Make-up artist Saint Maretto is rewriting the codes of queer beauty

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“Beauty isn’t a fixed point for me, it’s almost like a pulse,” says make-up artist Saint Maretto. “It shifts with the times, but it also moves outside of them. It mutates, changing its face with the seasons, with the city, with whatever we choose to carry or let go of. It lives in people, in gestures, in mistakes. And if I ever stop moving with it, if I become still and untouched by the world, then I think the beauty leaves me too.”

It’s a poetic way of speaking about beauty, anchoring Maretto’s practice within a queer lineage where beauty is inseparable from identity, expression, culture and survival. Here, beauty operates as what they call “one of the queer community’s most enduring tools: a coded system of resistance, signalling, and self-determination.” Visually, that translates to butter-yellow lips, excessive lilac lashes, scribbled faces, and cybersigil eyebrows that populate their previous projects.

This way of working is rooted in the creative’s background in painting, where an early obsession with colour, texture, form, and iconography shaped how they think about presence and perception. Over time, make-up became their primary medium and something they came to understand as a way of becoming. In this way, Maretto treats every look as an inquiry: “Who are you becoming, and what do you need to shed to become it?” they explain. “Beauty can be a way of waking up – to yourself, to each other, to the world we’re trying to imagine.” Guided by this philosophy, their work continues to shapeshift in response to the people they collaborate with, from the club kids of Opia raves to artists like Chi, Kissin’ Teef and Lexie Liu, to Kai Isaiah Jamal on the cover of Elle.

Below, we talk to the artist about the importance of queer beauty and their creative inspirations.

Can you tell us a bit about yourself and where you grew up?

Saint Maretto:  I grew up with a lot of instability; my parents are hardline Christian pastors, and we moved around a lot. For a while, my early adulthood mirrored that same turbulence and was coupled with addiction that started in my teens. Thankfully, like so many, I found grounding in my community and chosen family. I’m now five years sober, something I’m very proud of and grateful for.

How did you get into make-up?

Saint Maretto: I come from a painting background. Over time, make-up became my primary medium. I spent years on my own face before realising I wanted to spend my time on other people instead. I wanted to push those ideas around identity and performance and work more collaboratively. I got a job on a make-up counter, worked that for a year, and transitioned into freelancing. Assisting has been really key for me. When it’s done right, it’s a real exchange, and I’m lucky to have worked with artists I’ve looked up to for years. Especially being self-taught and not really knowing people in the industry. You get to observe and that is invaluable.

What are you trying to communicate through your work?

Saint Maretto:  You can’t beat a f*g’s taste.

Who is your beauty icon or favourite look of all time?

Saint Maretto: Rainha Diaba from the 1974 film A Rainha Diaba. Just watch it and you’ll understand.

What’s your earliest beauty-related memory?

Saint Maretto: Nobody in my family was giving any kind of cunt, so instead I found fantasy in film, like in The Slipper and The Rose, where in one scene Cinderella’s mop becomes a fucking wig, and her cake tin glittery shoes.

What’s been your career highlight so far?

Saint Maretto: The highlights are the moments that feel full circle, and when I catch myself somewhere I never thought I’d be. Doing my sister’s make-up for the first time

Which fictional character do you most relate to?

Saint Maretto: Dominic Toretto, give me a few more years on T.

What is your current obsession?

Saint Maretto: Aloe vera on the face.

What role does beauty play in the queer community?

Saint Maretto: A massive one because it’s tied to identity, expression, culture and survival. Its meaning shifts depending on one’s positionality: a white cis gay man and a Black trans woman have radically different relationships to visibility, safety and access. Beauty, therefore, is not a singular experience but an intersectional one that becomes a chorus of stories. It’s one of the queer community’s most enduring tools: a coded system of resistance, signalling, and self-determination. As a make-up artist, my practice sits within this lineage. Makeup is the vehicle through which I articulate my perspective.

What is the future of beauty?

Saint Maretto: That is defined by who shapes it. It isn’t just about who appears in front of the camera; it’s about who is building the image from the ground up. Who is commissioning, directing, editing and setting the visual language of beauty. Representation without authorship is hollow. The future belongs to Black, Brown and trans people whose perspectives have historically driven culture but rarely steered the industry. When those at the margins are centred as decision makers, beauty expands. The future looks like more beauty. More of us.