As I was composing *"I Remember"*, it wasn't simply a song—it acted as a doorway to the parts of my past I still carry. Every word brought me closer to old friends, long gone, and to the joy of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a musical act of remembering. Not just the good times, but all of it: the tears and the breakthroughs. It remembers the the love of my mother.
The melody 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 chasing prestige, but because I had to. I needed something stronger than words. And that's what sculpture became: a way to remember when memory itself hurts.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a fleeting moment, you have to wrestle with weight. I learned to shape pain, to take what was buried and place it where others could feel it. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
My creative journey 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.
One line 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 gift back.
When I sing it, I think of the way my people carried me. I think of the ancestors whose breath I carry.
I remember.
And in doing so,
I live.
So when you hear the song, 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.
