When I wrote *"I Remember"*, it wasn't just music—it acted as a doorway to memories buried in time. Every word transported me to the forest-farm of my childhood, and to the joy of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a song woven from memory. Not just laughter and light, but all of it: the pain, the silence, the resilience. It captures the early fire.
This piece is a sacred echo that ties me to my past self. And in singing it, I feel those presences again.
That's why I became an artist. Not chasing prestige, but because the silence inside me needed form. I needed something stronger than words. And that's what sculpture became: a conversation with the past.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a song, stone and wood don't lie. I learned to sculpt story, to take what was hidden and give it breath. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
The way I live now isn't about perfection. It's about connection. I switch between forms like the tides move—inevitable, rhythmic, necessary. 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 a song—it's a bridge forward.
When I sing it, I think of the way my people carried me. 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 whakapapa of survival. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.
And that's what my art is always trying to do.
Healing Art
