At the end of a long private driveway, hidden behind nearly nine acres of trees, there is a house. Private. Unpredictable. Wildly spectacular. But you have to earn the reveal. Down the gravel drive. Around the corner. Through the woods. Until suddenly, there she is. Every angle. Every window. Every line, intentional. Because this wasn’t simply designed by an architect. It was the architect’s own home. A copper fountain rises from the perennial garden. Blond brick and sage green board-and-batten stretch toward the sky. You look up and realize you’ve never experienced a home quite like this. Fifteen-foot ceilings. Warm wood. Stacked stone. Walls of glass. The architect believed you could design a house, build it, live in it for years, and still discover views you never knew were there. Brick pillars move effortlessly from inside to out, blurring the line between architecture and forest. Sidelights echo the front door, repeating its rhythm vertically toward the ceiling. It feels organic...