In writing “I Remember”, it wasn't just a song
When I wrote “I Remember”, it wasn't just music—it acted as a doorway to memories buried in time. Every word drew me back to old friends, long gone, and to the scars of those years.
“I Remember” is a musical act of remembering. Not just the easy moments, but the full landscape: the chaos and the calm. It holds the early fire.
The melody is a lifeline 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 through some career ambition, but because the silence inside me needed form. Healing required expression. And that's what sculpture became: a still, silent prayer.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike words, form stays. I learned to shape pain, to take what was fractured 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. 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 whisper to those who walked before.
When I sing it, I think of the way my people carried me. I think of the ancestors whose breath I carry.
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. Check This Out