“It exists!” he cried.
“No,” said O’Brien…. It does not exist. It never existed.”
“But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I remember it. You remember it.”
“I do not remember it,” said O’Brien.
Winston’s heart sank. That was doublethink.
Nobody has ever been able to convince me that Modernism is art. That the idiot stripes of Rothko or the lunatic splatters of Pollock were anything but an obvious scam – a lesson in mind control like the exchange between O’brien and Winston in Orwells 1984.
But will a day come when they will force me? They have forced Modernist architecture upon the landscape, so that I see it no matter where I look. They have forced Modernist paintings in the historic (real art) galleries. They have confused and disgraced the study of art and art history with their monkey splatter paintings and degenerate performance ‘art’. A simple, objective thing has been reduced to a circus of bad taste.
“Do you remember,” he went on, “writing in your diary, ‘Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four’?”
“Yes,” said Winston.
O’Brien held up his left hand, its back toward Winston, with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended. “How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?”
“And if the Party says that it is not four but five—then how many?”
The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out an over Winston’s body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O’Brien watched him, the four fingers still extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.
“How many fingers, Winston?”
The needle went up to sixty. “How many fingers, Winston?”…
“Five! Five! Fivel”
“No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are four. How many fingers, please?”
“Four! Five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!”
You WILL BELIEVE that Modernism is the real art.