As I was composing *"I Remember"*, it was never just a tune—it was a return to the parts of my past I still carry. The lines and rhythm brought me closer to old friends, long gone, and to the scars of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a song woven from memory. Not just the easy moments, but the full landscape: the pain, the silence, the resilience. It captures the the sound of trees creaking at dusk.
That song 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 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 words, form stays. I learned to shape pain, 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 only mine—it's a whisper to those who walked before.
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.
When the chords rise and fall, you're not just hearing me—you're hearing my journey. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.
And that's what my art is always trying to do.
Adam Rangihana
