Meet the story of Kelly Mus.

I was raised by art before I even understood what it was.

My father, Ricardo Mus, was a born painter, self-taught,
with an experimental spirit.
He painted Antigua Guatemala in oil, again and again.
I was six years old, and I remember the scent of turpentine filling our home,
raw canvases bought in Zone 1 of Guatemala City,
and the wood of frames built from nothing.

He knew how to give art a body, a presence.
It was the quiet devotion of someone who painted
because he knew no other way to live and exist.

A love for creating has passed through our family, like an inheritance.
In our home, art wasn't just a hobby
It was a way of being.

My brother, Kevin Mus, learned to paint by watching him.

Oil, brushes, patience.

He devoted himself to studying Fine Arts and Art History at the Universidad de San Carlos in Guatemala.

He was a pure artist, deeply talented and fully devoted to his art.

My father painted until the end,
in 2018.

Six years later, Kevin slipped out of this world,

3 days before his 33th birthday arrived.
333.

Losing them changed everything.

Not because art left my life,
but because it brought me closer to him.
My way of creating expanded. In how I observe, interpret, and construct.
Curiosity deepened. And my love for art with it.
Its origins, its impact,
its form and its essence.

Museums,
since my father's death,
has been a way of feeling the present.
Since my brother's,
a way of perceiving and experiencing what it means to be alive.

I love my last name is Mus.
Muse. Museum.

Not as a concept, but as a destiny.

I believe in art as something alive,
as a living force.
One that changes,
and leaves us changed.
Something that transforms everything it touches.

That is where I begin.
Where I start to create.

Not just to make.
But to leave something
that lasts.