When I wrote *"I Remember"*, it wasn't simply a song—it was a return to memories buried in time. The lines and rhythm transported me to the forest-farm of my childhood, and to the scars of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a song woven from memory. Not just the good times, but the full landscape: the chaos and the calm. It holds the the sound of trees creaking at dusk.
That song is a thread that ties me to my wairua. And in singing it, I bring them back into the now.
That's why I became an artist. Not through some career ambition, but because I had to. Trauma, memory, identity—they needed space. And that's what sculpture became: a conversation with the past.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a fleeting moment, stone and wood don't lie. I learned to sculpt story, to take what was fractured and place it where others could feel it. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
This life as an artist isn't about perfection. It's about connection. Different mediums, same truth. When I can't carve, I sing. When I can't sing, I write. And when all I can do is breathe and be still—I listen. That, too, is art.
There's a whakataukī that anchors me through it all:
**"Because of you, I am; and because of me, you are."**
That's what *"I Remember"* means to me. It's not just my voice—it's a bridge forward.
When I sing it, I think of the quiet strength of my mother. I think of my daughter, my friends, the land.
I remember.
And in doing so,
I live.
So if you ever listen, you're not just hearing me—you're hearing a carving in sound. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.
And that's what my art is always trying to do.
