Tucked into the folds of Jimbaran, ASAI Village is imagined as a quiet collective: villas, cafe, and shared spaces set within a tropical frame. Porous Tactile concrete imbued with greenery, various natural materials, and warm colours, give the interiors a grounded tactility, while open thresholds blur private retreat with communal life. The architecture recalls a lineage of tropical modernism in Bali, where material honesty and porosity to climate remain central. More than accommodation, it reads as a small study in how materials and atmosphere can shape belonging.
With only a simple sign on the main street, compressed and hidden away through a winding laneway, I was pleasantly surprised to arrive in a release - a striking yet soft cafe set among the natural greys and greens of vegetation and infrastructure. The cafe itself poses this contrast further into smaller scales, with its limited colour palette of terracotta and white, each material tuned to different tactile registers: the smoothness of terracotta brick, its sharp edges repeated in rhythm, against the roughness of white render spread across larger surfaces. The cafe’s form acts as a threshold within the village, less private than the villas yet still folded into the landscape, bridging seclusion and gathering.
Unfortunately we did not dine in to appreciate the space with consumption, but by just sitting and waiting for our takeaway order, I was able to take in the peaceful ambiance created by the balance of natural lighting illuminating the dining space and receding the ceiling into darkness. Exterior motifs were carried out into the interior, with the terracotta becoming breeze blocks for screening and acoustical insulation. Even in that short moment of waiting, the cafe suggested not just a place of service, but of lingering. In a Jimbaran streetscape often marked by excess and visual noise, ASAI’s restraint feels intentional: a reminder that atmosphere is built as much through what is held back as what is revealed.
ASAI Village reads less like a tourist development and more like a small inquiry into material and atmosphere. It shows how design, even at a modest scale, can foster belonging through the balance of retreat, community, and restraint.
In my previous blog on Bali, I commended the role of consumerism, particularly its part in tourism and on the exploration of human engagement with architecture and the built environment. The idea of context, culture, economic, and social influences amalgamating into creating a unique and user-orientated architectural language - and in return creating more engaging and human-centric designs. This outlook of experiential consumerism has allowed associated capitalism to further push these ideas as positive human experiences, generating monetary gain.
Homogenisation of the urban environment in Melbourne.
However, on a more global scale, a different form of consumerism has taken root. Most notably within industrial design and fashion, fast-paced consumerism - similar to fast-moving consumer goods (FMCG) - has become a global phenomenon, where goods are consumed at an accelerated rate for relatively low cost, encouraging frequent purchasing. This paradigm of consumerism overlooks particular human needs, and prioritises monetary gain rather than the end user and surrounding contexts (and impact).
From Apple notoriously reducing battery longevity, forcing consumers to constantly upgrade to their latest models, to fast fashion such as H&M, pumping out and chasing fashion fads. This relentless cycle of consumption is now deeply influencing the built environment, pushing architecture and design toward a rapid pace of production that often leads to homogenization, stripping spaces of their unique character and reducing them to mere commodities. Where architecture stood the test of time, often by hundreds of years, they now lose their integrity in more ways than one.
I entered the profession with a deep belief that architecture exists to serve humanity - to shape experiences, nurture well-being, and anchor identity. Yet throughout practice, I often found myself complicit in producing spaces that betrayed these ideals. I recall reviewing layouts, asking myself, ‘Would I want to live here?’ The answer was often no. Each decision - shaving a meter off a bedroom, narrowing a corridor, reducing the quality of components - felt like a small betrayal. And yet the project moved forward, and so did I, carrying a growing weight. There is no easy escape from this entanglement. But perhaps the beginning of resistance lies in refusing to forget that architecture is, at its core, a human act - and that each drawing, each decision, carries the weight of lives yet to be lived.
In the context of Australia, I have both lived in and worked on projects that embody the fast-paced, consumerist qualities now infiltrating architecture. Two apartments I lived in for several years in Melbourne felt more like white plasterboard caves than homes. Each was single-aspect, meaning only one side of the apartment had a facade facing the outside world. The bedroom had just one window, and it wasn’t even connected directly to the outdoors. Instead, it opened into the living room, which itself connected to the sunroom through another window - three layers of glazing before any natural light could finally reach the bedroom. The light that did arrive was minuscule, barely touching the living room, let alone the bedroom. But of course - thank God the developers were able to squeeze in more apartments per floor plate!
Working in practice exposed me to these situations from the other side. A moral and ethical dilemma began to tremble within me. As a designer, how can I tolerate creating spaces like these? Awkward corridors, subpar spatial planning - questionable quality driven by the imperative to fitting more in. And in turn, the more we fit, the more end-users end up feeling less. If dwelling spaces and the built environment are designed for their occupants - for humans - why are so many developments now devoid of empathy?
With Victoria engaging in a push for Melbourne’s missing middle housing, I wonder what it will look and feel like. Will these, which are meant to help residents afford housing, be also devoid of empathy? Will streets and suburbs be filled with uninspiring blasé facades that lack identity and the dynamism of life? Such a thing like this reflects inwards into soulless occupants.
Affordability and efficiency can never come at the cost of human dignity. It’s easy to imagine how these developments might follow a similar trajectory to the fast-paced consumerist housing trends we see today - high-density buildings that maximise every square inch, minimising space and light to fit more people in. Will these homes become another iteration of sterile, cookie-cutter designs? Efficient yet uninspiring, convenient yet soul-crushing?
It’s not enough to simply provide housing; we must think about how people live in these spaces. Are we creating environments that encourage well-being, connection, and a sense of identity, or are we pushing people into cramped, uninviting spaces that prioritise numbers over lives? Will these homes foster community, or will they simply function as places to sleep before heading out into the world again?
As the state turns to these new developments to alleviate pressure on the housing market, I can’t help but wonder if they risk becoming another example of "affordable" architecture that comes at the expense of quality. In our rush to provide more units, to accommodate more people, will we forget the very essence of architecture - that it is, at its heart, a human act?
I have been to Bali numerous times throughout my life. As an Indonesian from the island of Java, experiencing Bali felt familiar - the humidity, vehicle-centric urban planning, integration of nature, informal architecture, along with the blending of various cultural and historical influences on buildings, were all so natural to me. However, having spent most of my life in Australia, I now question the differences between what I was once familiar with, to what I am now accustomed to. In Australia, it is perceived that the built environment (housing, buildings, development, land) are treated as economic stock and capital, further exacerbating a decline in architectural spaces that encourage quality human experiences. In my opinion, the current state of the public realm and user experience conditions have become mediocre and lousy; with quicker demands for design output and pushing for quantity over quality. Thus, this development-first approach diminishes the human experience of such spaces. While exploring Bali, I felt that its architectural conditions prioritise human experiences, despite the urban conditions often contradicting this, ultimately strengthening both its economic vitality and the state of the built environment.
I find the architecture and urban conditions in Bali fascinating. Throughout my time there, I wondered how traditional Balinese influences inform contemporary architecture and the built environment in Bali. Unlike the city I was from, I noticed that Balinese architecture takes on formalised expressions through its religiously famous gates, highly ornamental detailing, structure and forms, and spatial planning for dwellings. This prominence of cultural expression stems from Bali’s religious beliefs deeply rooted in Balinese Hinduism (A blend of Hinduism, Buddhism, and existing Animistic beliefs), which is a belief of honour and maintaining harmony with everything and everyone around them. This bolsters the expression of culture through arts and the environment in the urban and public realm. Its cultural expression and integration within society can therefore be explained in the deep rooted animism within Balinese traditions, compelling further exploratory expressions of these ideals within contemporary settings.
'Balinese' architectural elements captured on my adventure across Bali. (From left to right) House in Bali with wall and roofing ornamentation, Balinese Gate, Balinese Pagoda, Bamboo and Straw Roof structure at The Udaya.
What fascinates me even further is this morphological transition and tension between culture, economic conditions, and consumerism that Bali is experiencing as a tourist hot spot. A push towards this economic condition has enabled the built environment to move towards a more enticing experience (at least, on an architectural and human scale), catering to new emerging needs, interests, and experiences. On my trip to Bali, I searched for places to stay and visit that were ‘Balinese’ and would allow me to experience a ‘cultural immersion’ - such places that imbue the ‘spirit of place’. The ‘spirit of place’ (genius loci) refers to the soul of a place - the tangible and intangible qualities that define its uniqueness and distinctiveness, giving it meaning and evoking emotion. However, if you look up ‘Balinese architecture’ (on Google and Pinterest), you will see that contemporary and traditional Balinese architectural qualities such as materiality, form, and structure, tend to merge and create new meanings - balancing cultural and contemporary ideas. So, it got me thinking… What is the ‘cultural experience’ of Bali? And how does this manifest itself in an architectural language and imbue a ‘spirit of place’?
Google search of 'Balinese Architecture' showing a mixture of traditional Balinese and Contemporary architectural languages - seemingly showing more roof morphologies.
Pinterest search of 'Balinese Architecture' showing a mixture of traditional Balinese and Contemporary architectural languages - showing more materiality and detail elements.
Is ‘Balinese’ a reduction to form, ornamentation, materiality? Or is it more intangible and ephemeral, such as a sense of space, atmosphere, and other sensorial qualities? Or perhaps its connection to nature? Therefore, what is Balinese vernacular architecture? And what is the culture it (architecture) is trying to reflect and imbue a spirit of place? Various questions and possibilities arise.
As outreach and trends on global media rise, an influx of global expression imposes its impression on local identities, contributing to urban homogenisation against the aforementioned deeply rooted animistic approach to the built environment. How, then, can one implement the 'spirit of place' of Balinese cultural immersion in an urban setting, where every element and detail of the place embodies its own spirit and purpose?
From ornamentation to a reduction to form & materiality. (From left to right) Milk and Madu by DDAP Architects, some Pertamina gas station along the high way, Trans Studio Mall in Kuta, Patal Kikian
This tension between cultural values and contemporary design is not only inevitable but also a catalyst for innovation. When economic factors prioritise the human experience, architectural vocabulary is shaped by consumer demand across various economic scales. As I observed in Bali, the dynamic interaction between traditional cultural influence and modern architectural demands encourages exploration and experimentation. It is within this tension that placemaking becomes both unique and spatially engaging, allowing for the creation of environments that resonate with both cultural depth and contemporary relevance.
