DOWNINGTOWN -- What is it that drives this maker of chests?
Is it his unrelenting quest for perfection?
Or is it something more altruistic?
"Am I a romantic?" Ken Cira suddenly asks, rhetorically, in the midst of explaining his craft.
Then he answers his own question: "I'm making something for other people to show their love for other people."
What Cira makes in the workshop next to his tidy Cape Cod on a wooded slope near Downingtown are instant heirlooms, exquisite custom-made chests that are modeled after antiques and adorned with his trademark raised monograms.
"No one else has ever done it before," Cira says confidently, "and no one else is doing it today but me."
Each takes 275 hours to make and they cost as much as $5,000.
Cira's art is the opposite of engraving. He coaxes the monograms from the wood -- usually rare and gorgeous hardwoods such as Peruvian mahogany, curly cherry, tiger maple, figured walnut -- by lowering the surface around the ornate letters, first with a router -- a power tool with a cutting bit -- then with carving tools.
That matter-of-fact description, though accurate, is inadequate; it sorely demeans the magic, and the genius behind it. The process is painstaking and requires patience, precision and stamina. Cira, 73, a former commercial artist who specialized in lettering for packaging (his work appears on Hershey candy wrappers), possesses those qualities in abundance.
The raised monograms are only half of the personalization. On the inside of the lid he hand-letters, in splendid calligraphy, an inscription chosen by the buyer, usually words of inspiration and affection for a beloved recipient.
"My customers participate in the project," Cira says. "I require that they participate in terms of the words."
In his workshop recently, the lid on a freshly completed chest read:
To our dear son
Watch your thoughts, they become words;
Watch your words, they become actions;
Watch your character, it becomes your destiny.
Cira began making raised-monogram chests about 25 years ago and has crafted 120 or so. He makes around eight or nine a year, all by himself. "Nobody else's hands touch it," he says proudly. Though theoretically retired, Cira puts in 10-hour days, seven days a week. Nary a minute drags.
His chests range from about $4,000 to $5,000. The rare wood alone can cost Cira as much as $800 for each chest. He has never calculated his hourly wage, but it's fair to assume that it's a pittance compared with the quality of the product.
"I can't make a living doing this," Cira says. "But I love what I do. There's excitement in this -- seeing something come alive right in front of you. You're in control of it and it becomes a passion that is more and more beautiful."
Although he works constantly, Cira can't keep up with demand. In 2001, he stopped displaying his work at exclusive East Coast craft shows; his backlog had bulged to eight years. He has since whittled it down to a mere 3 1/2 years. More than 70 percent of his orders come from repeat customers.
"The quality of Ken's work is astonishing," says Carol Haile, 58, of Reading. She and her husband, John, have purchased four pieces from Cira, including a high chest-on-chest that Haile describes as "to-die-for glorious." The couple's initials are monogrammed on the doors, which are inscribed with verses from a favorite Emily Dickinson poem.
"The first time I saw it, I started to cry, it was so incredibly beautiful," Haile says. "His stuff is so rich and unique. He's not just making reproductions. He takes it way beyond."
"He's phenomenal," says Doreen Petrovitch, 50, of Wallingford. She and her husband are eagerly awaiting delivery of their third and fourth pieces from Cira, chests for their two sons, Dan, 13, and Sam, 9.
"The dovetailing is exquisite. The finish is hand-rubbed and flawless. If I could, I'd love to have a piece by Ken in every room."
Cira began making raised monograms after noticing that most antique furniture is anonymous. It reveals neither by whom nor for whom it was made. Cira's chests, by contrast, are designed to make a statement: "This chest belongs to somebody who is proud of it and intends to hand it down to future generations." It makes a statement about the chest's creator, too. Says Cira: "I worked hard to make a piece that's nearly perfect."
Creating just the monograms consumes 50 hours. Each is special, with unique flourishes and embellishments. The monogram must flow, be balanced, and match the personality of the chest's owner. Cira draws the monogram several times before outlining it in ink on the chest lid. With a router, he then lowers the lid surface, maneuvering to within a 16th of an inch of the ink line. When the routing is done, "the woodworker becomes a carver and artist," he says, carefully shaving, beveling, refining.
"You don't want to make a mistake," says Cira, a Milwaukee native who was trained in commercial art "at MIT" -- the Milwaukee Institute of Technology. "You have to have sharp tools and be very meticulous. My strokes are thin. My shavings are minute."
A Cira specialty is the seamen's chest, whose sides taper inward as they rise (so sailors on a pitching ship would be less likely to bang their shins on the chest's corners). Because every side of the chest is angled, the dovetail joints are especially devilish -- they are graduated, growing larger toward the bottom. Lately, he has added drawers.
"I'm a perfectionist," Cira says. "I'm the most difficult person to satisfy. If I satisfy myself, I know I'll satisfy my customers."
"Wood-shop teachers I know have looked at his work and they marvel at the craftsmanship and the hours involved," says Wilson Moffett of Media, who, with his wife, is about to commission their fourth piece. "All the drawers require different cuts, and they're angled so they fit smooth and flush. He matches the grain on each side of the chest so that it goes around corners. The back of his furniture is as pretty as the front."
Cira sometimes bumps people to the front of his long waiting list. A listener with a soft heart, he can be swayed by a moving tale. When he was asked to make a chest for a woman whose husband had died, at age 29, two months before she gave birth to triplets, he said to himself, "I have to do something more." Result: his first seamen's chest with drawers ("extra difficult because of all the angles"). In this case, three drawers, one for each of the fatherless children.
When a chest is finished, Cira often delivers it himself, partly to ensure that it arrives safely, mostly to savor the reaction. "That's the best part," he says. "The smiling faces, the tears, the excitement. It's wonderful."
