The great room is a study in opposites: prehistoric bones of the hill around sleek, low silhouettes in warm fabrics. A modular sofa floats on a woven jute rug; a walnut slab table anchors the middle like a ship’s deck.
He chiseled the arches himself, following the natural bedding planes to avoid stress fractures. “You don’t fight stone,” he says. “You negotiate.”
A ribbon skylight slices the ceiling. At noon it paints the floor in gold; at night it frames Orion like a window to another century. The acoustics? Soft and cinematic—voices gather, music blooms, storms become theater.
Some rooms ask you to pass through. This one asks you to stay—linger, breathe slower, watch the light move across the rock like time itself.
