1. education
2. school

NORDEN FARM, MAIDENHEAD: TUESDAY 23RD SEPTEMBER – SUNDAY 5TH OCTOBER
THE GALLERY AT ICE, WINDSOR: THURSDAY 20TH – SATURDAY 29TH NOVEMBER
2014
Exhibited works
have been chosen
from submissions by
senior schools within
the Royal Borough
of Windsor and
Maidenhead
SPONSORS
Welcome
“ComXo has built a local business where
creative, energetic people with a passion for
being the best can challenge the status quo
and build a better future for themselves, our
customers and our community.
This year we are taking our passion for
nurturing home-grown talent to a new level
by entering into a three year partnership with
Windsor Festival’s Schools Programme.
The youth arts competition seeks to foster
emerging talent in senior schools within the
Royal Borough of Windsor and Maidenhead
and recognises the very best work that has
been produced in music composition, creative
writing and art.”
25 YEARS OF
FOSTERING
LOCAL TALENT
Andrew Try, Founder MD of ComXo
ComXo is the UK’s leading provider
of managed communication services
around the function of switchboard to the
professional service sector.
Windsor Festival is more than just a fortnight of events
each March and September. We also work throughout
the year on projects with community groups and
schools from the Royal Borough. One such project is
the Schools Programme.
Following a break in 2013 we are very pleased to announce that, with the
support and encouragement of our Title Partner ComXo and Foundation
Partner The Shanly Foundation, Windsor Festival has been able to re-launch
the Schools Programme in 2014. The aim of this creative competition
remains: to encourage students to explore their imagination and creativity,
whilst helping them to see beyond the school syllabus and National
Curriculum.
The standard of work is always extremely high and this year
has been no exception. We received 295 entries across nine
categories in Art, Creative Writing and Music Composition from
students in Years 10, 11 and 12. Thank you to our expert panel
of judges for making their selection and congratulations to
the individuals and schools whose work can be seen on
public display at Norden Farm and The Gallery at Ice.
Windsor Festival Schools Programme continues to
be shaped by strong relationships with our sponsors
and supporters, the judges and Royal Borough senior
schools, but above all, the creativity of young people.
WINDSOR FESTIVAL
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME
SUPPORTED BY COMXO
Helen Lake
Festival Manager
www.comxo.com
Tel: 0800 0711 711
18 Horton Road, Datchet, Windsor, SL3 9ER
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
3
1st
Art: Painting
Art: Drawing
Winners
Winners
1st Place
1st Place
Staithes Harbour Daniel Thompson, Eton College
Fisherman Olivia Clarke,
Windsor Girls’ School
2nd Place
Eating Cake Laura Page, Altwood C of E School
3rd Place
2nd
Conspirators Danny Cornell, Claires Court Sixth Form
Highly Commended
1st
2nd Place
Eating Chips Laura Page,
Altwood C of E School
3rd Place
Pair of Prints Grace Hayward,
St George’s Ascot
Mountains Hasan Alam, Desborough College
Self Portrait Livvy Archer, Claires Court Girls
The Crown Danny Cornell, Claires Court Sixth Form
Swimming Katy Pocock, Claires Court Sixth Form
Commended
Jacket Rebecca Garrad, Charters School
Self Portrait Olive Howland Milne,
Windsor Girls’ School
Sam at Night Katy Pocock, Claires Court Sixth Form
Crowds of Feet Nika Tankaeva, St George’s Ascot
Landscape Trancredi Di Carcaci, Eton College
Commended
Grey Lady Joe Beel,
Desborough College
Framed Etching Ella Cassidy,
St George’s Ascot
Sam Katy Pocock,
Claires Court Sixth Form
Sketchbook Sofia Thomas,
Charters School
3rd
2nd
Maddy Hannah Woods, Altwood C of E School
3rd
4
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
5
1st
Art: Textiles
Art: Photography
Winners
Winners
1st Place
1st Place
Waistcoat Christabel Turnbull, St George’s Ascot
Snowdonia Jimmy Cox, Desborough College
2nd Place
2nd Place
Falling Leaves Harsheena Harji, Brigidine School
Speakers’ Corner Natasha Vincent,
Claires Court School
3rd Place
Hockey Players Charlotte Hole,
Claires Court Senior Girls
Highly Commended
Blue Hand-Shoulder Piece Top Olivia Hague,
St George’s Ascot
2nd
Self Portrait 30’s Style Katie Underhill,
Churchmead School
Highly Commended
Brick Lane Pedestrian Lucy Hannam,
Marist Senior School
Commended
Commended
Sailing Charlotte Hole, Claires Court Senior Girls
Close-Up Zahra Kayam, Churchmead School
Wood Freya Hulse, Claires Court Senior Girls
Remnant Marisha Kersey, Hurst Lodge
Flower Hanging Hannah Karl, St George’s Ascot
Fragments Asia Lamanna,
Churchmead School
3rd
2nd
3rd Place
Destination Unknown Millie Heighes, Hurst Lodge
Bark Saffron Pusey, Claires Court Senior Girls
1st
3rd
Augustus Gloop Victoria McGee,
Marist Senior School
Seattle Alice Nixon, Claires Court School
Portrait Ella Thompson, Claires Court School
Earth Air Water Fire in Hockney Frames
Christabel Turnbull, St George’s Ascot
Earth, Air, Fire, Water Josephine Ward,
Charters School
6
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
7
1st
Art: Sculpture
Creative Writing: Poetry
Winners
Winners
1st Place
1st Place
Tadpoles Olive Howland Milne,
Windsor Girls’ School
Sunday Afternoon Kit Eastwood, Eton College
2nd Place
Shelter Ollie Bott, Eton College
2nd
3rd Place
Swan Heather Frobisher, Windsor Girls’ School
Commended
Pink Flowers Alicia Earley, St George’s Ascot
Plug Sculpture Jessica Grey, St George’s Ascot
2nd Place
Sea Alex Groes, Eton College
3rd Place
Home Hugh Shepherd-Cross, Eton College
FIRST PLACE:
Sunday Afternoon
Kit Eastwood, Eton College
The plates are stacked; the last
Remnants savoured. The dog
Sits, patiently, eyes unyielding.
Smoke smothers the orange glow: only
The wheezy bellows, with leather cracked,
Can disperse that acrid film. Leaving behind the lone flame.
I listen to the soft hum of the radio, as the fire spits
At the wet kindling, rippling heat through the huddled winter
Jumpers. The blackened logs fling heat across the darkened room.
3rd
Through the window I watch my reflection
Distinct now against the darkened pane. I know
That the day must end. And the week begin.
Yet, this is what I will remember: these modest
Hours of peace. Doing nothing is always
Doing something. Forgetting the bustle of life
Ignoring the seconds which run by.
8
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
9
SECOND PLACE:
THIRD PLACE:
Sea
Alex Groes, Eton College
Home
Hugh Shepherd-Cross, Eton College
This is where the sea meets the coast,
and the clouds move slowly, letting the Son shine,
Adjudicator,
placing light where He best sees fit.
Two scallywags; seven years old both. Identical blonde curls.
Prep-schooled, South-East, fathers from Eton.
Large houses, Labradors, 4x4’s, anxious mothers.
Aspired to Blackbeard not Jesus. Christ no.
Friday. 5pm. A lonely house on a piss-yellow hill.
Summer creeping. Browning skin on my muddy knees.
Tickled by the prospect of becoming outlaws,
Filled a sack with 6 apples, a steak knife and £4.26 in copper.
A note to the dogs, an alibi to the mother;
David against Goliath, rascals against the state,
the boys charged away down a C-road
to become 21st century bandits.
Some, falls on you,
revealing those often brightened features
but also, that unfamiliar shadow,
which juts as an ugly headland.
Unstrap your sandy heart,
unclench your hands of stone.
Ignore those whispered wisps of sea foam
that trickle down your neck and circle
round like fingers.
What’s buried deep is done, so I am finished,
my thoughts don’t sink – they drown.
And their ink, eager, tries to run anywhere but straight,
but circles back instead.
For there’s no surf, no undercurrent,
nothing left to fear or love.
So here I’ll lie, under the cool passing of some cloud,
letting the sand scrape along my back.
10
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
Only enough change for a single to Aylesbury, settled
For a wood. Sat down in a clearing, started to weep.
Sun falling, temperature sinking, imaginations
Blackening, dreams of elaborate tree houses, flint
Turn to nightmares of rabid dogs, child snatchers.
Visions of Robin Hood to hallucinations of Raoul Moat.
Suffocating in black, opaque despair.
Two boys; seven years old both. Identical blonde curls.
Blanketed, cotton wool. Liver-red eyes. Salted tears.
Quivering cheeks. Foetal position. Violet lips around
Chocolate biscuits. Red hot fear draining from
mother’s face.
Seat belts on.
We’re going home.
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
11
Creative Writing: Prose
Winners
1st Place
1918 Alice Bell, East Berkshire College
2nd Place
At the rate the new recruits were being shipped out, no
doubt he would be off very soon, likely never to return.
Graves quickly tried to find another distraction, before
that particular train of thought went much further.
The Conker Collector George Warr, Eton College
3rd Place
Central State Prison - Florida Maisie Turner, Licensed Victuallers’ School
Highly Commended
Ma Belle Tadeusz Adamek, Licensed Victuallers’ School
FIRST PLACE:
1918
Alice Bell, East Berkshire College
The train was late.
Graves glanced at his wristwatch, shifting his weight on
the hard wooden bench. The driving rain easily found
its way around the limited defences the platform had
to offer. The chill that accompanied it bit through his
khaki rain coat. He pulled the coat tighter around his
shoulders, and glanced again at his wristwatch, sighing
impatiently. Unusually for him, he had arrived in good
time, which naturally meant that the train was going
to be late.
Icy raindrops pelted the platform in a shower of tiny
bullets and a spray kicked up, only narrowly avoiding
Graves as he sat and waited. The corrugated roof was
at least attempting to keep out the downpour, though
frequent gusts of wind still left him blinking persistent
spray out of his eyes.
The uncomfortably overcrowded waiting room would
have at least kept him dry, but he couldn’t stand the
cigarette smoke which poisoned the stagnant air
inside. Not that the steam which rolled steadily from
the train on the opposite platform was much better, but
at least the smell wasn’t quite so overpowering.
There would be little time with Sassoon once he arrived
at Paddington. Siegfried would be heading to France
before long and this likely to be Graves’ last chance
to see him for what could be a long time. Graves had
wanted to see Siegfried following their last meeting
several weeks ago. It had left more to be desired.
12
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
in military attire, waiting on a bench a short distance
away from him. No more than eighteen, he didn’t
appear to have seen action yet – his great coat looked
far too new even though it was heavy with rainwater.
His eyes still shone with the kind of eager anticipation
that only a new recruit could feel. It hadn’t been so
long ago when Graves had been full of that same fresh
enthusiasm.
Siegfried’s implication of cowardice had affected
Graves more than he would care to admit. He refused
to accept the idea – hadn’t he done enough to prove
otherwise? He hadn’t survived Loos and the Somme to
be called a coward. Surely no one who had ‘done their
bit’ deserved such a label.
But since their last parting, an unwelcome thought
had been festering at the back of Graves’ mind, and
he sometimes caught himself half-wondering if there
was anything he could have done differently. He knew
he could at least partly influence the generals on the
committee: after all, he’d done so already.
He agreed that the war was unjust, but if he had
actively joined his friend in protest against it, it wouldn’t
have ended well for either of them. If Siegfried’s
Declaration had dragged them both into the public
light, then every aspect of their lives would have been
examined, something that Graves wasn’t sure he felt
comfortable with.
Graves’ eyes wandered across the platform in search of
anything that could distract him from his thoughts, but
there was little to see. A handful of bedraggled porters
huddling together in miserable silence, waiting for the
end of their shift. A middle-aged woman with a small
child pushing her way into the already overcrowded
waiting room.
His attention was just about to return to the empty
track in front of him when Graves noticed another man
Too much of a coward to accept the truth?
The taunting voice in his head sounded suspiciously
like Siegfried’s. Graves sighed, almost angry with
himself. There was no reason for him to start thinking
of that now, and it wasn’t as if he could do anything to
change it.
Graves returned his attention to the soldier, and was
considering joining him when by chance, their eyes
met. The soldier’s eyes lit up, apparently noticing
Graves’ rank, and leapt onto his feet, stumbling
into a clumsy salute. Graves returned the gesture,
acknowledging the solder with a brief nod. For a
moment, they watched each other, but the soldier
faltered, looking away uncertainly.
Graves took a hesitant step forwards, but a deep,
pulsating rumble interrupted him before he could
approach, and his attention snapped towards the new
sound. Out of a cascade of never-ending rain, the train
finally emerged, the heavy smoke accompanying it as
murky as the angry clouds which dominated the sky.
Suddenly, the platform around him was full of activity.
An impatient whistle from the platform announced
the train’s arrival as it laboriously pulled itself into
the station, brakes protesting angrily as the engine
grunted and groaned to a stop beside the platform.
People in the waiting room began to spill out onto the
platform, eager to catch a good seat on the train.
With one final heave, the train released a great plume
of steam that rolled out over the edge of the platform.
Up and down the length of the train loose doors
swung open, banging carelessly, rain attempting to
grab him as he made for an empty carriage.
As he waited for the passengers to filter off the train,
Graves glanced back along the platform, attempting
to find the soldier, but there was no glimpse of khaki
amongst the fresh crowd of people. Graves followed
his brow, wondering how we could have disappeared
so quickly.
Sitting in the first available seat he found, Graves
settled down for the journey as the train pulled away
from the platform. Siegfried was probably already
waiting for him and would remark on his late arrival,
but now that he was moving Graves found he was
almost looking forward to the inevitable conversation.
The rain was finally ceasing its relentless assault and
as Graves leaned his head against the glass, he could
just see a thin flare of light was just visible breaking
bravely though the clouds.
SECOND PLACE:
The Conker Collector
George Warr, Eton College
From the window of my new room the view seems
little different from that of the dorm I was in last
year. In fact it is this autumn weather that has
fascinated me, Milton Taylor, since I first arrived in
Britain to begin my schooling. It would have seemed
strange to the other boys, the other English boys,
my peculiar obsession with what was, to them,
essentially just the end of summer, the end of
the sweaty and muggy bliss that all pallid English
children seemed to yearn for. But not me. For me
this season was a cathartic exorcism of all that
had seemed so hellish in Sri Lanka, the country in
which I was born as the son of an ex-pat desperate
to recapture the power that the colonial regime
had seemed once to have given him. If you’re like
any of the other typical parochial Brits (who know
of the world only that which they see in films) you
may be surprised by my last statement. “What? You
don’t miss the hot weather, the stunning views?”
would be the usual sentimental, naive question. It’s
always been that way; since my parents died, Sri
Lanka has held no significance, no emotional or
sickly romantic attachment for me. For me, it’s just
a country, a hot country and not a country I have
ever particularly liked. Sorry, I digress, but still,
autumn is quite a good place to start in many ways.
It was the season when I first arrived in England
on that strange day in 1979, it was the season
during which I received the call telling me of my
parents’ death in a road accident (it could have
been a letter but I can’t quite remember; as I said,
things aren’t always as clear as they seem in films)
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
13
but it was also the season when we first heard of Mr
Robinson’s death.
As I write this the bell for lunch is starting to resound
against the whitewashed, tin can rooms. I still have
a few minutes before we’re really supposed to get
down there but I know that this bell also signals
the start of the queues of boys tapping incessantly
on my door, calling my name and generally being
a nuisance in an attempt to entice me down to the
canteen. The bell is another of those strange and
confusing aspects of life; how can something that we
all hear every day seem to elicit a scrunching of the
eyes or grimace from even the toughest of boys as
they make some attempt to protect their ears from
the noise?
From my window I see the chestnut, russet and
silvery leaves spiralling down in the little pirouettes
and eddies as they make their fateful descent
towards the pungent heap of moss and leaf debris,
soon to be mixed with a good helping of rainwater
and finished off with the remains of the crisp
morning frost. Judging by its consistency, I would
say that the date was approaching mid-October;
however, one can never be quite sure. It was one
evening on a day like today when we first heard
the news. It came in the middle of the night. Most
of us had been woken by the insistent whine of the
police car siren and the moving shadows, cast and
magnified into our room by the blue and red flashing
lights, had confirmed to us that something was not
quite right. We had been lying in bed in the neat
rows which had formed our third-year dorm and
it was only a matter of time until we had all found
ourselves peering through the mullioned window
onto the lightly-gravelled courtyard where the
policemen were speaking to the headmaster who
looked strangely vulnerable in his dressing gown. I
don’t think I noticed it at the time but it seemed as
though the detail of the dressing gown had unsettled
us most of all. It was unnerving to see our supreme
authoritarian figure, our bastion of discipline and
security, the headmaster, reduced in the dark to
a vulnerable figure in his bathrobe. I’m not saying
that he was friendly, ‘touchy feely’ or any other
of the sickening modern teaching ‘ideals’, but he
had always seemed to be our guardian angel; he
always knew our names and used to greet us with
a formal ‘Good Evening’, no matter the time of day.
Such eccentricity had really made us feel as though
we were back in another world with echoes of the
Victorian era, a safer and more glorious world, one
of empire and stability. Watching his slight figure
overshadowed by the burly policeman, we were all
thrown violently from our cosy little prep-school
14
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
world, one of house rugby and marbles in the
playground, into a brutal reality: one of murder,
depression and those inane counsellor sessions in
NHS rooms stinking of disinfectant.
The most disturbing scene we saw that evening,
however, was the figure of Mr Robinson; his body
was swaying peacefully in the clear night breeze, so
tranquil with a rope knotted crudely around his neck,
swinging from the horse-chestnut tree that used to
scatter conkers, those chestnut autumn surprises,
across the playground. Most of us only found out
later that it had not been the hanging that had killed
Mr Robinson but instead the fall that had shattered
his skull earlier that night. Of course, at the time,
we were all kept sheltered from these ‘terribly
disturbing facts’. At least, they tried to protect those
who didn’t already know the truth.
It was only a matter of time until they realised it
had been a boy; in my view they had known all
along but the horror of it had made them hesitate
in disbelief. Soon we were plunged into a highly
publicised murder investigation. This had taken its
toll on all of us but especially upon me; you see, Mr
Robinson, ‘Robo’ as we used to call him, had become
something of a mentor to me, especially after the
death of my parents. Predictably, this was something
the other boys could never quite understand.
They realised that it was one of us by the ink prints
left on Mr Robinson’s face and neck (they had to
shave through his thick, grey-tinged stubble to see
it fully). That these prints could only have come from
one of us was obvious, what with our ink-wells and
dipping pens, but as I said, the discovery was not
made public very quickly. Once the matter of the ink
prints was discovered, I knew the game was up and,
indeed, it was only a few months of formalities before
the verdict was pronounced at the trial in the Old
Bailey. Of course the newspapers loved the fact that
it was a ‘child’ rather than the usual deranged adult.
Now, as I sit here in my small juvenile-detention
cell, about to begin my life sentence, I am often
asked why I did it. Why those months of meticulous
planning, why such a brutal method, why Mr
Robinson at all? But it was always simple to me.
Since the death of my parents, I had had no relatives,
no home, and nothing that I could really call my own.
I suppose you might call this greed but the necessity
of such a thing is often understated.
Perhaps that was why I started collecting conkers.
To me, however, yes, Mr Robinson was mine, no one
else’s and there seemed only one way of making this
eternal, to entwine our names for ever: Milton Taylor,
the killer of Andrew Robinson.
THIRD PLACE:
Central State Prison – Florida
Maisie Turner, Licensed Victuallers’ School
Every once in a while you get a case that you know
will stay with you. The people who maintain their
plea of innocence, even after being found guilty. Tom
Alvord has been on death row for 13 years – he still
insists he’s innocent. Can anyone live a lie for 13
years?
I get to the desk and sign in without looking up. I go
through security mindlessly and swipe my card to
get in.
“Cole?” I see Jarrod walking towards me with an
apologetic look on his face.
“Hey.”
“Good luck today. Just remember why you’re here.”
All the guards understand each other. Later I’ll return
to my beach front apartment. Who knows where
Alvord will be?
The clock reads 13:30 – half an hour. I sit down on
the old, leather couch. What is Alvord doing? What
would I do if I knew it was the last 29 minutes of my
life? Maybe he’s eating his last meal; maybe he’s
thinking of what his last words shall be. What is he is
innocent?
What if he’s guilty?
Even if he’s guilty, I’m not sure this is right. Does this
not make us alike? To teach him killing is wrong, we
kill him. Reciprocation. Killing is definitely wrong.
There’s always a reason for the guilty ones too. Every
case sticks with you; sometimes when you walk
around the market or the train station, you feel as if
all their names are tattooed on you – being read by
people everywhere. There’s always a story behind the
person: abused, sick – or traumatic experience from
childhood.
Not that it isn’t their choice to commit the crime, but
they had help arriving there. Should they be punished
for that? I never wanted to do this job. No one does.
That’s why we end up doing it: less people – more
money. We don’t even kill them. I wonder how the
doctors feel. Wherever they go do they feel like they
are constantly mourning? Or do they the murder?
13:48. Twelve minutes. I’ve done this before. I’ve
done the crazy ones before, who need restraints
and people to hold them down until the end. The
murderers who smile darkly at their victim’s relatives
through the glass. The people who are so terrified
that they need help standing.
I already know how Alvord will act. He’ll look fearless,
ready even; but when you look in his eyes you’ll see the
disbelief and despair. Faces and names flash through
my head. Cozzie. Lambrix. Swafford. Cave. Parker. All
committed terrible crimes; all are dead. Our victims.
Is death not a form of escape? Wherever they go, they
escape their crimes. I guess that depends on what you
believe too.
13:56. I rise, swipe my card and walk to the cells. Joel is
outside the cell already. “Alright?” his face tells me he’s
not. I hesitate, and then give a brief nod. The lock makes
a heavy clunk and opens. Alvord is standing, holding
his wrists out ready for cuffs. I lead him out of the door,
staying on his right.
“OK?” I ask him, trying a reassuring smile.
He looks at me with what can only be described as pure
hatred; his eyes burn themselves into my brain, leaving
their mark on me forever. Another name, another tattoo.
We trudge up the corridor, the sight of a window
becoming increasingly rare. We turn left. Now I see
the fire exit, through which so many have left – without
leaving at all.
We get to Room B and stop. Joel turns, pats Alvord on
the shoulder and exhales, as if he’s teaching Alvord.
Alvord hesitates for a couple of seconds then nods. We
walk through the door; only two of us will walk back out.
A curtain hangs along the far wall. In the centre of the
room is a large metal table with black leather restraints.
Near that is a monitor, with countless wires and other
machinery. The two other people in the room, a doctor
and an extra guard – Sandra I think her name is – look
up as we enter. Alvord does not stop; he goes straight
to the table and lies down. I can virtually feel the cold
seep through my skin. I step back and let the other
two buckle him in. I stand by the door whilst the doctor
hooks him up. The curtain slides open and other people
straighten behind the pane of glass. They may as well
have popcorn.
But am I any better than them? Can I really judge them?
Coming to watch someone die, I’ve probably done it
more times than them.
Then they do it for pleasure.
But I do it for money...
I feel the doorknob in my hand before I’m aware of
reaching. I hear the doctor say “Any last words?” I’m
convinced there is no remorse in his voice.
I run through the prison, my prison, and push through
the doors to the outside.
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
15
Music Composition: Instrumental
Winners
1st Place
Sleepless Moon Sam Butler, Windsor Boys’ School
2nd Place
Image of Shattering Glass Trojan Nakade, Eton College
3rd Place
The Battleground James Hart, Windsor Boys’ School
Highly Commended
Elegie in C minor Ken-Ee Choong, Eton College
Calypso Caribbean Cocktail Rebecca Norris, Newlands Girls’ School
Steel-Eye Franklin Blues Zoe Tarrant, Newlands Girls’ School
Music Composition: Vocal
Winners
1st Place
In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours Caleb Bester, Eton College
2nd Place
Hope Lauren Metcalf, Hurst Lodge
3rd Place
The Naked Earth Trojan Nakade, Eton College
Highly Commended
Lemons Imogen Evans, Newlands Girls’ School
The Kestrel Elias Tomarkin, Eton College
16
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
Proud to support the Windsor
Festival Schools’ Programme
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
17
The Shanly Foundation
is delighted to support
Windsor Festival would
like to thank the following
The Judges
Art
Gill Aspel Photographer
Desmond Shawe-Taylor Surveyor of The Queen’s Pictures
Susan Young Subject Advisor Art, Design and Media for Pearson Education
Creative Writing
Essie Fox Author
Canon John White Festival Chairman and Poet
Music Composition
Gillian Dibden Music Education Consultant and Choral Director
Richard Pinel Assistant Director of Music at St George’s Chapel,
Windsor Castle
Windsor Festival
Schools’
Programme
SHANLY AD
We wish all those who have
submitted work the best of luck
Sponsors and Supporters
Title Partner:
Foundation Partner:
Brand Experience Agency
Exhibition Catalogue
Design: Dunk Design Ltd
The Shanly Foundation is the charitable arm of the Shanly Group of companies which includes
Shanly Homes Ltd. Established in 1969, Shanly Homes is a well established property development
company with a commitment to product excellence and innovative architectural design.
Print: KEP Print Group Limited
Edited: Helen Lake
Photographs: Gill Aspel
18
SCHOOLS PROGRAMME EXHIBITION 2014
shanlyfoundation.com
Christmas 2014
Norden Farm and Slot Machine present
Kipper’s
Snowy Day
Based on the Kipper books
by Mick Inkpen
Tuesday 25 November Sunday 28 December
For ages
3+ years
Box office / 01628 788997
Book online / www.nordenfarm.org
Centre for the Arts Maidenhead
FAMILY
PACKAGE
.50
£19
*
Norden Farm Centre for the Arts, Altwood Road, Maidenhead SL6 4PF
WAR
HORSE
THE OFFICIAL
FIREWORK DISPLAY
SUNDAY 2 NOVEMBER
TH E EPIC STORY TO LD WI TH
SP ECTACULA R F IREWORK S,
M AG ICA L MUSIC A N D A M A ZIN G SPE CI AL E FFE CTS
NA RRATED BY ROBERT POW E LL
www.windsor-racecourse.co.uk
01753 498400 | [email protected]
*Terms & conditions apply. For full terms and conditions and details of the event please visit our website.
Booking restrictions and fees may apply. Package includes 2 adult tickets and 2 childrens tickets.
Windsor Racecourse encourages responsible gambling. www.gambleaware.co.uk. Please drink responsibly. www.drinkaware.co.uk