When I wrote “I Remember”, it wasn't just a song
While writing “I Remember”, it wasn't simply a song—it became a map to memories buried in time. Each verse transported me to my whānau, and to the weight of those years.
“I Remember” is a musical act of remembering. Not just laughter and light, but everything: the chaos and the calm. It remembers the the sound of trees creaking at dusk.
This piece is a thread that ties me to my past self. And in singing it, I feel those presences again.
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 still, silent prayer.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a fleeting moment, stone and wood don't lie. 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. 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 hands that helped me up.
I remember. And in doing so, I live.
When the chords rise and fall, you're not just hearing me—you're hearing a whakapapa of survival. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.
And that's what my art is always trying to do. Musician