U Magazine, Summer 1990

she said, "Why aren 't you in business for yourself? These animals are really great!" Says Brue, "I hadn't even thought about that, so I wenr home all excited, discussed it with my husband, and we decided to do ir. We mortgaged our home, bor– rowed money from relatives and we started. " She actually starred in her garage, sculpting just four pieces at first: a bunny, a squirrel, a fawn and a cocker spaniel pup. The pup was immediately a favorite - as the dogs in her line still are - and from there Sandicasr rook off. Within a month Brue had outgrown the garage, moving the business to larger and larger facilities until finally building Sandicast's own factory near Miramar Naval Air Station six years ago. Adding a dozen or more new pieces to the line twice each year, Brue says it didn't take long to turn a profit, money that for years was used to finance further expansion. Her husband, Bob, a former electronics engineer, worked with her, building the company's first ovens. He joined Sandicast full time during its second year. Bob moved from serving as company vice president to concentrating on invest– ments. Sandy says he continues to be suppomve In many ways. Today's Sandicast line features assorted animal sculptures, miniature to life-size, which retail from $10 to $100. Although canine figures are the most popular (many of them are selected as rroph ies by kennel clubs) , the stone menagerie includes cars and wild animals, from raccoons to baby harp seals, even rhinos and chimps.

Still, Brue says, Sandicasr's success surprised no one more than her. "I knew I was in something serious when I picked up my first catalogs from the printer. Thar's when I reali zed I couldn ' t go back. Ir's like when you have your first baby and the nurse puts it on your rummy and you say, 'Wair a minute, what am I supposed to do with thi s?' Bur you can ' t go back. Ir's exciting, bur also sobering because it's the beginning of commmnenr. "I had no idea it would grow to thi s size," she continues. " I remember saying to my husband rhar maybe when the business hit $2 million that would be as big as I wanted it to get. Bur rhar mark came and went so fast. After that I realized I really didn ' t have a choice. Obviousl y I had created or identified a marker that people appreciated, and if we didn ' t do it, someone else would." Sandicasr has spawned a lot of com– petitors, some of them our-and-our copycats. Bur the fiesry Brue does not see imitation as the sincerest form of flattery. "Ir's an insult really," she says, sud-

immodest to say I have talent. I do; it's a gift I can 't rake credit for. I only rake credit for using it. But what Mrs. Hill taught me was, no matter how good you are, you can always do better. 'Tm not an unreasonable perfection– ist," she quickly adds. 'Tm pleased with what I do for Sandicast, but I always look fo r ways it could have been better. I always ask myself, 'Is that the best I can do? ' Sometimes the answer is yes, but I never stop looking for ways to improve. " Brue claims the idea for Sandicast sprang from her husband's " ultimatum" in the summer of 1981 that she bring more money inro the family coffers. Before that, she had devoted her energy to rea ring four children, doing free-lance des ign work and volunteering for such groups as rhe Children 's Home Society. Armed with a portfolio which hap– pened to include photos of animal sculptures she had done for a client, Brue began job hunting. However, when a potential employer saw Brue's sculptures,

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