Chris Cosentino is a 3D Generalist, Writer, Animator, Illustrator, and sometimes Actor, with a penchant for talking about himself in the third person.

He’s made a multitude of short form content for a variety of mediums (some of which can be viewed in the Socials tab (press back and click on the phone (hey, brackets within brackets: neat!)))

He currently lives in the UK with his breathtaking partner and in his free time he enjoys TCG’s, watching cartoons, and electrocuting patchwork corpses in his laboratory so that he might one day create new life and elevate mankind into Godhood (only kidding: he has no free time, for he is an animator).

Inexplicably still wanna work with me or just fancy a chat? Here’s my work email:

chris@blackandwhitecomic.com

Mix_sinan_sakic Today

The rhythm shifted into a frantic, dervish-like tempo. Marko felt the bass vibrate in his marrow. Around him, grown men were weeping openly, not out of weakness, but out of recognition. Sinan leaned into the crowd, his face contorted in a grimace of beautiful pain. He sang about the "kafana" being his only home, about the mother who waited, and the woman who didn't.

By the time the mix reached its crescendo—a whirlwind of Eastern scales and heavy percussion—Marko found himself screaming the lyrics. The weight on his chest didn't disappear, but it became shared. In that chaotic, soulful mix of sounds, Sinan had taken everyone's private tragedies and turned them into a communal celebration of survival. mix_sinan_sakic

The stage at the Tasmajdan Stadium was bathed in a thick, amber haze of cigarette smoke and cheap stage lights. Sinan Sakić stood at the center, his eyes closed, clutching the microphone like a lifeline. He wasn’t just singing; he was exorcising. The rhythm shifted into a frantic, dervish-like tempo

As the last note faded into the Belgrade night, Sinan wiped sweat from his brow and offered a small, knowing smile. He had died a thousand deaths on that stage, just so Marko and ten thousand others could feel alive for one more night. Sinan leaned into the crowd, his face contorted

In the front row, a young man named Marko stood paralyzed. He had driven five hours from a small village, his heart heavy with a breakup that felt like a terminal illness. He didn’t come for a concert; he came for a cure.

As the first weeping notes of the accordion cut through the humid night air, the crowd let out a collective, guttural roar. Then came Sinan’s voice—raw, unpolished, and bleeding with emotion. He started the "Mix"—the legendary transition where one heartbreak anthem bled into the next. "Ej otkad sam se rodio..."