Steel. Say the word in most places and people think metal or product. Say it in Pittsburgh and they're likely to think might, wealth, labor, soot and dislocation. It's personal here. And because of that, the word has an emotional edge that cuts through conversational air like a finely honed blade.

While the physical presence of the giant mills has greatly diminished, their legacy continues to inform this city and region, having been the catalyst for fortunes that remain robust, if evolved, as well as for communities that persist only as eviscerated shadows of their previous selves.

It is not so unlikely, then, that when discussing how to participate in the celebration of Pittsburgh's 250th anniversary this year, one of the subjects The Frick Art & Historical Center considered was steel.

Craig McPherson has also given a lot of consideration to steel. A native of Wichita, Kan., he was a struggling New York artist when he first traveled to Pittsburgh with his future wife, May Miculis, to visit her mother. He was so moved by the visual drama of the fiery steel mills that he began painting them, and for more than two decades has returned once or twice a year to do so.

Tom Smart, former director of exhibitions and collections at The Frick, knew of McPherson's interests, dedication -- and considerable talent (he is represented in major museum and corporate collections) -- and invited the artist to prepare a solo exhibition for this celebratory year.

The result is "Steel: Pittsburgh Drawings by Craig McPherson," an exhibition of more than 30 works at The Frick Art Museum that opens Friday night.

While the subject matter is formally the mills and the style apparently realist, one notices upon moving through the show that McPherson, rather than simply a documentarian of edifices, reflects in his vision the visceral complexities of steel Pittsburgh-style.

That breadth of exploration is also characteristic of the work exhibited, some of which press the definition of "drawings," and all of which explode preconceived expectations.

The exhibition's three rooms address, generally, mill exteriors, mill interiors and, lastly, a mix of subject matter that suggests the culturally altering impact of the Industrial Age. A majority of the works were created in the past couple of years specifically for this exhibition.

The mills McPherson visits (and revisits) -- the Edgar Thomson Plant and Clairton (coke) Works -- are viable entities as well as being factories that Henry Clay Frick was involved with, the latter making them especially pertinent to display at The Frick.

One senses that the structures themselves are a take-off point, the base line for a variety of exploration -- of light, of technique, of medium, of change and, tellingly, of psyche.

"E.T.," for example, a large (66 by 120 inches) oil pastel on linen, is not so much an end in itself but a manifestation of presence, into which is incorporated a past and a future. With its implicit narrative of change, it reflects McPherson's interest in cinema. The artist points out that this view of the plant in essence no longer exists, the foliage having grown sufficiently to block it. The sprawling mill, presented in black, white and tones of deep blue, appears like a mythical city with a life of its own, independent of anything -- or one -- beyond. (It's telling that the artist has titled it "E.T.," which calls to mind extra-terrestrial as much as Edgar Thomson.)

McPherson compares his approach here to that of Monet in series such as "Haystacks" or "Rouen Cathedral," which reflect the variances of different times of day or year. "This is kind of my Haystack series. Each is a variation, technically, coloristically or whatever. They're about texture, about atmosphere, and about light."

Where "E.T." is loose and expressive in its application of the tactile pastel, graphite drawings such as "Clairton, From the Hill" are breathtakingly precise. McPherson's range of tone -- articulating snow and steam, shadow and smoke, with equal dexterity and definition -- comes from a mastery of technique, a respect for craftsmanship, and, mostly, an act of will. They are, upon close examination, unbelievably exquisite.

It is from this commitment to excellence that the artist chose to work in mezzotint, a somewhat archaic printmaking method that he is resurrecting. It is itself excruciatingly demanding but provides the closest match to the aesthetic he strives for in his drawings.

An example is the black and white rendering of a street in "Braddock," its collapsing homes and desolation revealed under the dim glow of street lights.

At other times, McPherson builds upon a painstakingly prepared mezzotint ground with pastels that hover above the surface with saturated intensity, as with two renditions of an "Oven" that is reduced to rugged metal surfaces and a glowing red hole. "These I think of as kind of my Rothkos," McPherson says of them, underscoring both the abstract and the metaphysical aspects of his work.

He credits an exhibition of work by Japanese artist Hokusai at the Sackler Gallery in Washington, D.C., as inspiration for the vertical composition of the graphite drawing "Clairton, River." Adding a blank white sheet to the bottom was a brilliant decision, the space allowing the viewer to drop off into contemplation.

Frequently, McPherson's huge factory complexes appear capable of vanishing within the flowing gaseous matter and steam they exude, a representation that for some will seem a romantic allusion to their gradual fade into history, for others a chilling reminder of the period during which the mills began to shut down.

At each turn, McPherson astounds. "Strip Mine," amazing for its size as well as its workmanship (a 33¹/₂-by-54¹/₂-inch pastel on mezzotint ground), references the expansiveness of the land as well as its desecration in a scape as lean as a Giacometti. The artist sees Caspar David Friedrich, while Frick director of curatorial affairs Sarah Hall sees the burned fields of Anselm Kiefer. They are all present.

Perhaps most evocative is the image of a "Stripped Car," abandoned and covered with snow, that McPherson says, "for me [is] kind of a memento mori." Behind the car, itself half-buried in the white drifts, is an oil drum with flames leaping out of it into the icy air. But there are no hands to warm. The car lies, skeletal, like the carcasses of cattle stranded in a deadly blizzard, perhaps on the plains of the artist's native Kansas. Symbol of American expansion, power and freedom, the scene presages the decline of the automobile and suggests a resultant impact upon American culture that would parallel that of the mill closings upon Pittsburgh.

If a mill at full operation exudes almost transcendental grandeur, this is surely the antithesis. And it's a valid part of the expansive look that McPherson has brought to his subject.