Thursday, October 01, 2026
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Growing up, my family loved Seinfeld. We loved it so much that when I got grounded from television in May 1998, my parents made one exception: I could watch the finale. Like everyone, I was underwhelmed. You know who felt worse than me? Larry David, who wrote it. Below, writer Blake J. Harris tells the inside story of how the episode was made—and how, even though it was a catastrophe, it set David up for a for-the-ages do-over. –Kevin Dupzyk, features director
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The year of our Lord 1998 should have been a banner year for Larry David. Then he had to go and write the send-off for the most acclaimed television comedy of all time.
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The day after Christmas, Bill Carter at The New York Times became the first to publicly share the big news.
In “Seinfeld Says It’s All Over, and It’s No Joke for NBC,” Carter reported, “The most popular television comedy of the 1990’s, and the centerpiece of the most profitable night in television history, will stop production at the end of this season.”
“That was the first time an entertainment story was on the cover of The New York Times,” says publicist Lori Jonas.
Even though the news was now out there, there was still another half season of Seinfeld that needed to be made. Most important, writing and producing the most anticipated series finale in modern TV history—a finale destined to draw so many eyeballs that advertisers would be willing to pay Super Bowl–caliber rates of around $2 million for thirty seconds of airtime. Needless to say, the expectations for this finale were unprecedentedly high. So high that Jerry could think of only one person capable of exceeding such expectations: the person who had created the show with him in the first place.
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Tim Vaux didn’t set out to become a watch photographer. When he entered the watch business in 2016, he was working for WatchGecko, the online watch accessories platform, writing product descriptions for straps. From there he moved into its online magazine and watch journalism, before picking up a camera himself. He’d noticed that many of the people whose work he admired could supply both the words and the pictures.
Today Vaux is something of a triple threat: watch journalist, photographer, and consultant. He has shot for Cartier, Biver, and Fears, while his work has appeared everywhere from Hodinkee and Mr Porter to Wired and Phillips.
So, in the spirit of Esquire’s What I’ve Learned, we asked him what a life spent looking very closely at watches has taught him.
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The late May morning sun doesn’t mitigate the chill in the Scottish air as I step into a warehouse numbered 24. Inside, the temperature drops another ten degrees. It’s appropriately moody for a dunnage built a century ago. Particulate drifts through sparse beams of light, the aroma of whisky-soaked oak sits heavy, and wooden stairs creak underfoot as I climb to the second floor. Here stands the Balvenie’s malt master, Kelsey McKechnie, lit by a pin light. Beside her, the artist Daniel Arsham is washed in the same pale hue. A short, mysterious video plays, backed by a crescendo that would not be out of place in a Hans Zimmer score. Once it ends, servers approach from the rear of the warehouse, each balancing a tray of fluted drams.
The theatrics are warranted. I’m about to taste the oldest Scotch whisky ever released for sale: the Balvenie 88.
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