Two score and twelve years ago, my father brought forth upon me the name and phone number of man in New York City. This man had a proposition, he said. There was a job opening at his advertising agency and I could have it as long as I understood that all ad men were not created equal. I would start at the bottom. It was up to me whether I would stay there.
My first morning commute into Manhattan was an eye-opening journey through valleys of gleaming skyscrapers. Traffic whizzed by in a blur of contour and chrome. Sidewalks were packed with men in tailored suits. This was New York in the 1960s, a shining era of technology and possibility, dressed in impeccable style.
My contact was a classic Madison Avenue executive with no love for small talk. He called me in his office, gave me the rundown and two pieces of advice. Rolling up his sleeve, he pointed to the silver beauty on his wrist, “Stay away from the girls in accounting and get yourself a great looking watch. See you Monday.”
The Stauer Atlas Automatic is a stroke of watchmaking genius inspired by the Silver Age of streamlined design. The cerulean face, shimmering case and buttery-smooth bracelet echo the stainless steel cool of sixties-era style. Inside, its impeccably engineered automatic engine keeps precise time without ever needing a battery. On those rare occasions when it’s not on your wrist, feel free to marvel at its craftsmanship through the exhibition caseback. Effortlessly elegant and devilishly handsome, the Atlas puts its overpriced relatives to shame.