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When I wrote “I Remember”, it wasn't simply a song—it acted as a doorway to memories buried in time. The lines and rhythm brought me closer to old friends, long gone, and to the weight of those years.

“I Remember” is a song woven from memory. Not just the easy moments, but all of it: the tears and the breakthroughs. It holds the early fire.

This piece is a sacred echo that ties me to my wairua. And in singing it, I bring them back into the now.

That's how I became an artist. Not as a calculated choice, 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 words, you have to wrestle with weight. 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.

This life as an artist isn't about perfection. It's about connection. Different mediums, same truth. 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 my voice—it's a bridge forward.

When I sing it, I think of those who never made it home. I think of my daughter, my friends, the land.

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. check this out