Calibre 01 · 39 mm

One watch. Every hour of it, hand-finished.

This is the piece as it leaves the bench: cased, strapped, wound. What follows is what nobody wearing it ever sees. Scroll to go inside.

Through the caseback

Beneath the dial, a second architecture.

A rose-gold rotor and a mainspring barrel, lit from behind. Everything that follows is built to carry this one thing: torque, delivered honestly, for seventy-two hours.

The going train

Canyons cut in rose gold.

Seven wheels hand the mainspring's torque down the line, each one geared to turn faster and carry less. The walls either side of you are teeth that will not meet for another hour.

Twenty-three jewels

A field of bearings that outlive their maker.

Synthetic ruby, turned and polished to a tolerance of one micron, set by hand into rose-gold chatons. Each one carries a pivot thinner than a hair through four hundred million turns.

28,800 vph

Stop scrolling. Time stops with you.

The balance swings eight times a second, and the escape wheel slips one tooth per beat. Rest your hand and the whole calibre holds its breath mid-swing. That is not a metaphor. It is the mechanism.

Ten fifty and eleven

This is what all of it was for.

Two blued hands, reading a time that four hundred parts agreed on without consulting a battery. Eleven watches a year leave this bench. We would like you to own one of them.