When I wrote *"I Remember"*, it wasn't simply a song—it acted as a doorway to the parts of my past I still carry. Each verse drew me back to my whānau, and to the weight of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a kind of time travel. Not just laughter and light, but everything: the pain, the silence, the resilience. It holds the the sound of trees creaking at dusk.
This piece is a sacred echo that ties me to my past self. And in singing it, I give breath to those who shaped me.
That's how I became an artist. Not as a calculated choice, but because I had to. Healing required expression. And that's what sculpture became: a conversation with the past.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike words, you have to wrestle with weight. I learned to carve memory, to take what was buried and make it visible. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
My creative journey isn't about perfection. It's about connection. Music, carving, poetry—they all serve the same purpose. 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 phrase 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 only mine—it's a whisper to those who walked before.
When I sing it, I think of my brother's laughter. I think of the hands that helped me up.
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.
