I used to say it with conviction, like a mantra: “No diamonds in my watches.” And I meant it. Not a glimmer, not a sparkle, not a single brilliant-cut stone on the bezel, lugs or dial. To me, diamonds were a distraction, a glittering apology for a watch that couldn’t hold its own horologically. I wanted movements, not ornamentation. I wanted gears, not glamour.
That belief held firm for years, bolstered by my love for complex dials, manual-winding calibres and eye-widening levels of engineering. And yet, this year, that belief faltered.
It happened quietly, subtly. Not in a grand, soul-shaking epiphany, but in a dozen small moments—watching a certain angle of light refract off Cartier’s Baignoire, noticing how the diamonds on a Chanel J12 seemed to sharpen rather than soften…