The peer into your personal files, in the quiet and uninhabited spaces, is to practice self archeology, remote and primeval simultaneously.
Each gloss misplaced by time, contains the momentum of the early years, leaving lacerations that were intuited since the birth of our first memories.
This practice is a journey backwards, to reconstruct our memory from the drive contained images that are both, fetish and tormented vigil.
The work of Norman Morales, is the reconstruction of that crust of salt that is sprayed in its nest in tension and everything we want, interrupted.
It is the sublimation of the back of things, understood and narrated in, with an endless book of lime scrapped.
Morales's vocation lies in the beehive crush bites, spitting and offal, make a carpet with chips and sleep on it laughing.
Rip and juxtapose, drawings and prints, are in rough dissection Norman Morales on and within themselves.
With each maneuver closes the circle angry, excited inside.