When I wrote *"I Remember"*, it wasn't just a song from Mitchell Cuthbertson's blog

As I was composing *"I Remember"*, it wasn't simply a song—it acted as a doorway to the people and places that shaped me. The lines and rhythm transported me to my whānau, and to the scars of those years.

*"I Remember"* is a kind of time travel. Not just laughter and light, but all of it: the chaos and the calm. It holds the the love of my mother.

The melody is a sacred echo that ties me to my roots. And in singing it, I bring them back into the now.

That's how I became an artist. Not chasing prestige, but because I had to. I needed something stronger than words. And that's what sculpture became: a still, silent prayer.

Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a fleeting moment, form stays. I learned to carve memory, to take what was buried and make it visible. 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. Music, carving, poetry—they all serve the same purpose. 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 just a song—it's a gift back.

When I sing it, I think of those who never made it home. 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 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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