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When I wrote *"I Remember"*, it was never just a tune—it became a map to the parts of my past I still carry. Each verse drew me back to the forest-farm of my childhood, and to the scars of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a musical act of remembering. Not just laughter and light, but all of it: the chaos and the calm. It captures the the sound of trees creaking at dusk.
This piece is a lifeline that ties me to my roots. And in singing it, I give breath to those who shaped me.
That's why I became an artist. Not through some career ambition, but because I had to. Healing required expression. And that's what sculpture became: a still, silent prayer.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a song, form stays. I learned to sculpt story, to take what was fractured and give it breath. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
My creative journey 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 my voice—it's a bridge forward.
When I sing it, I think of my brother's laughter. I think of the ancestors whose breath I carry.
I remember.
And in doing so,
I live.
So when you hear the song, 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.
While writing *"I Remember"*, it was never just a tune—it acted as a doorway to memories buried in time. Every word transported me to old friends, long gone, and to the joy of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a kind of time travel. Not just the good times, but the full landscape: the tears and the breakthroughs. It holds the the loss of my brother.
The melody is a thread that ties me to my wairua. And in singing it, I bring them back into the now.
That's why I became an artist. Not chasing prestige, but because my hands needed to speak. Trauma, memory, identity—they needed space. And that's what sculpture became: a still, silent prayer.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a fleeting moment, form stays. I learned to sculpt story, to take what was fractured and make it visible. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
My creative journey 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 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 the way my people carried me. I think of the hands that helped me up.
I remember.
And in doing so,
I live.
So when you hear the song, 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.
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.
When I wrote *"I Remember"*, it wasn't just music—it was a return to memories buried in time. Each verse transported me to my whānau, and to the weight of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a musical act of remembering. Not just the good times, but all of it: the chaos and the calm. It captures the the love of my mother.
This piece is a lifeline 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 as a calculated choice, but because I had to. I needed something stronger than words. And that's what sculpture became: a conversation with the past.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a song, stone and wood don't lie. 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*.
My creative journey 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 just a song—it's a whisper to those who walked before.
When I sing it, I think of my brother's laughter. I think of the hands that helped me up.
I remember.
And in doing so,
I live.
So when you hear the song, 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.
