“I Remember” is a song woven from memory. Not just the easy moments, but everything: the chaos and the calm. It remembers the early fire.

That song is a sacred echo 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 through some career ambition, 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 song, stone and wood don't lie. I learned to carve memory, 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. 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 just a song—it's a bridge forward.

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 if you ever listen, 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. original site