Now that yet another Steve Jobs keynote is over, I find myself more interested in what Apple was saying about itself than what others are saying about its new gadgets.
Despite my apparent pique pommaire, I like Apple stuff. I do my computing on a Mac and I have an iPhone and so forth. But as both a user and a developer, I've grown frustrated with the rapidness of their updates. In neither role do I want to deal with new operating systems or new devices so frequently. Particularly when the changes and additions are neither incremental nor profound.
As I pondered, I spent some time studying the images of the iPhone 4G on Apple's homepage. They read, "This changes everything. Again."

Apple frequently deploys the rhetoric of change in its marketing. The famous 1984 Macintosh ad frames the then-new computer as an agent of revolution. The "Think Different" ads of the 1990s implied that purchasing one of these underdog machines put you in the same company as other misunderstood genius underdogs. But it goes back further than that, too. Ads for the Apple ][ and Apple /// in the early 1980s compared their power to that of famous inventors of ages past, including Henry Ford, Thomas Jefferson, and Ben Franklin, among others.

But the "change" associated with the iPhone 4G is fairly modest compared to the Apple ][, the Macintosh, or even the original iPhone. Sure, it has a new high-resolution display that will likely serve as an important stepping stone to viable handheld and tablet computing of the near future. But that transition is clearly happening already. It has a gyroscope for better motion sensing. But those capabilities just play catch up to the familiar, increasingly pat controls of today's videogames. It has nicer cameras and more of them. It has better battery life. It's hardly the printing press or the airplane—or even the personal computer.
So what's going on? Why is Apple trying to pass off a fairly predictable (and fairly well predicted) gradual evolution of their existing platform as change of the more revolutionary kind? Hyperbole is one possible answer; change has become an idea so synonymous with Apple that it must be perpetuated through its branding and marketing even when "real" change may be lacking. Another might be hubris. In his push to get products done just his way, Steve Jobs has a history of making missteps into evolutionary dead-ends. Just take a look at this print ad for the 1983 Apple Lisa. It uses the same sentence construction as the iPhone 4G spread mentioned above, with use of "Again (full stop)" reminding the buyer that Apple's got a track record.

But neither of those explanations are complex or subtle enough to capture what I think is going on with Apple's latest use of the rhetoric of change. The change here is not political or social or industrial, as in the case of 1984 or Henry Ford. Instead, it's commercial.
For Apple, "change" no longer refers to revolution. It refers to fashion.
With his bi-annual releases of handheld (and now, we can presume, tablet) devices, Steve Jobs is becoming more like Mario Prada and less like Thomas Edison. He's releasing a new line, seasonally, and needs to train his audience to feel increasingly comfortable dropping hundreds if not thousands of dollars each spring and winter. The "change" in question is not regime change, but a change between tennis at the club and dinner downtown. Jobs's keynotes are, and for some time have been, more like catwalks than like product demos for some time. The Apple Stores are literally boutiques, not electronics shops. I should have realized it when I called the original iPhone the geek's chihuahua: Apple now deals in haute couture, not in high tech.
