Everyone wants to be Ryan Reynolds or
Scarlett Johansson; we all have a yearning to become someone else. Brands are
following the trend and are making stars their ambassadors. But let us not
forget that in the 1960s, stars were friends above all else.
Maybe
I should express myself more clearly. When I say that Maurice Chevalier is at the
Gstaad Palace, what I mean is that I invited him. He is ordering caviar and
magnums of champagne. How am I going to justify these extravagant expenses?
What direction will the evening take? It’s making my head spin.
I
grew up on a farm, where I lived until the age of 14. I had no idea that I
would be the international ambassador of the brand whose name I share. I gained
the majority of my watchmaking knowledge at the workbenches of my electronic and
mechanical engineering school, and I supplemented this ultra-technical
training with a course in gemmology. Over my first few months at
Piaget I wore many different hats: I was in charge of technical development,
design, creation, and sales. This accumulation of roles led me to become more
interested in the brand’s clientele, their tastes and their inclinations. Of
the innumerable projects that excited me, “going out and meeting clients” was
the one that attracted me the most, because of the notions of altruism and
curiosity associated with it. At the time, simply opening a magazine and gazing
at the pages filled with extravagant parties and incredible events drew you
into the wonderful world of the Roaring Twenties. And if you took the time to immerse
yourself in it, you would discover that Piaget was in harmony with this
hedonism. There was an opportunity here. The timing was perfect: my case was packed.
Traveling
the world was something of a natural progression for me. I went off to meet our
clients and I established dialogues in the manner of those painters and sculptors
who present their works directly to collectors. In the late 1960s, I made the
acquaintance of Maurice Chevalier and found myself in a sort of spiral, a bubble.
One thing led to another and I rubbed shoulders with other celebrities from the
arts world. That was how I broke into the watchmaking circle. The personalities
became my friends and our clientele identified with them.
At
the time, the stars weren’t paid; they bought their own Piaget watches.
Nowadays, every partnership is negotiated—you just have to pay the right price.
Instead of standing out by merit of their ability, charisma, or in the case of
women, their elegance, ordinary mortals need to identify with someone. Brands
respond to this with muses, ambassadors, and faces. Stars have become the
variables in a magnificent economic equation.
Fifty
years ago in Gstaad, I asked myself just one question: was I right to follow my
instinct? Praise be to you, Maurice Chevalier—that evening in 1967 would mark
the start of the Piaget Society.
