A movement is a small country. It has its own laws, its own weather, its own sense of time. To assemble one is to negotiate with all three at once.
We begin where we always have: at a single bench, with a single watchmaker. No caliber leaves the atelier having passed through more than two pairs of hands. This is not efficient. It is not meant to be.
What follows is a study in patience — the bevelling of a bridge, the polishing of a screw head no larger than a grain of sand, the setting of a balance that will beat some four billion times in its first decade alone.