Flying Tourbillon
A rotating cage that defies gravity, carrying the escapement in a full revolution every sixty seconds.
One movement. One artisan. Three hundred hours of silence before a single second is told.
We do not chase the hour. We earn it. Each AURELIUS is assembled by a single pair of hands, then set aside in silence so the maison can listen to it breathe. Mechanical, unhurried, and utterly without compromise.
It begins as a single disc of German silver. Beveled by hand, mirror polished against the grain, before a single jewel is set.
The going train is laid in sequence, each wheel free from friction, each pivot seated in a ruby that will outlive us all.
The balance is brought to life. Four times each second it swings, holding time to within two seconds across a single day.
A complication is anything a watch does beyond telling the hour. We treat each as a small, obsessive universe.
A rotating cage that defies gravity, carrying the escapement in a full revolution every sixty seconds.
Accurate to a single day across one hundred and twenty two years before correction is ever required.
Two hardened gongs chime the hours, quarters and minutes on demand, tuned by ear in a silent room.
It knows the length of every month and the leap year that follows, with no thought required from you.
Two superimposed hands measure two events at once, a feat of patience hidden beneath one dial.
A dial fired at eight hundred degrees, again and again, until the surface holds light like still water.
A case the diameter of a single franc, in rose gold drawn from one ingot. The dial is silvered by hand. The lugs are soldered, never cast. It is meant to be worn for a lifetime, then handed forward.
Fewer than fifty will ever exist. An audience at the Geneve atelier begins the only way a piece like this can. In person.
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