There’s something oddly poetic about the way humans measure time. We build machines to track it, yet we’re still haunted by the idea that time is a thief. Pim Koeslag, the man steering Christiaan van der Klaauw’s vision, has spent his career wrestling with this paradox. His thoughts on watches aren’t just about gears and escapements—they’re a window into how we perceive our own mortality, creativity, and the relentless march of progress. What makes this particularly fascinating is how he frames watchmaking not as a technical exercise, but as a collision between art, science, and human emotion. It’s a lens through which we can see the broader cultural shifts of our era: the tension between tradition and innovation, the commodification of craftsmanship, and the search for meaning in an age of digital distraction.
Let’s start with a question that cuts to the heart of the matter: What does it mean to create something that is, by definition, a tool? Koeslag’s answer is both humbling and radical. He speaks of the Planetarium—a watch that marries horology with astronomy—as a revelation. But what’s striking isn’t just the technical complexity; it’s the way he frames it as a bridge between disciplines. To him, the watch isn’t just a device—it’s a metaphor. It’s a reminder that our obsession with time is, at its core, a desire to understand our place in the universe. And yet, in an age where smartphones can track our location, heart rate, and even sleep cycles, why do we still cling to mechanical watches? Personally, I think it’s because they’re the last vestige of something tactile, something that forces us to slow down. They’re a rebellion against the acceleration of modern life, a way to say, ‘I choose to measure my time this way.’
Koeslag’s disdain for overpriced three-hand watches is another telling insight. He sees them as symbols of a hollow trend—beautiful, yes, but devoid of purpose. This resonates deeply with me. In an industry where status symbols often trump substance, it’s easy to get lost in the noise. But what does this say about our collective values? Are we buying watches to tell time, or to signal exclusivity? The answer, I suspect, is the latter. Yet Koeslag’s critique feels like a call to return to the essence of what makes watchmaking meaningful: creativity. He values it above all else, whether technical or aesthetic. That’s a rare stance in a world that often prioritizes perfection over originality. It makes me wonder: How many ‘perfect’ watches are actually soulless? How many are designed to fit a mold rather than challenge it?
Then there’s the matter of complications—the more, the better. Koeslag’s favorite is a work in progress, but his existing favorites are the Grand Planetarium Eccentric and minute repeaters. These aren’t just mechanical marvels; they’re stories. The Grand Planetarium Eccentric is a full-dial solar system, a microcosm of the cosmos in a single watch. It’s a reminder that horology isn’t just about precision—it’s about storytelling. Minute repeaters, with their haunting chimes, are like time’s own music. But what’s fascinating is how Koeslag describes them as ‘magical.’ Why does that word stick? Because they tap into something primal: the human need for ritual. In a world where time is measured in notifications and deadlines, these watches offer a kind of spiritual counterbalance. They’re not just tools; they’re acts of defiance against the tyranny of the clock.
The quartz crisis of the 1970s, according to Koeslag, was a turning point. It forced the industry to confront a truth: watches are not just utensils. They’re art. This feels like a broader commentary on how disruption often reveals hidden values. When quartz watches threatened to render mechanical timepieces obsolete, the industry didn’t vanish—it evolved. It became a niche, a celebration of craftsmanship in a world that increasingly values convenience. But what does this mean for the future? As AI and automation threaten to replace even more human roles, will we see a similar renaissance in other fields? Or will the art of making things by hand become a relic of the past? Koeslag’s perspective suggests that artistry will always find a way to persist, even if it’s confined to a small audience.
Koeslag’s relationship with Gérald Genta is another layer worth unpacking. The story of the perpetual calendar with a single crown is a masterclass in both innovation and commercial acumen. Genta’s advice to ‘think bigger’ isn’t just about scale—it’s about vision. He understood that great ideas need platforms to thrive. But here’s the irony: Koeslag’s invention, though technically groundbreaking, didn’t receive the attention it deserved. Why? Because it didn’t fit the market’s appetite for spectacle. It was too subtle, too elegant. This raises a deeper question: In an age of instant gratification, is subtlety a liability? Or is it the last frontier of true craftsmanship? I think the latter. But it’s a dangerous path, one that requires both patience and faith in the long game.
Finally, Koeslag’s advice to younger collectors—‘check your own feelings before checking your friends’ wrists’—is both simple and profound. It’s a rejection of the herd mentality that plagues so many industries. But what does it mean to collect with intention? It’s about finding pieces that resonate on a personal level, that tell your story. In a world where social media curates our desires, this is a radical act of self-awareness. It’s also a reminder that true value isn’t measured in price tags or prestige—it’s measured in how deeply something connects with you. And yet, how many of us are brave enough to follow that path? That, perhaps, is the greatest challenge of all.
