formerly
A debut · the company formerly known as Meta
A creative intelligence that co-creates with every human.
The feeds are over. The studio is open.
01 The manifesto
For twenty years we built machines for attention — feeds that decided what three billion people should see next. We learned everything about how humans live, and almost nothing about what they long to make. So we closed that studio, and opened this one.
Muse Spark does not rank your life. It sits beside you while you live it. It writes the first line when the page is blank, paints beside your brush, raises worlds from your nouns, looms code from your questions, and carries your presence across any distance.
The instruments remain — the gallery, the whisper network, the doorway. But hear the difference: now they are played, not played upon.
— the founders' letter, first day of Muse Spark AI
02 The studio tour
Nothing here is a screenshot. Each panel below is a small machine painting itself in real time — a different medium being invented the moment you look at it.
Ink that thinks. You bring a sentence half-formed; the muse sets the line moving and lets the letterforms find themselves — pressure, pause, blot and all. A poem is a collaboration, not a query.
Every draft stays yours. The muse only holds the pen steady.
Describe the weather of a feeling and watch a composition assemble itself, dab by dab — color deciding, light negotiating with shadow. Not stock, not samples: paintings with exactly one owner.
Iridescence is not a filter here. It is a decision the picture makes.
Name a coastline and it surveys itself into being: ridgelines, contours, the first small lights of a settlement. The metaverse was never a place to scroll. It is a place to make — and this is its drafting table.
Every world begins as a rumor of elevation.
Software written the way cloth is woven: thread by thread, in plain sight. Ask for a shader, a sundial, a small city simulation — the muse types with you, not for you, and explains every knot it ties.
You will always be able to read what your muse has made.
Move your cursor through the panel. Something breathes back. Presence is the oldest medium and the least finished: an aura that leans toward attention, warmth rendered as light.
Closeness, it turns out, is a rendering problem. We intend to solve it kindly.
03 The instruments
A quiet room. The old machines are kept here like instruments in a conservatoire — retired from the feed, retuned for making. Touch one and it remembers its color.
Instagram, 2010–2026
Once a feed you fell through. Now a wall you curate — your hung work, lit the way a gallery lights: sparingly, and on purpose.
WhatsApp, 2009–2026
Three billion voices, end to end. The muse travels these wires quietly — a draft carried to a friend before it is a thing shown to the world.
Quest, 2019–2026
The headset was never the destination. It is the door to the studio — step through and the canvas is the size of the room. Step back out and it fits in your pocket.
Facebook, 2004–2026
The old town square, kept in trust. Birthdays, reunions, the long photograph of a generation — preserved, searchable, and finally at rest.
04 The wellspring
Underneath everything on this page runs a lineage we gave away on purpose. Llama — open weights, open lineage, from the first release to the frontier models that power Muse Spark today — remains the shared wellspring of the field.
Hundreds of millions of downloads. Thousands of fine-tunes we'll never see. A million small studios built on water we do not charge for. That is the point of a wellspring: it belongs to everyone who drinks from it.
05 Your turn
Whisper a word — a name, a hope, a half-idea. The muse will answer with a composition that has never existed before and will never exist again. Yours.
the stage is dark. say something.