wore at your wedding, and again when you held your child for the first time. It was the watch you wore on your Sunday morning hikes, or just on daily walks with your dog. Maybe you recall the period in your life when you wore it while you learned to play the piano, or learned how to dive, or learned a new language in a new place. While that watch was on your wrist, you lost and gained loved ones, lived through deep tragedies and triumphs.

The second watch is an exquisite mechanical marvel. It is what many, novice and expert alike, would recognize as a "grail"—The One. You obtained it after developing a scholarly obsession for watches and spent several years analyzing every facet and finish, the intricacies of the movement, and how each of its qualities compared to those of its peers and predecessors. It had cost you a fortune, and once you had acquired it, it sat on display, coming out occasionally for special occasions. You would have worn it more, but understandably, couldn't help but see it as a museum piece. It is a work of art, a trophy, and must be treated as such; it shouldn't be damaged or devalued through wear.

These are two extreme examples, but they illustrate two different philosophies. Without hesitation, I'd take the first watch.

The watch from the second timeline is a beautiful lie. We want to find The One, yet somehow that turns into The Next One. There will always be a bigger trophy, a watch that's more exclusive, more finely crafted, more complicated, thinner, higher beat, higher power reserve, higher depth rating, with more history, more prestige, and so on. It's a game that never ends, the more we have, the more we want, the lesser we feel.¹

I've come to realize that there are only two things that matter in a watch. The first is that you like seeing it on your wrist every day. The second is that it has the specs to be worn every day, wherever you are. A watch can be about so much more than itself—a symbol, an object that encapsulates a life, memories in a form that can be held in the palm of a hand or worn around the wrist. A thing that turns the ephemeral into something tangible.

But you have to find the thing that's right for you. A digital watch doesn't do it for me, unless I'd already lived a great life with it. As it stands, I love the poetry and the human element of a mechanical movement, and I'm enamored with the aesthetics of the mid-20th century.²

I sometimes shudder when someone describes a Lorier as a product, because I'd like to think that they can be gateways to something greater. That's what a good vintage watch is nowadays: they were bought to accompany their owner, and in a mystical sense, still do. My hope is that every Lorier is just a "future vintage" watch. Each model is meant to capture and evoke a specific stylistic archetype, with the goal of being a companion that matches you, and become all the more valuable for not being too precious.

But of course, that part is out of my hands. All I can say is that simply buying a watch won't fulfill the vision you have for it; that's just the first step in its journey. The One cannot be purchased.³ It has to be made with lived experience. Frankly, I'm not even advocating for it to be a Lorier; it could be any watch, or not even a watch at all (watches are just particularly good at being a vessel for moments and memories). The quest isn't about buying the thing, it's what you do with it.