Sybille de Saint Louvent: in her own direction

Sybille de Saint Louvent doesn’t see creative direction as a job so much as a way of paying attention—an act of visual storytelling rooted in observation. Her images aren’t loud or overworked—they feel like they’re holding something back, leaving space for you to step in. Known for her self-initiated 30-day project that fused fiction with branding, Saint Louvent works independently, orbiting the industry without being consumed by it.

In conversation with hube, she talks about resisting the urge to “fit,” why every project still begins with a pen and a blank page, and how an image can function less like an ad and more like a quiet interruption—a reminder that storytelling is still what anchors us in a world moving too fast.

hube: Could you take us back to the early stages of your creative path—your education, your first influences, and the moment you knew directing was your language? Was there a specific experience that crystallized that direction?

Sybille de Saint Louvent: There wasn’t a defining moment, no epiphany that led me toward creative direction. I think I simply refused to let go of the wild freedom I had as a child—a visceral way of observing the world that didn’t align with any path I was offered. That resistance came at a cost. My teenage years, and even early adulthood, weren’t easy, marked by a sense of not fitting. But I’ve since come to see that refusal as the start of everything. It allowed me to create my own language—one that didn’t wait for validation.

My influences are, in a way, very ordinary. They come from the environment I grew up in—a family where curiosity was a quiet presence. My parents each had their own definition of beauty, and I was shaped by that plurality. I remember, even as a child, being struck by the tension between what I found classic or structured at home, and what felt transgressive in the pages of a magazine. I was ten, maybe eleven, reading Vogue as if it were a secret code. That contradiction—between refinement and rupture—became my playground. And I think it still informs the way I build images today.

h: How do dreams, memories, or subconscious impressions shape the emotional tone of your visual storytelling?

SdSL: Beauty often comes from the encounter between worlds that weren’t meant to collide. The stories I hear, the places I move through, even the silences between languages—that’s where the emotional tone of my work begins. I’m drawn to what feels hybrid, or slightly out of place.

If I fed myself only with the same visual grammar, I’d end up reproducing it. So I try to stay porous. I let the subconscious do its part, but I make sure it’s being fed with contrasts, because it’s often in the friction that something unexpected—and honest—appears.

h: What advice would you give to young creatives, especially those without a formal background, who feel drawn to creative direction but are unsure how to enter the field?

SdSL: I’m convinced everyone carries a creative instinct. Sometimes it just gets buried—paved over by the frameworks we’re placed into. Creativity isn’t the preserve of artists. It lives inscience, in engineering, in the way we reorganize chaos or ask different questions. It’s what allows us to reshape the world, even modestly.

But to let creativity emerge, you have to give it space. That might mean unlearning a few things—expectations, standards, even your own self-censorship. You don’t need a formal background to begin. You need the courage to observe differently, to get things wrong, to invent your own path. Direction is less about technique than it is about vision. And vision isn’t taught—it’s trained by living.

h: When beginning a new campaign or project, where does the process ignite for you? Does it start with a mood, a word, a fleeting image, or perhaps an emotion you want to translate visually?

SdSL: It usually starts with a pen and a piece of paper. I sit in a café, surrounded by people— just enough background noise to feel focused. I write down ideas in a numbered list, from 1 to 10. Then I cross things out until something feels right. I always begin with words. I’ve found that looking at images too early blocks me—it closes off my imagination. I prefer to think with nothing in front of me. Just my thoughts. It makes things feel clearer, more open.

h: After the release of your projects, have you noticed a shift in how people or the industry perceive your work? Did it open new doors or invite unexpected attention?

SdSL: Yes, definitely—especially after I did a personal challenge where I created and shared one campaign a day for 30 days. That changed things. I think the fact that I placed logotypes within a fictional narrative helped people project themselves into the work.

A logo catches the eye. It creates a visual anchor, and from there, a story can start. A logo also carries the weight of a brand’s history. It’s not neutral. It comes with built-in meanings, expectations, memories—and that’s a bias you have to work with, or work against. But in either case, it activates something in the viewer. Without that reference point, people often stay on the surface of an image. With it, they start imagining context.

We’re living in a time when brands are pressured to communicate constantly. And in that rush, we often lose storytelling. What I try to do is bring that back—not just what we see, but what we feel. For me, communication should serve a story, not replace it. And beauty doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from intention, from nuance, from what resists being too polished.

h: On your site, you mention that you “only read magazines backwards.” Can you unpack that a bit? Is it an aesthetic preference, a metaphor, or a way of unlearning conventions?

SdSL: It’s a great question—and to be honest, I’d never really intellectualized it until now. I don’t know exactly why I do it. Maybe it’s a small act of contradiction, or maybe it’s just a way to see where things end. I’ve always had a need to understand the limits of something— where the structure stops.

But if I had to push the metaphor, then yes—maybe it’s also a way of escaping linearity. Reading backwards breaks the expected rhythm and opens up a different kind of logic, almost like discovering a new syntax by disobedience. It changes how I perceive the content. It allows space for interpretation before conclusion, for form before explanation.

And I think that reflects the way I like to create. I don’t necessarily follow the path from point A to point B. I often start with the end, or with a feeling of where I don’t want to go. There’s a strange kind of freedom in reversing things.

h: You’ve dabbled with Midjourney and generative tools—how does working with AI change your creative process, if at all?

SdSL: This question comes up a lot. But honestly, AI hasn’t really changed the way I create. I still begin with a pen and paper, like always. I still write down ideas, build narratives, and think in sequences. And I still work with humans—stylists, photographers, set designers—to bring those ideas into the real world. That collaborative process hasn’t changed, and it never will.

What AI does is help visualize ideas faster. That can be helpful early in the process, especially when working with clients or teams, because it gives something to react to. But the direction still has to come from a human brain. Without that, it’s just surface—artificial images without substance.

For me, AI is a tool that makes connections visible—between textures, moods, references. But those connections only become meaningful when someone shapes them. Someone who knows where they’re going, or at least what they want to say. Without that, AI remains just that: artificial. It’s not creative on its own. It needs to be guided, challenged, reframed.

The only real difference is that this tool was given directly to the public, unlike Photoshop, which takes years to learn. That immediacy is what makes it both exciting and unsettling. But it doesn’t replace the eye, the intention, or the storytelling. It just makes the conversation move faster—sometimes too fast.

h: Can you share an example of a campaign that sparked a particularly strong reaction, either from the public or from within the creative community?

SdSL: If I answer based on reach, the BIC campaign definitely stood out. It resonated widely. I think what worked was the mix of nostalgia and play—taking something functional and ordinary, and reframing it as something emotionally charged.

The concept was simple: a 90s-inspired art direction with a slightly overexposed white backdrop, minimal styling, and just a BIC pen twisted into a model’s hair, with the line: “Twisting hair since 1945.” That small gesture created a moment of recognition—the kind that makes people smile because it taps into a shared memory.

Many people probably thought, “That’s exactly what I used to do in school when I was bored in French class.” For me, that’s where the magic of creative direction lies—not in impressing people, but in making them feel seen. When an image allows someone to tell their own story through it, then you’ve done something meaningful.

h: You’ve remained independent as a creative director—a choice that’s both empowering and demanding. What keeps you anchored in that independence, and what are the freedoms or frictions that come with it?

SdSL: I have a very primal need for freedom. Being independent is simply the model that fits me best. It might not work for everyone, because yes, it comes with uncertainty, and it can belonely at times. But I know I need that space to think, to create, to question things without asking for permission.

It also opens up a different kind of dynamic in the people I meet and work with. The relationships feel more horizontal, more chosen. There’s a richness in that—in building connections project by project, rather than being tied to one structure or one way of doing things. I’m not sure it’s really up to me to define what a campaign should be—I know there are commercial goals, of course. But what I do know is that there’s no attachment to a brand without storytelling. We’re all, in some way, still children looking for a way to escape. And what touches us isn’t just a perfect garment or a flawless cut—it’s the story behind it. Why it was made that way. The story makes the object.

What I hope is that an image can feel like a short story. A space to breathe. A small pause in the noise. If it can create a question, or open up an emotion, then it’s already doing more than just selling.