yinjispace

INTERIOR
Studio Jencquel
PHOTOGRAPHY
Paris Brummer
WORDS
Meng Lin
EDITOR
Gina
Collection

May in Bali, drizzling rain. At COMO Uma Ubud, an ancient tree stood sentinel in the courtyard, its stone shrine veiled in moss. Water dripped from the thatched roof, painting trails on white walls. Koi stirred clouds in the pond; raindrops glistened on spider plants by the pool. Lush tropical foliage embraced the buildings. In the humid air, we seemed to glimpse the soul of Studio Jencquel’s work—nature was gently reclaiming everything.

Upstairs, earth-toned walls glowed with pink-filtered light. A vibrant surfboard hung near Maximilian Jencquel’s workspace—a sanctuary of terracotta pots, drafting tools, and framed photos of his pregnant wife. "Inside: Out" — this was his design philosophy. Born in Venezuela to a German father, a Russian-Chinese grandmother, and a European mother, his multicultural heritage convinced him that culture is cyclical. Childhood in Caracas, where modern architecture collided with tropical rainforests between mountains and sea, planted the seed of his "symbiosis with nature."

His apprenticeship under French master Christian Liaigre honed his obsession with detail. After settling in Bali in 2010, he became captivated by local craftsmanship and materials. Reclaimed ironwood salvaged from riverbeds bore water-carved holes—tiny shells embedded in the grain like nature’s seal. He realized design wasn’t just "inside-out" creation; it must allow nature to invade "outside-in." In the gallery, a poem titled "LEFT" whispered among joinery models and stone samples: Left or right? " The question is not what you leave behind, but what you see ahead of you."

Rumah Purnama, transformed from a century-old Wantilan traditional house, is Max’s earthly paradise with his wife and children. In the sunken courtyard paved with black gravel, giant ferns unfurled feathery fronds. Pushing open the wooden door, the view expanded—an open living room faced the pool, with Mount Agung looming through distant clouds. A single hammock slung between teak columns became the only boundary between inside and out.

In the second-floor master bedroom, a four-meter-wide bed dominated the space. Gray-green bedding, beige rattan rugs, and wooden walls created warmth. "Even with three bedrooms, we all squeeze in here," Max chuckled. The guest room’s small desk sat by a window—touching distance to leaves on one side, overlooking a valley on the other. A familiar photo of his pregnant wife beside the bed paid tribute to life alongside banana leaves outside. Copper pots hung gleaming in the kitchen, their rims catching the light where artistry met daily ritual. The steep slope below the pool held the greatest surprise: stone steps descended to a mountain spring where Max had built his sons a natural rock pool. Here, design yielded to a father’s instinct.

Rumah Hujan perched on Tjampuhan Ridge, its emerald pool embedded in jungle like a jade. In the sunken volcanic stone courtyard, moss spread like green velvet between crevices. Before stepping into the living room, the view penetrated the wall-less space—the entire pool and emerald valley unfolded as if the tropical wilderness was an extension of the home.

This was Max’s first ground-up creation as architect. In 2014, he gambled his savings to haul raw logs from Borneo. His wife’s pregnancy and financial strain saw him laboring daily on site, mastering Indonesian through grit. The courtyard’s moss-draped volcanic stone parapet wall was an old gardener’s improvisation; the ironwood dining table required ten men to lift; hidden joinery hid in unseen corners. "Every detail here is a story," Max said. At the entrance, a colossal stone slab lay half-buried in black gravel. "I saw it roadside—never imagined its weight. Workers spent a week moving it here."

Cabinets made of river-reclaimed ironwood bore water-carved holes. Morning sun pierced east windows; bamboo bathroom screens filtered birdsong. In this self-built sanctuary, Max transformed from interior designer to holistic architect.

Built hastily in 2014 beside Rumah Hujan, Rumah Senja provided shelter during construction. With his wife pregnant and urgent need for refuge, Max bought a century-old Joglo timber house from Java. He lifted it on black steel frames, creating a two-level living space where they welcomed their firstborn.

Years later, a second Joglo—a skeletal teak rice barn—rose on an adjacent plot. Max patched its frame with salvaged windows, doors, and ship timbers. Light slipped through plank gaps, casting lace-like patterns on teak floors. Below, the black steel-framed ground level, encased in glass and once Studio Jencquel’s home for 15 years, now serves as a gallery.

A wooden bridge connected both houses’ upper terraces. At the heart, a nine-meter atrium soared, bathed in warm light from a rattan chandelier that illuminated handmade furniture. Timbers from different eras—some scarred by grain sacks, others salted by sea—now whispered tales of shelter and rebirth under steel and light. Nearby, the badminton court Max co-created with bamboo artisans stood quietly. Inside its bamboo walls, Mary Verspoor’s exhibition unfolded during Ubud Open Studio.

Leaving at dusk, the valley glowed gold. It felt like witnessing Max’s two decades compressed into a day—from Caribbean architectural awakenings to Parisian refinement; from betting everything on Rumah Hujan to the moonlit bed where his family gathered; from the father hastily raising an old house for his pregnant wife to the dreamer carving mountain pools for his sons. His architecture deliberately left cracks for nature: volcanic walls invited moss, aged planks welcomed sunlight. True symbiosis is surrendering to time, granting nature the right to edit. The ultimate luxury? Letting geckos lay eggs on beams, watching roots crack tiles—in the fissure between human and wild, life blooms with a tenacity that outlives eternity.

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