Aftersun, Aftercare

If you spoke to A Fucking Magazine editor, Haley Mlotek, she would tell you it’s a time of “atmospheric unease.” “I am against August,” she says.

If you asked the writers who contributed to our survey on the close of summer, they’d have some slightly different takes: a time inspiring “dickmatization,” says Whitney Mallet, or a time of sun, sweat, and “sexshine” at the afters, says John Belknap.

It seems no matter who you ask, the answer reveals—in one way or another—that August is a month of a particular charge: to have sunkissed skin, but also to be drenched in sweat and sunburnt; the tranquil glow of sunset, but also the dark flash of a thunderstorm. 

There is a tension felt in August—we’ve had our fun, now what? 

And so, continuing to explore this question, and the rich territory of this feeling, we thought: what if the tension was made visual? We asked three photographers whose work explores such matters to show what August is(n’t) to them. Here is what Matt Grubb, Rosemary Haynes, and Dylan Hausthor had to say.

Dylan Hausthor

As I sit to write this, my partner officially passes the twelfth day past their due date. 

Ten months ago, August felt impossible. It was fall, the butterflies had all left on their way to Mexico, and we had just found out we would be parents. August felt like it couldn't come—the past 42 weeks have been full of extraordinary movement, watching bodies change, a newfound disappointment with my own body, some things gratefully quieting, some things amplifying beyond imagination… Summer’s end hasn’t ever felt so hopeful to me before.

Planning for a Leo, being surprised by a Virgo. I wonder if that's what August is?
Dylan Hausthor, Kathryn McElearney

Matt Grubb

August is leaving and August is coming back. People come back from something better, somewhere better to something necessary but dull. As it ends, the month brings a reminder of every thudding and permanent choice made to supplant the flightier temporary ones. You may brag about vacationing in the safest section of a violent place, but the violence has been waiting for you in the home you choose to return to. You flushed the toilet before catching your flight and you came back at the end of August to hear it still running.

“How did you spend your summer? Did you leave? Did you get out? I hope you captured the moment. Did you thaw for a bit before soon refreezing?” We’ve spent long enough in the sun together that everything that could thaw already has.

This year I’ve had to buy stronger deodorant. I’ve swollen and thinned and left when I could. I’ve waited all month for the people and the money to return like a kid at school pickup waiting for free spirited parents.

Rosemary Haynes

I have a calendar from 1998, which I’ve kept on the wall in my bedroom for over seven years. While the calendar days are useless, I’ve grown accustomed to relating each month of the year to the corresponding photograph within the calendar. I’d like to tell you that August is my favorite month in the calendar, and that therein lies my defense of the month of August, but I can’t. Paul Caponigro’s photograph Running White Dear, for the month of July, is my favorite image. Conveniently, July is also my favorite month, the long days and heat make it undeniable in its seasonal pleasures.

Two summers ago, out of town, I missed the entire month of July with my calendar. I chose to spend the following twelve months, August through the following July, stationed in the continuation of this precious month. I demonstrated my stance by keeping the calendar unturned for all twelve months, embracing a year where July never came to a close. I guess this goes to show that my affinity isn’t strong for the month of August, unless August can always be a month where we pretend July hasn’t ended yet.