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As I was composing “I Remember”, it wasn't just music—it acted as a doorway to the people and places that shaped me. Every word brought me closer to old friends, long gone, and to the weight of those years.

“I Remember” is a song woven from memory. Not just laughter and light, but everything: the pain, the silence, the resilience. It captures the the love of my mother.

This piece is a thread 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 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 words, you have to wrestle with weight. 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.

The way I live now 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 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 gift back.

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 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. next page