LORA FINELLI'S INSTALLATION at Stray Fish, the Japanese restaurant where she works, was inspired by a lone rose she found growing in the backyard behind her apartment. She began to practice drawing the layers of petals, and resolved to draw enough little roses on paper squares to fill 10,000 plastic baggies, and to combine them in a big drawing on whatever walls she could find. Her piece at Stray Fish presents an initial installment in this process and includes drawings of the rose in red and black, baggies filled with soil from her backyard, faint sprinklings of glitter, and several larger oil paintings. Perhaps informed by her work environment, Finelli's drawings exhibit a delicate, calligraphic style reminiscent of classical Asian art. They are quick, graceful studies, drawn in one or two strokes. Inserted into the tiny plastic baggies, which are typically used for carrying illicit drugs, the roses have been taped to the wall in geometrical patterns that line the restaurant and weave in and out of her paintings. The stacked rows of bags recall the terraces of a stepped garden – they also recall the rows of windows, buildings, and streets that make up the city. The installation seems to ask: Can anything natural survive in the city? Can beauty persevere in the modern world? What about love? Is it true, as Romeo claims, that "that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet"? Finelli explores these questions by juxtaposing natural and artificial elements and playing with the contradictions in representation. She has planted drawings in dirt, which will never blossom into flowers but nevertheless make up something like a garden. She finds beauty in her everyday surroundings but does not lapse into idealism and deny the realities of modern life. Her roses are packed in dime bags and, as the results of a compulsive repetition, may amount to no more than quick fixes. Like a Gertrude Stein poem, Finelli's repetitive insistence, "a rose is a rose," questions the very possibility of mere repetition. It becomes "is a rose a rose?" expressing a longing and a fear that something irretrievable may have been lost. Mon.-Thurs., 5:30-10:30 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 5:30-11 p.m., 3299 Mission, SF. (415) 920-9430. (Clark Buckner)