Pumps And Proust: The Creative Quests Of Gravity Road's Sophie Cullinane

Sophie Cullinane didn’t know what 'a creative' was until her late twenties - but she was no late bloomer. A true Londoner and connoisseur of 'Indie sleaze', she’s long been at the heart of culture... real culture.

“There’s something strangely nostalgic about the feeling of gum beneath paper-thin ballet pumps,” she says. “It's something like how Proust felt about madeleines. That’s my madeleine.”

It’s the perfect snapshot of how she sees the world: grimy, poetic, and full of unexpected texture.

Like Proust, she’s been on a wild journey - Indie nightlife, writing for Dazed, Elle, Grazia, Stylist, and more, then a switch to advertising, fuelled by the rise of branded editorial and a shared love of My Bloody Valentine’s mini-album Ecstasy.

Now steering the creative helm at Gravity Road, Cullinane has climbed the ranks - from creative to creative director, then global ECD and creative partner.

And her portfolio proves she knows what sticks in today's fast-paced media ecosystem: TikTok talking heads, augmented reality wormies, a regenerative farming game for McCain potatoes

More recently, she was responsible for the the Addams Family campaign, proving Booking.com is for the unruly families too.

Speaking to Creative Salon, Cullinane opens up about her advertising journey, her leadership style, and why weirdness is a secret weapon.

Was your childhood a creative one?

We were embarrassingly glued to the television in my family.

For people who liked to position themselves as sort of pseudo-intellectual, Irish, bookish types, we watched a lot of telly. We watched loads of Saturday night stuff - Blind Date, Gladiators - we were really into it.

We were also massively into film as a result. Like, we were very unstylishly into pop culture. That was a big thing in our house.

We obviously discussed art a lot - especially literature - and we had all the big Irish novelists in our canon, particularly because of my grandad. But honestly, when you look at what we actually spent time on, it was pop culture. And we gave it a similar kind of reverence to the books we were reading. We were serious about really unserious drivel on the telly.

It wasn't high-brow, not exactly low-brow either. Just... in-between. And we could find something interesting in all of it. That was actually quite a big influence on my upbringing.

And then, this is a bit cheesy, but my brother was a DJ. When we were teenagers, he was the coolest person I’d ever met. It was all very indie - like, proper indie sleaze. Some of my friends were in cool bands when I was younger. It was those Indie days - ballet flats, running around Camden, being really badly behaved. That was a huge influence too.

So yeah - it was a mix: a bit of crap telly, some properly high-brow books, and then this sort of indie sleazy music culture.

I didn’t know that being a creative was even a job you could do. I had no idea - genuinely - even well into my late twenties. I was working at a creative agency at the time, but as a journalist. I remember thinking, 'There’s something going on over there - something kind of interesting,' but I still had no idea that it was an actual job you could have.

But looking back, they were creative - my family. My mum was a Ziggy Stardust obsessive - both stylish and fashionable. As kids, we grew up around a table full of heaving Irish family, always talking, discussing things.

The house, regardless of how much or how little money we had, was always a point of pride - the aesthetics of it, what we wore, how things looked. My auntie was a punk. It was, in a really great way, very discursive.

We got used to pulling ideas apart and putting them back together again. That’s just how we grew up - very Irish, but also, I suppose, quite London in that way.

A heaving, chaotic family of odds and sods - we had an open door to all the odd ones.

Given that you became a creative in your late 20s - talk us through your pathway into the industry?

I had a job in journalism, and it was during a period of time when all the commissions I was getting were for observational, confessional pieces. It was all about periods, breakups, eating disorders - anything deeply personal.

It was very early Vice, that kind of thing. I was also writing for Cosmo, Stylist, and similar publications. But before that stage of my life, I had dreams of becoming a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. I imagined myself out in the field for months at a time, investigating - I don’t know - politics in the White House or something along those lines.

But that version of my career just wasn’t happening. All I was getting were briefs like, “Tell us what it’s like to be single on Valentine’s Day - and on your period.” It got really boring and it felt culturally vapid.

I’d already worked in fashion journalism too, and that was exhausting. It used to cost me loads of money - we weren’t paid, obviously. At some publications there was no desk, you had to front money for returns on clothes you borrowed for shoots. It was a nightmare.

It was that era - early millennial chaos: American Apparel, sexual assault scandals, the whole thing.

Then I came across a company called Gravity Road. They were doing work - for Sainsbury’s, I think - and they were looking for someone to bring an editorial heart to it. It was during the era when trendy brands were starting to act like magazines.

So I came in, was around a lot, and eventually met Seb Royce - who had been ECD at Glue. We hit it off. I remember he liked that I had good taste in music. I put on Ecstasy in the office one day, and he liked that.

At some point, he asked, “Have you ever thought about being a creative?”. I think he just found me culturally interesting. I didn’t know what being a creative meant, but I was writing, and I turned out to be... quite good at it.

I had that spunk that a lot of journalists have. You have to fight for a story, argue for it, pitch with your little pile of newspaper clippings and say, “This is interesting - we should do something with this.”

People coming through traditional ad schools weren’t really approaching creative like that. I was coming at it from a culture-first perspective, rather than starting with the big-brand idea.

It was all completely accidental. Like I’ve said - I had no idea what a creative even was.

And how do you inspire that in your team?

I always say to my creatives, “What’s the headline for this idea?”

Like anything - if there isn’t one, give it a proper go. You need to try. There’s no point doing something that feels culturally flat. You want to create something noisy - something that cuts through.

Thinking about the headline is a really useful muscle to keep in your arsenal. If you can’t sum it up in a couple of lines, it’s either too complicated or it’s just not culturally resonant enough.

I used to try and run the department a bit like a newsroom. Every day I’d ask, “What are you finding interesting today?”. Talking to you now actually makes me want to bring that back.

That mindset - staying sharp, staying tuned in - was something I really tried to build into the creative muscle here. And it’s still how we think.

You don’t see people walking in with actual newspaper clippings anymore, but we do still share articles around. We’ve got a “Staying Curious” channel, and if my creatives aren’t adding to it daily - with things I haven’t already seen - then we’ve got a problem.

You’ve got to be switched on, right now, to get the cut-through.

It's really important because you're competing with people's attention span in our world, in advertising, and there's so many things out there that are more entertaining or newsworthy than an advert ever be.

So if you don't know what's going on, you can't have a hope in hell of make something that's going to resonate culturally.

Have you always had that grind mindset that comes with being a journalist?

I was already working as a fashion journalist by first year of university. I was studying Philosophy at the University of Sussex.

I'd come up to London and work in pubs - I had about five jobs. At one point I worked with Hilary Alexander at The Telegraph. She was fantastic and stern, and taught me how to be a fabulous fashionista when I was 20 and clueless, and then I realised that fashion journalism was a bit too hard for me.

And then I rolled along doing other features -that was when I thought I was going to be a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist. And then I did some script-writing.

I've always had a job. I've had a job since I was 14, selling hot dogs in Twickenham rugby stadium, - the glamour! So I just have always grafted. I like working.

And were there any great mentors when you were starting out in adland?

We’ve got two really incredible founders at Gravity Road who are similarly minded in terms of cultural stickiness. I happened to join at a time when the agency was small enough that we were all figuring it out together - and there’s no way I’d be where I am now without their mentorship.

I’d also count Seb Royce - my old ECD -because he spotted something in me that I wasn’t even aware of. As I’ve said before, I didn’t know what a ‘creative’ was, so that was a really big gift, and I’d send a lot of love his way.

Then, in terms of creative mentorship - and this might sound a bit trite - but friends of mine. I was very lucky to grow up with some truly brilliant, creative people: incredible musicians and artists who would just muck about with me. We’d muck about with each other, make stuff, experiment.

I think a lot of the body language of ‘just getting on with it’ came from that - the instinct to dive in, mess around, and figure it out as you go. Friends of mine had lingerie brands, bands, weird projects - and we were doing that from the age of 14 or 15. It was all wildly ambitious in its own way.

What does creativity mean to you?

If something's creative, I suppose it's about challenge. And that's really it. What I mean is: does it challenge me? Does it make me think, make me feel something, does it snap me out of the status quo? I think that's the key.

I think beauty for beauty's sake is great, but for something to be truly creative - it has to be provocative in some way. And I suppose that's what we aim to do: create work that asks questions, or that some people might see as being in bad taste, or, you know - whatever it is. As long as you're looking at it and thinking 'that's interesting' then that’s what matters.

That's what grabs me - that's what gets me going, creatively. I'm always thinking: what's weird and cool and kind of offbeat about it?

Are there any works that you admire that really channel that?

Do you remember that Reebok ad from the 90s where a humongous beer belly chased a bloke down the street?

I remember watching it and thinking, what the fuck is this? Why is that belly chasing a man down the road? I didn’t get it. And it was just encouraging people to get off the sofa and stop drinking lager. I loved it. It was so weird. I still love it.

And then, on the flip side, I really like what Jacquemus and Loewe are doing at the moment - where it's high fashion, and they're putting something very base, a bit silly and playful, into that context. But really, there's a lot going on - and fashion brands do this really well.

Yves Saint Laurent was doing it ages ago - putting himself in the opium ads, surrounded by orchids and flowing 70s hair. That's the kind of thing I really, really like.

I think it's all about breaking away from the tropes you'd normally associate with that world. It's weird, it's interesting. 

And like every woman of my generation, I wish I wrote Girls or Fleabag. I wish I did that. I think there is very few people who were copywriting background that doesn't that didn't think they had a Fleabag or Girls in their bottom drawer.

What do you to try to bring into all of your work?

I find what people find interesting really interesting. And actually, playing with those levers - what draws people in, what holds their attention - that’s probably the driving force behind my whole approach.

If I can get someone to like something they kind of shouldn’t, or laugh at something they didn’t expect to - that’s the dream for me, creatively. That weird moment of discomfort or surprise - like there’s that photographer who captures English summertime in a really off-kilter way - it’s that slightly jarring mix of good taste and bad taste.

It’s laughing when you’re not supposed to laugh, or finding something tacky and brilliant at the same time - like Robin Williams in Versace during The Birdcage - that’s my forever icon of style. Something that blends bad taste with good taste, something that gives you a little jolt – that’s what excites me creatively.

It’s about playing with what people find interesting, and getting them to consider something they wouldn’t usually give a second thought to - that’s what I really love doing.

It's that bad taste is good taste vibe - but also just that cultural feeling. It felt really of the moment. Zeitgeist-driven. Something that feels culturally sticky. I’ve always liked it. I’ve always liked something that felt kind of journalistic - news-heavy, talkable.

That’s the bit that gets me excited. And it’s kind of pulpy in that way. And all of that probably marries together.

Is there any work you've done that you're particularly proud of that does that?

Booking.com - I’d say - putting an Oscar-winning actress in full costume, in a Tim Burton-style world, with that calibre of Oscar-winning cast and crew, and getting them to deliver these kind of cheesy lines - in the best way imaginable - about a travel app...That’s weird. And that’s disruptive.

Because you’re taking the world of Tim Burton - this very aesthetic, stylised filmmaking - and placing it in an advertising context. And it’s actually quite hard to pull off. So when you get that balance right, it’s really exciting to me.

Just before that, we had another nice bit of work out for Bic. It was a women’s grooming campaign, where we showed women shaving their legs in ways that some of the clients found uncomfortable. They weren’t even sure women shaved there, for instance - but we do, you know.

That kind of work - breaking away from hackneyed tropes in a particular category - is what I really enjoy.

Holding up a mirror, but doing it in a way that feels fresh and culturally honest.

What's the biggest challenge in creative leadership?

I think you’ve got to give people space to get it wrong - to say something really weird to you - and feel safe enough to do it. And when I say safe, I mean in practical terms: timeframes, and an audience where you can just hash things out. That’s really important.

And again, it’s about casting. It’s about having the right people on the floor - bosses who are brave enough and weird enough to get it wrong. I think that’s the key. That’s the real challenge.

Then there’s the classic issue: spotting the right briefs. Where we think there’s a chance to sneak something weird in through the back door. The client gets excited because the work performs really well, and that gives them the confidence to try something strange next time. It’s all of those things.

I think the challenge is making sure that, especially in the crunch timelines everyone’s under, creators still have room to play - to get things gloriously wrong. That’s really, really important.

So I encourage my teams to include, in every deck, something completely out there. ‘Wild card’ is a cringey phrase, but something that makes you think, if there was no brief, what would you do? Some of the best work comes from that place.

And you can always fit RTBs back into a great idea afterwards to sell it to the client - I said that! But it’s true. If the idea’s good enough, you can retrofit it.

And how is AI impacting your role?

In the context of AI, I think of it as your paint and your paintbrush. You still need a good idea.

It’s like when people see a piece of art and say, “I could have done that.” Well - you didn’t. You didn’t think of it, and you didn’t do it.

I can spot it a mile off when the idea itself is an “AI idea” - and that’s not to say it won’t get there eventually, but right now, it’s not there yet.

AI isn’t something to be frightened of. It’s a way to get to good work faster. And actually, some of the weirdness - the people experimenting with it, pushing it - that’s where you start to see really interesting, discordant stuff.

But yeah - the bottom line is, a good idea is still a good idea. AI is just a tool.You still need human insight - and that’s the bit that’s hard to replicate. You can tell straight away when it’s missing.

I think it’s about embracing the role of practitioner with AI - encouraging play, experimentation. It’s not that deep yet, but it’s worth getting your hands dirty. Just start.

What change would you like to see in the industry in the next ten years?

The gender pay gap.

It means more women in senior leadership positions, and being thoughtful about how we reintegrate women after having kids - and men, too. All of that matters. When you're talking about diversity of ideas, that’s how you get there.

So there’s that. And then, from a creativity perspective - although that is a creativity issue too - I’d say I’d really love to see a return to narrative storytelling in advertising. And that is starting to happen.

A move away from performance-driven work - away from this mash-up of social and performance that became one thing over the last couple of years. Actually separating those two again, and building narrative back in. One asset doesn’t have to do all 50 things you need it to do for your computer, your comms plan or your bottom line. Having a bit of narrative and a brand perspective that tells small stories which build into a bigger one - that’s what I’d really like to see.

Big as a collection of small ones. That’s the narrative. You don’t need one campaign or asset to do everything. You need a brand narrative with different touchpoints - or even long-form audiovisual content, maybe. That’s what I’d really like to see.

Yeah - but mainly the gender bit.

So do you think a return to narrative storytelling would help raise the standards of the industry?

I do. I do. I think storytelling is something we’ve lost a bit in the race to the middle with algorithm-hacking. That’s not to say there isn’t fantastic work happening on TikTok - I think of brands like Gucci. It’s great. Super playful. And it doesn’t feel throwaway in the way some of that content can.

But I think that’s the key. If you double down on that idea - if you can look back on a piece of work and it feels rooted in a moment in time rather than in a deeper insight - then was it actually good? Is it good?

That’s where I’m at. If you look back and go, yeah, that was very “of the moment” - but does it hold up? So I think the answer lies in being a bit more discerning within this hyper-speed culture. That would help.

You're in a competition for people's attention, and people still love good storytelling. That’s what they’re watching on connected platforms - TikTok being one of them, but also Netflix and everything else.

You’re competing for their attention, so you’ve got to be entertaining. That doesn’t have to mean lofty storytelling. There’s brilliant storytelling in Come Dine With Me, or First Dates, whatever it is – that’s the level you need to get to.

I think that’s the challenge with advertising – because you’re competing for people’s minds and their time.

If advertising was suddenly banned - what would you do? Would you go back to journalism?

Not journalism, never, never. Working in journalism killed journalism for me, I'm afraid to say.

I have fantasies of roaming around Italy picking up beautiful stuff, curating it up gorgeously, and selling it in a little shop. I have fantasies of that.

But in reality, I think possibly I'd get bored. I get bored.

I've got a script somewhere, and I love interiors, so maybe I'd be an interior decorator.

Where would your shop be?

I live in a place called Lewes, in East Sussex. It has quite a witchy atmosphere, and it has an embarrassment of witch and furniture shops, so I think it wouldn’t do particularly well.

But I can imagine something in Rome. Rome is the other great creative love of my life.

They have these little wine shops where you can buy a lovely bottle of wine, and they’ll give you a perfect little piece of cheese to go with it. You bring the glasses back afterwards. There might be a book you want to buy over there, or a beautiful ceramic head in the corner. Something about that really speaks to me.

I love the idea of sitting there, under some wisteria, cigar in hand, in my beautiful wine shop in Rome.