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When I wrote “I Remember”, it wasn't just music—it was a return to memories buried in time. Every word drew me back to the forest-farm of my childhood, and to the weight of those years.

“I Remember” is a musical act of remembering. Not just the easy moments, but everything: the tears and the breakthroughs. It holds the the loss of my brother.

The melody is a thread that ties me to my past self. And in singing it, I give breath to those who shaped me.

That's why I became an artist. Not as a calculated choice, but because I had to. Healing required expression. And that's what sculpture became: a conversation with the past.

Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a song, form stays. I learned to sculpt story, to take what was buried 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 just a song—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 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 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. here