As I was composing *"I Remember"*, it was never just a tune—it acted as a doorway to the people and places that shaped me. Each verse transported me to old friends, long gone, and to the joy of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a song woven from memory. Not just the easy moments, but everything: the chaos and the calm. It remembers the early fire.
The melody is a sacred echo that ties me to my past self. And in singing it, I bring them back into the now.
That's how I became an artist. Not through some career ambition, but because the silence inside me needed form. I needed something stronger than words. And that's what sculpture became: a way to remember when memory itself hurts.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a song, stone and wood don't lie. I learned to shape pain, to take what was fractured and place it where others could feel it. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
This life as an artist 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 only mine—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.
So if you ever listen, 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.
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