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A Laguna Beach craftsman has a passion for clocks

Dean Armentrout repairs clocks. To him, they are puzzles to be solved, heartbeats to be revived.

March 07, 2012|By Thomas Curwen, Los Angeles Times
  • Dean Armentrout of Laguna Beach works on a 1745 English bracket clock with a silvered brass number dial and gilded brass carvings. Armentrout has been repairing clocks for almost 40 years.
Dean Armentrout of Laguna Beach works on a 1745 English bracket clock with… (Don Bartletti / Los Angeles…)

Dean Armentrout's problem clocks keep him awake at night. Some run fast. Some run slow, and some don't run at all. Repairs often mean cleaning and oiling the mechanism; balky escapements, missing parts and hidden friction points are trickier.

Each day, walking into his shop in Laguna Beach, Armentrout sees his workbench cluttered with tools and the pieces of jobs he hasn't finished or figured out. In his hands, a clock is not so much an instrument for measuring time as a puzzle to be solved.

Surrounding him are nearly 50 of his favorite puzzles. Half belong to his customers, and the rest are his, each a reminder of what's at stake with every repair.

"A clock that doesn't run is a clock that will be thrown out," he says.

He picks up a 19th century French clock that's been giving him trouble. Its lavish setting on a nearby table features the gilded figures of Cupid and Psyche playfully jostling over a garland as if time were incidental to the pleasures of life.

Its owners, Rich and Karin Schag, bought it in 1968 while on vacation in Copenhagen. They'd just begun collecting clocks and saw it in the window of a jewelry store. When they got it home, they set it up on the sideboard in their dining room.

Today the Schags have nearly 100 clocks, but when this one stopped running in January, the silence of its chime was conspicuous, said Karin, 74.

The timepiece itself is six inches in diameter, four inches thick. With its face and hands removed, it gleams from Armentrout's cleaning, but its wheels and arbors are motionless, the pendulum silent.

All it takes to break a clock, Armentrout says, is a little dust drying out the drops of oil at every pivot hole. Friction builds with each tick and tock. The minute hand drags and stops, and decades later, if not centuries, the clock ends up in the attic or garage.

In this case, he suspects a home repair gone awry. He bends a small brass arm that's shaped like a broad V and repositions it in contact with a wheel. The clock is still silent. He tries again, bending it a little more. Nothing.

Armentrout has been repairing clocks for almost 40 years, and as the 21st century grows brighter in its electric and digital brilliance, he has watched as his profession grows smaller, his skills rarer and mechanical clocks — timepieces that run without batteries or electricity — less valued.

One clock, an 1880 walnut parlor clock, was left on his doorstep in a cardboard box, without a note of explanation. Another, made by Seth Thomas and worth $1,500, was brought in by a customer who paid $10 for it at a garage sale. Another, from the 1890s with art nouveau woodwork, was given to him.

Once he gets them ticking, he says, it's like hearing a long-silent heart beating again.

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Armentrout wonders where the next generation of clockmakers will come from. He has trained three apprentices and learned that they have left the business.

In the United States, there are only two schools that offer comprehensive clock repair programs, said Steve Humphrey, executive director of the National Assn. of Watch and Clock Collectors. Humphrey estimates that in the 1960s, there were at least 40 schools teaching clock repair.

Armentrout, 60, finds himself busier than ever. His customers come to him through referrals, street signage and his website.

"Dean stands out in a trade where almost all of those practicing have little or no formal training," says David Walter, an award-winning clockmaker who lives in Buellton, Calif. "He works on some of the most modest clocks and some of the most sophisticated and knows to ask questions when faced with a problem he can't solve."

Armentrout's workshop — part museum, part retreat — is in Laguna Canyon, where neighbors include a glass blower, a book binder and a furniture maker. He has 800 square feet, crowded with counters, work benches, machinery and clocks of all kinds.

Hall clocks, also known as grandfather clocks, strike august poses with the broad sweep of their pendulums and their painted faces. Gilt figures pose above dials of his French mantel clocks, and the English table clocks look like tabernacles, fit for an altar.

Others are strictly utilitarian, faces large and bells loud; a few are whimsical. Three caravels rock upon the sea in tandem with the pendulum of an 1820 Dutch wall clock, and an 1870 French clock — known as a mystery clock — features a pendulum, seemingly removed from the mechanism, swinging hypnotically from a woman's outstretched arm.

"It's amazing the amount of mechanical genius out there," Armentrout says, then corrects himself, "was out there."

One of his oldest timepieces is a 300-year-old pocket watch from England. A little smaller than a baseball, it was the most sophisticated timepiece of its era, perhaps the most sophisticated technology of its day. Under magnification, arabesques carved and engraved on each open surface enhance the interplay of its springs and wheels.

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