Musician22092rnpw

When I wrote “I Remember”, it was never just a tune—it acted as a doorway to memories buried in time. The lines and rhythm brought me closer to the forest-farm of my childhood, and to the scars 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 holds the early fire.

The melody is a sacred echo that ties me to my wairua. 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 words, form stays. I learned to carve memory, 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. 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 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 those who never made it home. 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 a carving in sound. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.

And that's what my art is always trying to do. click here