When I wrote *"I Remember"*, it was never just a tune—it was a return to the parts of my past I still carry. Every word drew me back to old friends, long gone, and to the joy of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a musical act of remembering. Not just the easy moments, but the full landscape: the chaos and the calm. It remembers the the loss of my brother.
This piece is a sacred echo that ties me to my wairua. And in singing it, I feel those presences again.
That's how I became an artist. Not as a calculated choice, but because my hands needed to speak. I needed something stronger than words. And that's what sculpture became: a conversation with the past.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a fleeting moment, you have to wrestle with weight. I learned to carve memory, to take what was fractured and make it visible. 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 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 bridge forward.
When I sing it, I think of those who never made it home. I think of my daughter, my friends, the land.
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.
Peace
