It was an ordinary day with an extraordinary watch. I was working on a rather fine late 19th century English pocket watch. Fitted with an English lever escapement (chain and fusee too), it was meticulously finished – black polish, frosted gilt plates, with an engraved floral-theme balance cock. A nice personal, restoration project for once!
I did, however, suspect that certain parts were likely newer replacements. Some of the screws were marred. And some of the top plate was also scratched! I tried my best to remain calm, but it did irritate me that others had been so careless.
As I surveyed the watch, I understood I had a great responsibility. Should I make new parts? Polish the marred screws? Or should I just leave it as is? Unsure where to start, I decided to work on something else, while I wrestled with the metaphysics of identity.
In Western philosophy, the metaphysics of identity is understood to have originated with a well-known thought experiment known as “The Ship of Theseus”. This has always personally fascinated me, and while not always articulated in this manner, I think a lot of watchmakers have had similar thoughts.
So, what is The Ship of Theseus? Theseus was the mythical Greek king and founder of Athens. Long after his death, his ship was left harbored in Athens in his honor. Over the centuries, various parts of the ship were replaced in order to maintain seaworthiness. It became unclear as to what was “original” and what was “replaced”.
Plutarch (a Greek philosopher AD 46–after 119) in the Life of Theseus was the first to chronicle this paradox:
“They took away the old planks as they decayed, putting in new and stronger timber in their place, insomuch that this ship became a standing example among the philosophers for the logical question of things that grow; one side holding that the ship remained the same, and the other contending that it was not the same.”
So what does this mean for watches and watchmakers?
I cannot claim to speak for all watchmakers, but I suspect many restoration decisions are made based solely on the client’s desires (and budget) and with profitability in mind.
That being said, I do think that while perhaps not directly expressed, most watchmakers have had the following thoughts (I know, I have!). Here are a few examples that come to mind:
- What is “patina”?
- What is the difference (if there is one) between “patina” and “damage”?
- Are service dials really so problematic?
- Does it make sense to “retire” certain watches from daily use?
- What responsibility (if any) do we have as caretakers of history?
- And why do we have such difficulty accepting history as is?
There are many answers to these questions, split into various schools of thought for both collectors and watchmakers. I would encourage the reader to think of their own answer . Not only is this important when buying a watch, it may actually be even more important when having irreversible work (such as polishing) done on the watch.
So, back to my restoration project, I spent a few days considering what I would do to restore the piece.
While I am of the view that objects (and therefore identity) are in a state of perpetual change, I was still hesitant that I would irreversibly change the watch. What if I was wrong? This was a personal project so budget and profitability were not of concern. I was the client.
In the end, I decided that I would only polish the screws (hopefully someone will take note and use the correct screwdriver next time?) and made a new balance staff. This was the most minimal intervention while still getting the watch to run.
Until I have a better answer, I will continue to preserve (replace as little as possible) rather than restore. A ship’s plank can always be replaced at a later time. But once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.
I love the Greek History analogy. This article is so clever and fascinating
Charlie – thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed 😀
Cheers!