There is something almost sacred in the quiet pause before a watch box opens. It is theatre without an audience, ritual without a priest, yet no less ceremonial for its intimacy. Whether the lid is hinged like a stage curtain or peeled back with the delicacy of wrapping paper, there is always a moment of suspended time before the watch itself is revealed. That pause is important; it is charged with expectation, with the thrill of culmination. The object you have dreamed of, researched to the point of obsession, tracked through tracking numbers as it crossed oceans and sorting centres, finally lies inside. And no matter how many times you have repeated this act, the ceremony of unboxing never loses its edge. But what fascinates me, and what forms the basis of this reflection, is not simply that the box exists, but what the box says. Because boxes are not neutral. Some whisper heritage, some shout luxury, and others barely mumble an apology for existing at all. They are, in their own quiet way, part of the watchmaking story.

The contradiction begins immediately: the watch box is, by design, destined to spend almost all of its life hidden from view. It is like a stage set built for a single performance, seen once and then wheeled into storage. And yet collectors argue about boxes with an intensity usually reserved for case sizes or escapements. The box provokes debates because it is not just packaging—it is identity in cardboard, wood, or leather. It is the first handshake with the brand, the first impression, the scented candle of horological hospitality. Done well, the box feels like part of the purchase. Done badly, it feels like an afterthought, the horological equivalent of a plastic bag handed across a counter.

Consider, for example, the unashamed spectacle of Jacob & Co. Whether you love or loathe their aesthetic, there is no denying that they understand the theatre of the box. Their Astronomia Gotham City edition arrived not in a simple container, but in a light-show of LEDs, sound effects, and velvet—half jewellery casket, half prop from a West End production. The Opera Godfather, perhaps the most on-the-nose example of cinematic theatrics, shipped in a presentation case with a built-in music box that plays Nino Rota’s immortal theme. And then there is the Astronomia Sky Meteorite, whose box incorporates fragments of actual meteorite, as if the brand feared anyone might forget just how galactic the price tag was. Is it ridiculous? Absolutely. But in the theatre of excess, ridiculousness is the point. Buyers at this level are not simply purchasing watches; they are purchasing narratives, proof that their acquisition exists outside the ordinary. The box, in this case, is an amplifier of spectacle…

Is a smartwatch really a watch? At first, the answer seems almost insultingly obvious. It straps onto the wrist, it shows the time, and the word “watch” is baked right into the name. But the simplicity of that logic quickly unravels when we begin to consider what the word has historically meant, and what it still means to those of us who approach horology as more than mere function. A watch has always been more than a gadget; it is a cultural symbol, a vessel of continuity, and an artefact of human craft. Asking whether a smartwatch deserves to sit at the same table is not an exercise in pedantry—it is an attempt to clarify whether we are preserving the essence of horology or slowly diluting it into the broader realm of consumer electronics.

The lineage of the traditional watch stretches back centuries, to the bulky spring-driven clock-watches of the 16th century, which were as much status symbols as instruments of utility. Over time, movements shrank, accuracy improved, and artistry blossomed, giving rise to pocket watches, marine chronometers, and eventually the modern wristwatch. Through every stage of this evolution, the core remained constant: the watch existed to measure and display time. Complications might have offered moonphases, calendars, or chiming mechanisms, but even the most baroque expression of horology still revolved around the nucleus of timekeeping. A watch was never defined by convenience, but by its relationship with the passing of hours, minutes, and seconds. It was a physical embodiment of humankind’s attempt to capture time in miniature, to harness it in gears, springs, and jewels.

Smartwatches emerge from an entirely different genealogy. Their forebears are not Breguet’s tourbillons or Harrison’s sea clocks, but calculators, PDAs, pagers, and eventually smartphones. Their ancestry runs through Silicon Valley, not the Vallée de Joux. They are products of computing, not horology. When the Apple Watch debuted in 2015, it was marketed less as a successor to traditional watchmaking than as an extension of the digital ecosystem—an iPhone fragment condensed onto the wrist. These devices are not designed to serve time but to serve the user. They orbit the individual, monitoring health, relaying notifications, offering digital convenience, and storing data. The time display is one tile in a grid, an obligatory function rather than the defining soul.

This inversion of priorities marks perhaps the greatest philosophical difference between traditional watches and smartwatches. In a mechanical or quartz watch, time is the nucleus around which all else revolves. In a smartwatch, time is an accessory—useful, expected, but never central. The smartwatch’s essence lies in its ability to mirror the wearer: heart rate, sleep quality, messages, appointments, emails, and steps. It is not a window onto the flow of time but a mirror reflecting the rhythms of the self. That shift—from measuring the external world to monitoring the internal one—is profound, and it speaks volumes about the cultural values that gave birth to these devices.

Another difference lies in permanence. A well-made mechanical watch can survive centuries with care. It can be repaired, restored, handed down. It can outlive its owner and remain a vessel of memory, an heirloom connecting generations. Even quartz watches, though less romantic, often last decades with little more than battery changes. They embody continuity. Smartwatches, by contrast, are ephemeral. Their batteries degrade, their operating systems age, and their hardware is quickly outpaced by software updates. Within a handful of years, they become obsolete. They cannot be serviced in the traditional sense; they are replaced, not restored. That built-in transience places them at odds with horology’s deepest traditions, where endurance has always been central. The very idea of obsolescence feels antithetical to the spirit of a watch as a keeper of continuity.

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Few topics in horology trigger more heated arguments than the subject of watch modifications. To some, the practice of modding is a creative playground where enthusiasts can reshape a watch into something truly personal, whether it’s swapping a dial, changing hands, or building an entire “Frankenwatch” from spare parts. For these collectors, mods are an art form, a way of taking a canvas provided by a brand and reinterpreting it through their own imagination. It’s an expression of individuality, of refusing to accept a watch as a finished product dictated solely by corporate design teams. To others, however, mods represent something more troubling. They blur the boundary between what is authentic and what is deceptive, often leaving newcomers—and sometimes even seasoned collectors—wondering whether they are looking at a harmless custom piece or a cleverly disguised counterfeit. This clash of perspectives has given rise to one of the most polarising debates in the modern watch community.

What makes the debate so charged is that it cuts to the very heart of why people wear watches in the first place. For some, a watch is about heritage and the integrity of its manufacture. Every component, from the smallest screw to the dial itself, represents a chain of tradition and craftsmanship. To alter that is, in their view, to erase the authenticity that gives the watch its soul. For others, authenticity lies not in strict adherence to original form but in the freedom to adapt a watch to fit one’s own identity. After all, cars are modified, guitars are customised, and clothes are tailored—so why should watches be immune from such treatment? This tension between purists and individualists is what makes mods both fascinating and divisive: they challenge our collective understanding of what it means for a watch to be “real.”

The trouble is that mods don’t exist in a vacuum. The same techniques that allow someone to create a fun, imaginative Seiko mod also make it possible for others to pass off altered or “Franken” watches as genuine pieces, often at the expense of unsuspecting buyers. This is where the debate turns ethical. Is a modified watch acceptable as long as it is presented honestly, with no attempt to deceive? Or does the very act of alteration inherently diminish the integrity of the piece, regardless of intent? Collectors can argue endlessly over where that line should be drawn, but what is undeniable is that mods force us to question not only the watch itself but the values of the community surrounding it.

In exploring the world of modifications, we find ourselves delving into more than just bezels and dials. We uncover questions of authenticity, trust, creativity, and even status. A mod can be a joyful experiment that keeps a hobby vibrant, or it can be a tool of deception that undermines confidence in the market. Between these extremes lies a spectrum that reflects the diversity of watch collectors themselves. To confront the truth about mods is to acknowledge both the artistry and the controversy they embody—an uncomfortable but necessary conversation in a community built on passion, tradition, and time itself.