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As I was composing “I Remember”, it was never just a tune—it was a return to the people and places that shaped me. Every word drew me back to the forest-farm of my childhood, and to the weight of those years.

“I Remember” is a kind of time travel. Not just the easy moments, but the full landscape: the pain, the silence, the resilience. It captures the early fire.

That song 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 chasing prestige, but because the silence inside me needed form. I needed something stronger than words. And that's what sculpture became: a still, silent prayer.

Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike words, stone and wood don't lie. I learned to carve memory, to take what was hidden and place it where others could feel it. 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. 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 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 gift back.

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.

So if you ever listen, 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. visit their website