The town of Cushing is not even remotely on the beaten path, and yet it is a place—and a landscape—that is deeply enmeshed in the American imagination. It is where Joan Rockwell’s family has lived for well more than a century, and it is here that her uncle, Andrew Wyeth, painted his way into our culture and our psyche.

And it is in Cushing that Rockwell, a landscape architect, and her architect husband, Bill Austin, built by hand the house that they hope not just to live in but to pass on to generations to come. They call it the Point or, more officially, Bird Point. And in the past seven years it has grown from a single small cottage to a quirky compound of both old and new buildings, and it is not yet finished.

To say that this project is a labor of love would be to understate the case. Not only does it speak to Rockwell’s connection to this special part of Maine that has long been a part of her extended family, but it also embodies the philosophy that Rockwell and Austin embrace in their work and lives.

Rockwell grew up spending summers on the land, and her roots run deep. “The Point has been in our family for over 100 years,” she says. Her great-grandfather acquired it in 1904. “Both of my grandmothers were lifelong friends, so it would be natural for them to settle in this area later in life.” In turn, Austin, a Canadian by birth—his family moved to Massachusetts in 1958—has fully embraced the history and ecology of the land and the landscape that has for so long been part of the Rockwell, Wyeth, and Olson families.

To circle back briefly (and compress history): this part of Maine has long been the home (or summer home) of four families—Wyeth, James, Rockwell, and Olson. It was here that the painter Andrew Wyeth (whose family spent summers in Port Clyde, just six miles away) met Betsy James, who in turn took him to the Olson house on their first date (they married within a year). In the decades to follow, Andrew Wyeth painted the Olson house hundreds of times, but most famously in Christina’s World in 1948.

It was also here that Louise James, who was Betsy Wyeth’s sister and Joan Rockwell’s mother, met and married Dudley Rockwell, who would go on to become a well-known metallurgist as well as a fine furniture maker, painter, and Dixieland musician. To this day, Cushing remains the summer and year-round habitat of this sprawling extended family. “This place changed my world. As a child I spent my summers surrounded by art, family, and a beautiful landscape, and to this day it has an enormous impact on me,” says Rockwell.

In 1999 Rockwell and Austin acquired five acres of land along the mouth of the St. George River with the idea of creating a house that would eventually be their permanent home. Their landscape and architectural practices—they work both separately and together—are in Brattleboro, Vermont, and Greenfield, Massachusetts.

Together, they designed the house, and as might be expected, it went through several iterations. “But,” says Rockwell, “we had a clear motivation and an understanding of what we were doing and why we were doing it.” Adds Austin, “We knew we were going to retire here, so we concentrated on designing very simple sheds in concert with the tradition of the midcentury modern revival. We had the vision of something very straightforward and totally in concert with the land.” “We knew we wanted to use local materials and have it be completely energy efficient,” reveals Rockwell.

Then the adventure began: on May 1, 2013, to be precise. The couple arrived on the wooded, rustic, rocky waterfront site. They began to build, day after day, not missing a beat for wind or rain. To begin with, there were the trees that they would transform into their home—all from the site. They removed the bark and began building, moving in (giving true meaning to the Maine idea of “camp”) before there was even a roof. “We actually built the house ourselves, by hand,” says Austin. The two of them worked nonstop, and two young carpenters pitched in as they could on weekends.

“They were long days,” says Austin, “but it was fun.” They had originally envisioned a two-bedroom, two-bathroom house but soon determined that would put them over budget, so they constructed a tiny house of 850 square feet with just a single bedroom, a small office, a bathroom, and living and dining space. The house was thus conceived to function—especially in summer—as an “enclosed porch.”

Soon, however, the compound began to grow. The couple’s blended family includes four grown children as well as grandchildren. This is when the “annex” was conceived, with two more bedrooms (one with bunks to accommodate as many as six) connected to the main house by a deck. They also moved a century-old bathhouse—it had originally belonged to the Olson family—to the site, along with a small 1970s-era prefab garden shed called “Marianna’s cabin” (after Rockwell’s aunt) that they expanded and upgraded. Still to come is Austin’s workshop, which, he jokes, you might have expected to come first, not last.

“The concept of a family compound is to emphasize and support individual and collective needs to be both private and together,” says Rockwell. These ideas are manifested in the careful siting of the structures and the juxtaposition of each building to each other. “For example,” she says, “the annex is slightly angled from the main house and connected by a generous deck. We scrutinized the angle, distance, and window openings to provide privacy while feeling connected and still have a wonderful ocean view.” That water view is all important, and it is achieved in part by the placement of the buildings, which offer a certain amount of surprise to the first-time visitor. It’s really only when you go into the house that you get the full view of the water. The area has a robust lobstering industry, and there are seals and dolphins as well as sharks heading north (or south), seasonally.

Wood reigns, inside and out, as you might expect. There’s no wallpaper, no tile. The house and bunkhouse are made of old growth redwood, and the interiors boast tongue-and-groove Douglas fir and eastern white pine along with painted birch plywood floors. Rockwell says they “deliberately chose to have open storage and pullout shelving to recreate the feel of a casual summer cottage that I had known as a child, where pots and pans and dinnerware were visible and immediately accessible.” There are no closed cabinets. Many of the doors are sliding glass to reinforce the dual ideas of openness and rusticity.

The palette relies on primary colors. The furniture is intentionally simple and durable: pieces sourced from catalog sites such as IKEA and All Modern with the addition of such family heirlooms as a chest made by Rockwell’s father. There are watercolors from her uncle (Wyeth) and, in testimony to the family’s full artistic pedigree, works by Merle James (Rockwell’s grandfather and Wyeth’s father-in-law), as well as nautical models and bas-relief work by Rockwell’s father and pencil sketches from her aunt Gwendolyn Cook, the third of the James sisters.

Austin himself designed the round dining table, and it is not merely a work of fine craftsmanship but also a symbol of their larger vision for the Point. In their professional work both Rockwell and Austin place importance on “community, sharing, equality, and family,” and at one point they started a nonprofit planning and design entity called Community Vision. “The focus,” recalls Rockwell, “was on understanding what makes a town, village, community, etc., unique and how you could make changes in the future and still honor the special sense of place.” The land and structures connect them all with their past, present, and future. The art and design will continue to evolve.

It’s all very purposeful and personal. “Intimacy and warmth were exactly what we were after,” says Austin. “When people walk in, they say, ‘Oh my gosh, this is beautiful,’ and then they flop down on a chair. I consider that a grand slam home run. You can build a house, but you have to make a home.”

The two houses are located 175 miles apart, and their neighborhoods couldn’t be more different. One sits in downtown Portland, perched above asphalt and cobblestones. The other opens onto a lush garden with views (in the winter) of Acadia National Park’s nearby peaks. Yet the two homes share more than one would expect, says interior designer Brett Johnson. “The Maine Turnpike is just a portal, a hallway between the homes. It’s a magical thing; it’s like you got beamed into the condo from Bar Harbor, or vice versa.” He adds, “Katy did that. Her eye is very much her own.”

He’s speaking of his longtime friend, Katy Longley, who shares these spaces with her partner, furniture designer Kevin Rodel. Speaking with the couple, it quickly becomes clear that they also share a sense of taste and a high valuation of visual beauty. “Our aesthetic is exactly the same,” explains Longley. “We never argue about what goes where.” This is uncommon.

Most couples find themselves forced to find a compromise between their two personal styles: He tends toward classic cottage, she loves midcentury modern. Or maybe he likes antiques and she likes pop art. Even in my own marriage, I find myself advocating for sleek stone pavers while my husband begs me to consider brick. But not Longley and Rodel. They had no trouble decorating their Portland condo, which they’ve had since 2018, or their Bar Harbor house, which they purchased in 2017. It was easy for them to pick out furniture and fixtures that felt harmonious with their surroundings. “It actually wasn’t intentional that the houses have a similar feel,” Longley says. “But they both have very high ceilings and big windows, I suppose.”

They also both have Rodel’s fingerprints all over the furniture. While he didn’t make every item, his distinctive style is present in every room of each house. “There is a strong element of Japanese influence in my work,” he explains, “and I’m also very familiar with the Arts and Crafts movement.” This is putting it somewhat lightly: Rodel coauthored an award-winning book on the furniture of that era. While Arts and Crafts flourished in the United Kingdom, many of the movement’s primary designers were heavily influenced by Asian traditions and techniques, so it makes sense that Rodel would be drawn to both. But Rodel doesn’t make copies of historic pieces, nor does he simply mix Japanese lines with British forms. He brings something personal to each custom-built piece.

For example, take the sculptural mahogany side table that sits in the entryway of their Bar Harbor house. “I was inspired to make the tables after spending time in New Zealand and Australia,” he explains. “The inlay on the top is basically a Maori textile decoration, and the forms of the sides and front are reminiscent of tools and artefacts that Polynesian people traditionally used.” The warm-colored, oil-rubbed table has a soft curve and flow to it, yet it’s not entirely unlike the dark, dramatic table that sits under a window in the guest room of their Portland condo. On first glance, they’re opposites—one is light, the other dark; one organic, the other geometric— but they share a sense of balance, as well as Rodel’s craftsmanship. “When he made that, I was doing a lot of ikebana flower arranging,” says Longley. “The form isn’t too different from a traditional Chinese altar table,” adds Rodel. “It’s a split leg. There are a lot of contemporary influences. But I thought of it as a table for displaying Katy’s ikebana.” To give it a deep, intense color, Rodel treated the cherrywood with a chemical solution made from vinegar and iron that changes the color of the wood permanently. Some woods it turns silvery gray, but cherry, which has a lot of tannins, goes black. A layer of shellac gave this flower-ready surface a glossy finish. “Kevin never uses stains,” his partner reveals. “His work is very natural.”

But Rodel doesn’t just make statement tables or accent pieces. He’s also responsible for the big, hardworking pieces that get a lot of daily use. Like the light-toned bed, decorated with Japanese-inspired ropework, that lends a masculine, nautical touch to the pink Portland bedroom. Or the Viennese-style side tables next to it that give the couple a place to stash their coffee mugs or reading material when they’re staying in the city. Or the geometric bookcase that sits behind the sofa in their Bar Harbor living room. This cypress wood unit was inspired by an Italian design, Longley reveals. “I showed him the website and asked if he could make something similar,” she says. The original piece was made of plastic laminate, so Rodel modified the design to fit into his artistic practice and the physical space. “People don’t use a lot of cypress, but it was the right wood for this project,” he says. “I was able to get really wide boards with a nice grain pattern. It’s a light, soft southern wood.” (Rodel sources almost all of his wood from a single mill in Pennsylvania that specializes in ecologically produced lumber for builders and artists.)

It’s not too hard to spot the outliers, those pieces that Rodel didn’t make and the couple purchased new. When it came to buying pieces, Johnson knew it wouldn’t make sense to try and “match” Rodel’s level of work. Instead, he steered the couple toward clear acrylic coffee tables and midcentury modern sofas. “The contrast of the acrylic and the wood works really well,” Rodel says appreciatively. “It was smart.”

While this may paint a picture of two perfectly matched living spaces (for two perfectly matched humans), there are some key differences between the couple’s metropolitan base and their island headquarters. For one, the Portland condo has “so much more color,” Longley says. “Bar Harbor is white all around, which I think works there. The ceilings are a dark gray, so this gives it a more open, cottage feel.” The dynamic in the Portland rooms is switched. Gray walls encase white ceilings in the living room and kitchen, and in the owners’ suite a blushy, taupe-touched pink creates a cozy backdrop for Rodel’s solid woodwork. “That Farrow and Ball paint—they call it ‘ Calamine ’—that was my big ‘aha’ moment,” Johnson says. “When the paint cans came and were opened, my project manager called to check and see if it was right. She never thought I’d choose pink.” But he did, because pink was the right fit for the space and the clients, and just as important, it complements both the art and furniture. “I knew the bed going in there was very masculine, with the rope detailing, and Katy had these beautiful Japanese cherry blossom prints,” he explains. “It picks up the color of the art. It is soft, but not too much.”

The Japanese prints were a rare example of art influencing design during these two home projects. More often, the art was purchased and hung after the paint had gone on, the furniture had settled down, and the rugs had time to acclimate to the couple’s footfalls. For this task, they turned to Elizabeth Moss, owner of Art Interiors by Elizabeth Moss, a design business which focused on building corporate collections, and the Moss Galleries in Falmouth (where she works more often with homeowners). Longley knew Moss from a forum they both belong to, aimed at connecting Maine’s women executives.Several years ago, Moss worked with Longley and Rodel to decorate their Portland apartment, so when it came time to add art to the Bar Harbor home, she was a logical choice. However, by the time they settled into Bar Harbor, the pandemic had already caused a closure of nonessential businesses, including art galleries. Still, Moss had a plan. She used the same method she uses for companies with big buildings to fill, like WEX. “I used photographs of the interiors without art, then I superimposed art onto the images,” she explains. “By that point, I had a pretty good idea of what they liked. But I also knew I had to be respectful of the art that was already there.”

One of the pieces that was already hanging in Bar Harbor, above the dining area, was a dramatic, textured, emerald green work by Finnish-born sculptor Melita Westerlund. “I actually asked Katy who did that one,” Moss says. “I thought my corporate clients would love it.” To complement this dramatic work, Moss showed Longley and Rodel a series of abstract and contemporary canvases. “Katy must have really enjoyed the Portland condo,” Moss reflects, “because she went with many of the same artists in Bar Harbor.” The bright yet natural palette of Richard Keen appealed to the couple, who purchased paintings inspired by the brilliant lime and aqua colors of rockweed for both living areas. “Living in Maine, we all know what that’s like, to navigate a beach looking down at the rockweed,” Moss says. “But the way he paints is very sophisticated. In the last three years, I’ve seen a lot of people moving into Maine, and his work really appeals to well-traveled buyers. It feels warm. It’s not hard edged. It’s not cold.”

Similarly, the creative couple found themselves drawn to the softly textured and boldly saturated works of Lyle J. Salmi, who happens to be close friends with Keen (a fact that Moss says you can see in both painters’ work). “I think Katy likes art that makes a big punctuation mark, which you really need in an open, white space like the Bar Harbor house,” says Moss. This approach also works well in an urban space like the Portland condo, where canvases by Robert Wieferich depict abstracted versions of local landmarks. “The art we chose is complementary to where we are living,” says Rodel.

It’s also complementary to their furniture, their paint, their plants, and their textiles. Truly, these spaces feel unified, despite the range of influences found in individual pieces. Moss cites her clients’ “sophisticated taste” and thoughtful engagement with art for the success of the two spaces. According to Johnson, it all worked out so well because there was no one person “in charge” of decorating the homes. “There isn’t an ounce of self-centeredness anywhere in this project,” he says. “There was no ego. The clients were the designers, and I came in to gently stir the pot and add a bit of seasoning once in a while.”

“This project was really lovely because it was just sort of a dance,” he adds. “Like when you are dancing, and each person is responding gently to create that fluid motion. It was just calm and gentle interaction, from start to finish.”

Long before moving to Portland, I traveled here with a talented New York architect named Evan Galen. By then, our professional relationship (I styled his residential projects for photography) had blossomed into friendship. Evan had renovated a grand house in Falmouth Foreside that he wanted to shoot. Usually, I barely meet the owners and simply exchange pleasantries. But this time they invited us to stay over at their enormous manse, to which John Calvin Stevens once added details and for which Frederick Law Olmsted had designed the grounds. Our hosts had amassed an extensive collection of Maine art, much of it from the artists’ colony on Monhegan Island, where they’d summered for years.

It was a thoroughly enchanting experience. The wife—a veritable sparkplug who had represented Portland in the state legislature for ten years and authored arts bills still in effect today—made lunch for the crew and served it in her beautiful garden. One day I bicycled with the husband—the senior partner in a large Portland law firm—to get bagels for breakfast, and on another evening they treated us to an elegant restaurant dinner.

Evan and I lost touch when my marriage hit the rocks in 2016. He and his husband summered in Maine, and I wanted to reconnect with him when I moved to Munjoy Hill two years ago, as well as with this exceptionally gracious couple. I knew they’d sold the large house in 2014 because Evan had told me he was designing something more livable for them farther north. When Evan’s phone numbers didn’t work and a search for his website turned up nothing, it occurred to me to type “Evan Galen obit” into my search engine, and to my great sadness, I learned he’d passed away from cancer the year before my arrival. Later, my friend and former gallerist Peggy Golden, who knew the couple, was able to reunite us.

Over hors d’oeuvres and a glass of wine, we reminisced about Evan, and they told me the story of their new home. “I wanted peacefulness, simplicity, and ease of maintenance,” says the wife. “I think that’s what you want when you get older.” (They are now in their 80s.) Stylistically, she adds, “I wanted to move into the twenty-first century, which I’ve always liked, but it didn’t work in the old house.”

In 2014 the couple purchased a single-level ranch. The husband recalls that the original owner had “wanted it to look like a house on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach.” True to this desire, the original architect and builders constructed a stucco structure with no formal foyer. “In Maine, you can’t just open the door into the living room,” says the wife. “You need a place to sit down and take off your boots!” Something would have to be added to create a graceful and commodious entry. The interior was chopped up, but says the wife, “We recognized that by opening up some rooms you’d have a sense of space and air.” What you’d also have, adds her husband, was “the longest unobstructed view of Casco Bay not blocked by islands.”

As Evan, the couple, and builder Ron Tozier had toured the house, they told me, Tozier pushed a pencil at a wall and it poked right through. “I think we handled that well,” laughs the wife. “We noted it and moved on.” But, recalls Tozier, “We found there were problems with the structure caused by moisture between the walls and insulation, and also the way it was graded. The bottom third of the house was rotten. Even the studs! We had nothing to save but the roof.”

Tozier called in Eric Dube of Casco Bay Engineering, who devised a way to hold the roof aloft while they rebuilt everything underneath. He also figured out how to support it once it was lowered again, this time onto a generously fenestrated building in which the main room’s support beams had been redesigned and relocated so as not to obstruct the spectacular marine panorama. “Evan wanted to get rid of the walls—all of them,” says Tozier, who had worked with him on other projects. Dube deployed steel beams and cables with beautiful custom turnbuckles that prevent the roof from collapsing like a pancake. Exposed I-beams and high-tech LED lighting impart a feeling of industrial cool.

“The design evolved up until the last moment,” says Tozier. “Evan was a design-as-you-go kind of guy. He never made drawings.” Sometimes he drew out his ideas right on the last remaining wall, remembers the husband. Evan might also sketch out something rough and fax it to Tozier from New York. For certain elements, such as the eventual entry vestibule, powder room, and large coat closet, Tozier’s team would do a mock-up with two-byfours, take a picture, and fax it to Evan. The architect would scribble comments on it and send it back, after which Tozier would create CAD drawings for the code officer. The resulting 4,500-square-foot, three-bedroom residence now boasts high ceilings and rambling spaces that are flooded with natural light.

The couple has always been very active in the visual and performing arts. The wife had started holding “Sunday Night Awakenings” in the 1960s that featured, among others, Black author Claude Brown, poet Robert Lowell, filmmaker Shirley Clarke, and painter Jack Levine. Over three decades, her husband chaired the Portland Symphony Orchestra, the Maine Arts Commission, and the Portland Museum of Art. They love to host large gatherings, so the main living– dining–kitchen area can comfortably seat 80 on casual, no-hassle wicker and Sunbrella-covered sectionals and roomy armchairs.

And the art collection? Opening up the warren of closed spaces in the original home left few walls for display. “Where were we going to put the pictures?” wondered the wife. “It was Evan who suggested hanging them on cabinet doors,” she says. Those doors, which conceal tableware, a bar, appliances, and decorations, run along the L-shaped kitchen at the perimeter of the main space.

Modern, bright, and colorful—and quintessentially Maine—these paintings showcase some of the state’s major talents, both living and deceased. They include Jay Connaway, Joseph De Martini, Lynne Drexler, Connie Hayes, John Hultberg, Henry Kallem, Louise Nevelson, and Alice Spencer. The works pop against the white cabinetry and, notes the wife, “give people sitting with their backs to the ocean an equally beautiful view.”

Down a hall and protected from sunlight are works on paper by Kallem, Murray Hantman, Waldo Peirce, John Raimondi, Ben Shahn, Reuben Tam, and Carol Wald (a late cousin of the husband’s). In the owners’ bedroom hang works by Hans Moller and Douglas Frati.

Despite this amazing assortment, says the husband, “We were never consciously collecting. Most were purchased from the artists directly on an installment plan.” His wife adds, “By spending 40 years with artists on Monhegan, we recognized these men and women were struggling. It was a very symbiotic relationship. We got a painting, and they got their regular 25 dollars a month.” The husband reiterates what is self-evident: “We tend to be attracted to people who are creative.”

Including, of course, Evan, who lavished many details throughout, such as a striking black Venetian plaster wall in the living room and ceiling-high built-in shelves in the library. “It wasn’t just a bookcase,” says the wife. “He took the time to make it into an architectural feature. The home is a homage to our dear friend. We respected his aesthetic sense, which was pitch-perfect.”

It remains a stunning tribute to a lovable mensch we will always miss.