The topic of watch dimensions is pretty hot in the watch industry at the moment. Well, not just at the moment. People have been arguing over oversized watches for years now, whether it is Panerai’s dinner plates, Hublot’s spaceship-sized chronographs, or that one guy who somehow still believes a 47mm diver is “perfectly wearable.” But what has genuinely become interesting over the last few years is not how brands are making watches bigger, it is how they are making them smaller.

Because let us be honest for a second. The industry spent almost two decades inflating dimensions to absurd levels before collectively realizing that maybe not everyone wants a freaking boat strapped to their wrist. And yes, size is relative. A 42mm Panerai Luminor does not wear like a 42mm Royal Oak Offshore, and neither wears like a 42mm dress watch with long lugs and a thick bezel. But regardless of how subjective wrist presence can be, the broader industry trend is undeniable: collectors want smaller watches again. As well as skinny fashionistas, but let’s leave those alone for now…

What most people fail to understand, however, is that shrinking a watch is not a matter of scaling down a drawing and calling it a day. A smaller watch is a completely different watch mechanically, structurally, and proportionally. The amount of engineering required to remove a few millimeters from a case diameter can be absurd, especially once you enter the world of integrated bracelets, ultra-thin calibers, or complicated movements. Which we’re getting into in this article.

I took some time to get this article done because I have always loved concepts that appear incredibly simple at first, until you begin understanding the absurd amount of effort hiding behind them. And in this case, that concept is simply making a watch smaller. 

Bulgari’s new Octo Finissimo 37 from Watches and Wonders 2026 is probably the best recent example of this phenomenon. From the outside, it looks deceptively simple. Bulgari took the Octo Finissimo Automatic, one of the defining luxury sports watches of the last decade, and reduced its size from 40mm to 37mm. Sounds easy enough. Except the project reportedly took three years to develop, required an entirely new movement, and forced Bulgari to rethink the watch from the inside out.

The reason is actually quite simple once you understand how movement architecture dictates case dimensions. The original Octo Finissimo Automatic used Bulgari’s BVL 138 caliber, a movement measuring roughly 36.6mm across. That movement occupied nearly the entire footprint of the original case, which is one of the reasons why the proportions on the larger Octo Finissimo feel so balanced. There is no wasted space inside the watch. The movement and case were designed almost as one continuous structure.

Now imagine trying to shrink that case by three millimeters while keeping the same movement. Suddenly everything falls apart. The bezel becomes too thin, the dial spacing awkward, the crown placement compromised, and the structural integrity of the case increasingly difficult to maintain. Bulgari could not simply make the watch smaller because the movement itself physically dictated the minimum possible dimensions of the watch.

So instead of resizing the old caliber, Bulgari engineered a completely new one. The new BVF 100 movement measures approximately 31mm in diameter and took around three years to develop. Interestingly, while the movement is smaller horizontally, it is actually slightly thicker than the previous caliber. This means the new Octo Finissimo 37 is smaller in diameter while simultaneously becoming thicker overall than its predecessor, which sounds contradictory until you realize that miniaturization in watchmaking is rarely linear. Removing horizontal space often forces compromises vertically because gear trains, automatic winding systems, shock protection, and structural rigidity still need somewhere to exist.

Even more fascinating is the fact that Bulgari reportedly carried over only two components from the previous movement: the platinum micro-rotor and the balance wheel. Everything else had to be redesigned. That is an extraordinary amount of work for what the average person would describe as “the smaller version.”

“Small” is not just horizontal, it’s also vertical. Thinness I mean. And the moment thinness enters the conversation, things become even more insane.

Because making a watch thinner eventually forces brands to abandon traditional watchmaking architecture altogether. Bulgari’s Octo Finissimo Ultra Tourbillon from 2025 is one of the clearest demonstrations of this. At just 1.85mm thick, the watch essentially stops functioning like a conventional wristwatch from a construction standpoint. The movement and the case become integrated into a single structural system because there is physically no room left for traditional layering. The caseback itself acts as the movement’s mainplate, conventional crown systems disappear in favor of lateral adjustment wheels, and every component must be reconsidered under the terrifying reality that fractions of a millimeter now determine whether the entire watch functions or not.

Piaget ran into the exact same engineering nightmare with the Altiplano Ultimate Concept. At extreme levels of thinness, problems that barely exist in conventional watchmaking suddenly become critical. Crystals flex under pressure. Lubrication becomes more difficult because tolerances become microscopic. Shock resistance becomes dramatically harder to guarantee. Even the hands themselves become engineering challenges because traditional hand stacks occupy too much vertical space.

And this is where many collectors underestimate the significance of ultra-thin records. People love mocking brands for celebrating reductions of 0.2mm as if they are meaningless marketing exercises, but that tiny reduction may require years of research and entirely new manufacturing techniques. In modern horology, a tenth of a millimeter can represent a complete reinvention of the watch’s architecture.

What makes the whole conversation even more complicated is the fact that proportions are often harder to preserve than dimensions themselves. The Omega Speedmaster Reduced is a perfect example of this issue. Omega wanted a smaller version of the Speedmaster Professional, but instead of redesigning the Moonwatch caliber from scratch, the brand opted for a modular automatic chronograph movement. Technically speaking, the watch succeeded in becoming smaller. Visually, however, the differences became immediately noticeable because the subdials shifted outward due to the new movement architecture. The watch also became thicker than many expected because the chronograph module was stacked on top of the base movement.

This is something enthusiasts often forget: dial layouts are not arbitrary design choices. Subdial placement, spacing, symmetry, and visual balance are heavily dictated by movement geometry. You cannot simply “move things around” because wheels, pinions, and chronograph systems physically determine where indications can exist. That is why shrinking complicated watches is so difficult. The smaller the canvas becomes, the harder it is to maintain visual harmony without redesigning the movement entirely.

Integrated bracelet watches add another layer of complexity altogether because the bracelet itself becomes part of the watch’s architecture. Cartier understood this very well with the modern Santos Medium. A watch I don’t particularly favor, but hey, gotta give them their flowers. Square watches naturally wear larger than round watches, and integrated bracelets dramatically affect perceived size, so the brand focused heavily on ergonomics, bracelet flexibility, and overall wrist integration rather than merely reducing measurements on paper.

The same challenge exists for watches like the Vacheron Constantin Overseas or the Octo Finissimo. Once a bracelet is integrated into the design, resizing the watch means recalculating everything from the first center links to the taper, the articulation angles, and even the visual stance of the watch on the wrist. A luxury sports watch can very quickly lose its identity if proportions are not handled carefully. Rolex encountered this balancing act with the Yacht-Master 37, which had to remain visually recognizably “Rolex sports watch” despite reduced dimensions. Too small and the watch loses presence. Too thin and it stops feeling robust. Too compact and the sporty character disappears entirely.

And perhaps the most ironic part of all this is that smaller movements are often harder to make accurate. Omega openly discussed the challenges involved in developing smaller Master Chronometer calibers for the Aqua Terra 30mm collection because reduced dimensions create lower inertia, tighter tolerances, less shock stability, and significantly less room for gear trains and regulating systems. In other words, miniaturization actively works against chronometric stability.

Which completely destroys the assumption that smaller watches are somehow easier to engineer.

If anything, the opposite is true. Modern watchmaking has reached a point where making a watch smaller often requires more innovation than adding another complication. A perpetual calendar can be difficult, of course, but preserving proportions, thinness, reliability, water resistance, ergonomics, accuracy, and visual identity while reducing dimensions may be one of the hardest balancing acts in contemporary horology.

And honestly, that is why this entire trend fascinates me so much. Beneath the surface-level discussion of whether 36mm or 40mm is the “perfect size” lies something genuinely interesting: brands are once again being forced to innovate mechanically because it’s aesthetically better. They are redesigning movements, rethinking structures, and pushing limits simply to make watches more wearable.

I’m as much of a hater as the next watch snob. But the next time a brand announces a watch that is 2mm smaller or 1mm thinner, understand that somewhere behind that release are probably years of failed prototypes, insane architectures, redesigned movements, and engineers losing sleep over microscopic tolerances that most people will never even notice.

And that, to me, is the kind of insanity that makes horology so brilliant.

I kept going back to the Sero Signature more than I expected, and that’s a huge compliment. It’s one of those watches that only starts to make sense once you begin placing it against other things you already know, once you start measuring it mentally against references that defined this category in the first place. Not to say that it’s « du vu et revu » as in something we’ve seen before, but to hammer down my point that there’s a clear respect of the traditional way of doing things.

Because whether Sero intended it or not, this watch lives in a space that’s already been written. You don’t approach Breguet numerals, a slim manually wound profile, and a restrained case without inevitably entering the orbit of watches like the Patek Philippe Calatrava ref. 96, the Vacheron Constantin ref. 6073, or even more modern reinterpretations like the F.P. Journe Chronomètre Bleu. Different price brackets, different intentions, but the same underlying language. Again, a compliment.

And that’s where the Signature becomes interesting. Not because it competes with those watches (it doesn’t) but because it clearly understands the framework they established.

The case proportions are the first indicator. 37.5mm is the easy number to read (sweet!), but the 46.5mm lug-to-lug is where the watch really positions itself. It stretches just enough to avoid that compact, almost fragile stance you get with smaller Calatrava-style pieces. It wears more like certain oversized references from the 40s, where lugs carried more visual weight and extended the watch across the wrist. It’s a subtle shift, but it changes the entire posture of the watch.

The 9.5mm thickness is exactly where it should be, and that’s largely due to the Sellita SW210-1. There’s nothing mind blowing about that movement, but from a construction standpoint, it’s coherent. Around 3.35mm in height, manual winding, stable architecture. It allows the case to remain slim without forcing the watch into ultra-thin territory, which often introduces compromises in durability or water resistance; AKA having to take it off to wash your hand. The 100 meters rating here is not just a spec, it tells you the case has been built with actual use in mind. 

But to get into the main part, the dial is where Sero takes a more deliberate position.

Engraving the numerals directly into the dial instead of printing or applying them changes the reading entirely. From a horological perspective, you move from surface decoration to taking away from the material itself. The numerals exist as negative space, and that means light behaves differently. You don’t get the crisp contrast of printed lacquer or the shadow line of applied markers. Instead, you get something more variable, more dependent on angle and intensity.

This is closer, in spirit, to how traditional guilloché dials interact with light, although achieved through machining rather than hand-turned patterns. The vertical brushing underneath adds a directional grain, which keeps the dial from becoming too static while maintaining control over reflections. It’s a measured approach. 

The consistency of execution is what stands out here. The chemin de fer, the numerals, even the signature text all follow the same engraved logic. That avoids the common issue where different techniques compete on the same dial, printed tracks next to applied markers next to stamped logos. Here, everything is resolved within the same surface.

The handset is another area where the watch holds together, and honestly the first thing I noticed. Heat-blued spade hands, correctly dimensioned, doing exactly what they’re supposed to do. The minute hand reaches the track with precision, which is something you’d expect, but not something you always get. The hour hand sits cleanly within the numeral ring, and the seconds hand remains visually light. 

It’s basic watchmaking discipline, but it’s often where watches lose coherence.

Looking at the different dial configurations, the variations don’t try to reinvent the watch. The silver and champagne dials stay closest to classical references, where the engraving becomes more subtle and the watch reads almost like a study in restraint, to be a little more poetic. The blue dial increases contrast and sharpens the overall presence, pushing it slightly closer to contemporary tastes.

The red dial is the outlier, but it still respects the underlying architecture, which keeps it from feeling disconnected. A little different, but different strokes for different folks.

Now, where the Signature really needs to be placed is in its price segment. At around €1,100 to €1,200, it sits in a very competitive space. You’re looking at watches like the Nomos Tangente, the Longines Heritage Classic, vintage Omegas…

Most of those watches take a different route. Nomos focuses on Bauhaus minimalism and in-house calibres, Longines leans heavily into archival design, vintage Omega Genèves are iconic and reliable. Sero doesn’t really sit directly with any of them. It’s closer to what smaller independent or collector-driven brands have been trying to do in recent years, tightening classical codes rather than reinterpreting them.

That’s also where the watch finds a bit of cultural relevance. There’s been a clear shift in the last few years, especially among younger collectors, away from oversized, overly expressive pieces toward something more controlled. Not necessarily vintage, but informed by it. The Signature fits into that movement as a very clear participant.

That doesn’t make it perfect. The “Signature” text still feels slightly more present than it needs to be when you look at how low-key everything else is, and the longer lug-to-lug will not work for every wrist. But when you place it where it actually belongs, within that €1,000 segment, against watches that often get one or two things right and miss the rest, the Signature holds together in a way that’s harder to dismiss.

What was interesting, and something that came up in conversation with Sergino, the founder, after I shared my thoughts, is that none of this is accidental. The positioning, the proportions, even the way the watch sits in this slightly uncomfortable but very deliberate space, it’s all been thought through.

And that also reflects in how they’re bringing it to market. The initial presale starts just under the €1,000 mark, with the first pieces at €899 before taxes, then €999 during the two-week window, before settling at €1,199 retail. It’s a detail worth mentioning because, at that earlier entry point, the watch shifts slightly in how you evaluate it. You’re no longer just comparing it to its immediate peers, you’re looking at it against a much broader field, and in that context, the level of attention given to proportions, dial execution, and overall coherence becomes harder to overlook.

If I were to discribe it in 1 word, I’d say traditional.

Check them out here.

Banking into the Chep Lak Kok’s approach for the first time in more than a year, a refreshing sense of familiarity dawns on me. Hong Kong was once home to me, in a stage of life where watches were never within my reach or interest. I saw the city in a very different light, one where  its cultural vibrancy and sheer visual overload obsessed me from a young age. 

As the wheels touched down, I realised that I was arriving with a completely different purpose this time around. I had booked this trip with multiple intentions in mind, with my first week revolving around the seasonal auctions from Phillips, Christie’s and Antiquorum. None of these houses were unfamiliar territory to me, likewise with the whole auction experience, however I had a strong feeling that the overall experience would differ at a professional and personal level. My experiences in Geneva and New York last year presented a frenetic, “in-your-face”, and quite frankly intimidating atmosphere. I felt like a fish out of water, watching unknown faces glide in and out of previews while greeted with smiles and handshakes by the staff… The imposter syndrome was overwhelming but it never crossed my mind as a feeling to deter me. While those stories can wait for another day, the lessons learned through previous seasons have imbued me with a strong sense of ambition, even audacity, to ply my way through such uncharted waters in Hong Kong.

It’s not a return to Hong Kong if you can’t distinguish the Ngong Ping Cable Car towers through the warm haze.

With general dealer visits as soon as I touched down on Tuesday afternoon, the Phillips previews beckoned for me on my first full day. Bleary-eyed, I dragged myself to their imposing West Kowloon building to have a look at their lots. If attending an auction in person, I tend to leave first impressions as my selling point, so looking at catalogues beforehand is a big no-no; I want to see what will catch my eye in person, as you never know what you may have missed by flipping through the pages. I pursued the traditional Hong Kong pastime of getting horrifically lost in the maze of Kowloon’s MTR station, eventually emerging via the help of the kind concierge at the base of IFC into the West Kowloon Cultural District. While it was mostly in construction during my time living in Hong Kong, I never fully got over how massive of an endeavour it is for the city. Wide spaces, tall windowless concrete channeling people towards the views over Victoria Harbour, all planned to a tee… It felt like the most blatant exercise of urban planning that I’d witnessed in a while. Eventually, I find myself at the base of their headquarters, aptly designed by Herzog & de Meuron. The house’s art gallery spans the ground floor, drawing in curious gazes from passers-by, while I take a step through their front doors and up the escalator to their preview room.

The ever-imposing monolith that are the Phillips Asia offices.

My Phillips experience was incredibly pleasant over the previews and auctions themselves, with incredibly kind specialists who were more than willing to impart their knowledge on me. Obviously, we know why they do it, but doing it with the correct amount of tact and professional encouragement can be a very fine line. Over my time as a collector, one becomes attuned to reading between the lines of both auction houses and dealers as you come to understand that they must move their selection for the sake of business, which can be tricky to build a sense of a welcoming community. Regardless of the fact, their selection was thoroughly impressive. With personal highlights ranging from a Patek ref. 2597 in pink gold in astonishing condition (Lot 993) to a monstrous 51 millimetre Richard Mille RM25-01 CA (Lot 990) – I believe the compartment for a water filtration capsule is absolutely necessary – or a bevy of pocket watches from various eras, their 10th anniversary sale had all the hallmarks of a Phillips auction: incredible rarity, strong condition, and a real sense of excitement in the air. Their landmark 10th anniversary for Hong Kong auctions allowed for a monstrously large catalogue of more than 300 lots, with many of them sourced from single-owner collections. After joking with the specialists from their Shanghai office that I’d be invoicing them directly for my unreasonably overweight bag, I got stuck into the ever-exciting event of examination.

Phillips’ ability to use natural light for daytime viewings is a fantastic change from the spotlighted spaces of Geneva.

Let’s work through some trays, shall we?

Now, what was I looking at for myself? Well, as an intentionally picky collector – much to the chagrin of the specialists – there was very little that truly compelled me. The two standouts which got me on the verge of raising my paddle were two repeater complications: a Cartier minute repeater pocket watch from circa 1930 (Lot 1039), and a Jules Audemars with a carillon minute repeater from 1998 (Lot 1119). Clearly, there’s something to unpack with my absolute adoration for a minute repeater, an experience which few consider and even fewer get the chance to experience. 

The European Watch Company movement ticking within the Cartier provides a “clear and elegant chime”, as per the catalogue’s words, which after chiming at multiple times I can concur with the specific wording: feeling the strikes from the hammers through its case into your hands is a deeply marking experience, substantiated by close friends of mine who tagged along with me. With both of them being novices in the space, their innate reaction to its function spoke in volumes to me compared to more seasoned collectors, whose experience hones in on the specific sound and consistency of the repeater. Putting aside my collector hat and switching it out for my enthusiast’s one, it’s just incredibly cool that someone made that 95 years ago, that it still works, and that it can invoke that same sense of “holy shit it actually does that?” nearly a century later.

What an elegant way to house an EWC movement…

On the other hand – for lack of a better pun –  The Jules Audemars takes the function to a whole new level, with the addition of a third hammer and subsequently squeezed into a case with 30 millimetres less of diameter. Having it on-wrist and getting the opportunity to handle it over the course of multiple days was really special, its platinum case and 33-jewel movement feeling surprisingly weighty for a watch of its size. It’s an incredibly discreet watch, which makes it all the more compelling, and wore incredibly well on my wrist, but most importantly for me is that it is one of the last compelling Audemars Piguet’s made in this day and age. Bearing very little in resemblance to current design identity, it struck me as a piece which sought to be beautiful in its presentation rather than simply choosing to impress through technical prowess. 

With my current principles for what I’m seeking to build, neither of them could truly find a place, yet I consider myself incredibly humbled and lucky to have handled them in case my mind and opportunities later down the line change in their favour. My experience in handling them has satiated my taste for minute repeaters, and I will always seek to hunt down one which fits my collecting guidelines. For now, my fixation remains on dial design through the medium of two/three-handed pocket watches from the turn of the century until the 1940’s, and best believe there’s no rush on that end either!

Dainty yet exuding presence, even on my wrist.

For something different out of their New York sale in December, a Gilbert Albert-designed Patek Philippe! Considering the price which the one fetched on Loupe This, and this bracelet remains particularly long, I remain curious to see what it’ll fetch…

Now, onto the more entertaining aspect: the auctions themselves! While I hadn’t attended the physical auctions in New York or Geneva for Phillips specifically, I had a good idea of how they tend to look and feel like. The rooms are always well under capacity unless something truly special to the wider horological space is going under hammer, and seeing the two elevated lines of telephone bidders was quite a sight. It was a veritable “who’s who” of their global offices, with Aurel presiding over the main session that I attended. The excitement of impassioned bidding is a sight to behold, watching telephones and people bid in the room in increments of life-changing sums of money makes you realise how easily you can get swept up in it all. Located on their ground floor, you walk through from the entrance surrounded by their substantial art collection. Previews for later auctions – in this case a Yayoi Kusama-themed one – dominated the path up to the bidding room, and as I turn left it feels considerably different than previous experiences. Comparing it to Antiquorum in Geneva, this tailor-made space felt grander despite its lack of ornate details. Far sparser in decoration, your eyes can only focus on the screens, displaying the lots with varying currencies beside them, along with the rostrum. There’s a certain aesthetic uniformity which has become clear to me, this sterile slate being equally present in their New York offices – it is in 432 Park Ave. after all!

While I may not know the Asian collectors well by face or name, the Italian ones were there in force. Bernardini, Zenga, Caso, di Simone,… all names we know from the big publications and news surrounding landmark sales, gathered around towards the back of the room. Their presence occupied far more than their table, with furtive glances cast their way by people such as myself. You don’t often get the chance to watch Mr. Paramico dart out for a coffee while bidding is ongoing, shuffling his way through an unknowing crowd back to his seat. There’s also the fun of recognising people in the room, mostly former Phillips specialists who moved onto working with prominent dealers in Hong Kong, so quickly scurrying out behind the crowd for a handshake and brief catch-up became the norm very quickly. Definitely a position which is not acquired by everyone, but one I definitely forged through previous auction seasons elsewhere. 

The main man himself, fixated upon his telephone bidders.

As most publications have probably reported by now and on the general state of the market, results have been very strong across the board. It’s a market which favours both sellers and buyers, as quality and quantity have emerged into a more discerning and active buyer pool. I don’t think anyone who bids at Phillips is there to find a bargain, but occasionally some things do fly under the radar; I’d argue the Cartier minute repeater represented a fantastic proposition, with an all-in price of 279,400 HKD. My friends have struggled to win bids throughout Monaco, Geneva, and now here in Hong Kong in the hopes of retailing their auction finds. Watches seem to be going into good long-term homes, as such strong and public prices make for them to be favourable long-term holds in distinguished collections. I would’ve mirrored this same mentality if there was anything which fit my tastes, but overall I remain happy for all involved parties that there’s such strong sentiments in an otherwise turbulent climate. The fact that they are able to conduct such a large sale and incur zero passed lots was tremendous, and over pleasantries at The Armoury I congratulated both Aurel Bacs and Alex Ghotbi on this. Ever-charismatic and polite, they thanked me for my kind words as we went our separate ways, yet the interaction left me marked as having the opportunity to speak with them, however briefly, outside of their usual environment makes for a different impression of Phillips altogether.

A final wrist shot from the previews: one of their specialists modelling a wonderful Patek ref. 1526, a reference which has grown on me very much since handling theirs, along with Paul Engel’s phenomenal deep dive on Hodinkee.

It dawns on me as eyebrows furrow, bidders drop out, and glances dart across the room from rivals, that this space lives an entire world apart from the one mere metres outside, on a calm and sunny Sunday afternoon. Living in the knowledge that domestic helpers are congregating on their sole day off of the week, families are preoccupied by their children flying kites and graduation pictures for HKUST students are being taken, I get to witness the pinnacle of my passion in full swing before my very eyes. Hong Kong will always have a special place in my heart for memories far beyond the world of watches, but this trip adds yet another beautiful facet to my own personal story with the “Fragrant Harbour”. Forging a sense of shared passion, whether it’s imagined in my own head or not, has been the highlight of the experience with Phillips, as the specialists were eager to show their personal favourites alongside the ones I sought for myself. My mild trepidation was wiped away quickly by their hospitality, a word which doesn’t often appear alongside Hong Kong and the auction world, however events during my time in Hong Kong have highlighted how “community” in this city will always rally behind a shared cause.

A quick 5 minutes to examine what’s on other wrists in the room leads to moments such as this!

I think it’s well worth having a more tender reflection on how these few days have marked me. Perhaps I differ from the usual crowd of journalists and dealers, who see Hong Kong as a brief 48 or 72 hour work trip which is packed with appointments, business always coming first before they board their evening flights back out to Europe or North America. Hong Kong was, and perhaps, still is the home of my passion and of a very important part of my life. It’s the city where I tried on my first “proper” watch, a small white gold Cartier Baignoire, and returning a couple of years later as a seasoned collector and auction attendee has made me realise how far I’ve come in my journey. Collecting is a privilege, but collecting with intent and focus remains a duty towards myself and the wider community. Seeing the nodding looks of approval or gazes of curiosity at what I wore to their previews and event was very humbling, but it only adds fuel to a fire which I intend to nurture over the coming decades. It can be deduced that I may not be as susceptible to the temptations of an auction space at a personal level, as what I seek simply doesn’t emerge through this lane, yet it serves as a space to congregate with fellow collectors, and to share with curious onlookers from my personal life. It also is an ideal space to gather knowledge, to try on watches you’d never consider purely from an online background, and to let my intentions be known in my collecting path.

Do I plan on attending next year’s season? Well, the sale itself is unlikely to match the grandeur of this one, so a smaller lot pool is to be anticipated, but I still believe the community matters more at the end of the day. I made some good friends and got to reinforce stronger connections with prior acquaintances, so that in itself is well worth nurturing. I plan to spend a little less time around the auction world on this subsequent trip, while also making sure to bring more friends along for the previews. The greatest joy I experienced out of my time around Phillips was watching friends taking notes while I explained the differences between print and enamel signatures, information which I’m sure will come of no substantial relevance in their day-to-day, but understanding that their intrigue came from my unbridled passion for the craft itself meant a lot to me in the moment. Any passion can be infectious if presented appropriately and without ego, so seeing the result of it firsthand was very touching. While I realise this is a very long introduction to you, dear reader, filled with personal thoughts as an anonymous contributor, I found myself writing this article with real intent; I wanted to share something a little different, with more focus on feeling rather than fact, as I wish to preserve the emotions element which draws everyone to their respective passions. I could’ve written thousands of words on a completely different interest of mine, yet writing on watches for the first time has brought me great joy. I hope to contribute again if my writing is well-accepted, but regardless I thank you for taking the time to read my thoughts on the Phillips experience. 

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