Thinking about aesthetics and ethics, Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself comes to mind:  From beneath the rubble, skeletons are unearthed and decay becomes fertile ground for new growth.  What comes about appeals to the senses but is not fully accessible until the background becomes known.
Painting is as much about the movement of thought as it is about repositioning oneself in relation to the process. Morphological and ecological, maturation goes backwards and forwards producing energetic tensions that ebb and flow.
Painting persists, but it is more like writing, using linear iterations to set a tone, a mood or atmosphere in relation to the arrangement of parts. Order may be shifted to achieve certain effects but it is the movement and magnification recorded in syntactical features that determine how things come together or not.  
The paintings are compound entities; autonomous structures that cannot be explained away by where they occur because all the elements in an artwork are relevant to that work. The unnoticed and unfathomable background of things has no beginning or end but when sense objects merge into consciousness, what is known is nothing but consciousness.