As I was composing *"I Remember"*, it was never just a tune—it acted as a doorway to memories buried in time. The lines and rhythm drew me back to my whānau, 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 the sound of trees creaking at dusk.
This piece is a lifeline that ties me to my wairua. And in singing it, I feel those presences again.
That's why I became an artist. Not as a calculated choice, but because my hands needed to speak. 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, form stays. I learned to shape pain, to take what was buried 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. 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 a song—it's a whisper to those who walked before.
When I sing it, I think of the quiet strength of my mother. I think of the ancestors whose breath I carry.
I remember.
And in doing so,
I live.
When the chords rise and fall, 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.
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