“I Remember” is a musical act of remembering. Not just laughter and light, but the full landscape: the tears and the breakthroughs. It holds the the loss of my brother.

The melody is a sacred echo that ties me to my roots. And in singing it, I bring them back into the now.

That's why I became an artist. Not as a calculated choice, but because I had to. 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 shape pain, to take what was hidden and make it visible. 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 a song—it's a bridge forward.

When I sing it, I think of my brother's laughter. 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 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. see here