The Way The Light Falls 
Jessica Pell

Words Allison Reiber DiLiegroImages Luis Garcia

Jessica Pell believes the desert rewards attention. So, while creating Hotel Wren, she would return to her favorite spot in Joshua Tree National Park, sit on the rocks, and simply listen.

Growing up in the suburbs of Los Angeles, Jessica spent her childhood exploring the desert with her father, drawn to the plants, the chuckwallas, and a landscape whose sense of geologic time never stopped speaking to her. When the opportunity came to transform a 1940s motel in Twentynine Palms into a hotel, she took it. Over nearly a decade, the project evolved alongside her own life, becoming a place to explore everything she believed about design and the ways spaces can shape our experience of ourselves. “When I look at Hotel Wren,” she tells us, “I see my own story woven through it, too.”

Through her practice, Manola Studio, Jessica has long explored the relationship between people and the spaces they inhabit, and design’s ability to deepen our connection to both ourselves and our surroundings. Somewhere along the way, she decided to approach Hotel Wren no differently: “What would happen if I poured everything I believe about space, harmony, beauty, and balance into these twelve rooms?” she asked herself. The answer can be found in the craftsmanship, the light, and the countless small decisions that create an experience guests can feel, even if they cannot always name it.

You studied environmental design, first at ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena and then at Tama Art University in Tokyo. Do your studies still shape the way you work?

I ran into my department chair a few weeks ago and told him that Hotel Wren is essentially a studio project brought to life. Those years were incredibly formative for me, not only in how I learned to design, but in how I learned to see.

The discipline taught me to think about space as an experience rather than simply a composition. I learned to pay attention to how we move through a room, how light changes throughout the day, how scale and proportion influence our experience, and how every detail contributes to a feeling. Hotel Wren became an opportunity to bring all those ideas together.

How so?

I try to consider everything, from the scent of a room to the quality of light, the playlists, the artwork and objects, the colors, and the way a guest is welcomed. It’s all part of a larger orchestration. I often think of experience design like conducting a symphony: every detail is a note. On its own, it may seem small, but together those details create the feeling of a place. People can feel when their experience has been considered on an intimate level. That is what I have always loved about residential design: its ability to speak to something deeper in us.

Can you share a few design decisions that were specifically inspired by the desert?

 One of my intentions was to avoid making an LA project in Joshua Tree. I wanted to listen to the desert rather than project my own ideas onto it.

In the spring, I would take clippings of plants and color-match them into paint colors. Then I’d do the same thing again in the winter. Some of the rooms are directly inspired by those seasonal palettes. We custom-made natural clay pavers in Mexico that bear the paw prints from the animals that had walked across them while they were drying in the sun. We placed these ones carefully. These small traces felt worth honoring.

We also commissioned ceramic tile paintings of some of my favorite native plants and animals. My love for the high desert is quietly woven throughout the hotel in ways that are both subtle and deeply personal.

You’ve said that the desert attracts a certain kind of person. What kind of community have you found there?

The community I’ve found is wonderfully eclectic, made up of people who felt called to live a little differently. What connects them is a certain independence, resourcefulness, and deep respect for the landscape. There is a great deal of individuality, but also a real willingness to show up for one another.

I think many people come to the desert looking for more space, both around them and within themselves. It is not an easy or forgiving landscape, but within that severity is so much beauty and nuance: the stillness of the evening, the changing light, the warmth of the breeze on your skin. The desert asks you to slow down and rewards you for paying attention.

How was designing Hotel Wren different from working on a private home?

When I design a residence, I often want it to have the thoughtfulness and refinement of a beautifully considered hotel. At the same time, I think the best hotels carry the intimacy and ease of a home.

With clients, we spend a lot of time talking about habits and rituals, what brings them joy, and how they move through their day. The architecture becomes a reflection of who they are and how they want to live. Hotel Wren was a chance to apply those same ideas in a different way.

The difference is that I don’t know the guest as intimately as I know a residential client, but I can still imagine what they might need and what might give them comfort. I think about the way the light falls, where to place the bed so you can watch the sunset, exactly where someone will want to set down their toiletries. You trust that all those decisions add up to something people can feel.

You’re a collector at heart. What are you looking for when you’re wandering a flea market or auction?

The throughline in almost everything I love is that I can feel the hand, the heart, or the soul of the maker. That’s true of the objects I collect personally, and it’s true of what I chose for the hotel. I’m equally drawn to things that are exquisitely refined and things that carry a little imperfection or earthiness. What matters is that they have a point of view and retain some evidence of the person who made them.

When I go to a flea market or an auction, I don’t usually shop for a specific project. I simply collect things that make my heart sing and trust that they’ll eventually find their place.

You’ve spent much of your career restoring and preserving older buildings. What makes something worth saving?

More than anything, I look for what is original, particularly the things that could never be replicated in quite the same way. I’ve spent years restoring historic homes, and what fascinates me is not only the architecture but the craftsmanship, skill, resources, and knowledge embedded within it. So many of the people I’ve worked with learned their trades from previous generations, and those skills are becoming increasingly rare.

Sometimes it’s the hardware. Sometimes it’s old glass that catches the light differently, a material that has grown more beautiful with age, or an architectural detail that would be difficult to reproduce today. I’m always asking: what can we preserve, what can we bring forward and celebrate, and what can we learn from?

Of course, buildings often need to evolve. We live differently than we did a century ago. The challenge is finding ways to move forward while honoring what came before, allowing the old and the new to exist in meaningful conversation. Sometimes the most interesting projects aren’t about freezing a building in time. They’re about carrying its story into the future.