If pop culture is a mirror, Americans are staring at themselves—and their reflection is wearing a $100,000 watch. From Succession’s private jets to the Lichtenstein cameo in Your Friends and Neighbors, conspicuous wealth is a national pastime. We worship STUFF: vintage Hermès, Van Cleef, Vuitton x Nike, Birkins. For men? A Patek. Watches were once heirlooms, functional objects of meaningful sentiment meant to be passed through generations. As sneakers, handbags and contemporary art became financial instruments, so too did the Swiss wristwatch. The secondary market for timepieces, worth $24 billion at its peak in 2022 (according to the Boston Consulting Group), was fueled by pandemic boredom, liquidity and a collective urge to flex discreetly on Zoom. A few lucky buyers flipped Rolexes for 30 percent gains. Suddenly, everyone with a wrist and wifi was a collector.
But as fresh money flooded in, so did problems. The secondary market runs on trust, not regulation. Unlike Chanel, where you get champagne and a receipt, watch sales mostly happen in the shadows—gray dealers, private brokers, auction-house backrooms. There’s no GIA for watches and no centralized authentication. When things go sideways, it gets murky. In 2014, John Mayer dragged the whole thing into the light. He sued vintage dealer Bob Maron (who could not be reached for comment) for $650,000, alleging the nearly five million dollars in pre-owned Rolexes bought from Maron were Frankenwatches—pieces whose mechanicals or decorative elements have been cobbled together from multiple watches. Maron shrugged it off: caveat emptor. The vintage watches he sold were “as is.” The dealer isn’t liable. But the damage was done. Mayer’s lawsuit revealed what insiders already knew: no one’s really checking. When the market roared back to life in 2020, new collectors were shocked to discover that, unlike other collectibles, watches had no standard third-party authentication. In every other collectible category—diamonds, sneakers, baseball cards—authentication is expected. Watches? It’s still the Wild West.
Enter Fred Savage—yes, that Fred Savage. A longtime collector, Savage shelled out for a vintage Rolex 1803 “President” via a major auction house. The dial had been redone—no disclosure. Value: dead. A five-figure timepiece reduced to a cautionary tale.
“What struck me the most when I realized that the watch had been redialed was that none of my watch friends, no one, was outraged,” Savage tells Observer. “No one thought, ‘Oh my gosh, this is a travesty, we’re gonna storm the gates. How could this happen?’ Everyone threw their arms around me and said, ‘Ah, welcome to The Club. You’re one of us now.’ And so I realized how broken the market was, in that collectors took it as a rite of passage to be burned by a seller, and to buy something that wasn’t what it was supposed to be.” It was a lesson learned. And, as it happens, monetized.
No other collectible community—for baseball cards, coins, stamps, comic books, handbags, sneakers, or gems—would accept such risk as simply being “part of the game.” Other watch authentication services existed, but most specialized in one or two brands, and all sold the watches they graded. The market was missing a third-party, independent evaluator who could not only standardize the descriptions of watch conditions but also disseminate knowledge of the watches and their history, educate consumers, and bring a sense of confidence to buying watches on the secondary market that collectors of any other collectible vertical enjoy.
Savage brought the idea to Stoll & Company, an Ohio firm with 40 master watchmakers and near-total brand coverage. Together, they launched Timepiece Grading Specialists (TGS), offering sealed, graded certification with QR-coded documentation and standardization for terms like ‘regular wear’ and ‘cuff polished.’ “One person’s scratch is another person’s gouge,” Savage says. “We want transparency.” TGS has gained attention from big names in the world of timepieces. Ben Clymer of Hodinkee and Jonathan Ferrer of Brew Watches are already paying attention, at least on Instagram. Unlike services like The 1916 Company or Jaztime, which buy and sell watches, TGS doesn’t. “The marketplace doesn’t need another dealer,” Savage says. “We maintain a rigid firewall.”
As much as services like TGS are appreciated among those new to the game, Cade Mlodinoff, a Chicago-based collector and advisor, argues chaos is the point. “It’s the hunt,” Mlodinoff tells Observer. The wild-west feel is part of the appeal. “You’ve got to know what you’re doing.” For Mlodinoff, collecting is less about provenance, more about the thrill. He worries watches are becoming just another asset class—soulless and over-certified. It’s the romance of knowing, before the rest of the room, what you’re looking at.
Savage, naturally, disagrees. Clients come to TGS with heirlooms, looking for answers—and a little reassurance. “Every watch has a story,” Savage says. “Sun exposure, wear patterns, polishing, maintenance—it all becomes part of the object’s identity. What we do adds to the romance.” Savage hopes TGS will give new collectors the kind of confidence the market’s long been missing. Though the post-COVID frenzy has cooled—Rolex and Patek are down, with some models falling 40 percent since the 2022 peak—neither Savage nor Mlodinoff views that as a crisis. “It’s shaking out the dilettantes and leaving the serious collectors,” Mlodinoff says. Savage, on the other hand, is eyeing the next generation: Gen Z buyers interested in pieces from the 1980s and 1990s, who value storytelling and sustainability.
Even with prices softening, Grand View Research projects the market will hit $45 billion by 2030. For that kind of money, fantasy won’t cut it. Authentication will. Everyone loves a Paul Newman Daytona—but whether grading preserves the magic or sterilizes it depends on which side of the loupe you’re on. TGS is betting peace of mind can be graded, sealed and scanned. “Knowledge is power,” Savage says. “A properly maintained watch can last centuries.”
