Fierce, queer and fashion-forward, Samuel Mariño is shattering opera’s limits with style and sound…
By Elio Iannacci
Samuel Mariño doesn’t just sing – he galvanizes. With a majestic soprano voice, a luxury designer wardrobe and a flair for the subversive, the Venezuelan-born singer is queering the opera world from the inside out.
Growing up in Caracas, Mariño stood out – for his extraordinary voice, and for the unapologetic way he moved through the world. When his peers’ voices changed and lowered during puberty, his didn’t. The bullying was brutal. But so was Mariño’s resolve. His family doctor suggested music, explaining there was no “cure” for his naturally elevated vocals. So he dove into opera throat first, studying at the National Conservatory in Caracas, then at the Paris Conservatory. What began as a form of self-preservation became a streak of artistic triumphs, resulting in three albums and countless sold-out concerts around the world.
Mariño’s voice – rare, radiant and unapologetically high – symbolizes the combination of delicious revenge and constant rebellion. He’s not here to fit into classical music’s antique molds. His purpose is clear: it is to bend expectations, cross genres, and redefine and reignite the very concept of being fierce. His performances are part concert, part couture: glittering eyeshadow, gender-fluid looks, and a vocal range that feels otherworldly.
His debut album, Sopranista, explores the haunting legacy of the Castrati – young boys mutilated to preserve their soprano voices; a practice thankfully outlawed in 1903. Mariño reclaims that lost history with elegance and power, taking on arias once written for them – and for women – and tributing them. It’s not nostalgia; it’s revitalization.
Weeks before arriving in Toronto to perform with the Tafelmusik Orchestra at Koerner Hall on May 23-25, Mariño opened up about his muses, his mission, and why making space for queer voices in classical music isn’t just important – it’s an act of radical recovery.
What would you say has been the most satisfying thing about making a mark on opera today?
Things are changing in opera, and to be part of that change is exciting. When I started, opera felt strict – but I offered a path to liberty. For artists, audiences and for myself, I want to enter a new age of openness, which opera isn’t always known for. I see transformation is happening slowly…inch by inch. I want to push it.
In his book The Queen’s Throat: Opera, Homosexuality, and the Mystery of Desire, author Wayne Koestenbaum describes his experience of listening to opera. He writes that it makes him feel like ‘both bride and groom,’ as though he is ‘swallowing a gender system and reconfiguring it.’ Does that resonate with you?
Absolutely. That’s so accurate it’s scary. Opera reflects a combination of emotions from men, women or anyone beyond gender. My goal is to expand that and go over the boundaries. I love this music – it’s modern to me. It should be embraced by a broader community because it has themes that go beyond gender.
For someone new to your singing, where should they start?
Something from my first album, recorded at 24. Any of the Handel arias. Maybe ‘Quella Fiamma’ – which means ‘That flame.’
Do you prefer being in the studio or on stage?
I’m very expressive and take a lot of risks on stage. Opera is extreme – we die of joy, sadness and love. That intensity happens because the audience helps build it. In the studio, you sing to a microphone. It’s about clean vibration, perfection, timing. It’s not like Maria Callas used to record. On stage, anything can happen.
What do you love about Maria Callas’s raw recordings?
They’re truthful – like live theatre. You can relate even if you don’t speak the language. She wasn’t striving for perfection. She was looking for truth. I think she is the last real opera diva.
You’ve talked about being bullied as a child. What was your escape?
Leia, my dog, was my confidante. My parents were busy being university professors. I did many activities, which helped me escape – but not heal. That came later, in my 20s.
What prompted that healing?
Singing. I became less afraid of who I am. That gave me strength to go against convention. I’m not the best singer, but my voice is a channel.
What’s the biggest risk you’ve taken?
Singing in Krakow – performing very dramatic arias like Haydn’s ‘Berenice, che fai’ and Beethoven’s ‘Ah! Perfido.’ The characters wanted to die for love. Three months in, I was emotionally empty. I kept repeating, ‘I want to die.’ I couldn’t finish the run of the show, so I cancelled my next engagement and took a last-minute flight to Colombia. I needed to feel grounded again.
What did you learn from that moment?
That this is a job. It pays my bills, but it’s not my life. I give it my best, but I have boundaries now.
Which opera heroine are you most like: Carmen, Norma, Cleopatra, Tosca or Cio-Cio-san?
Norma. I’m very committed to my people, to the queer communities around the world just like Norma is committed to her tribe. She’s independent and tells people to fuck off when she has to. But part of me is Cleopatra too – she’s slutty, and I understand her. She knows what she wants. So do I.
Have you seen the Elizabeth Taylor Cleopatra?
I’ve tried three times! I love that she isn’t about beauty for beauty’s sake – she’s about freedom. That’s the message I want to send on stage. We must be free – especially now, with society becoming stricter and more traditional. When I sing, I want people to know they’re beautiful as they are – not who they think they need to be.
Which pop singers do that well?
Madonna. ‘Like a Prayer’ was banned by the Vatican and was so iconic. Her work with Jean Paul Gaultier is unforgettable. Opera can sometimes feel so backward compared to pop. I always keep asking…why can’t opera be more forward?
Do you think drag and RuPaul’s Drag Race can help opera today?
Absolutely. I did an opera in Copenhagen with Vinegar Strokes, from the UK [franchise]. Opera managers always say, ‘We need a new audience,’ but not all are open to change. One told me, ‘I don’t want a new audience – people always get old, and old people come to opera.’
There’s hope. In 2022, librettist Sebastiano Bazzichetto and composer Milen Apostolov premiered (m)0rpheus in Verona – the first trans opera. It didn’t try to be a role model.
That’s what we need. I love when people dislike what I do – it means I’m doing something right. I’m not a piece of gold to please everyone. Inclusion means there’s room for everyone. Opera has potential – some of this music is 500 years old, but it’s still alive because we still feel the same things.
What happens when queer artists and divas create together?
Creative explosions. Both are told how to behave, to be role models, that they need to follow rules to succeed. When two groups that have been oppressed unite, freedom breaks through.
Your recording of ‘Alto Giove’ is stunning. The aria is featured prominently in 1994’s Farinelli, a movie about the legendary castrato. Have you seen the film?
I saw it at 12, then again in my 20s. It’s beautiful, but sad. I wanted more of the glamour – being Farinelli, being a castrato. If they ever remake it, I’d love to show how huge and extra he was. He was like Michael Jackson and Lady Gaga combined. His costumes, his arias, everything was massive.
You have been coached by American soprano Barbara Bonney for years. What life lessons did she teach you?
I was with her in Salzburg just last weekend. I’m still learning. The most valuable lesson? Be a good human. It’s easy to get lost in this business and become a bad person. There’s pressure to be excellent all the time.
What kind of pressures have you faced?
#MeToo happens in opera, too – but no one talks about it because it’s not Hollywood. I’ve had conductors knock on my hotel door saying they had ‘notes’ for me – or asking to meet in their room. Thank God I wasn’t abused, but you have to be careful.
The Brandenburg Orchestra’s artistic director once described your notes as ‘the colour of plum.’ What color do you think you sing in?
Silvery. But now, as time goes by, I think my delivery is becoming more of a hot chili red.
You’ll sing ‘Odio, furor, dispetto’ [‘Hatred, fury, spite’] during your performance in Toronto with the Tafelmusik Orchestra. When performing something so intense, where does your rage go?
Many women and many gays have abusers in their life. I don’t send rage or hate to them – I send them the pain and scars I’ve lived through.
What’s your favorite aria in this program?
‘Dove Sono’ from Marriage of Figaro. I added it last minute. The lyrics – Dove sono i bei momenti – mean ‘Where are the beautiful moments?’ It’s about missing beauty and begging heaven, ‘Give me just one more day.’ I’m a big romantic. I love falling in love, even though I’ve had my heart broken many times…
Your new album goes beyond traditional opera. How so?
I just finished recording yesterday. It’s something completely different – more about who I am. At the start of my career, I sang a lot of baroque. Then I moved into Mozart, just to show people I could go there. But now, I’m done proving anything. People know I can sing baroque and 18th-century repertoire. This time, we’re stepping into the 20th and 21st centuries: Rachmaninoff, Berlioz, Dvořák – even Edith Piaf’s ‘Hymne à l’amour.’ It’s very personal. It’s not about hitting all the high notes or being virtuosic – it’s about transcending. I don’t know when it’ll be released, but I can’t wait.
Any last words?
I believe it’s my duty to bring justice to opera. As someone who was abused and bullied as a child for having this voice, that mission runs deep. I want to see true diversity – not just for queer artists, but across all races. Too often, I’m the darkest-skinned person on stage, or the only one unafraid to fully embrace being part of the queer community. That needs to change.
ELIO IANNACCI is an award-winning arts reporter and graduate student at York University whose research interests include ethnomusicology and gender studies. He has contributed to more than 80 publications worldwide, profiling icons such as Barbra Streisand, Lady Gaga, Aretha Franklin and Beyoncé. His academic work is supported in part by funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council.
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